The sharpened aluminium tip came slowly back towards the knuckles of my bow hand. The long shaft trembled minutely as I made the draw. Then I held the arrow, almost at full stretch, anchored firmly against my shoulder muscles, the aim steady, all movement gone. Ross was the only one who had to move now.
I’d come down for my swim from the top of the great oak tree the usual way first thing that morning — moving across, squirrel-fashion, onto the middle branches of a neighbouring copper beech, set further back against the steep slope of the hill, where one of its great limbs, leaning right over against the bank, made a swaying gangway down to earth. From beneath, at their base, where this line of trees leant over the small lake, it would have been impossible to climb any of them. There were no footholds, no stubble on the trunk of my huge oak until a first ruff of leaves blossomed out in a crown of small branches twenty feet up — while of course the beech trunks were smooth as ice for the same distance.
The only access to my tree-house was via this errant branch. The wood was too old, the trees too high for any other ready climbing. Though there was another branch offering safety, in a tree further along, a few hundred yards away at the south end of the valley — a smaller springy beech branch, which leant across like a parallel bar straight out over the stream just before it ran out of the lake. This was how I’d hidden myself to begin with, on that first evening running from the school, finding the stream and walking down the middle of it, so that the dogs that I expected behind would have no scent to follow.
This other limb over the water had saved me then, when I’d pulled myself on to it, exhausted, barely able to lift the bow and backpack up after me, before climbing higher up, deep into its heart, hidden then by the thick canopy of leaves. For the dogs had come soon afterwards, that same night, led by police with lights, spearing the undergrowth, splashing across the stream. That night and most of the following day they’d ranged back and forth through the wood while I lay up, secure in the leafy sunshine high above them.
It was then that I’d thought of building a tree-house — of how these vast branches and impenetrable summer leaves could save me more permanently. That was almost two weeks ago, passed in growing safety. Since then only one other person had ventured into the steep dell with its small lake, hidden in the forest, which I had made my own. But now Ross had come, a first snake in this Eden.
When I swam I took only the bow with me, two arrows strapped to its belly. I left my clothes behind. It was high summer, a long spell of hot weather, and prudery had no place anyway in this great emptiness. I’d re-discovered the childhood pleasure of swimming naked, pushing gently out into the mist-topped pool just before sun up, the water with just a touch of ice in it after the night, creeping up over my skin like chilled mercury.
It was the best part of my day, this early morning or late evening swim, for I couldn’t risk it at any other time. Even though the pool was partly concealed at the bottom of the lake, overhung with willow and cornered off on one side by a fallen tree-trunk, the ripples might have eddied out into the calm central water, attracting some trespassing hiker or fisherman.
As it was, even first or last thing in the day, I had to be careful. There were colonies of moorhen and at least a pair of mallard who had their homes along the margins of the water, in the reeds and by the water-lilies. And careful though I was they never failed to make a fuss when I came down to swim. There were a few deer as well — down to drink now and then, very early or late, strayed from the herd that roamed the great parkland of the estate above the valley. I’d surprised a big antlered buck on my path down to the water two mornings before: it had crashed away through the undergrowth like a lorry. There were pheasants too, much more common in the surrounding bushes: wily, richly coloured old birds who never seemed to fly, patrolling secret pathways instead, beaks to the ground — who, unless you nearly stepped on them, said nothing.
It was one of these splendid cocks who probably saved me that morning. The moorhens had batted away as usual on my arrival, skating nervously across the water, while the mallard, getting used to me I suppose, had swum with more dignity up to the north end of the lake. But everything was finally still as I lolled in the water then, just out of my depth, treading ground, the liquid swirling in chilly spirals round my legs. The early mist smoked about my face as I swam out towards the fallen trunk. But I could see upwards into the morning now, through the ring of great trees that circled the lake — see the growing shafts of gold pushing the night away and the blue that was coming, pale blue now with last stars in it, that would soon form a leaden dome over the hot day. I rested against the moist trunk, digging my fingers deep into the thick moss. There was a sudden damp smell of old ruined gardens as I scratched at it, some memory of contentment.
Then the pheasant sang out, a shriek of outrage across the water, its surprise filling the air with danger in an instant. At first — dead still, with my nose just above the tree-trunk — I heard nothing more and thought it a false alarm. But when the bird cried again and got up in a great flurry of wingbeats and headed out over the lake towards me, I knew someone must have driven it from cover.
Then I saw the man, a hundred yards away, emerging from the undergrowth just above my oak tree. He stood for a moment at the edge of the water by the old boathouse, a big Alsatian dog inquisitively beside him, a shotgun loosely crooked in his arm, looking straight at me it seemed as he followed the bird’s path right over my head. At that distance I didn’t know it was Ross; the man was dressed like a caricature of an old-fashioned gamekeeper, in plus fours, tweed jacket and cap. He took up the shotgun then, making a pass with it in the air before levelling it straight in my direction.
I saw the brief flash of light, a shaft of crystal morning sun on the barrel, before I ducked behind the fallen trunk, the water suddenly cold all over my body. But when I looked up again after half a minute the man was gone and I glided quickly back under the willow trees and onto the shore. I had my bow and two sharp arrows. But I couldn’t get home. The keeper was obviously coming down the lake shore towards me, was already between me and my tree-house. I couldn’t get back to the beech branch that leant over the hill halfway up the valley — nor could I risk making for the other smaller branch that would lift me to safety, thirty yards to my left above the stream, for to get over there would be to risk crossing right in his path.
The only escape was off round through the wood on the other side of the lake, making for the old pumping shed — an area which had as much intermittent cover as my own side of the water but where the trees, I knew, had no saving lower branches at all. In any case trees were no real use to me now. There was the dog, who might very soon pick up my scent and then track me to any hidden cover. I had to keep moving and hope to drop the tail somehow as I went along.
For the first ten minutes after I’d made off round the other side of the lake, I thought I’d lost them. The woods were calm behind me, a vast summer-morning calm. The sun had risen in a great arc of gold high above me, the top leaves of the great copper beeches already a deep bronze colour. But among the rabbit paths and undergrowth right at the bottom of the valley, which I kept to, there were still odd patches of mist in dank places. I moved forward, in and out of these swirling blobs of cotton wool very carefully, my skin almost the same colour as the air, a naked ghost.
My plan was to move north up the valley, to the head of the lake and then, to kill my trail, walk down the middle of the stream which ran into it, before doubling back to my tree-house on the far side. The beech forest ran in a thick line here, for nearly a mile along and above the valley, the trees and undergrowth hugging the steep slopes and giving adequate cover before the land opened out at the end of the defile, into rough pasture, dotted with clumps of bramble and gorse. Two or three miles away, beyond these scrubby edges to the manor’s home farm lay the northern boundary to the estate, a small by-road that led to the local market town five miles away. But even though there were no farm buildings up there — just a flock of rarely tended sheep — all this open space was out of bounds in daylight to me. The woods I’d come to know intimately; I felt I controlled them. Beyond was the world, a place I’d loved, but a plague-land to me now.