The Green Clearing

Built near the turn of the previous century, the claims at the time were that it was now possible to travel the very length of the continent – from the deep and icy lines cut into the earth’s face in the north, to the scorched sweep of the southern desert – by following the new European line alone. Almost immediately following this announcement the claims were, of course, refuted in tones generally of light scorn. “It’s hardly a continuous line,” the cynics would say. “You’ll have to make dozens of stops and changes.” But to the traveller, this barely mattered. After all, who was to say that, for example, a switch junction marked the end of one line and the beginning of another? Or even where one line ended, for weren’t all lines ultimately a continuous journey to the limits of the line and then back again?

To travel that line was to expose yourself to thousands of stories, maybe even hundreds of thousands. The fishing villages of the north, where all around seemed composed of damp wood, spoke of long shapes writhing in dawn surf watching the fishermen start out for their long days work. The lower lands where spirits in animal skin fought old battles over and over again. In the centre cities, a more civilised set of shades hid in the wynds and closes, lurked in the theatres and squares, walked whistling through empty streets, frightened lovers. Down in the gardens and fields of the south ghosts horses, their eyes and nostrils ablaze would be said to run aside the train, keeping speed with it effortlessly. At the very end of the line, before the glittering ocean, sand-scorched men sat adorned in fabrics of every colour to invite you through a maze of curtains to a hidden room where men and women with glass faces would wait to tell your future.

This tale, one of the stranger I had heard during my days running back and forth along line, starts in the years following the laying of the track – a feat of engineering which took decades and in itself produced enough strange tales to fill several volumes. Slicing the continent more or less in half, the line nonetheless bypassed many hundreds of tiny towns and villages. Some were serviced by rudimentary platforms, really nothing more than a wooden stage and (if the residents were lucky) a cover. But these often stood miles from the villages themselves, necessitating a journey that few were willing to make. This was true of the settlement where the events I am about to recount took place. Hidden in the great pine forests of the central continent, behind a dense wall of bristles, the village – its name translates roughly as ‘The Green Clearing’ – had been there for at least two hundred years, the original settlers drawn by the arable land to the north of the pine forest and the warm springs scattered throughout. A community of farmers and traders, the village had survived so far with minimal contact with the world beyond its borders and, generally, seemed content for that status quo to remain. Following the construction of the line, they would venture no further than the next town along in either direction. Only the young, desperate to escape the confines of that limiting village would go further. Sometimes they remained, making a new life for themselves at some spot along the line; more often they would return, overwhelmed by the complexities of life elsewhere, and truculently take up their father or mother’s business, resigned to a carbon copy of the lives lived before them.

On an early summer’s evening, perhaps a decade after the line had opened, two figures alighted from the train carriage at the Green Clearing platform (as it was generally known). This in itself was an unusual occurrence; but the figures themselves were even stranger. Each was glad in a green cloak of heavy, coarse material and carried no luggage other than a small dark shapeless bag. The first had her hood pulled back from her head to reveal a pale face, its harshness offset by youth and a certain curiousness to her eyes, surrounded by auburn ringlets. The second kept her hood up and her face turned to the ground so that it hung low and obscured her features. But when she walked, a tiny discordant tune followed behind her, the tinkling of gentle metal on metal.

An enterprising young man of the village had set up his carriage as a passenger service from the village to the platform and back again, twice a day. On the day of the strangers’ arrival, however, he had ferried no one from the village in several days and, as such, did not expect any new arrivals and so had rested on his laurels and taken to the inn. Therefore, the two women had walked along the forest road, arriving at the village as the golden dusk fought through the pines to cast long and sharp shadows over the fallen needles which coated the ground. They entered the inn, which was populated by the working men of the village, fresh from their fields, and walked to the bar. Uneasy in their presence, the barman immediately informed them that there was no free room for them there. Before he had finished his sentence, however, the unhooded woman raised a hand to silence him and said in a clear voice, without accent, that they had no need of a room. She asked who was the authority in the village and it was explained that there was a village council. When asked if he knew where she would be able to find a member of this council, the barman responded that he was one of the principal six. “I ask, then,” the woman continued “that you convey to the others within your council our arrival in these woods. Please inform them that we mean no harm and ask nothing from your settlement other than the peace to live in the woods as we see fit. In addition, I ask a small favour. Others like us may alight at your station; you will know them as they will be dressed in a fashion similar to my sister and I. Please direct them to the west of your village, where we will be making camp. Thank you for your hospitality.”

That was all they had to say. As they left the bar, three or four of the men folk gathered around the door to watch them go. Children, playing in the dust and dirt outside the low stone building stopped chasing roosters for a moment and watched the two figures walk slowly to the fringe of the forest, the gentle music of the chains following them. Then, as they reached the pines, the red-haired girl pulled her green hood up and the two almost appeared to melt into the deep foliage around them.

The village was small, and talk spread there like a forest fire. The men, simple to a fault, spoke mainly of the rare beauty they had seen and gave little thought to the hooded sister who had followed in her wake; their womenfolk were more cautious, more naturally suspicious, and speculated in angry whispers about the intentions of the two strangers. More than once, the word ‘witch’ was used, but these were less superstitious times than years gone by, even in the backwaters, and no one took the accusations seriously. They would watch these women, ensure that they didn’t come too close to the town, and if there were any grounds to their suspicion…

The youth of the village, the boys in their teens, were more curious still and would gather around behind the stables to consider the impact the new arrivals would have on their lives. They made wagers around who would be the first to take the red-head down to the lakeside over-hang, and whether any man would be brave enough to try the sister sight-unseen. They waited near the forest paths to see if any of the women would reappear, despite what they had said about needing nothing from the village, but after a week there had been no further sign of them. One woodsman had said that he had seen signs of a campfire near one of the hot springs in the west, but of the women there had been no trace. Eventually, emboldened by the talk of their peers, a group of three youths had started out to the west with the intention of finding the women and observing them from afar.

As the woodsman had said, there were signs of them around some of the springs and ponds to the west of the village; fires, broken pines and discarded carcasses. But from what the youths could see they had gone further than even the villagers usually had cause to. Deeper into the forest they travelled, losing their way somewhat in the thick steam which ghosted through the trees, hanging just above the ground and coating their skin with a fine film of moisture. Never again did they find their way back to the hot spring where they received their first and last glimpse of the sister, despite each of them – their adolescent fantasies fuelled by that they had glimpsed there – trying individually in the weeks after. They had been lost in the haze, but found their way to the edge of the perfect circle of the spring, overhung by the leaning firs. From one branch on the other side of the water hung the deep green robe, a woodland ghost in the steam. Its owner stood in the centre of the spring, the water no higher than her mid-thighs. Her body was stocky but full, her breasts and hips heavy; her skin was pale and hairless, her scalp and body shaved so that not even a shadow of hair could be seen. She appeared to glisten in the dulled sunlight and at first they thought it was due only to the water on her skin, but as they crowded closer they saw that there was more. From her face and body hung myriad chains and other items of ornamental jewellery, threaded through piercings in places the boys could barely even imagine. Beads ran from her ears across her cheeks and through punctures in the side of her nose, chains hung from her lower lips then arced through her nipples before travelling through the folds of skin on her waist. From each chain, tiny toys and other decorations hung, knocking against one another and creating the music which followed her. A thick band of metal circled her waist, slipping in and out of the skin as it would the belt loops of a pair of trousers and from this dangled more chains and hooks, some of which tugged at the piercings in her thighs, others which disappeared into the dark folds between her legs. As they watched, she leant over and cupped the warm spring water in her hands and threw it over her bare scalp, the music of her body moving across the face of the water. Then she raised her head and looked straight at them, through the steam, through the trees, through everything.

They broke and ran, of course, and on their return to the village told no one. It was more likely that they’d each receive a thrashing for spying than credit for exposing the deviance of their new neighbours. Besides, what had she really done? Nothing that they all hadn’t done themselves countless times. No, there was nothing to tell, and so they remained silent. They rarely spoke about the sister, but each kept her in their minds in the years to come and savoured her in their own way. The war, when it came, finished the three of them and the moment was lost – no memory left to hold it.

In time, the concerns of the villagers concerned more tangible matters than their strange neighbours. As promised, they had kept themselves to themselves and had little interaction with the village. Others had come, of course, in twos and threes. By and large, they seemed to be normal women of various ages clad in the same green robes, but occasionally one would come with her head bowed and covered, and a muffled tune of her own sounding from beneath the fabric of her cloak. They would rarely stop at the village, though every few months one would be seen skirting around the edge of the forest – a figure of dislodged foliage -  before disappearing into its folds.

There were incidents still, happenings which gave the villagers cause to be concerned about the activities of their neighbours. One evening the following winter, the heavy night sky above the pine forest became momentarily ablaze with a blue light which cast an unnatural dawn across the village for fifteen minutes or so. More often, when the wind was right, a chant could be heard in the trees, an atonal mix of braying and keening which sounded like no other music the villagers had ever heard from human mouths. The older members of the community still spoke of witches, but were powerless to act alone and the men folk, tired from their long days, had no interest in hunting. Hard as their lives could be, they were comfortable with them.

At the far end of the village, the pines gathered around its sides like men holding a drunk friend up, stood a crooked wooden church. Its purpose in the village was mostly cursory, the residents giving token thanks for their crops each Sunday and working too hard to give much concern to anything not of the earth the rest of the time. Their priest was a quiet man, without a dogmatic bone in his body, and he preferred to spend his time enjoying the country and smoking from his long pipe. Sometimes it even seemed that he found his Sundays a chore, for he showed no enthusiasm or excitement on the pulpit, delivering his short sermons in a jovial and somewhat off-hand fashion. At the start of the summer following the arrival of the women in the woods, it was noticed that he had not moved from the bench near the front of his church even though the sun had fallen behind the trees and the evening had grown cold. When one of the villagers touched his shoulder, he pitched forward, dead, his pipe still held between his cold lips.

His replacement arrived within the month. The villagers had heard that women priests were being allowed and had met the news with a tut and a shake of the head, a vow that it would “never happen here.” So when the small, plain-faced woman in black arrived in the village, her mood fouled by the long walk, she was flanked by surprised faces and mutters of disbelief. For her part, she did herself no favours, greeting the villagers with a distant air of superiority and spending little time amongst them, preferring instead to sit in her new home, reading from her gospels. There were no confrontations, only words spoken behind her back, frowns followed her everywhere. When the first Sunday came, the church was empty bar a half dozen of the most pious of villagers, the others continued about their business as if it were any other day.

It must be assumed that one of the members of her congregation that day spoke to her of the women in the woods, for the following day she walked through the village quizzing all who she met about the green figures who would occasionally appear on the path before disappearing into the forest. The village still harboured an uneasy mistrust of the women in green, but in the absence of any significant wrong to pin them on, it had gradually atrophied. The priest, however, had seen a way to galvanise her flock and, the following day, had asked two of the young men of the village to accompany her into the forest so that she “might invite these creatures to at least share our church with us, if nothing else.”

They were gone the better part of the day, but had nothing to show for it on their return. The journey had taken them deep into the western wood, around the many springs, then back again in a broad semi-circle, but of the women they had seen no sign whatsoever. Red-faced and exhausted, the priest had returned to her home, the faint murmur of prayer emanating from within for the remainder of the evening.

A while passed, and gradually she earned the respect, if not the friendship, of the villagers. Her congregation grew, but never reached the level the previous priest had enjoyed. It seemed she cared little for the country, and the rumours were that although they had made a show of accepting women priests, their superiors had simply packed them off to the most remote parishes available, keeping them far from any true position of power.

Two months after her arrival, the sound of music drifted along the path from the station and a single hooded figure walked into the village, her head bowed and hidden as those of her sister’s had been. Near the well, the figure had stopped to ask whether any of her kin had passed that way and where she might find them. The priest had appeared from her home and crossed over, a look of scrutiny on her face, and had confronted the figure, demanding to know from where she had came and what her intentions were. The figure had stated that she wished the village no harm and that she and her sisters were merely conducting a research of their own within the forest.

“A research?” the priest had said. “Then you’re scientists?”

“No, lady, we are not.”

“A sect of some kind then? I trust you are followers of the one true God?”

“No, lady, we are not.”

It may have been the ambiguity of that final answer, uncertainty as to which part of the question it applied to, that angered the priest. “We are a close community, and have few secrets here. To pass through our village, I must demand that you tell us what your intentions are. Why are you here?”
The hooded head bowed further. “I apologise for taking your time, but I must take my leave. My sisters are waiting for me.”

As the figure turned to leave, the priest reached out a hand and grasped the edge of the green cloak. As one pulled away and the other pulled back, the hood fell loose and dropped to the woman’s shoulders, revealing her shaved scalp and the multitude of chains and piercing which hung from her face, disappearing into the neckline of her garment. The priest recoiled, face hardening, then with a gasp of outrage she lashed a single slap across the face of the turning woman. A sharp medley of sound rose up as the chains collided and the woman staggered back slightly, her eyes turning on the priest.

“Why did you do that to me, sister? I’ve done you no wrong.”

The priest roared, any words intended lost in her fury. She cried ‘abomination’ and ‘beast’, cast the shaken woman from the well. The woman pulled her hood up again and, casting a fearful look back, walked hurriedly from the village towards the forest. Even when she was gone, the priest did not allow her anger to abate. She spat out at the crowd that had gathered around; berated them for allowing such filth to live near them for so long. Had they spoken to God? Had they asked for God’s guidance before letting them settle nearby? Did they not see a challenge? Did they not see a test? Until sundown she raged, stamping in the dust around the well, throwing her arms wildly, eyes bulging. After dark she returned to her home, but throughout the night she could still be seen moving behind the windows, pacing back and forth. In the morning she was by the well again, calling out a refined version of the previous day’s rant. It was the women whom she targeted, asking them whether they were willing to let these whores nest near their men, let them hide in the forest and draw their plans? “What plans?” she was asked. “What plans do you think? You think they’re happy out there on their own? Without men? Without God’s love? Oh no, they’re simply biding their time, waiting until there are too many of them for you to confront. And then they’ll come, come for your men, for your sons, and they’ll offer them the things you can’t. And they’ll take them. Your men are weak, they will not resist…”

Some of the men had gathered, arms crossed, scowling. One shouted out, “What do you take us for? You think our heads are turned at the a slightest sight of fresh cunny?”

“Aye. Aye, that I do. Do you deny it? Do you deny that you don’t think of the women who pass through this village? Imagine what lies beneath those long gowns and cloaks? Their flesh, their white skin, their heat?”

Whether there was any truth there or not, the seeds were sown. In each home that evening, the subject was broached. There were some arguments, some denials, some agreements and some long nights. The priest was nowhere to be seen in the morning, and the conversations spilled out, the men and the women and the children sharing what they spoke about the previous night. The mood of the village was growing agitated and more than a few glances were cast to the surrounding pines. On the Sunday, the priest spoke to a fuller congregation than ever before, most of them gathered out of curiosity rather than any sort of loyalty. She spoke for hours, of threats to the integrity of their village, to their very way of life. Over dinner tables and the bar afterwards, there were few other topics of conversation, but still there was no passion for the priest’s fight. Following a few drinks, half a dozen of the men of the village stumbled across to the priest’s house and hammered on the door. There was a brief and slurred altercation where they accused her of trying to set their women against them. The priest, impassive, dismissed them with a curt “You’re drunk.” and closed the door on them. They pounded once more, then drifted away from one another, seemingly losing interest.

A couple of weeks later, one of the men who had been involved in the confrontation disappeared in the forest. After a few hours, his unclothed body was found face down in one of the springs, dark gouged caverns where his eyes had once been. The community looked inwards for perpetrator, as the man had not been well-liked within the village. But the priest had no doubt to where the blame should be directed, and started almost immediately working on those around her. She had told them. She had told them that they would be coming for their men, and now it had started. She turned on the men. Would they let themselves be taken? Were they strong enough to fight? Would they prove it? Would they prove it to their women?

It was not intended as a hunt. The group who set out the following day, made up of the men in the village, a few of the women, led by the priest, were intended only to make contact with the forest-dwellers. “We’ll demand they hand over the perpetrator,” the priest had said. “That’s all. There’s no reason why we still can’t live in peace.”

They searched for hours, pushing through the thickest parts of the forest, where the steam from the springs reduced the visibility to less than a few feet. Sometimes, they thought they had glimpsed a tall hooded figure, but invariably it turned out to be the shadow of a small pine tree, or one of the standing stones which marked the old burial spots of the earliest settlers. Agitated, footsore and tired, they were ready to turn back when, finally, one of the women stepped out of the gloom and stood before them. It was the red-head who had originally passed through the village.

“You are looking for us. Why?”

“You know,” the priest said, pushing her way to the front of the crowd.

“I’m afraid I do not.”

“One of our men is dead, and we know that you or one of your harpies are responsible. We ask that your hand over the one responsible for trial in a civilised court.”

The red-head narrowed her eyes, peering past the priest at the assembled group of nervous villagers. “You support this accusation?”

After a moment, a male voice spoke. “We do.”

The woman’s eyes returned to the priest. “We have been watching you, that I will not deny. And we have seen you, priest, and see your plans. You are a hard woman, and your chosen path has thrown obstructions in the way of what you see as your rightful place. You have learned, or chosen, to bring those barricades down now before they can halt your progress. Yes, we see you. We see your needs and the lengths you will go to. You are a frightened and pathetic woman and we have nothing to share with you. You are no sister of ours.” She looked again at the crowd. “My sisters and I are not responsible for the death of your man.”

“Lies.”

The priest lurched forward, her hand between her body and that of the woman. They stumbled together into the nearest tree and a fine rain of needles fell around them. When the priest stood back, there was blood on her hands and on the blade she held there, and spreading across the green material of the woman, who remained slumped against the trees. “The devil lies,” said the priest, panting hard. “We must not listen. Do not listen.”

The robed woman pressed one hand to her wound and spoke through gritted teeth. “Woman,” she said. “Your error is grave, and the town you have sought to save is now, by consequence of your own actions, doomed. My sisters and I have… the hidden spring… drank deep…” She fell to her knees, blood splashing on the bed of needles. “All we desired… was to be left in peace… to study… to live…”

She fell forward, her hood falling to obscure her head. There was silence in the green clearing, only the deep breaths of the priest rising above the forest sounds. Then one woman stood forward, taking the blade from the priest’s hands and advancing towards the robed form on the floor. “Good Jesus, what have you-”

She reached down to take the hood away from the woman’s head, but at her touch the robe lost all substance, falling flat on the floor as if there had never been any body there in the first place. One man began to speak, voicing his incredulity, but already there was another sound moving through the trees, a long keening sound which they recognised as the song which rose up from the forest on the darkest of nights. In a panic, they peered around, but if anything the steam had grown thicker, warmer, drying their eyes and reddening their skin. There were shapes all around them now, shapes which at first they thought were small pines but which moved forward when the eye was away from them and which seemed to rise up higher than even the tallest tree. Some broke and ran, fleeing back towards the village. Few made it; most falling into the springs which now boiled, and raged, and slid the flesh from their bones within seconds of their tumble. Their bodies were found, but there were others who simply disappeared into the forest and never reappeared. Some stayed with the priest until the end, still believing that she held some holy power that would save them. As the figures in the steam grew closer, they saw the pine needles stir where the blood of the red-headed woman had fallen, saw them rise up and begin to fold themselves into a shape. The butchers among them recognised it easily enough – and the others too when it began to beat steadily. But by then other needles had drifted from the forest floor, from the trees around, and were forming themselves into other recognisable shapes – the sinews of arms and thighs, the arch of shoulder into neck, the curve of a hip. In moments they had formed their final shape, the planes of her face coming together so that each and every one of them could recognise the face of the dead woman. Her new body stretching, she turned her head to them and reached out to the cowering priest, needle fingers in her hair, pulling her close. With a nod, which sent tiny splinters of green flying from her cascading hair, she beckoned the shapes closer, and they fell on the villagers who remained in the clearing.

They took the priest apart first, twisting the stalks of her eyes until they snapped and tearing the screaming tongue from her throat. They unscrewed her spine and split open her front to cast all that she was across the pines, then they hung what remained from the branches above. The others cowered and scrambled, but the heat was too immense to pass through and they were hemmed in. As the last of the priest was thrown aside, all eyes turned on the remaining villagers and, as the music of the chains rose up, the women of the forest vented their fury once again.

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