“Damn,” swore Mr. Cyning.
“Sorry?” Alfred replied.
“My pipe’s gone out. Can you see if your mum or dad have any matches I can borrow?”
“Sure,” said Alfred. Not at all unhappy to have the subject changed. Or so he thought at first. When Alfred returned with the matches Mr. Cyning was gone. Alfred could not help feeling a little let down. It would have been nice, as well as terrifying, to have Mr. Cyning believe he really saw a talking mushroom. Alfred thought back to those days as a child when he listened to and believed every word Mr. Cyning said. A small part of him missed those days.
That night, as Alfred drifted off to sleep he really did have a dream, but not about talking mushrooms. He was walking in Fey Forest when he saw the torches again. This time they were much clearer. He could hear the music as well. The music made him feel brave, but sad, as if he was meant to be the last defender of a dying cause. It gave him the kind of courage not to overcome insurmountable odds, but to be defeated with dignity and hope. The music was nothing, however, to the people he saw there. They were pure beauty: men and women, feasting, laughing, singing, drinking, looking as though the belonged to a medieval tapestry rather than the woods just outside a twenty-first century village. Their clothes were magnificent, bright blues and greens and golds, reds and yellows, no color seemed missing. Yet the clothes were not ostentatious, nor opulent. They were the colors of the woods themselves in early summer when everything was blossomed.
As Alfred drew nearer he found that he could not quite make out what they were saying. It seemed clear that they spoke English and yet the dream kept him from comprehension. Suddenly the scene changed. The lights of the beautiful people turned blue. Stern, determined looks washed over their merry faces. Weapons were drawn by men and women alike: bows and arrows, swords, clubs, knives, daggers, lances, axes. Horses appeared, as if commanded, but Alfred saw no one go for them or call for them. Some mounted, others remained standing and they went forward as if for battle. What happened next was a complete mystery for just as the enemy of the beautiful people was about to appear, Alfred awoke.
“Alfred, dear,” he could just discern his mother calling, “you said you would look for mushrooms again today.”
“Be right out, Mum,” he mumbled in reply.
Alfred splashed cold water on his face, dressed and went out into another misty morning. He took his time walking to forest. Whether it was because of the dream or being woken up suddenly he could not decide, but he left his headphones behind. Alfred stopped to look at the church as the sun was just beginning to rise over its steeple.
“Have I ever told the story of how this church was nearly burnt down?” said a familiar voice behind him.
“Mr. Cyning,” said Alfred both startled and relieved, “where did you go yesterday? When I came back to bring you your matches you had gone.”
“Hmm? Oh, I found some in my pocket and had a sudden urge to take a walk in the forest.”
“You did?”
“Yes, your story had me interested. I believe you told your mother there were no mushrooms, yes?”
“Yes,” Alfred said a little dejectedly. “I didn’t want her to think me mad for running scared out of the forest.”
“Mmhmm. Is that where you’re headed now?”
“It is. She really wants those mushrooms.”
“Would you mind if I joined you? I do like a good walk in the morning.”
“Sure,” Alfred replied, hoping for an opportunity to discuss his latest dream.
“You know,” Alfred said slowly, “I don’t think you have ever told me your version of what happened to St. Nicholas’s.”
“Oh! Well then, you are in for a treat.” Alfred only half-listened while he and Mr. Cyning walked closer to the woods. He thought he must be hearing him wrong, for when he would occasionally tune back in he heard words like goblins, trolls, feys. He thought Mr. Cyning must have started in on a fairy tale.
“No, Mr. Cyning,” Alfred said exasperatedly. “I mean the real story of what happened to the church.” However, as Alfred said this he turned and noticed that Mr. Cyning was no longer next to him. He found himself lost in a fog in the forest. “Now where did Mr. Cyning get to? Where did I get to, for that matter? It wasn’t this foggy when I got up this morning.” Alfred looked around but did not recognize where he was in the forest. He kept trudging forward, occasionally shouting “Mr. Cyning!” thinking the old man had gotten lost in the fog as well.
Alfred walked for what seemed hours, knowing that the right thing to do was to stay in one place and wait for the fog to clear but being unable to do so. It was as if something was drawing him further and further into the forest. Suddenly, as if a veil had been lifted, Alfred saw before him the torchlights, just as he had yesterday morning and in his dream. This time there was no music. He could make out the sounds of voices, but could neither see their owners nor understand them clearly. The tone, however, was clear: anger. It was a stern anger, even a proper anger, but it was anger nonetheless. The whole forest seemed full of it.
Alfred proceeded as quietly as he could, moving ever closer. He began to make out the forms of those speaking. They were the beautiful people from his dream. He was staring in disbelief as he continued to edge closer when suddenly SNAP. Alfred trod on a small twig. The torches disappeared in an instant and everything went dark.
Alfred awoke on the ground, once again next to a circle of mushrooms. He was feeling himself to make sure no permanent damage was done when he heard a voice nearby. At first he thought it was Mr. Cyning. “Thank goodness,” he said aloud. “I thought I would never find you.”
“I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Well, at least we’re together again. Maybe now we can find our way out of the blasted forest.”
“Oh I don’t know about that. Who would watch over my mushrooms?”
In horror did Alfred turn around to see the thing to which the voice belonged. It was the talking mushroom again. “B-but—” he stammered.
“You’re not going to knock my hat off again, are you, my son?” asked the mushroom.
Alfred’s head was swimming. A blackness descended on his eyes. He could just hear the voice saying, “Goodnight” as his head hit the ground and Alfred knew no more.
Chapter 4
Alfred woke slowly, barely opening his eyes, too afraid of what he might see. Once they were opened, he was relieved. He was no longer in the forest. He was in what looked like an old cottage. “Good, you’re awake. You gave me a right turn, boy,” said a voice in the distance. This time Alfred was quite sure it was Mr. Cyning’s voice. This, however, gave no immediate reassurance. Alfred’s mind was suddenly flooded with questions: Where was he? How did he get there? How long had he been unconscious? All of these questions he put to Mr. Cyning.
“One thing at a time, boy. Here, drink some of this.” He handed Alfred a glass. It tasted like wine but was earthier and drier than any wine he had ever had before. Alfred drank quietly, hoping Mr. Cyning would answer all or any of his questions. Mr. Cyning went out back, into what Alfred could only assume was his garden. Alfred sat looking around, trying to take in his surroundings. He was on a couch in what looked like the sitting room of an old stone cottage. The walls were lined with bookshelves, there were even books on the mantlepiece over the fireplace. Books of history, philosophy, mythology, fairy tales, medieval manuscripts, old books of theology, even some fiction and children’s stories seemed to be included in this antiquated library.
Whatever it was Mr. Cyning was doing in his