Woodland Revolution: A Myth

By Stephen Palmer

Death.
Land.
Revolution.

Asking questions always made Wolfy's life difficult.

When she and the runt Houndie undertake a quest to ask Death why animals who die outside the Wood are never collected, the consequences are more momentous than either of them could have guessed.

For Wolfy's questions create a predicament never faced by any Wood animal. Her revolution is not a revolution, unless she puts her whole life into it...

A prose poem by Stephen Palmer.

'Stephen Palmer is a find.' Time Out
'Leaves the reader well and truly hooked!' SFF Chronicles
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Condition:Human Books
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393669791

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Contents

Woodland Revolution

About the author

More from Stephen Palmer

WOODLAND REVOLUTION

A MYTH

A PROSE POEM BY

STEPHEN PALMER

Published by

Condition:Human Books

© Stephen Palmer 2020

Cover © Stephen Palmer

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Stephen Palmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Books by Stephen Palmer

Memory Seed

Glass

Flowercrash

Muezzinland

Hallucinating

Urbis Morpheos

The Rat & The Serpent

Hairy London

Beautiful Intelligence

No Grave for a Fox

The Girl With Two Souls (Factory Girl, book one)

The Girl With One Friend (Factory Girl, book two)

The Girl With No Soul (Factory Girl, book three)

Tommy Catkins

The Autist

Tales from the Spired Inn

The Conscientious Objector

Dedication

To Keith Brooke

The best in the biz

1: WOODLAND RESONATES

Pheasants calling in distant glades, echoes through the Wood come evening.

All is calm, all is chill.

On the eastern edge of the Wood, lit by sunset remains, Wolfy and Houndie study the

Newcomers’ road. At the edge of the tarmac a body lies, squashed into an

oozing slab of bloodsoaked meat–

except the rear legs, which are untouched.

Flies cover the flattened body and the stink of blood hangs heavy over the verge.

A Newcomer’s car appears, and Wolfy and Houndie shrink back into

cold undergrowth, eyes gleaming between stalks and stems.

The car rushes by.

The body motionless.

Wolfy creeps forward, belly touching the ground, her paws damp, her snout moist.

This is a new flattening.

Cars are not part of the Wood.

Houndie follows, his ears cocked, sniffing the air. It will be dark soon, dark as his

coat, and the long night will drag on through cold and silence.

Come along, Wolfy. This is a dangerous place.

But I know this smell, Houndie! This is my family smell.

Houndie trots forward to sniff from a distance. He recognises colours in flattened fur,

recognises the particular set of the legs.

If it is a member of your family, Wolfy, you must leave.

No, not yet. And it is a member of my family.

A lean bar of sunlight reaches out from behind horizon clouds massed grey into

travelling rows. Evening is almost departed.

Houndie stands quiet beside Wolfy. They both sniff the air.

Blood, mud, standing water.

Distant yellow beams mimic the last of the sunlight, careering towards them along

black tarmac, and again they shrink back into the undergrowth. With a whoom the

car speeds by.

Now Wolfy runs forward. Houndie follows, unable to think of anything that will

pull his friend away.

What is this, Houndie? Is she sleeping?

No.

What are all the flies doing?

They always come to dead things, Wolfy. That is the way of the Wood.

But what is this? Will she come back in the morning?

No.

Houndie watches as Wolfy pats the flattened forelegs with one paw.

Houndie, what is she now then? Is it like when father’s father went away?

Yes... and no. Surely you remember that Death does not appear when Newcomers’ cars do this?

A pheasant squawkles nearby. Startled, Wolfy shrinks low, then trots back into the

undergrowth. Houndie follows. He hears the hum of yet another car.

Wolfy, we should return to the den.

It’s almost dark. Can you smell the blood still? I can.

Follow me, Wolfy. Cars never sleep for the night.

Wolfy trots alongside Houndie.

It appears as though Wolfy is already forgetful of the roadside scene. She seems

immune to grief, as though grief has yet to settle within her young body. But runt

Houndie knows grief all too well.

Is a car alive, Houndie?

No.

Wolfy stops to sniff a moss-covered tree stump.

Is a tree alive, Houndie?

Yes.

Is this one?

No.

What about a river? I think that must be alive.

Why do you think that, Wolfy?

It moves.

A river is just part of the Wood. It is not alive.

But the Wood is alive.

Houndie pauses to reflect on this statement.

Is the moon alive, Houndie? It moves, and it changes all the time. I think stars are its children. They’re smaller, and not as bright.

The moon is not alive, Wolfy, nor is the sun.

Wolfy stops, then glances back at the road.

Will she come back tomorrow morning, like the sun? I think the sun comes back every day, forever and ever.

She will never come back, Wolfy, even though Death will not take her.

Will she stay like that on the tarmac, then? Forever?

No. Her blood will go dark, and her fat will go hard. Birds will pick over the bones.

But I was told Death collects everyone in the Wood.

Wolfy, that is not true. Follow me back to the den.

Before them lies a culvert created by a stream, by rocks, and by the knotted roots of a

tall stand of trees.

Houndie leads the way inside–

roots scratching his back as he crawls along. Wolfy follows, head low.

On the other side, deepest green night settles over the undergrowth, night which, full

of moist air, patters droplets down to the ground. Woodland residents rustle this way

and that. All sound reverberates, bole to bole, along wide animal lanes, whose

destinations are half unknown. But Houndie finds their den, laps water from a

puddle outside it, then settles within.

Wolfy listens to the night.

My family are nearby, Houndie. I can hear some of them.

We are safe again.

Wolfy lies down.

I think she will come back tomorrow, Houndie. Death wouldn’t ignore her.

Death never collects those on the road, nor any taken by a Newcomer.

Why not?

Wolfy, Death is old. Death is icy old. Death remembers when the Wood was young, perfect and timeless, when it was boulders and ice, wide green steppes, forest and woodland, and freezing cold streams. From Death all the Ancients came – the Bear, the Auroch, the Woolly Mammoth, the Woolly Rhinoceros, the Elk, and more.

And the Wolf!

Yes, the Wolf is an Ancient too.

And the Sabre-tooth Cat.

Houndie considers this. The Sabre-tooth Cat is rarely mentioned.

If she won’t come back in the morning, Houndie, somebody must’ve done it to her, like a murder.

It was a car on the tarmac. They never suffer a Wood animal to get in their way.

If there was no Death, nobody would get murdered.

There is a Death, Wolfy. Everybody in the Wood meets it.

Why?

That is the way of the Wood.

I don’t like that answer.

Wolfy, the way of the Wood does not change. The Ancients are the guardians of the way. That is how things have always been.

Why?

Because they have.

I don’t think it’s fair that she was squashed on the road and just left. Death must be not fair, Houndie, if every other animal is taken. Why should a car make such a difference?

Death will not collect those killed by Newcomers. It is the way of the Wood. We cannot change that law, which has lasted for ten thousand years and more. To change it would be to change the world, and we do not have that right.

But it’s not fair. She was my family. It’s just not fair.

Wolfy glances up at Houndie.

Houndie, does Death collect all Natives?

Yes.

The badger, the wren, the boar and the tarpan?

Yes, all of those Wolfy.

And does Death collect all Latecomers? The rabbit, the cow, the cat and the guinea fowl?

Yes, all of those too Wolfy.

And will Death collect me and you?

I am an Outlander, Wolfy. It is not recorded what will happen to me.

But don’t you want to know?

Houndie ponders this question, vague memories shuffling around his mind. Time past

settles at the back of his thoughts: hard containers, like bright brittle wood;

Newcomer voices and Newcomer lights; his own family, cast aside without

explanation.

All in the past...

Yes, Wolfy, I would like to know.

But I want to know why Death won’t come for my family. I’m of Ancient lines, aren’t I? A Wolf. It’s not fair of Death to ignore her, is it?

We are too small to ask such things.

I don’t believe you. You were always the pessimist.

And you were always asking the wrong questions.

Wolfy growls, then looks away.

Houndie, nobody asks questions on behalf of Outlanders except me.

Houndie does not at first know how to reply to the statement. But eventually–

Wolfy, we are friends, but, around us all, the Wood is its own thing. Some questions cannot be asked.

I don’t believe you. I think you were made an Outlander by the Newcomers. I heard you came from the Newcomers. That’s what my family thinks.

It is possible that Death won’t collect me because of that, Wolfy. But how could I know for certain?

We could find out together.

The runt of the pack is thrown away, denied milk, left to starve in the Wood.

Stinking, smoking Newcomers care nothing for survival laws, laid down over

numinous generations since the retreat of the ice.

Houndie feels frustrated now, pushed into considerations he would rather avoid.

Wolfy, listen to me. I am older than you. Death will not touch anything outside of the Wood where the Newcomers are. That is unbreakable law. I am telling you this, now – Death will not come for me. My blood will go black and my scattered fat will go hard, and all the birds will pick over my bones.

You don’t know that. You’re only guessing. I want to know for certain.

Wolfy... Death lives high up on the Sky-hill. That is known for certain because the Ancients, the guardians of our knowledge, tell us so. Death takes us to the Sky-hill at the end of our lives.

But I heard the Wood is getting smaller. What happens when the Newcomers surround the Wood, and it’s so small we can’t live here? What does Death do then?

Such questions cannot be asked.

But I just asked them, Houndie, so they can be asked.

They cannot be asked meaningfully.

I say they can be. I want fairness for me and you, and my family. If Death won’t be fair, I’m going to confront it and ask. You’ll see!

§

Woodcocks calling in distant glades, echoes through the Wood come morning.

Through dampness and peaceful sunshine shadows creep across mattress forest floors.

Ferns unroll themselves. Ghosts of autumn fungi stain the ground. The contrast is

stark between olden brown and fresh new green.

Wolfy lollops and jumps along stick-strewn lanes to the den of her family, where

many are out warming themselves in glades.

Houndie follows at a distance; ever the Outlander. He sniffs at yellow primroses, as if

to prove he is no threat, though he keeps one eye on Wolfy and the rest of her family.

But the mood is granite heavy amongst Wolfy’s kin.

Wolfy speaks up.

Why are you all so quiet? Brother, it’s a new day!

Wolfy’s litter brother stares at her.

The old day won’t ever leave us now, Wolfy.

Brother – why not?

Haven’t you heard, nipper? A car hit her on the road, and the heart is ripped out of our family. Grief pours out of us, so we’re left empty. And emptiness can’t be forgotten, only buried.

Why, brother?

Emptiness isn’t nothing. Emptiness is a thing, like hunger.

Wolfy runs back to Houndie, who glances up at her as if noticing her for the first time

that morning.

Houndie, my family are all strange.

They are grieving.

Why can’t they gnaw yesterday’s bones? I’m hungry. They’re all speaking to me in different voices.

Wolfy stares back down the wood lane towards the culvert.

Let’s go back to the tarmac, Houndie! I want to see if the blood is darker yet, and the fat harder. You said it would be. Besides, I want to see.

That is not appropriate.

I’m going anyway.

Wolfy runs away at top speed, leaf litter and dewdrops flying up from her paws.

Houndie follows at a distance.

Gloomy glades pass by, their upper reaches flexing beneath birdsong. White western

clouds roll in from far off hills. To the Wood most new weather comes from the west.

Wolfy and Houndie scrape through wet bushes until they reach grass-deep verdancy

at the edge of the road, where they creep again into undergrowth. No thrum of

car disturbs the morn. Wolfy creeps forward, but this time restrained–

as if nervous... as if something has lately assembled deep in her mind.

It smells bad now, Houndie.

The flies and the maggots and the birds and the stoats always have their time. It is the way of such things. This is not the first Wood animal ignored by Death.

Why won’t Death come? I can’t understand it.

Again Houndie ponders this question.

No answer arrives. No grasp of events, no understanding.

And what of himself? He asks once more: of me?

Death will come for us both, Wolfy, at the ends of our lives.

But you don’t know. You’re guessing.

Death chooses. But no Wood animal can say when, not even Professor Owl, nor Loremaster Mole.

I bet that old bird does know, Houndie. I’ll ask him if I can’t ask Death.

Likely you do have more chance of finding him than Death... but he lives far away, in the heart of the Wood it is said, and nobody knows where.

I’ll find out from a Native.

Houndie walks forward, so that he stands beside her.

You have an open heart, Wolfy. Your insides are good.

Yours too.

No... mine are tainted with Newcomer stink. When you are older your family will prise you away from me, and I’ll be alone again, left to die, without any milk, in the darkest pits of the Wood. Starving, thrown away.

You say that as if you know. But just now you said Death chooses.

Death probably wants me out of the way. I don’t fit in the Wood – not a Latecomer like my wild kin, and certainly not a Native. Just Newcomer spawn, scrabbling for food on the margins of the Wood. Car fodder.

You’re so pessimistic! Listen Houndie, you and I will go on a quest. We’ll find Death and we’ll ask it