Nick was gone.
Abruptly the storm stopped again as the world around her twisted to that other plane, that different far-off place that was bathed in sunlight instead of the storm at night.
Alex lay on the floor of the forest, in a clearing surrounded by much younger trees and no stones at all, clinging to the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak tree. Its roots wrapped around her, as if it had grown over her for more than a hundred years, trying to protect her. There was no sign of Nick, no sign of the storm, and no sign of the house either.
Reality had shifted, and this was not a dream. She was scratched and bruised, still soaked to the skin, her hair plastered over her face. There was birdsong coming from the trees and it sounded like laughter.
‘Well,’ said a gentle voice, ripe with the same amusement she’d heard in Theo’s. But this was not her brother. Not this time. ‘This is a conundrum. What are you doing here?’
An old woman sat in the middle of the clearing, her fingers moving quickly and deftly as she threaded twigs and stalks together, wove flowers into the pattern with reeds and all manner of living things, entwining them into shapes and patterns Alex couldn’t hope to understand. In her lap, a large golden hare nestled as if it had been sleeping there. It blinked at Alex, watching her intently, twitching its long ears.
Alex extracted herself from the roots of the tree, sliding out as best she could, wincing as her clothes caught against it and pulled.
‘I don’t know where I am,’ she admitted.
The old woman smiled, her green eyes twinkling. She never paused in her work as she looked up. Alex knew that voice, knew that face. Knew those hands and the patterns they wove. ‘That’s probably a good thing. You aren’t meant to be here at all.’
‘This can’t be real,’ Alex murmured.
‘Oh, I’m afraid it very much is.’
‘Gran?’ The old woman smiled up at her briefly but didn’t answer. She continued with her work, fingers moving so quickly. ‘Where’s Nick?’
The woman tilted her head to one side. ‘Nick? Nick who?’
‘Nick Walker.’ Alex’s brain was supplying an answer she really didn’t want to be real.
‘The walker? Oh.’ There was such sorrow in that simple ‘oh’. She nodded to the oak tree in the clearing which Alex had been wrapped around, which had been wrapped around her. That couldn’t be right. There was no tree here. But…
But this wasn’t here. Or now.
‘Where am I?’ Alex asked, deciding to try again from the start.
‘You’re in the wild wood, my dear. The old wood. Where it all began.’
Which was no help at all.
The old wood, she thought and looked around. Really looked. This was a young forest, thick and lush but without the weight of ages clinging to it. Wood anemone and dog violets clustered around their feet, an imperious stand of purple foxgloves swayed in a breeze she couldn’t feel. Above them, in the understorey, she saw the bright green of hazel and the dark sheen of holly leaves. And beyond that, the oak canopy gazed down at her, shifting every so often, the soft creak of old wood in the breeze. But none were so old as that oak in the centre.
There was no oak in the clearing, her mind kept saying.It shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t…
But it was.
‘He’s the heart of the wild wood, made flesh,’ said the old woman. She lifted what she had been making and handed it to Alex. It was one of those circles like the ones Maeve had given her, but far more elaborate and decorative. There were flowers and stalks of grass, the heads heavy with seed, as well as leaves and twigs.
Alex took it in numb hands and felt a shudder of recognition run through her.
‘You aren’t my gran, are you?’
The old woman shook her head and stroked the hare. It preened beneath her hands.
‘Your grandmother died before you were born,a chailín ghil mo chroí.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the mother of the wild woods.’ The old woman smiled. ‘I’m the Cailleach. And for a while I was your gran, when you needed me.’ She pulled strands of golden corn from beneath the hare and started another pattern, weaving the lengths together, plucking up flowers and grasses from the forest clearing beside her. ‘The wise women were my daughters. I have always stood against Crom. I locked him away, and raised the forest to enclose his tomb. We keep it strong, the wild wood, so that he cannot escape. All down through the long years, to you, and onwards, to Maeve.’
‘Did you teach Maeve?’
