Bradfield Wood

Mr. Chester was a dedicated worrier. This was due, in part, to his rather fiery religious past, but his own disposition was equally to blame. The man's appetite for worry was simply more vigorous than most. It was not uncommon for him to wake up in a cloud of fearful certainty that the four horsemen of the apocalypse were at hand, or that Britain’s enemies were nearly upon her, or that calamity had struck the royal family. Normally this puritanical worry provided him a backwards sort of comfort. This morning, however, was different.

It was Wednesday, and the weekly paper, the Bury & Norfolk Post, was sitting on the breakfast table with tea stains near its middle. The headline that startled Mr. Chester into spraying tea from his mouth, through his mustache, onto his freshly pressed pants, and of course, directly onto the paper, read as follows: “Man Escapes Insane Asylum, Three Guards Unconscious.” This was distressing news in itself, but the problem was that the asylum in question was in Gedding, a village only a few kilometers east of the Chester’s estate. In between Gedding and the Chester’s was nothing more than a strip of forest called Bradfield Wood, and Mr. Chester was sure that a few measly trees would not stop a madman.

Mr. Chester’s worry would have been somewhat containable, had his daughter Ophelia spent her morning at home. The girl, however, had packed a lunch of bread and cheese and biscuits, and set off with her parents’ permission to spend the day exploring in the wood. Oh, how Mr. Chester rued his generosity of the night before; how he rued his fanciful acceptance of Ophelia’s plea to play among the quiet trees. It was summer, the leaves were thick and green, and the forest floor was swathed in ferns and flowers. No child could resist the call of the forest, not on a day like today. But as far as Mr. Chester was concerned, Bradfield Wood was the absolute last place his little girl should be.

Ophelia, however, was blissfully unconcerned. Things were fine; at least, at first. There was nothing she liked more than marching up to her favorite giant oak tree, right on the edge of the forest, and introducing herself. And so she did: "Hello Mr. Oak Tree! I'm Ophelia, and it's such a lovely day, don't you think?"

After curtseying to her arboreal friend, she giggled and skipped into the forest, swinging her lunch basket and taking a familiar trail. If she had known how to whistle, she would have done so, such was her joy. A light wind played with her hair, and she relished its gentle touch. As she leapt in and out of shadows, she squinted and unsquinted her eyes, taking the sun and the shade each in turn. So contented was she with these simple revelries that she failed to notice that her familiar path was growing more unfamiliar by the minute.

The first sign that things were, perhaps, not fine, came when she stumbled over a tree root. Now Ophelia was normally a very careful girl, and she made it a point not to trip and skin her elbows like other children. But she had heard something that startled her and made her forget to watch her way. It was her name, carried on the wind between the trees. As she sat on the ground holding her wrist and brushing dried leaves from her dress, she heard it again. Ophelia. She shook her head. No one was speaking, there wasn't even a voice. But her name was floating there all the same, and it wasn't being addressed to her, just passed along; she could hear it moving farther away, deeper into the forest.

It was about that time when she realized that the trees around her were not among her acquaintances. This was a part of the wood she had never been to, a depth she had never explored. The trunks grew nearer here, and the branches were more crooked and wild. Ophelia sat for a moment puzzling how she could have gone so very far so very quickly. But soon she snapped out of her revery and leapt to her feet with her eyes full of purpose. Her name was getting away from her, and she had to find where it was going.

Birds called back and forth amidst the forest canopy, but Ophelia barely heard them. Sunlight hit clusters of leaves and spent half it's strength before illumining Ophelia's feet on the dark forest floor. After nearly twenty minutes of pursuit, Ophelia's lungs were involved in a very colorful argument with her legs. She was so committed to her task that when her name finally broke from the beaten path and meandered off to the east, she followed it without a second thought. She didn't know it, but she was about midway through Bradfield Wood on the way toward Gedding.

Every so often Ophelia would pass a thick tree trunk cut off near the ground with twenty or so new shoots growing from its neck. These were coppiced trees, cut back repeatedly for their valuable shoots. Every time her name hit one of these arboreal nerve bundles it broke into a hundred syllables and half-syllables, like a little cloud of sounds, then reformed into Ophelia and kept speeding ahead.

Truthfully, no one could call Ophelia slow. She could outrun her hellion of a cousin, she could outrun her father, and she could nearly outrun her neighbor's wolfhound. But try as she might, she could not outrun her name. It was getting away from her. Just when she thought it would pass out of hearing, it stopped altogether, like the snuffing of a lamp. And then, before she had even taken another breath, she heard something new.

"Ophelia?" A voice.

She stopped so suddenly she nearly tripped over another root. Thunder rolled in her chest, booming back and forth, pumping in and out. The racket was so loud so nearly missed her name the second time.

"Ophelia?"

The forest was darker than natural. It was stuffy and congested. Ophelia stood frozen, breathing in the close air, examining her surroundings. Huge oaks encircled the spot where she stood, but inside the oaks there was a grove of ancient low-cut trunks, the coppiced trees. These coppiced necks were thicker than any live tree she'd come across in the forest; the new shoots from the trunks were like trees unto themselves. Ophelia's eyes stopped on a huge trunk not six meters in front of her. It's thick shoots arced out and away from the center of the trunk, making the middle like a throne of trees. There was a figure seated there, barely visible in the deep shadows. Ophelia watched it, but it didn't move.

"How did you know my name?" she whispered.

Nothing. She heard a cough come from the heart of the coppice, where a head should have been. Ophelia was getting scared. She started to back away, she was just making to turn and run.

"Wait, please," the voice said.

She went rigid. "Tell me how you knew my name."

"The trees... the trees told me." 

Ophelia said nothing. The voice coughed again. It was a man's voice, she could tell that, and he sounded exhausted. His shape shifted in the shadows.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"It's not important," he said.

"Please, you know my name."

"Fine. Mine's Laben." He coughed.

"What's wrong? Are you sick, Mr. Laben?"

"Yes."

Ophelia thought for a moment. "Did you tell the trees to find me?"

"I told them to find help."

"But how?"

"I don't know, I just can. Not many people can, but I can."

"Can what?"

"Talk to them."

"I heard them too."

"That's good."

"It's good?"

"It means you can help me."

To be continued...

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This post is part of two projects. First, it is part of a Synchroblog, where myself and other friends post on the same topic every two weeks. I chose this week's topic: 'The Secret Life of Trees.' To read the other posts, go here: Creative Collective.

Secondly, this post represents a new direction for some recent writing, and the possibility of working my Ophelia material into a novel/novella. I'm rather excited, to be honest.

When Ophelia Fought the Devil

Ophelia was past simmering. She was boiling. There was a copper kettle in her chest that had been heating for hours and hours, ever since morning. Now the temperature had peaked and the bubbles were whirling and her spout was whistling with rage.

If it hadn't been for that last surge of heat, she might have hovered near 90ºC and never boiled over. She might not have gotten in trouble or sprained her wrist or broken her mother's second favorite vase. But the problem was that her cousin Benedict was visiting for the first time in five years, and he had grown into a devil of a boy. He was not tall or strong or intelligent, but he was downright malicious. Like any good angel of darkness he could pass for an angel of light – his parents thought he was a miniature saint.

Benedict and Ophelia taught each other many new things on the first day of his visit. Most notably, she learned what hatred tastes like, and he learned the taste of blood. Both these tastes are rather metallic, and neither is entirely pleasant, but more on that to come.

The day started innocently enough. After Benedict's carriage arrived, the adults gathered in the parlor while the two children went out on the lawn for a match of croquet. Ophelia played because it was polite, but she found the game rather boring. Benedict only won because he earned extra strokes by aiming more often at Ophelia's balls than his own. Besides, he spent half the game distracting her with stories about the new prep school he was attending in the fall.

When his last ball sailed through the final hoop, he chuckled and glanced sidelong at Ophelia. "I'm going to tell the boys at prep school how easy it was to beat you," he said rudely.

"What's that?" said Ophelia in surprise.

"I said you play like a lousy girl." He grinned wickedly and hoisted his mallet over his shoulder.

"Well that's not very nice," Ophelia threw back, feeling a hint of color rise in her cheeks. 


That little bit of red counted for about 30ºC in the climb to boiling. It was only the beginning.

Ophelia decided they had better tour the near section of forest that stretched along the east side of the estate. She tried pointing out to Benedict her favorite trees for climbing, and telling him about the time she learned to swing upside down by her knees, but he wasn't listening. He was scanning the ground around the trees with a great sense of purpose.

"Ah, here we are," he murmured. He reached down and picked up a long, pointy stick.

Ophelia stopped her tour and turned around, not without a little agitation. "What's that for?"

Benedict didn't say anything. He just smiled, put the stick behind his back, and nodded that she continue the tour. Flabbergasted, Ophelia went on.

"And this is– Ouch!" Something sharp jabbed Ophelia in the back. She turned and found Benedict brandishing his stick like a sword.

"Go on then," he ordered, "move ahead, or I'll do it again."

"No, that hurt! You can't– ouch!" He jabbed her in the belly this time.

"Go on," he said bossily.

Ophelia turned, but instead of walking, she ran. Benedict chased her hungrily, but contrary to his jibe about Ophelia being a girl, she was far more athletic than he. Benedict only got in two more jabs before they were both too worn out to continue. By the time they flopped down near the house to rest, Benedict had tossed his stick back into the woods and Ophelia's chest now registered 55ºC.

"You can't do that, you know," Ophelia panted.

"I can do whatever I want," he panted back.

She wanted to retort, but she got the sense he was right. He really could get away with whatever he wanted.

Ophelia's mother called them in to eat, and after lunch Ophelia decided to change tactics.

"Come on, Benedict, I'll show you the garden."

"Oh, lovely," said Benedict's mother, "he loves plants, don't you dear?"

"Oh, yes mum," said Benedict politely.

No one but Ophelia saw the smile licking like fire at the corners of the boy's mouth. Her stomach sank. She didn't know what he was up to, but it couldn't be good.

When they got to the garden, Benedict feigned interest in the spring peas.

"These look nice," he said warmly. "Ophelia, which plants are your favorite?"

"Oh," she flushed with pleasure, "the radishes of course!"

"Show me?"

"They're right here, silly! Don't you know your plants? Of course, I don't like to eat the radishes, though father says they'll grow on me, but they look so– hey!"

Benedict grabbed a handful of radish stalks and yanked them from the dirt.

"Those weren't ready yet! Don't do that!"

"Who's going to stop me?" he said casually. He bent down, staring at her all the while, and tugged another clump of radishes out of the earth.

"You, you stop!" she sputtered. "Please," she begged, "no more."

He hesitated, then pulled up another clump. He sniffed them. "These are rubbish." He dropped the radishes all in a pile and began stomping them with his prim leather shoes.

Ophelia had no words. There was steam gathering in her throat, but she had nothing to whistle. She knew what it felt like to be angry, but only the 70ºC sort of anger. Benedict had her pushing 90ºC, and it was downright uncomfortable.

At this point Ophelia made two miscalculations. First, she thought she could step back from the precipice of anger, and second, she thought Benedict must have some small thread of decency in him. She was wrong on both counts.

"I see you don't like the garden," she said carefully. "But I know something you will like."

His foot stopped in midair over the bruised and broken radishes. "Oh?" he inquired.

"Yes. I've got a secret place I can show you. Even my mum and dad don't know about it."

"Show me," he said firmly.

She led him back around the hedgerow that lined the garden.

"There," she pointed to a small hole that opened between the bottoms of two hedges.

Benedict bent and peered into the hole. "You go first," he said.

Ophelia knelt and army crawled into the hole. She felt the familiar thrill she always had when she climbed into her hideout in the bushes. The spot was secret for more than one reason. Ophelia's parents thought she had outgrown dolls, but in truth, Ophelia's obsession had only gone into hiding. She kept a small box with her two favorite dolls cradled in the hedges' roots.

Benedict crawled through the hole and found Ophelia sitting quite comfortably in an opening among the branches. The space had about the footprint of a closet but half the height. It was brilliant watching the sunshine stream through all the dark green leaves. At least, Ophelia thought it was brilliant. The only thing Benedict noticed was a small grubby box lodged in the roots next to him.

"Well now, what's this?" he said, reaching for the box.

"It's nothing," Ophelia said quickly. Her hand shot out to grab the box but Benedict was too quick.

"I see," he said slowly, looking at the box with glee. "Nothing is always something."

"Don't," she said, her voice going dry. "Just drop it."

"No," he said, looking up at her, "I don't think I will."

"Then what're you going to do?"

"I think I'll take it up to the house and ask my mum to open it."

Her words were gone again. She shook her head angrily.

"You don't want me to?"

She shook her head again, furiously.

"Fine," he said, "just let me get out of this rotten bush." He worked his legs out of the hedges and made as if to leave the box behind.

Ophelia was preparing to let out a sigh of relief, but in an instant Benedict tightened his grip on the box and disappeared from view.

For a split second Ophelia froze. This was boiling point. At room temperature, anger is a fairly stable liquid. Below freezing, anger turns into resentment. At boiling point, anger turns to hate. Ophelia's vision went red, and not the mild, flowery red of a radish, but the fevered, ugly red of murder. She was out of the hedges before she even had time to think.

The adults were sipping tea under an umbrella on the lawn. They laughed as the children burst from behind the hedgerow. Ophelia was chasing Benedict toward the house. In the humor of the moment no one took the time to notice Ophelia's face. Veins pulsed near the outside of the skin on her forehead. Bubbles whistled from her mouth in silent curses. Blood steamed from her heart, powering the gears of her arms and legs, pumping faster and faster until Benedict was inches out of reach.

He sped into the entryway and made for the parlor. He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Ophelia was practically on top of him. Once through the parlor door, he threw the box clattering into the far corner of the room and fell down in a heap of giggles on the floor.

Ophelia stopped over him and her eyes were knives.

"You could have broken my mother's favorite vase," she whispered through the acid in her throat.

Benedict glanced to where the box lay, next to a wooden stand holding an ornate Oriental vase. He sensed the danger in Ophelia's voice, he saw the red fire in her cheeks, but he had gone too far to hold back now. There was another vase on a table next to Ophelia's arm. It was white with pink flowers and had a flowery lip at the top. The legs of the vase's table were dangerously close to Benedict's foot.

"What vase?" He said casually, looking up at her from the ground. "You mean– this one!" He kicked out at the table legs and the vase tilted in slow motion.

Ophelia swung her arms in horror, trying to stop the vase, but she was too quick. She backhanded the vase and it slid off the table and shattered on the floor.

It is a dangerous moment when fire turns from red to white. It is perhaps more dangerous when a young girl's skin does the same in anger. Ophelia went stark pale. The red fury in her cheeks crystalized into its purest, most concentrated form. As the heat spiked, the kettle in her chest stalled.

There is a point beyond boiling when water appears to be static. Bubbles are absent, steam is absent, but in truth, the solution is wildly unstable. The slightest disturbance can cause an explosion of scalding water and steam. This situation is called superheating, and so it was with Ophelia when the vase hit the floor.

Benedict smiled awkwardly and moved one arm to push himself upright. That was all it took. The illusory calm broke and water and steam shot screaming out of Ophelia's mouth. She leapt on top of Benedict and tore his shirt and grabbed his throat and gave him a square slap on the cheek with her right hand.

Benedict got lucky for a moment. Ophelia was left-handed.

"Get off me, you wench!" he screamed, flailing his arms to protect his face.

The adults heard the commotion from outside and rushed toward the parlor, but they were too late.

Ophelia was screaming like a banshee raised fresh from the grave. The blood in her body had all turned to hate and it gave her the strength of four girls. She knocked away Benedict's arms with a swing of her right hand. Her left fist saw the opening and took it; the fist fell like a hammer and blasted Benedict in the side of the face.

At the point of contact on the inside of Benedict's cheek, tooth met flesh and warm blood exploded out into the boy's mouth. At this point he stopped calling Ophelia names and began to cry. He covered his face and wouldn't let go.

When Ophelia's father pulled her off of her cousin, it was like pulling the kettle off the stove. Her temperature dropped rapidly, enough so that she noticed the sharp pain in her left wrist. The solid contact with Benedict's cheek had sprained it dreadfully.

The four parents finally got Benedict to calm down, but their interrogation of the two children was a total failure. Neither Benedict nor Ophelia would say a word. While the adults argued, both of the cousins pondered the tastes in their mouths. For Benedict, it was blood, and it tasted like warm metal melting out of his cheek. Ophelia had a similar metallic taste, but her's, of course, was hatred, and it had a bitter, frothy edge to it. Benedict found his sensation rather tantalizing. Ophelia found hers appalling, but she knew it had to stay. If God didn't have to forgive the devil, there was no reason she had to stop hating Benedict.

"What's this old cigar box doing in the corner?" Ophelia's father picked up the box and turned it over in his hand. "I haven't smoked these in years."

"Leave it, papa," Ophelia said quietly without looking at him.

"Oh?" he raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Hmm. I suppose I will."

All of a sudden, Ophelia's mother screamed.

"Dear, what is it?" said her husband in alarm.

"They've broken my second favorite vase!"

Benedict broke into a wide, bloody smile. No one saw him, not even Ophelia. A second favorite vase wasn't bad for day one, and he would be there until the end of the week. Oh, the possibilities.

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This post is part of a synchroblog (folks post on the same topic every two weeks). The topic this week was 'Hatred.' To read the other bloggers' posts, go here: The Creative Collective.

The Gift of Good Land

This week's synchroblog topic is 'A book that changed my life,' and seeing as I chose the topic, I'm making a brief foray out of hibernation to respond.

There are some books, like the Bible, or Thomas Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation, or Bonhoeffer's Discipleship, that change one's life in ways and to degrees that defy simple explanations. But the phenomena of elusive explication is not limited to 'profound' sorts of books; books of any shape or sort or size may change us in ways we scarcely realize, . But whatever the case, the point remains that books change us, and pondering this week's topic makes me wonder whether one couldn't dedicate an entire blog to the matter.

But in a situation such as this, where one is wont to choose, I'll settle with a collection of essays by Wendell Berry entitled The Gift of Good Land. The book is peopled with non-fictional stories of farmers from Peru, Kentucky, and Berry's own farm. Its essays hold together around themes of land use, community, economics, and craft. For those wanting to learn more about the woes of factory farming and agribusiness, Berry's clear analysis of our agricultural system and subsequent offer of local alternatives make this collection essential reading.

As suggested above, I likely don't realize the extent of this book's influence in my life, but I'll try to name what I know. First, Berry's writing style challenged me (and challenges me still) to be a more self-conscious writer. Second, this book brought me to a new level of awareness about how I think about work. For example, I'm trying more and more to take pleasure in domestic handwork, rather than viewing it as drudgery. And thirdly, The Gift of Good Land taught me the value of good tools, good land, and the importance of participating in small, local economies. This last point represents a more general sort of influence I've encountered over the past few years, but Berry distills (what I'll call) 'agrarian wisdom' in such a way that I feel it necessary to give him credit.

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This post is part of a synchroblog I participate in the with Creative Collective. Follow this link to read other members' blog posts on the same topic: A book that changed my life.

Kagemusha

Last night my buddy Tom and I watched Akira Kurosawa's film Kagemusha (1980). I've heard it said that it's not Kurosawa's best, and I agree, this is true. It doesn't have the engaging narrative and lively characters that mark his earlier films. But I want to reflect briefly on a few of Kagemusha's merits, because there are a few cinematic gems buried in there.

The film is set in 16th century Japan, before the nation was unified. From start to finish, the turmoil and bloodshed wax in intensity. In my first watch-through, it felt like the film's structure was built on a slow swell toward chaos. For example, the film gradually shifts its focus from the narratives of individual characters to the broader conflicts at large – from warlords, doubles, and fiefs, to battles and burning castles. I see this as Kurosawa's interpretation of the unification conflict itself, as the warlords' own identities and meanings were unmoored and swallowed up in forces beyond their control. It's a movement from control and coherence into chaos.

Aside from that reflection, there were two parts I found especially satisfying. The first was the opening scene, where Warlord Shingen and his brother, Nobukado, convince the thief Kagemusha to act as a double for the Warlord. Kurosawa shot the scene in one long take, from one camera angle. The room is bare, and the characters hardly move from their seats. Its almost excruciatingly slow, lending a certain gravity to every gesture and movement. The scene feels like it was shot for the stage, which I think is the point. Each of the men is set up as an actor playing on the stage of Japan's history, in events well beyond their control.

The second scene I'll note happened about a quarter of the way into the film. It's when the sniper who shoots Shingen explains to his superiors how he executed the shot in the dark. I find it a brilliant moment in the film, again emphasizing the impact that the genius and wit of one character can have on events and circumstances that are far larger than himself.

This seems like enough reflection for now. I'll close by saying that Kagemusha is worth watching as a snapshot in Kurosawa's career, but I recommend Seven Samurai and Hidden Fortress as superior films.

Abandon

"There's an old quote, Ophelia," the young girl's father, Mr. Chester, said musingly. "It's one of my favorites, and I believe it speaks directly to our little disagreement. It goes like this: 'Abandon hope, ye who enter here.' It means," he went on, stroking his mustache, "that once you reach a certain point, you enter a certain stage of life, the journey's not worth the trouble anymore. See what I mean?"

"No Father," Ophelia grumped, hastily stifling a yawn. "You're not helping. I've already told you: I don't want to be eight years old anymore. I want to be grown up – I'm ready!"

Mr. Chester shook his head. "Ophelia, being grown up isn't so glamorous and exciting as you might think. Just look at me." Ophelia gave him a good look and frowned. "Exactly," Mr. Chester nodded, "you see, once you're grown up, you start to gain weight in unsightly places; you start to grow (and in my case, lose) hair at rates hitherto unfathomed; you even start to lose your memory. No, Ophelia, once you're grown up, there's just nothing else to look forward to; once you're my age, you might as well give up on the idea that the good things in life will still come your way."

"But Father," Ophelia argued, "you get to smoke cigarettes and ride in carriages by yourself and stay up late and eat as many chocolates as you want and–"

Mr. Chester held up his hand to shush her. "Ophelia," he sighed, "you're confused my darling. Those things seem nice, but they aren't the good things in life. What's good is being young, having energy, riding your bicycle, reading your stories, pulling up carrots, and all such as that. What's good is being free from anxiety, being able to run about in this green world without it dragging you down, understand? Ophelia, I've lost that. I've grown old. I have chocolates, but I have worries. I ride in carriages, but I never enjoy them because I'm riding for business. It's not the same."

"But Father," Ophelia responded, wide-eyed, "if I grow up, I'll still ride my bicycle and play in the dirt and do all of my favorite things. I'll just be, well, grown up."

Mr. Chester smiled. "Some people can do that Ophelia. Some people can be old and still be young. You're old Father here wasn't so lucky."

"Oh, that's sad Papa!" Ophelia leapt into her Father's lap and rested her head on his shoulder. "I think there's still a young Papa in you somewhere." She snuggled deep into his shoulder.

"Ophelia, that is very nice of you to say. You know, in some ways, being grown up is just as simple as living each day, knowing that tomorrow we'll be older and wiser. In that sense, time just seems to... Ophelia?" The young girl was breathing deeply, fast asleep. The hour was, of course, long past her bedtime. "I should have known – old enough to weasel your Father into staying up, but not old enough to take the consequences. Off you go now."

Once he'd tucked Ophelia into bed, he went back to the parlor. He pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and reached for a chocolate he'd left on the piano. For a moment, he listened to the crickets chirping outside the twilit window. "Perhaps there is a young Papa in me somewhere," he smiled thoughtfully. "Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the fruits of age, however," he chortled, popping the chocolate into his mouth.

The End.

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This post is part of a synchroblog, where myself and some other good folk post simultaneously, every two weeks, on the same topic. This week's topic was "Giving up for the long haul." Above is my interpretation. The other bloggers' takes can be found here:

Synchrobloggers