Strangers in the Woods

It was cold, and the little leaf buds were closed tight, as if hugging themselves warm, waiting for spring to properly arrive, before taking the risk of opening up to the world. The golden shafts of sunlight broke up the shadow of the evergreen pines and spruces, interrupted by silver birch trees, that fell on the moss- and lichen-covered hillside. The view was beautiful, but Jane knew it would be far better from the top of the hill. She quickened her pace. The trail leading up the slope was well worn, speaking of the many that had passed this way before her. The light was fading fast.

              She broke through the trees just in time. Before her, the ground sloped away steeply, falling into an untouched valley of purples, greens and browns. On the other side, the hills rose ambitiously, until they became mountains, with a hint of snow still clinging to the highest slopes, unwilling to let spring arrive. The sun was sinking between two peaks, its distinct rays bright against the dark bluish shadows of the distant mountains. The sky was painted a glorious golden orange, with purple-blue clouds blending into orange and yellow. She stood amongst the last line of trees and sighed contentedly. A nightingale began to sing.

              She watched the sun sink almost out of view, and then turned right and continued down the path. She knew there was an open patch about half an hour’s hike down the hillside, where she could camp for the night. There was plenty of reflected light for her to see the path, and the rocks and tree roots in her way. The trees closed in around her protectively. She hummed a tune to herself and breathed the fresh air. Surely, this was happiness, away from the madding crowd. Only her and the gently beating heart of the Earth.

              She missed the warning shadow of the root curving out of the ground, and the tip of her left boot caught in the loop. Fighting to keep her balance, she stuck her right into a crack in the rocks, where it wedged in place and would not budge. She untied her shoelaces and tried to pull her foot out of the boot. It refused to come loose; the rock pressed harder against it as she pulled it upwards. She assessed her situation in frustration. She was stuck, well and truly, and not a single soul was likely to pass this way for quite some time. There was no mobile network coverage; she knew that from the past. The night would be cold; the sky was clearing, and there was always the possibility of a bear or wolf wandering in these woods. Still, she was prepared. She carefully lowered down her backpack and opened the front pocket.

The crack of a dry branch made her turn. A figure was coming up the path from the top of the hill. As it approached, she could make out the details. The stranger was tall and dak-haired, with a stubble of a beard. His gait suggested a person accustomed to hiking. He smiled as he reached her.

“Need any help?”

“Actually, yes, I seem to have got my foot stuck.” She bit her lip. It seemed such a silly little thing. Surely, she could have figured it out on her own. Why did she ask him to help?

“Let me see, here,” he muttered, kneeling down by her foot. He took hold of it above the ankle – a nice, firm grip – and wiggled her foot back and forth. No good. She bent down, leaned a hand on his back for support, and took out a folded camping shovel from her backpack pocket.

“Here, try this.” He looked at it and nodded. Soon he was breaking up the rock around her foot, bit by bit. She bit her lip, hoping he had good aim; luckily, he did – not once did he hit her foot. As she stood over him, she noticed his shirt had a slim tear at the back, and a little blood had oozed out.

“Did you get in a fight with a wolf?” she asked.

“What? Oh,” he laughed. “I wish. I got attacked by a branch, trying to take a shortcut through the trees.” She laughed. The scrape was very fine; to her, it looked like a cut from a sharp fingernail. She said nothing more.

The sun was going down, and it was almost twilight by the time she was finally able to wrestle her foot free, followed by the empty boot. As she tied up her laces, he cleaned and packed away the shovel.

“Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.” There was something a little too intense about the way looked into her eyes; it was unnerving. She felt a little ungrateful, but also wary. She noticed he, too, had a bedroll on top of his backpack.

“Are you camping close by?”

“Just down the hill. There’s a nice little open patch…”

“…of heather,” she finished. He smiled.

“Is that where you were headed?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Well, luckily, it’s not far – I hope you don’t mind the company?”

“Of course not,” she lied. What else could she say?

They made their way down the hillside in the dim light, which cast everything almost into grayscale, but tinted green and brown by trees and earth. The warmth was fading into that evening chill.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

“What?” she enquired, looking around.

“The quietness.”

“Yes.” She relaxed a little. They seemed to have found a common wavelength. She was just imagining the worst. He said nothing more, and she too was silent; it was not an uncomfortable silence, really.

They came to the bottom of the hill, and there was the patch of heather, unoccupied, surrounded by forest. The forest along the path beyond that patch would, she knew, soon give way to more heather, but on a downwards slope, leading to the bottom of the valley.

“No-one here,” he observed. She nodded. He continued: “I could go on a bit; you know, give you a bit of privacy.” She felt very grateful for his initiative.

“I don’t mind,” she said as casually as she could. “Two is better than one, in case of wolves or bears, don’t you think?” He smiled; she was not sure if his smile was innocent or mischievous. She was not sure why she was saying this. Did she really want him to stay? He walked over to the heather near the path and began to unpack his backpack. She chose a spot a little further away, and likewise began to unpack her tent from her bag.

It did not take them long to set up their tents, and by then, darkness was really upon them. It was not a brooding darkness. The stars twinkled merrily in the sky. They stopped to lay down on the grass, almost side by side, and look up at them.

“They’re so far away,” she observed. “And yet, I feel as if I could fly up at any moment and soar among them. It’s almost scary.”

“And yet, so beautiful,” he continued. “We’re this little bubble, floating through a vast sea of light and darkness, beautifully intertwined.”

They turned in soon after, with a rather awkward ‘goodnight’ from each. Jane tucked herself into her sleeping bag, enjoying the soft cushioning of the thick heather below the tent. She took a sip of her water bottle and set it next to her. She rolled over onto her side and sighed contentedly. Somehow, it felt good not to be completely alone.

***

She woke up to the sound of the heather scraping against the tent in the wind. Except that it did not sound like scraping, but more like heavy breathing, close by. Everything was dark. She lay very still and listened. Someone was moving outside. She felt the tent give way a little; someone – or something – was leaning against the door. She carefully moved her right hand out from her sleeping bag, feeling for the rucksack. She heard the zipper of the door being slowly, quietly pulled open. She felt desperately for the zipper of the pocket. There was an influx of chill night air, and she froze. Someone pushed in slowly through the opening; she could feel it, even though she could not see. Her fingers were working away at the zipper, even as the rest of her tensed up in terrified anticipation. The intruder drew closer; he was leaning over her – she could feel the hot breath on her face. Her fingers had made a way into the rucksack pocket, and she inched forward, to reach to the bottom. A hand planted itself on her other side; the figure was directly on top of her, breathing on her neck. Another slight roll, and she hand whole hand in the rucksack. Just a few more inches.

              A hand grasped her left shoulder and pushed her down. She felt nails – more like claws – biting into her skin. But the shovel was in her right hand. She swung it at her attacker’s face; he did not seem to budge. She battered him in the face, again and again, until he finally let go of her shoulder with an animalistic roar of displeasure. As he backed off, she ripped open the sleeping bag zipper and slid out of bed, half-standing in the low tent, unfolding the shovel and holding it high. A hand came for her throat – a furry, clawed hand, grasping her throat, blocking off her air. She grasped it with both hands, trying to twist it, fighting against panic. The shovel fell to the ground. She was being pinned down again. He – it – was bending over her. She found the shovel with her hand and stuck it, blade first, into what ever was in front of her. There was a shrieking roar, and the shovel was wrenched out of her hand. Her attacker fled, leaving her shaking in the dark.

***

She woke up and saw that everything was still dark. She was not quite sure what had woken her. Her hands felt wet; she must have spilled her water bottle. She fumbled for the torch she kept under her pillow, found it, and switched it on. Her hands were covered in red. The thick, red liquid stained her hands, her arms, her sleeping bag and the door of her tent. She sat there for a moment, paralysed by shock and fear, and then unzipped her bag. Her shirt was stained, too. She unzipped the flap covering the entrance and stumbled out. She looked around. Everything was dark; the stars were still twinkling in the sky. She stumbled towards the other tent, suddenly realising that she had no idea what the man’s name was.

“Hello?” she called out as she trampled the heather with her bare feet, feeling the stems bend under her feet. “I need some help!” She rounded the tent, avoiding the guy ropes, and came to the entrance. The flap had been torn away, and everything inside was a mess. What had to be blood stained the remains of the sleeping bag, thin mattress and backpack. The grass beneath her feet was stained too. She shone the torch everywhere, and finally noticed that some of the lower branches of the trees were broken and stained red. She needed a weapon. She hurried back to her tent, opened the front pocket of her rucksack, and felt for the shovel. It was gone. Luckily, the multitool under her pillow was not gone. She flipped open the pathetically small blade, slipped on her boots and, with the torch in the other hand, made her way back and into the trees. She found boot-prints on the ground. From the spacing, it looked like the person had been running away from their campsite.

She stumbled through the trees, tripping on roots, getting smacked in the face by branches, following what seemed to be a trail through the woods. After what had to be an hour at least, she burst out into the open hillside, under the stars. A figure lay in the grass not far away. She approached cautiously; her weapon raised to stab. It was a man. As she drew close, she saw it was the man. He was lying in what seemed to be a pool of his own blood, with the camping shovel stuck between his left ribs. His eyes were open and lifeless. She carefully knelt down and checked his pulse. Nothing. She felt oddly calm. She had killed him, had she not? She had known from the beginning that something was not right with him. He was dangerous, and now she was safe. Alone and safe.

***

She woke up. It was light outside. Her hands were wet; the water bottle had toppled over and spilled its contents over sleeping bag. She got up, dressed, and opened the flap. The mystery man was sitting outside his tent, looking at the path, eating a sandwich. She took out her breakfast – a handmade bacon and egg sandwich, and a juice carton – and went over to him.

“Good morning,” she said as she sat down. He looked up, smiled and nodded. She felt a slight pang of guilt.

“Good morning. Such a beautiful day.”

“True. Not a cloud in sight. The evening glow was right.”

They ate in silence, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze and the songs of birds. As if by mutual agreement, they packed up their tents and headed down the path. The valley and mountains were bathed in glorious light. Eventually they came to a fork in the road.

“I guess this is where we part,” he said, noticing her step on to the path leading left.

“I guess so.”

“Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

They waved goodbye, and she wondered if she would ever see him again. When he had disappeared from sight, she stopped to check that the camping shovel was, indeed, in the pocket of her backpack.