That qualification must always be added; so little of Amara was known.
In a little while, when he had recovered some strength, he would go and investigate the pale shape.
Suddenly, there snapped into being, only a few yards away and plainly solid and real, another fruit tree. He stared at it. It seemed as firmly rooted as the one he reclined against.
Now his curiosity was engaged and his mind began to work of its own volition, albeit slowly. About a foot above his head there jutted a stubby little branch. If he could reach it and pull himself to his feet…
Somehow he did so, through a series of small deliberate movements. He had achieved the status of pithecanthropus erectus, at least, and might yet become a man again. He looked around him slowly—and then clung more tightly to the little branch. For six more fruit trees, all exactly similar, had joined the other one, confronting him in a tight arc.
His brain whirled. Fear stirred in him. He knew he was in serious danger, yet couldn’t define the threat. He had to get away from here. He set his teeth and let go of the branch. He stood freely but swaying. Then two further trees created themselves soundlessly before him. The fruit of all of these trees looked like black plums. In another light they could have been red. For no reason, he felt sure they were poisonous. Beyond the trees the pale oblong glimmered indistinctly. The safety he’d sought so desperately didn’t lie under this tree. But if he could reach the house…
More trees sprang from nowhere, between him and that possible sanctuary. Steadily he was being hemmed in by a small, dense wood.
A vague memory of the fate of Macbeth floated into his mind. When Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane, it brought the prophesied doom with it. He took a shaky pace forward. A tree leapt up in his path. He clung to it—to the seemingly identical branch he had just relinquished. He worked his way around the bole and tried to walk on.
Another tree barred his way and stopped him in his tracks.
What was the use of warnings whose meanings you learned only when it was too late?
These trees springing from nowhere had a purpose.
They were deliberately blocking his path to the house. For some reason they didn’t want him to reach it. Okay, he would head away from the house, back along the margin of the swamp. He turned, intending to go that way. Almost as if they’d read his mind, five more trees appeared like a palisade before him.
That made it clear that the trees didn’t wish him to go any place at all. They were trying to draw a magic circle around him.
Wearily, he detached the machete from his belt and swung at the nearest tree. And again. A tiny chip went flying. He had merely nicked the tree. What little energy he had recovered began already to ebb. Felling the tree was far beyond him. The trees were tall and clasped their branches closely to themselves in the manner of a poplar. He thought, so long as I stay close to the boles I’ll always be able to sidle between them, however many trees there get to be, because their branches must keep them a little apart.
He turned again towards the house, intent upon trying his method.
This seemed to confirm that his thoughts were being read and his every intention consciously frustrated. A weak fury spurred him to try to shoulder his way between these two latest arrivals. It was impossible. The gap was too narrow. He realized that even if he were physically fit, there could be no escape from the trap closing about him.
He lost his head, and made a series of wild dashes in different directions. The air was full of the sound of the cracking, clashing, and breaking of branches. Arms flailing, he rebounded from bole after bole. When one arm was caught between a pair of them snapping into objectivity simultaneously, he cried aloud in fright and despair. If this mad multiplication continued, his lease of life was short; quite soon he would be crushed to death.
Sweating, he wrenched his arm free after a struggle. The effort burned away his last drop of energy. He collapsed from sheer weakness. The side of his head thumped hard against one of a compact circle of trees.
The purple world darkened into night.
CHAPTER THREE
« ^ »
SHERRET didn’t believe in ghosts, but he had to believe in this one because he saw it. He knew it was a ghost because it was as transparent as lace and wore a shroud. Although he lay helpless before it, it didn’t scare him because it was the ghost of a friendly and beautiful woman.
There was no color to her cheeks, eyes, or lips, but they conveyed expression clearly enough. The ghost was both concerned and hopeful. Obviously she was concerned about him. What she was hopeful about was less obvious. She
