Elwil dozed off, comfortably wrapped in blankets by the fire Demmon had built for them by the river. There was a majestic view over Buckland, the Bucklebury Ferry and the Brandywine River where they had camped, in the southernmost part of Buckland by the hedge that separated Buckland from the Old Forest.
Before arriving in Buckland Demmon had ridden his horse into the primeval forest that filled most of the southwestern part of Bree-land, and for a time Elwil had been scared. There was something ominous and oppressive in the woods that surrounded them; it was like the trees themselves were alive and malevolent. Soon enough she had to struggle against panic. The trees, the bushes, the ferns – everything seemed to enclose around them, pressing them on the ground with their dreadful, lush power. Slimy leaf-crawlers slithered between puddles. Bats squeaked and rustled in the bushes. Birds sang and fluttered their wings in treetops. Life was roiling everywhere around them, but only rarely could they spot any signs of it. There were moments when she wrapped her arms tightly around Demmon and closed her eyes tightly, hoping to be away from the dark shadows under the trees; shivering from fear of the dreaded monster she knew was lurking out there somewhere.
They were invaders – strangers. The forest hated them and wanted to kill them. Any way it could.
But Demmon stayed calm and rode his steed south and west, staying as close to the border of Buckland as possible. And soon enough they found the hedge again and beneath it a gently sloping ramp that led into a brick tunnel, closed with rusty iron gates with thick bars. Demmon dismounted.
”Here it is”, he said. ”Come off the horse, the tunnel’s not high enough for riding.”
Elwil dismounted, and Demmon pushed the gate. It opened, making a horrible squeaking sound.
”It’s open”, Demmon said, as if talking to himself. ”Someone’s opened it not too long ago. Someone who wants to use it again soon, and quickly, so they haven’t locked it behind them.”
Demmon walked the horse into the dark, moist tunnel, and Elwil followed them. Demmon stopped to close the door, careful not to lock it behind them. ”You never know”, he explained, ”we might have to use it in a hurry as well.”
After walking through the tunnel they emerged out of the hollow on the other side into a green, lush land, dimly lit by moonlight, stars and lights from the small villages ahead.
”Buckland”, Demmon said. ”Come!”
They followed the hedge south until they came to the edge of a small marsh. Windswept and rotten tree trunks were lying here and there, forming dangerous traps beneath a mat of ferns. Intensely colored flowers oozed ingratiating, cloying scents that grated Elwil’s nostrils. Birds sang in the foliages. Buzzing insects bustled and swarmed everywhere. Toads croaked in slimy ponds. Here Demmon stopped and raised his hand as a sign for Elwil to stop too. He looked over his shoulder and put his finger across his lips before looking into the marsh again.
Demmon stood like that for a long time, staring at the marsh, motionless like a statue, tilting his head as if he was listening to something. Finally he whispered:
”There is something out there. Something that does not want to be found. It is safer if we go around the marsh.”
And so they did, until they found the hedge again, going west this time. They followed it all the way to the banks of the Brandywine, where Demmon found a secluded spot for them to camp the night and started building a campfire.
Suddenly Elwil stirred awake from the dream that had almost claimed her and saw Demmon across from her, staring at her over the campfire. He looked a little tired and almost sad.
”Are you not going to sleep at all, Demmon?” she asked, tired from the exhaustion of the day and all the wine Demmon had poured into her before she had crawled beneath her warm blankets.
”No”, Demmon said seriously. ”I never sleep.”
