The man who came from the woods - part 1

(author’s note) introduction

Before I tell you where I am I need to tell you who I am, what I am. I feel before I tell you what has befallen me I need to explain why I came to be here.



My name is Bill Sherbrook. Coming from English parentage I found myself christened William Sherbrook at birth, Bill was a name that developed with me as I advanced through childhood. I started with William to which I didn’t respond. At school I became Billy a name that, in time, was neatly rounded down to the one I have now. I think it suits me, my colleagues at work proclaim I look like a Bill and on more than one occasion I have taken the trouble to ask them why. They explained a Bill should have broad shoulders and giant like stature. They added that the eyes of a Bill should be sharp, piercing and alert but these would be combined with the sad, weathered face that contains them. Looking across the cabin now I see my reflection stare back at me from the Victorian dresser. My work colleagues know me well. If this description of a Bill is fitting then I tend to agree with them.

1) I am well over six foot. I would suggest that I was nearer seven foot than six. I know this because I banged my head on the cabin door as I entered. My shoulders, though they contain far less muscle than they used to, are still well capable. I say capable, I admit I’m not sure of precisely what but they are capable all the same. I certainly hope that they are. I will have need of broad shoulders in the days ahead.

2) My eyes are blue and they are piercing, sharp and bar the mist of tiredness that travels across them they stay alert, especially now, especially with the threat that lies outside of these walls.

3) The last few days, the long journey here and the thought of what lies ahead sits heavily on my mind. My expression is indeed troubled. I am not one to be easily scared. I will, however, certainly admit when I am. The wind howls about me sending the trees into a strange form of rapture. Throughout the ages they have crept discreetly forwards and now they tap erratically at the windows as if in warning. I’m not one to ignore such things but I find my stubborn and curious nature stands firm against these fears and concern for my safety though abundant in my mind plays a good second fiddle.



And now to the point - where am I?

At the present moment as winter filters itself under the roughly cut door of the hut I find myself situated on the east side of the lower slopes of the Rocky Mountains twelve miles south west of Boulder, Colorado, U.S.A. I have spent the last three days trekking up these incrementing hills scrambling on loose rock formations, forcing myself through tangled undergrowth whilst rediscovering my poor level of physical condition. There are roads and roads I agree would have made my ascent far easier. In these parts I have been careful to avoid them. I fear the people I have spoken to will not be far behind me. I need to reach this place in secret. I need to reach this place alone in order to give myself time to investigate the site, seek out clues and find what I expected to discover there.

Only once did I look back down to the valleys below me, lights on the horizon that glowed dimly in the distance providing me an unwelcome reminder of the warmth and comfort I had left behind. At first I questioned why anybody would leave that warmth and comfort of civilization. The long talks I held with the hunter as he recovered from his injuries persuaded me no further. When I left that house and made my way across America tracking down the people that had lived here my opinion was changed. They explained why they chose that location to live their lives in the shadow of the forest. They described the isolation of the wilderness and what they at first considered the safety and security they had been seeking defended as they were by the barriers of nature that surrounded them. Now as I neared my destination I wasn’t convinced. The cold wind that blew under my tent chilled me to the bone. It nagged at me trying again and again to persuade me to climb down, to turn back, to leave these winter climates and return to the life I was accustomed to. There were several occasions when I almost succumbed, times when my stout heart failed me. I packed to return on several occasions but on these times of weakness I reflected on the distance I had come, on what I had learnt and relied on my curiosity to discover more. I pushed on through the wind and snow and eventually, much later in the year than expected I finally made it.







(author’s note) further introduction



I first heard of the town of Pineville the night before Christmas Eve in the year of the takings. As I sat perched precariously on the edge of my bar stool, beer in hand, the door behind me swung open and a man staggered in screaming waving a rifle in the air. He fell to the floor in the middle of the bar, the rifle falling from his hand as he did so. It skidded towards my table and stopped beneath it. Leaning down I scooped it up and, placing it on the table left my seat to go the aid of the newcomer who lay stricken in the middle of the floor. I am no man of medicine but I will admit to knowing the basics and so I checked for a pulse, a pulse that was thankfully evident. I checked his breathing and discovered to my relief it was pretty rapid. I tapped him gently to see if he had lost consciousness. He hadn’t.

Rolling over eyes wide open he screamed once more in my face and held his hands in front of his face as if protecting himself. He was middle-aged, I guessed around forty, but the wrinkles that lined his face and the dark rings around his eyes made him appear ten years older. He kicked out at shadows and I drew back to protect myself. His mouth opened but foam not words spewed out slipped down his chin forming pools on the wooden floor beside him. Suddenly the kicking stopped and he began to babble inarticulately. I tried to placate him but the fear he had obviously experienced was that great he could do nothing but gaze upward and whimper. I did the only thing I could do, I checked him out. What I saw intrigued me further.

He was dressed in camouflage waterproofs from head to toe, waterproofs that were ripped across both thighs in both cases with four parallel tears. There was blood around the cuts and further up his left it appeared a chunk of his leg was missing. The waterproof pants were covered in mud understandable in this winter weather, however the front of his jacket was also covered indicating that the man had been at one time crawling on his stomach. His hair, thick and black contained several types of shoots and twigs that adorned him like a crown. His face was also scarred I guessed this was another results of contact with twigs as he rushed through the forest. He had run fast that much was evident.

I waited what seemed hours for him to pick himself up. I did offer a hand on several occasions but the man wouldn’t take it. It was clear he didn’t trust me, and why would he? I thought it best to give him his own space, exert no pressure and make him feel comfortable. I handed him back his gun, helped him to a seat at the bar and bought him a drink to warm his spirits. When he composed himself he took a sip, thanked me, then told me his story.





(author’s note) the account of Hal Bundy

I sat there and listened as he talked about a habitation, a village surrounded by woods, surrounded by darkness. He finished his first beer with gusto draining the last drops within minutes of the tankard appearing on the counter. I ordered him another whilst slowly sipping my own my thirst for beer being affected by my thirst for knowledge, my curiosity. The hunter, for that was what he was, told me of his struggles through the forest. He described quite clearly the paths he had taken and seemed impatient and frustrated when I quizzed him as to their location. When he came to mention the trees his head began to shake and the tremble that had so recently abated once again became apparent. He stopped mid sentence and began to stare towards the doorway. I turned and followed his gaze. Momentarily a shadow passed across the doorway and, as it passed, my companion scrambled for his rifle. The door remained shut, the hunter sat frozen with the gun pointed at the entrance while the young lad behind the bar pleaded with him to lower it. The clock above the bar struck ten the noise seeming to shatter the tension that had built The silhouette behind the door dispersed He began to shout once more and on more than one occasion I entreated him to be calm and assured him of his safety. The young lad behind the bar looked over It took him several minutes to recover and a great deal of consoling and encouragement on my part to persuade him to continue.

The rest of the evening seemed a blur. I sat there enthralled as my newfound companion described his recent adventures. When he attempted to describe the thing that had been chasing him he gestured with his arms holding them stiff As the beer flowed his nerves settled a I enquired as to where he was staying but he gave no answer. Deciding that it would be wrong to leave him sitting there I offered him a bed and a meal for the night to which he nodded appreciately.