The Book of Lost Things [37]
After they had eaten, David washed his face and hands in a bowl and tried to clean his teeth with his finger. When he had finished, he performed his little rituals of touching and counting, and it was only when he became aware of a silence in the room that he realized the Woodsman was watching him quietly from his chair.
“What are you doing?” asked the Woodsman.
It was the first time that the question had ever been posed to David, and he was stumped for a moment as he tried to provide a plausible excuse for his behavior. In the end, he settled on the truth.
“They’re rules,” he said simply. “They’re my routines. I started doing them to try to keep my mother from harm. I thought that they would help.”
“And did they?”
David shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Or maybe they did, but just not enough. I suppose you think they’re strange. I suppose you think I’m strange for doing them.”
He was afraid to look at the Woodsman, fearful of what he might see in the man’s eyes. Instead he stared into the bowl and saw his reflection distort upon the water.
Eventually the Woodsman spoke. “We all have our routines,” he said softly. “But they must have a purpose and provide an outcome that we can see and take some comfort from, or else they have no use at all. Without that, they are like the endless pacings of a caged animal. If they are not madness itself, then they are a prelude to it.”
The Woodsman stood and showed David his ax. “See here,” he said, pointing with his finger at the blade. “Every morning, I make certain that my ax is clean and keen. I look to my house and check that its windows and doors remain secure. I tend to my land, disposing of weeds and ensuring that the soil is watered. I walk through the forest, clearing those paths that need to be kept open. Where trees have been damaged, I do my best to repair what has been harmed. These are my routines, and I enjoy doing them well.”
He laid a hand gently on David’s shoulder, and David saw understanding in his face. “Rules and routines are good, but they must give you satisfaction. Can you truly say you gain that from touching and counting?”
David shook his head. “No,” he said, “but I get scared when I don’t do them. I’m afraid of what might happen.”
“Then find routines that allow you to feel secure when they are done. You told me that you have a new brother: look to him each morning. Look to your father, and your stepmother. Tend to the flowers in the garden, or in the pots upon the windowsill. Seek others who are weaker than you are, and try to give them comfort where you can. Let these be your routines, and the rules that govern your life.”
David nodded, but he turned his face from the Woodsman’s to hide what might be read upon it. Perhaps the Woodsman was right, but David could not bring himself to do those things for Georgie and Rose. He would try to take on some other, easier duties, but to keep safe these intruders into his life was beyond him.
The Woodsman took David’s old clothes—his torn dressing gown, his dirty pajamas, his single muddy slipper—and placed them in a rough sack. He slung the sack over his shoulder and unlocked the door.
“Where are we going?” said David.
“We’re going to return you to your own land,” said the Woodsman.
“But the hole in the tree disappeared.”
“Then we will try to make it appear again.”
“But I haven’t found my mother,” said David.
The Woodsman looked at him sadly. “Your mother is dead. You told me so yourself.”
“But I heard her! I heard her voice.”
“Perhaps, or something like it,” said the Woodsman. “I don’t pretend to know every secret of this land, but I can tell you that it is a dangerous place, and becoming more so with every day that passes. You must go back. The Loup Leroi was right about one thing: I can’t protect you. I can barely protect myself. Now come: this is a good time to travel, for the night beasts are in their deepest sleep, and the worst of the daylight ones are not