Hidden Refuge in an English Wood by Hannah Henderson

Hidden Refuge in an English Wood by Hannah Henderson

“You must be new,” said the boy, looking me up and down. “No uniform yet.”

His own uniform was the standard dark blue, the Air Raid Precautions service badge sitting proudly on his chest. He was squinting at me in the setting sun; it smudged the freckles sprinkled over his nose. I snatched the yellow envelope from his hand.

“I’ll be getting it soon,” I said. “I was fitted yesterday.”

His eyes lingered on me. I shifted my feet and folded my arms over my chest, the crisp envelope in my hand pressing its sharp corners into my palm.

“What’s your name?” asked the boy.

“Helen.”

“When did you leave school?”

“When I was fourteen.”

He nodded. “Well, good luck. It can be a dangerous job.”

He turned to leave. He only looked back once. “I hope to see you again, Helen,” he called over his shoulder.

He looked a couple years older than me, maybe eighteen. Old enough to be drafted.

“You too,” I called after him.

He waved a hand without turning, his long arm raised high like a flagpole against the rusty sky. I watched him go until his silhouette was the size of a doll on the horizon, the dark outlines of the old farmhouses rising around him like jaws full of teeth.

I hadn’t asked his name.

I tucked the yellow envelope into my leather messenger bag as carefully as if it were a child being tucked in to bed. Then I turned on my heel, the gravel road crunching under my feet, and headed for Lord Coventon’s manor.

Lord Coventon’s estate stretched over several acres, including a portion of the Worley Wood, where the old Coventons used to hunt fowl. The manor house was built of strong, gray stone, its great shadow looming over the greens that sloped around it. The estate was the talk of the countryside that surrounded it. Or it was, until Lord Coventon’s wife died and he retreated into the house’s solemn embrace.

When both of his boys left to fight in the war, Coventon posted an advertisement for a lodger. Just one. There were more rooms in the house than a single man could use, but the advertisement emphasized only one applicant would be accepted. I don’t know why he chose me (perhaps it wasn’t him that did the choosing at all) but Mum gushed over the acceptance letter, saying I would be lucky to live in such comfort when so many other children were living in farmhouses without flushing toilets.

I’d lived with Lord Coventon for a year and had scarcely seen the man. I only saw him at dinner, and he never asked about me. His housekeeper, Ethel, filled the silence most nights, prattling on about the latest headlines in the papers. Coventon nodded along. I don’t think he cared to hear much about the war.

Neither of them congratulated me upon my enrollment in ARP services. Tonight was my first delivery as a volunteer messenger.

Once I was inside the house, I hurried to my bedroom and grabbed my navy cardigan. It matched my skirt, which was the same color with a red plaid on top. I chose them because they reminded me of the ARP blue. I sat down on the bed and kicked off my loafers, trading them for my black-and-white saddle shoes—they had laces and I’d be tromping through the woods.

It was quicker to cut through the Worley Wood, and though it had now reached nightfall, the woods felt safer than the open road.

The new edition of Girl’s Own Paper sat open on my nightstand. Worrals, the lady pilot, peered at me from under her strong eyebrows.

I drew in a long, slow breath and let it out. I stood, slung my bag over my shoulder, grabbed my torch and stepped out, leaving the lamp on for when I returned.

& & &

The night was black now. A blanket of clouds strangled the moonlight and washed out the shadows. A fine drizzle dripped on my head, and I wished I had brought my rain slicker. I pushed my limp curls behind my shoulder, the raindrops clinging to them like pearls.

The edge of the wood towered before me. The murky night dampened the cheery yellow of the turning leaves on the birch trees, illuminating the peeling, papery skin on their trunks like ghostly faces, lined up in rows. As I stepped beneath their shelter, the cool air sharpened, and the gentle drizzle of the rain became a pit-pat on the leaves above me.

I had been in Worley Wood many times during my stay at Coventon’s manor. Ethel had told me about the lake and the old fishing shack that Lord Coventon hadn’t visited since his sons left. I knew my way through the birches; I knew the lake; I knew the trail, encroached upon by overgrowth from disuse, that led through to the next village. The trail lay deeper in the wood—it started at the lake. This would be my path.

I flicked on my torch and picked my way carefully across the wet leaves, stepping over roots. I was conscious of the noise I was making, but there was never anyone out here. Nevertheless, I felt like a robber in the night.

The lake just came into view when I heard it—engines, loud and low. The noise came from above. It was getting louder. Closer.

My heart throbbed in my chest and my cold fingers fumbled with the switch on my torch. Once I’d doused its comforting yellow light, the darkness swallowed me. The sound of the engines drowned out the sound of the rain. Where to go? I spun in a quick circle, almost tripping over my own feet. I was too far from the manor—I wouldn’t make it back in time. I stumbled a few more steps in the dark. The surface of the lake glinted weakly ahead of me.

The fishing shack. Certainly not a proper air raid shelter, but it was the only thing around.

A sharp whistling pierced through the deafening rumble of airplane engines. I whipped my head around. In the distance, an ear-splitting boom erupted, followed quickly by another.

I fled, stumbling over roots and slipping over the wet ground in the dark, my chest burning as I aimed for the silky gray outline of the lake in front of me. As the silhouette of the fishing shack formed against the darkness another bomb exploded. Closer. I fell flat on my stomach, my torch flying from my hand. Mud splattered my face. The cold damp of the forest floor pressed into my bare knees. The buckle on my messenger bag bruised my ribs. Another explosion lit up the forest and I pressed my face into the mud, closing my eyes.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, hauling me onto my feet.

My eyes flew open. My hands scrabbled at the wet leaves and mud. I kicked out my feet, but all I hit was air.

They couldn’t have parachuted into this. The trees were too thick. How did they find me already? Why were they here in the woods? What would I say to them? Would they speak English?

A voice shouted over the cacophony. “I’m trying to help you!”

Strong hands gripped my shoulders and spun me around.

He wasn’t a German. Or, if he was, he was a rather odd looking one. And he spoke perfect English, with no accent. He was tall and lean. His hair was long, almost to his waist, and his clothing looked tattered. I couldn’t see much of his face in the dark.

“I have a safe place,” he shouted over the sound of the air raid, “but we must go quickly. Follow me.”

He headed toward the lake. The forest lit up again, illuminating the birches like skeletons in their white skin. I scurried clumsily after the tall man. He was waiting for me at the edge of the silvery lake.

“Over here.” He gestured toward the large boulder that sat on one of the curves of the shore. I had climbed this rock many times.

I joined him.

He muttered something, waving his hand over the rock. My body tensed as the man waited. Then he walked forward and disappeared.

Sweat pricked under my arms. I stepped forward and reached out a hand to the dark face of the rock.

My hand disappeared into empty space.

I gasped, drawing my hand back. I took a shaking step forward, and then another, and then the rain stopped.

A doorway.

I stuck my foot out, searching in the dark, and felt a step down. Going as quickly as I could in the dark, feeling with my hand along the rough walls, I descended the smooth stone staircase. There was a loud scraping sound and I jumped, my shoes slipping on the slick rock. But when I turned it was only the stone door closing behind me. The airplane engine noise dampened; the explosions were muffled. I couldn’t hear the rain.

As I descended, a cool glow appeared on the steps, and I could see I was near the bottom. There was a low arch, roughly hewn from stone. I crawled underneath it and emerged into a small cave-like room with a low ceiling. A strange fire was burning on one side with vibrant green flames. The flames emitted no smoke. The man was taking a black tea kettle off the fire. He turned and acknowledged me with a timid smile, then began pouring the tea into a little white cup decorated with pink roses. It looked too delicate in his large hands.

The ceiling was too low for me to stand up straight. I sat down on the hard floor, pulling my mud-streaked skirt down over my wet knees. One of my shins was bleeding. I watched the blood run lazily down my leg in a thin red line.

“You may stay here until it stops.” The man’s voice did not match his size. It was soft and quiet; not as deep as I would expect from someone of his height.

“Thank you.” My voice was scratchy and rough. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t know what to do…where to go. I um—I thought you were a German.”

Seeing him in the light, it was clear he was no German pilot. His long black hair was tangled with leaves and dried flowers, and his clothing was a shabby mess of leaves and moss and thin strips of birch bark. He wore no shoes. His eyes were a piercing bright color—they seemed almost white, or silver. But his skin was the strangest—it had a green tint to it. But that was probably just the light.

The man was silent.

I pulled at my fingers. “They’ve never bombed this area.” My voice seemed too loud in the cramped space. “That’s why Mum sent me here.”

The man nodded distractedly and set the kettle back over the fire. When he turned, his wild hair fell forward, and I thought I saw a pointed ear. But it must have been a shadow.

It was so quiet. The bombs sounded far away.

I cleared my throat again. “Where are you from?” I asked. “My name’s Helen. I’m from London…originally.” The man looked up at me with his silvery eyes. For someone with such long, unkempt hair, it was curious that he had no beard. “Are you a deserter?” I continued. “I won’t tell if you are.” I smiled weakly.

“No.” He looked down into the little white teacup, dwarfed by his greenish hands. I glanced surreptitiously down at my own hands—there was a lingering tan from the summer, but no hint of green reflected on them from the fire.

“No,” the man repeated, with a quiet sigh. “I am no soldier. I am not on anyone’s ‘side.’ I prefer peace when I can have it.” His voice was gentle, smooth as the surface of the lake. I found myself leaning forward to soak it in. He continued, “But humans have driven me underground with their violence.” His gaze wandered to the tunnel leading out of the cave. “I have always walked these woods. Cared for its creatures. Spoken with the trees. Now I am like a mole in the dirt, blind, cut off from the beauty that surrounds me.”

A dry spot formed in my throat. “Humans?”

He smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Yes.” He extended his long arm, presenting the teacup to me. “Here, drink this. It will calm you.” The steam curled toward my face, sweet and floral.

I recoiled.

He laughed softly. “Ah,” he murmured, tapping a finger to his head. Then he sipped from the cup. “See,” he said, stretching his hand out to me again, “it’s quite safe.” 

Slowly, I extended my hand and took the teacup from him. The liquid inside shimmered as I swirled it around, glittering like a party dress. It was a milky pink color. I raised the cup to my lips and took the smallest sip. It singed my lips and tongue. It tasted almost like chamomile, but sweeter. Despite its cloudy color, I tasted no milk or cream. I felt its warmth spread in my belly.

 “Thank you,” I muttered. “It’s nice.”

The man nodded with a smile. The green fire crackled beside him.

I sipped the hot tea again. Drowsiness came over me abruptly in a thick haze. My eyelids drooped. The steam from the tea enveloped me in a sweet cloud. I drank again and felt its warmth down my throat. I blinked again and my head nodded down. The teacup tilted in my hand and some of its shimmering contents splashed onto my bleeding leg. I didn’t feel it.

“I’ll take that.” The man’s voice came from far away. He reached for the cup in my hand. “Sleep,” I thought I heard him say. “Things will be better in the morning.”

I slept.

& & &

Cold, flat stone pressed into my cheek. I pried open my eyes. The green fire flickered in front of me.

I pressed myself up with a jolt and inhaled sharply. The man was gone. The black kettle sat on the floor, next to the fire. I didn’t see the teacup with its little pink roses. My eyes flicked around the cave-like room. My messenger bag was still beside me.

I didn’t hear bombs.

I jumped up, sending a rush of dizziness to my head, and snatched my bag from the stone floor. Pushing my bag ahead of me, I crawled through the low arch that led to the stairs. I groped my way back up the smooth stone steps.

When I felt for the next step with my toe and found only air, I reached out a blind hand for the door. My fingers brushed the thick rock.

I didn’t know how to open it. The tall man wasn’t here. My hand trembled in the dark and my pulse quickened.

The door slid open with a harsh grating noise.

The long-haired man stood on the other side. He carried a woven basket over his arm, laden with red apples. In the daylight his skin looked greener.

He smiled shyly at me and said, “You slept through the night. It is safe now.”

“I haven’t slept so soundly in a long time,” I muttered. “I can’t believe I slept through an air raid.” I hesitated. “The tea—”

He nodded.

“Oh.” I looked down at my shoes. They were coated with dried mud. My socks didn’t look very white anymore. “Well, thanks. Thanks for letting me stay. I wouldn’t have made it back to Coventon’s shelter in time. Oh, no, Ethel must be wondering where I am.” I rubbed my forehead.

“Coventon’s wife?” asked the man.

“No, she’s his housekeeper.” I glanced at the damp spots darkening my messenger bag. I gasped and clawed at the buckle. “The message! I never delivered the message!” I flung open the bag and thrust my hands in. Where was the envelope? Had it fallen out? “Oh, it’s gone, it’s gone!”

The man chuckled softly to himself. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s been delivered.”

My hands dropped to my sides. “You delivered it?”

He nodded. “I’ve lived in these woods for a long time. I’ve observed the area’s changes for many years. I know my way around.”

Something fluttered in my stomach. “How long?” I swallowed.

“Centuries.”

I frowned. “Who are you?” The question beating around the inside of my head.

The man looked at me with a wry smile. Then he shrugged. “A forgotten folktale,” he said. Then he shifted the basket on his arm and stepped forward. “Come on. Ethel will be looking for you, right? I’ll walk you home.”

I watched him for a moment. A breeze picked up; it danced with the birch leaves and bit at my cheeks. I stared into my messenger bag at the blank space where the yellow envelope should have been. Then I fastened the buckle securely and hurried after the man clothed in leaves and bark.

& & &

Smoke vined its way between the thin, parchment bodies of the birches as we neared the edge of the wood. Through its gray curls I saw the Coventon manor in the distance, across the great lawn.

There was a dark spot on the earth near the tree line. A small crater, left behind by a bomb. I peered down into the hole. Did Coventon know how close it had come to his home?

“More scars.” The forest man’s voice made me jump. His eyes clouded over as he gazed down into the gash blown into the earth. “Well, Helen,” he sighed. “I think you can find your way from here.”

I tried to smile. “Yes.” I lifted my damp torch and flicked the unresponsive switch. “I’ll be needing a new torch if I want to keep delivering messages.” We found the torch in a puddle on our journey out of the wood.

The man glanced back at the smoking crater. “You’re going to keep doing it?” he asked.

My heart jumped at the question. But “Yes,” I answered. “I think I will.”

The man nodded beside me. “Good luck to you then, Helen.”

“Will I see you again?” I felt an unexpected tug in my chest.

“If you need me,” he replied.

“Will you be all right?”

“I have always been all right,” he said with an encouraging smile. “Will you be?”

I blushed. “Well, yes, of course, thanks to you.” I paused, searching his silvery eyes. Then I recalled the freckled messenger boy from yesterday. “I don’t know your name.”

His smile grew. “Ah, I am sorry, but that’s something I must keep from you. For now. Goodbye, Helen.” He plucked one of the red apples from his basket and placed it in my palm.

“Goodbye,” I whispered. We looked at each other one last time, before I left him in the wood, standing over a crater that smelled of war.

I only looked back once, and the wild man was gone.

I rubbed my fingers over the waxy skin of the apple, then tucked it into my bag and headed for the gardens, hoping to slip into the manor through the kitchen door, unnoticed.

& & &

I turned the knob slowly and pushed open the kitchen door, tiptoeing inside.

Ethel was sitting on a stool, making up a list. Her head snapped up when the door clicked closed behind me.

“Where have you been?” Ethel’s eyes were wide, and her voice felt too loud in the empty kitchen. “We looked everywhere for you last night when the sirens went off. I only hoped you had stayed at the warden post in their shelter. Lord Coventon has been readying to send someone to look for you.” Her eyes darted over my muddy appearance and settled on the dried line of blood down my leg. “What happened to you? My goodness, Helen, did you dig a hole in the ground to shelter in?”

I glanced down at the dirtied saddle shoes I had so practically selected the night before. The whites of them were now brown. I picked at the crusted mud on my skirt and Ethel flinched as a thumbnail of it peeled off and fell onto the black-and-white tiled floor.

“Well?” Ethel’s voice trembled with impatience.

I placed my hand on my bag, feeling the curve of the apple inside. “A man helped me.” My voice came as if from a dream. “A man in the forest. I was in Worley when the bombs started dropping. He took me underground.”

“A man? What man?”

My fingers cupped the shape of the apple against my hip. The squares of black and white at my feet slipped out of focus. “He was peculiar. He’s lived in the wood for a long time.” I couldn’t stop the words dribbling from my mouth. My head was fuzzy with the recollection. “I think he was some kind of fairy, or elf. His skin was pale green, and he had wild hair. He gave me tea.”

“What are you going on about, Helen?” Ethel’s voice wobbled. “Fairies with green skin living in the forest? You’re too old to make up stories. Too old to believe in fairytales.”

Her lips were tight, bleaching out any pink in them. Her brow was severe.

I frowned back. “He was real,” I said, my throat knotting up. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But he was real. And he helped me when I didn’t know where to go.”

Ethel slapped her list onto the counter. “Stop this nonsense. I don’t believe it. Don’t you think if a man was living in our wood, Lord Coventon would know about it? You must have shell shock.” She puffed out a breath and set her head in her hands. “You’ll be clearer headed after you’ve had a bath and a change of clothes. Go wash up, and then I want you to tell Lord Coventon that you’re safe. He’s in his study.” She waved her little white list in the air. “And be quick about it. I want you to come with me to do the shopping.”

I stared at her. She glared back, tapping her pen on her knee. There was nothing else productive to say to her. I didn’t mention the bomb crater at the edge of the tree line. Let it stay there and smolder.

Without another word, I turned from her hard gaze and stepped past her.

“Leave those shoes here. You’ll not walk through the house with those on. I’ll have them cleaned.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I put my toes to one heel, then the other, kicking my mud-caked shoes off with a thunk, thunk. Spots of dirt speckled the shiny tiled floor.

& & &

In my bedroom, the lamp was still on, waiting for me as I had left it. Flight Officer Joan Worralson greeted me from my nightstand. I closed the magazine and switched off the lamp.

I set my damp messenger bag on the floor beside the bed and pulled out the apple from within. Holding the hard fruit in my hand I stood at the window that looked toward the Worley Wood. I couldn’t see the crater from here.

The birches were bright and happy yellow as ever, as if they knew nothing of the night passed. The leaves fluttered on their bony limbs.

I raised the apple to my lips, then dropped it. It bounced off the windowsill and rolled on the wood floor beside me.

There was movement in the trees. Something turned. Long strides carried it back from the tree line into the protection of the shadows. Against the white and gold of the birches I glimpsed long black hair retreating into the woods.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Hannah Henderson 2025

Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com