The Wood at Midwinter

A church is a sort of wood. A wood is a sort of church. They’re the same thing really.

(If you ever get a chance to learn what is written in spider webs, take it. Spiders have been writing since the world began and know many interesting things.)

In winter', said Merowdis, lost in her thoughts, 'the wood is supposed to be asleep. That is what people say. But I don't think it's true. In spring and summer the trees and creatures are preoccupied. Everyone is busy. In winter there is silence.' There was silence. But not an empty silence. 'In winter the wood is listening', said Merowdis.

The wood said, All woods join up with all other woods. All are one wood. And in that wood all times join up with all other times. All is one moment.

A woman alone was in danger from all sorts of predatory creatures - bears, wolves, men.

The trouble with being patient is that, generally speaking, there's no one to see you doing it.

Saints do shocking things. It’s what makes them saints.

One should be patient with saints, I suppose. Though the trouble with being patient,” she said, “is that, generally speaking, there’s no one to see you doing it.

The names of the dogs were Pretty and Amandier. Pretty was a little dog with silky, ivory-coloured fur. He was what people call a lap dog, though this was not at all how he thought of himself. Amandier was a pale hunting dog, fine-boned, rough-coated and sensitive in nature. I do hope there’s no bears or wolves in this part of the wood today, she said. Can you smell wolves? She was rather an anxious person. I love wolfies, said Apple happily. They’re so-oo darling! Pretty looked at her. You have odd ideas for a pig, he said.

Exactly who Merowdis was referring to when she said ‘just us’ wasn’t clear. The dogs and Apple assumed she meant them. The trees were quite sure she was addressing them. A spider making a web in a patch of bramble thought she must be addressing him and that this was, in some sense, an overture of friendship. In reply he left off the first web and began another, the second web being a well-argued treatise on the importance of friendship and what friends owed each other. That Merowdis could not read what he had written, indeed was not capable of distinguishing it from any other spider web in the woods, did not occur to him. (If you ever get a chance to learn what is written in spider webs, take it. Spiders have been writing since the world began and know many interesting things.)

Saints!’ said Merowdis, rather alarmed at this. ‘I never thought of Papa as a saint before!’ ‘I meant you,’ said Ysolde. ‘Me!’ ‘You have visions. You can’t see any difference between animals and people. You can’t see any difference between spiders and people. And you’re really only happy when you’re in church. Or in a wood.

Saints do shocking things. It's what makes them saints.

In winter,’ said Merowdis, lost in her thoughts, ‘the wood is supposed to be asleep. That is what people say. But I don’t think it’s true. In spring and summer the trees and creatures are preoccupied. Everyone is busy. In winter there is silence.’ There was silence. But not an empty silence. ‘In winter the wood is listening,’ said Merowdis.

A church is a sort of wood,’ said Merowdis, musingly. ‘A wood is a sort of church. They’re the same thing really.

I have thought that before. Or at least I have come close to thinking it.

Don't think about sad things in the wood. Look at our lovely and loving faces, said Apple. Be comforted.

He was what people call a lap dog, though this was not at all how he thought of himself.

In winter you hear the wood speaking,’ said Merowdis.

winter the wood is listening,’ said Merowdis.

We know. We know, said Amandier and Pretty. Don’t think about sad things in the wood. Look at our lovely and loving faces, said Apple. Be comforted!