Book extract: Wildwood/Gwylltgoed by Sarah Tanburn

Enjoy the opening of Sarah Tanburn’s work in progress, Wildwood, set in the same future Cymru as the tales in Children of the Land.

The gardener knelt, her long fingers flickering from bright petals to unfurling leaves in the thick-growing bed. Pinks, purples, oranges, startling blue-greens and the veined plate of  gingko, exotic brilliance under the dripping sky. The air was full of scent.

Hwni stopped beside the low wall and watched her, tracing a waft of vanilla to a purple streaked candelabra lily standing in a suntrap corner by the house. The wall was stippled with lichen, sharp greys and yellows, pale greens in streaks and bubbles spreading with great determination and no hurry over the stones set in place by long dead hands, held there by friction and gravity and luck. Unseen forces marking the boundary of the garden.

Someone had tried to persuade the lichen to make words. Tŷ Persawr. House of Scent. The letters were smeared, the loops in ‘e’ and ‘a’ filling in. She stroked the lichen until it was tidy and the name was clear to any passer-by.

The gardener sniffed some leaves and left them on the plant, but others she plucked and put in the trug beside her. Petals went into a box padded with well-washed, soft fleece. Hwni stayed long enough that her shadow moved and fell on the gardener, who straightened, shielding her eyes against the glare.

‘Helo,’ she said uncertainly, for all she could see was a tall figure haloed in emerald against the dark of the hedgerow across the lane.

‘Bore da,’ replied Hwni carefully, words sounding unfamiliar in her mouth.

The gardener stood up and held out a hand before withdrawing it ruefully, for her fingers were thick with mud. ‘I’m Gwen,’ she said.

‘Hwni.’

‘It’s rare to see a new face in Rhandirmwyn.’

Hwni waved a hand vaguely. ‘We lived up there,’ she said. ‘Over by Cefn Gwenffrwd.’

‘I didn’t know any of the cottages up there were still standing,’ said Gwen cheerfully. ‘Croeso, welcome, anyway.’

‘Thank you.’ Hwni paused. ‘You’ve an interesting exotic mix here.’

Thin sunshine

Gwen flushed with pleasure. ‘Come in, come in.’ She gestured to the gate in time to stop Hwni stepping over the wall. ‘I’ll show you round.’ She wiped her hands on a rag and shook Hwni’s hand. When their skin touched, Gwen felt warmth wash through her, as if the thin sunshine of March had suddenly become June’s heat, and she had become herself a tree ready to bear fruit, a profound sensuality she missed immediately it faded. She shook her head slightly in disbelief.

‘What a delight to meet you. I know few gardeners and no-one growing these foreign plants.’ Hwni smiled and the curve of her thin lips seemed a blessing conferred simply for breathing.

Gwen gathered her thoughts. ‘I’m lucky my mother started this garden before the import bans. Take a look at this, for instance.’ She led Hwni to three trees growing in massive pots, multi-stemmed from coppicing, their new bark shining pale cream under a crimson haze of blood red stamens. ‘This is Persian iron wood, one of my favourites. My mother planted them thirty years ago and they’ve done me proud. I use the branches and peeled bark for smoking and drying flowers and so on. The stamens create the most astonishing colour.’

Hwni stroked one of the larger stems and nodded. ‘Some kind of wych-hazel?’ she ventured.

‘Yes,’ said Gwen, surprised at such insight after a brief touch. ‘It’s a cousin of our native tree. You know your species.’

Hwni shrugged. ‘I try.’ Her eyes flickered across the exotic scarlet fritillary and the unfamiliar brown iris. ‘You keep all these contained here? They don’t spread into the forest?’ She sounded anxious, as if the answer might make a difference to what she did next. Gwen glanced at her but the stranger’s face was calm and curious so Gwen dismissed the idea.

‘Yes. I’ve been doing it for years. Netting, efficient harvesting. Some of them are sterile of course.’ She pointed to a large patch of earth covered in a straw mulch. ‘I’ve saffron crocuses under there, just peeping through. Worth a fortune and I’m not letting any of it go to waste. They’re sterile, though, so I don’t need to cover them up.’

‘It’s all very beautiful. Surely, you don’t do it just for fun.’

‘I make perfumes,’ said Gwen proudly. ‘True scents and colognes, of course, but also soap and creams and candles. It’s the biggest business in the area.’

‘Here?’ Hwni looked around at the thick woods which fringed the garden.

Following her glance, Gwen felt that the trees gazed back, crowded closer to her walls than they had before. She blinked and the illusion faded. ‘Come,’ she said, leading Hwni back past the house to a large area shaded by the steep wall of the hill.

Locks

Here were several buildings linked by walkways and corridors. Big windows captured the light, but all were triple glazed and Hwni saw strong locks on the doors, an unusual precaution in this remote and friendly village. Gwen ushered her into a space ventilated by tilting louvres high in the roof, the air filled with the scents of blackened wood, crushed sweet violet flowers, wax from bees which had harvested the pollen of lime and ash and hazel from the forest.

Along the back wall were racks and shelves aplenty. Each was filled with packaging, boxes and bags and bottles and envelopes, luxurious quilted paper, chased glass and wrapping tissue soft as clouds, a cornucopia of cream and filigree and stylish lettering the colour of dragon’s blood. Gwen handed her a box not much larger than the palm of her hand. As she did their fingers touched again and Gwen once more flushed with energy both energising and relaxing.  She allowed herself to wonder what perfume the stranger wore, but ignored her interest, excited to explain her work.

‘Tŷ Persawr. My business,’ Gwen said, pointing to the words on the box.

Hwni turned it over, fascinated by the heavy feel of empty board. On one side was an ornate seal outlining a dragon. Around the rim of the seal was written Tarddiad Rheoledig Cymreig. Gwen tapped it. ‘Everything I use comes from within Cymru. Even the wicks in the candles are made by a rope works at Newborough. This is the proof. Every year they come and inspect everything, audit all the paperwork and the rest. That mark means everything to me.’

Hwni looked at the wall of packaging, astonished. ‘You produce all this from your garden?’

Gwen laughed. ‘This is just for the next few months. I’ve made most of what I will send out this spring and then I am ready for the busy season, August onwards.’

‘Where does it go?’

‘Everywhere. Everywhere we are not allowed to go.’ Her pride was shadowed by sadness.  ‘I sell a lot in Iran, Azerbaijan, Turkey. The region is a good market for these sort of luxury goods. My mother lives there and she helps.’

‘Iran? Like the iron wood and the chandelier lily. How did that happen?’

Gwen hesitated. It’s a long story,’ she said. ‘Maybe over drinks, one night. And my father, Siôn, he likes to tell his part too.’

Hwni nodded, and changed the subject with no trace of impatience. ‘I hear there are empty cottages here in Rhandirmwyn?’

‘Quite a few. It’s sad so many have left, but maybe you can find one that suits you.’

‘I can just move in?’

‘Pretty much. There’s plenty of springs and you can see the soil is fertile. Time to be getting your beans planted.’

Hwni hesitated, as if she would speak but thought better of it. Gwen watched her walk away down the lane, swaying slightly and lifting her feet high off the ground, still wrapped in green light though the sun was behind the clouds. She smiled, delighted with her new friend, and knelt again to resume the work of early spring.

The novella collection Children of the Land is available at all good bookshops or online.