Arcadia Read online

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Hanslip considered this remark for some time. ‘I will investigate while you are away. Now, there is one other thing you should know. I have broken off negotiations with Oldmanter, as it was not possible to reach a suitable agreement at the moment. It is quite possible that he will attempt to obtain the technology by other means.’

  ‘Does he know what has happened here?’

  ‘No. I do not wish him to find out, either. It could easily be made to look bad.’

  ‘Yes. It could.’

  ‘No one must know what you are doing when you leave. Should things become unpleasant, then possession of this technology will be our main defence. Be careful who you talk to and what you say, and do not fail. Is that understood?’

  17

  In the dark years that followed his meeting with Callan Perelson and the young student on the streets of Ossenfud, Pamarchon often thought back to that day, almost the last time when he had felt carefree and safe. Within three months he had become a fugitive, hunted for the murder of his own uncle.

  From being a source of pride, his name became a death sentence, and he had to become a wanderer, a person of no name. He had travelled in search of safety, and had found it, but never any peace. His fall weighed heavily on him. Bit by bit others, all outcasts, men and women with grievances, or those who could not settle, came to join him. All societies produce their injustices, and those who will not accept those injustices. So around Pamarchon there gathered the men forced into crime, the young and wild, the bold and adventurous, the women who yearned for something different, though they rarely knew what.

  They could not live among other men, so they travelled in bands, living out in the forests, occupying part of the vast emptiness which covered the landscape. Few ever noticed them and those who did could not find them. Many no longer wanted to hide and be fearful, or to have to move at regular intervals. Others wished to keep on moving for ever.

  Pamarchon became their leader because he understood both, and sympathised with both, although he pondered how long that uneasy state could continue. He could settle their disputes, persuade them to stay together and learn how to help each other. They relied on him, and he came to rely on them as well. With such people he found a comradeship he had never discovered in his days of wealth and ease. Eventually their wanderings brought them back almost to where he had started his long journey, to the place of his fall. They settled in the forests to the south of Willdon, pitching camp, clearing spaces, setting up the areas for cooking, sending out scouts to guard and hunters to find food. Then, as was their custom, they blended into the trees and waited, to see if their arrival had been noticed. No one came. It was as if they were not there. They began to relax and to live their lives once more.

  Pamarchon was busy in those first days, supervising the setting of the camps, making sure everyone was provided for, discussing the best places for guards, making rotas of duties. Then, one fine morning, he realised he had nothing left to do. He could leave the camp to Antros, his closest friend, and wander off by himself to think and consider.

  It was always his delight and his greatest pleasure to walk through the great trees, listening to the never-ending song of the birds. He knew he was hiding his intentions even from himself, though. He was going back to Willdon. He would go to the Shrine of Esilio and leave a prayer. He would go to the circle and hope that a dream would come to him which would clarify everything and that he would know, finally, what to do.

  It took several hours, as he went by a circuitous route, but eventually he came to the clearing, surrounded by stones overgrown with plants all in flower. It was deserted. So he stood up and stepped over the stone surrounds and went up to the monument. He knew that you had to trace your fingers over the scratching on the side as you made your wish. ‘Grant us all peace and safety, and do not let ill come from my desires,’ he said quietly as he bent over and performed the simple ritual. ‘You know what I am, and what I have done, and not done. Grant me what I deserve, whatever that might be. Come and help me in my hour of need.’

  He closed his eyes to concentrate, so his words would have more force, then stopped suddenly. A noise behind him. He had let his guard down and had paid the price. There was nothing to be done; he had a knife but no other means of defending himself. He took a deep breath, straightened and turned to meet his foe.

  Before him was a young girl, mouth open in surprise, looking at him with an intensity which was instantly unsettling. She was strangely dressed, a creature such as he had never seen before. But her face was lovely. Magical-looking. He felt that his heart would burst, just from looking at her.

  He did not know what to do. Her costume was exotic and disturbing, as was the perplexed look on her face as she studied him equally intently. Then she moved, but only because a fly was buzzing round her head; she made an instinctive movement to swat it away.

  That broke the spell; a fairy or other supernatural being was not going to be disturbed by a fly in her ear, after all. The fly changed an apparition into something real in a split second, and Pamarchon felt himself relaxing, just a little. He stepped away from the stone block and approached. The girl was still frozen to the spot, although why she did not know. She was not terrified, just confused.

  For a long time each examined the other. The girl bit her lip nervously. He brushed the hair from his forehead, she entwined her fingers, then let her arms fall to her side. He put down his staff, dropping it on the ground without even looking where it fell.

  He came closer and she looked up at his face.

  ‘Hello.’ It was not much of a start, but at least she began.

  He felt frightened for a brief moment, but then he replied: ‘Hello.’

  Both relapsed into silence, as though their powers of conversation were quite exhausted by the effort.

  ‘Who are you?’ Difficult though it was for her to talk to a strange, half-clad man much older than herself, it was easier than he found the task of addressing her.

  ‘My name is Pamarchon,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’ He spoke slowly, as though he was unsure of what he was saying.

  ‘Rosie. That’s my name. Rosie – Rosalind – Wilson.’

  ‘You don’t look like the son of anyone,’ he said gravely.

  ‘What?’

  He reached forward and touched her cheek. Rosie recoiled in alarm.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  She reached up and touched his also. His cheek tingled as her finger stroked down it. ‘We’re both real, then,’ she whispered, half to herself. ‘That’s a bit of a relief.’ She was unclear whether she was reassuring herself or him.

  ‘At least, you seem to be,’ she added. ‘It might still be a very complicated dream. I think I fell asleep. It was a long day. We had lots of lessons, you see. And hockey. In the rain. I hate hockey. Have you ever played it?’

  He had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Are you a messenger? Have you a complaint?’

  The question was reasonable, as it was commonplace for spirits of the dead with unfinished business on earth to come back to complain, or give information, even if the girl’s clothing and solidity hardly fitted any tale of visitation. Nor did her words.

  Rosie, however, understood him no better than he understood her. ‘I don’t think so, although I am a bit lost.’ She paused, still fascinated. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’ll be late for tea. Mummy’s always cross when I’m late.’

  She walked a few steps, then looked back. ‘Why don’t you come too? I’m sure you could share my shepherd’s pie and it’ll be bread-and-butter pudding for afters. It always is.’

  ‘Stop! Don’t go. Tell me, are you part of the Lady’s household?’ A foolish question, spoken just to make sure she didn’t leave him.

  She giggled. ‘I don’t know that anyone has ever called Mummy a lady. She’s quite nice, though. And I suppose you could say I’m part of the household.’

  The more they said, the less each understood.
So Pamarchon, not wanting to let her go, fell in alongside her as she began to retrace her steps into the woods.

  ‘Along here,’ she said, ‘then through Mrs Meerson’s pagoda thing. It will only take a few minutes. You’re not really dressed properly, though. You’ll be dreadfully cold, but I’m sure you can borrow Professor Lytten’s old coat.’

  He stopped suddenly. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A noise. There is someone near.’ He listened some more. ‘Is this a trap?’

  ‘What?’ She knew she was saying this rather often.

  ‘False woman,’ he hissed suddenly.

  He turned and ran, disappearing into the forest as though he had never existed.

  *

  Rosie stared in astonishment as the lithe figure slipped silently away into the trees after being so suddenly rude to her. She was now completely shaken, not just by the whole experience of being in a forest in Professor Lytten’s cellar – curiously, this was almost the least of the things on her mind – but more by the feelings which had passed through her when she had met this strange young man. His touch had felt like an electric shock on her skin; her hand – she had noticed it quite distinctly – had been shaking when she reached out and touched him. She had felt breathless, confused, upset and elated. She had never felt anything quite like it before.

  She thought for a moment of calling after him, maybe giving chase, but common sense prevailed. The last thing she needed was to get lost. She had been very careful to make sure she knew exactly where she was. All she had to do was follow the line of sweets and she could go home. She had once gone on a school trip in some woods and had got lost. She remembered the humiliation of being found, crying and afraid. It had made a great impression on her, and the memory now flushed all thought of further adventure from her mind. It was time – more than time – to get back home.

  She kept walking, eyes on the ground, following the Smarties, picking them up and – waste not, want not – eating them as she went. The crunch as she bit through the coating and the taste of chocolate inside reassured her. This place, whatever it was, had unsettled her. The contrast with the Smarties, familiar and known, could not have been greater. She would go back, walk down to the corner shop and buy another tube. Maybe some wine gums, to settle her nerves. A reward for not being so silly. She wasn’t going to come back here again. It was just a forest, after all, however odd its location. She was even beginning to look forward to her English homework.

  She spotted the last of the Smarties, popped it into her mouth and pushed her way through the bracken to the place where the light waited for her. She knew she was in the right place. She saw her coat, hanging on the branch where she had left it.

  Except that the light wasn’t there. She waved her hand around in the precise place where she was certain it must be, walked, then ran forwards and backwards, trying to find it, summon it into existence. There was nothing, and she was stuck. She had no way back home.

  She stopped and stood in disbelief, unable to credit what had happened, or even to start thinking what it meant.

  She was so absorbed she didn’t even hear the soft whistle coming from a hundred yards away, off in the undergrowth. Nor did she pay any attention to the growing sound of footsteps as they crashed through the forest towards her.

  *

  The armed men who burst noisily through the trees, swords at the ready, naturally assumed that the arrest would be as straight-forward as their earlier success had been. It was only a young girl, after all, who would certainly be terrified. They were rapidly disabused of this notion. Far from submitting meekly to their superior strength and authority, their new quarry completely ignored them. Then, when one shouted at her, she came out of her reverie and turned on them with fury.

  ‘What have you done?’ she demanded, stamping her foot for emphasis. ‘Where is it?’ They didn’t answer. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘don’t you have tongues in your heads? Answer me. What have you done?’

  The look of shock – and what could easily have passed for fright – on the faces of the soldiers almost made her giggle. In the circumstances, no one thought it strange that only the boy they had captured and held secure with the rope around his neck managed to speak.

  ‘Forgive us, my lady, but what do you mean?’ The others were impressed and grateful in equal measure that he could speak to her. They could not understand a word she had said.

  The two stared at each other.

  ‘You!’ they both cried out simultaneously.

  ‘What has happened to you? You look older. Or maybe you have a younger brother? It is you, isn’t it?’

  He nodded cautiously. ‘You haven’t changed in the slightest, even though it is more than five years since I saw you. You must be a fairy.’

  ‘I am not a fairy. Don’t be stupid. I’m Rosie. And it was last week, not five years ago. Who are you? And who,’ she continued, waving her hand contemptuously at the soldiers, ‘are these idiots?’

  ‘My name is Jay. These are soldiers who—’

  ‘Very well,’ she interrupted. ‘What have you done to my light, Jay?’

  Jay understood the words but not the meaning. His fairy was, it seemed, a bit crazy.

  The sergeant decided it was high time to reassert his waning authority, even though he felt thoroughly diminished by the girl’s reaction.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Rosie asked. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘He is saying you are under arrest as a trespasser.’

  ‘I most certainly am not. And you can tell them from me that if they want to arrest me, they can do it in English.’

  Another exchange of words. ‘They are instructed to take you to their Lady, and you are under arrest. As am I, in fact.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Rosie said. ‘Keep your hands off me!’ she said, wagging her finger disapprovingly as one soldier approached her. ‘I know my rights. Touch me and I shall write to my MP.’

  ‘You seem to have frightened them. Which is more than I managed. But they are determined to obey their orders and it would be best to do as they say. They are the ones with the swords.’

  Rosie sniffed contemptuously. She examined the soldiers once more – they were getting back their self-confidence after the initial shock – and took a deep breath.

  ‘Oh, if I must,’ she said grumpily.

  *

  A man was waiting for them as they walked out of the woods and onto a straight path which led over a low hill in the middle distance. It was warm, all were hot and the soldiers were silent and unresponsive. Rosie’s behaviour had unnerved them. She was meant to be frightened, apologetic, begging for mercy. Tears would have been satisfactory. Instead she had given them a dressing down and had done it in the old language. They had not known what she said, but they had all too well understood what that meant. The girl was very much more important than they had been told.

  They slowed as they saw the man in the middle of the path, carrying a white stick in his right hand. He approached and bowed deeply to them.

  ‘Most honoured guest, I welcome you in the name of the Lady Catherine of this domain. May you enter, and take your pleasure here.’

  It was the highest level of greeting in a land which graded these things very meticulously; even a scholar generally received a lesser welcome. The soldiers looked at the Chamberlain, then at their prisoners, and wondered if they had made some terrible error. They also noted, as did Jay, that the address was in the singular, with the gestures in the female form. Rosie was most honoured. Jay wasn’t even noticed. The Chamberlain’s face gave no clues either as he snapped his fingers to dismiss them. ‘Her thanks for your assistance,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You may go.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, turning to Rosie and Jay, ‘would you be so kind as to accompany me? The entertainments are preparing, and the Lady wishes to greet you herself.’

  ‘We cannot possibly … I mean, we are not dressed,’ said Jay, who was now more
frightened than when he had thought himself under arrest.

  ‘Do not concern yourself. Your master awaits you, and there are clothes and baths prepared.’

  ‘Is there any chance of something to eat?’ asked Rosie. ‘I haven’t had so much as a bite since breakfast.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the Chamberlain after a long moment of thought. ‘Whatever you wish.’ He spoke as though the words were foreign to him.

  ‘Golly.’

  They fell in step behind the Chamberlain, who walked quickly ahead, rapping his staff on the ground every few paces. The noise alerted people nearby. Men working in fields stopped, removed their caps. Women passing by put down anything they were carrying and curtsied. Their children stared.

  ‘Jay,’ whispered Rosie. ‘What is this? Where am I? What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured back. ‘I was threatened with dreadful punishment until you showed up. So I think it must be something to do with you.’

  ‘Why would anyone do this for me? How does anyone even know I’m here? What is this place? Who is this Lady?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. But she is not someone to annoy.’

  ‘Who is this master of yours?’

  Jay hushed her. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  They entered the grounds in procession, passing through small courtyards, then bigger, and finally into the great house itself. At each stage, people Rosie thought must be servants were present, and bowed deeply to the new arrivals. Jay bowed back to each group; Rosie thought she ought to follow suit. This was greeted with a faint snort from Jay.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Curtsy. They’ll think you’re making fun of them.’

  ‘I don’t know how to curtsy. I’ve never done it. Not in anger, so to speak.’

  ‘Watch everyone else. Bend your knees, extend your arms and incline your head.’

  She did her best, and by the fourth courtyard was, in her opinion, getting quite good at it. Jay, however, was looking increasingly ill at ease.