The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  All the guards looked to the one who could understand Mr Monk for his translation. The man lifted up his hands in apology.

  ‘Sorry, I hardly got a word of that. Something about Versatile having a family…?’

  Mr Monk rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘Oned momend please,’ he said turning back to the mirror.

  ‘One moment please,’ the guard said helpfully to the others.

  The ugly man studied his face with a quiet concentration for several minutes, like a man preparing for a tricky shave.

  ‘Wood everyoned turn away please.’

  All the guards understood this well enough and turned their backs away from Mr Monk and his business. The man then stuck his thumb into his open mouth and blew out his cheeks as hard as he could. Like a balloon inflating, all the marks filled in, all the knuckles disappeared, his brow straightened, his nose popped back into its usual crooked line and he was quickly restored back to his normal, milky, muddy, ugly self.

  ‘Ah, that’s much better,’ he said turning back into the room. ‘So embarrassing when that happens, I hope you will all forgive me.’

  The guards turned around and immediately looked a great deal more at ease.

  ‘Now where was I? Yes, that’s it!’ he snapped his fingers. ‘Versatile must still have family of his own after all these years, I suspected as much, it was just as well I sent out two invitations at a time and not one. And the person who hit me was wearing the stone ring. It’s the only explanation. This is marvellous news!’

  All the guards shuffled their feet but looked slightly pleased (or was it relieved?) that Mr Monk wasn’t in a foul temper. They had utterly failed to suppress one old man and his friends after all.

  ‘Gentleman,’ said Monk. ‘Is anyone badly hurt?’

  No one answered. In truth, no one dared answer. They were hardened enough to know that it was better to suffer in silence than have the shadow of a coward or a weakling following them with every step, even if that meant bearing the beatings of a lad half the size of all of them who seemed to know exactly what each of them was going to do before they knew it themselves.

  No one answered. Except one.

  A young man walked forward, creased over in the middle, cradling his arm delicately to his chest. Somewhat taken by surprise, the others tried to signal to him to stay put, but he was white faced and clearly not in his right mind. There was a sheen of cold sweat over his face and a distant, faint look in his eyes. He hobbled forwards further into the room and gestured down to his arm.

  ‘I…I think it’s broken sir,’ he managed to say through clenched teeth. ‘That boy, he was…he was too quick for me. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Monk, placing a sympathetic hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘He was too quick for all of us, wasn’t he. But don’t you take on so, I’m sure you did the best you could do.’

  The young man nodded, his eyes becoming wet.

  ‘Now, let’s take a look at this,’ said Monk, gently lifting the young man’s broken arm. ‘Does it hurt when I do this?’ he twisted the arm one way and the young man inhaled. ‘How about this?’ He twisted the arm the other way and the young man recoiled. ‘Right, I see, it’s clearly broken. One more thing, does it hurt when I do this?’

  The young man’s eyes widened and he fell back onto the floor with the hilt of a dagger protruding from his belly. Monk pulled a handkerchief from a sleeve and gingerly wiped his hands, replacing it, looking up and smiling a broken toothed smile at his men once more.

  ‘Anyone else hurt?’

  Every guard frantically shook their heads and stared, tight-jawed, at their own feet.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Can’t abide the wet, it vexes me beyond measure, they should remain on their mother’s knees as far as I’m concerned.’

  The guards all nodded, standing to attention, or as close to attention as their beaten bodies would allow, and resumed their grim countenance as Mr Monk walked between them. There was no denying it; they were in a sorry state.

  ‘Would you care for us to pursue the…er…them, sir?’ said the thick- jawed guard, saluting him several times in the process.

  ‘No,’ said Monk, still slowly pacing between the men, tapping a finger to his mouth as he thought. ‘No need. Wheels are in motion. There’s really no need for us to pursue them.’

  The men shuffled their feet.

  ‘Why’s that sir? They’ll surely escape and then you’ll never get the stone.’

  ‘They won’t escape. Believe me. Quite the opposite in fact,’ he said, smiling. ‘I think they’ll come back.’

  ◆◆◆

  One guard, unusually old for his rank, and another, unusually young, stood side by side in the street, clad in ill-fitting uniforms, next to a tall, well built gentleman shrouded in a long cloak and mask as the audience left the theatre in their droves. There was a buzz and excitement in the air such as Rosie had never witnessed. Guests flooded past the three of them, stood quite still in the middle of the street, and they caught snippets of animated chatter as people passed.

  ‘…salvation has revealed her beautiful face…’

  ‘…the country shall at long last be great once more…’

  ‘…I’ll offer them my fortune if it will help…’

  ‘…the Oracle will be the marvel of the century…’

  The evening had undoubtedly been everything the guests had hoped for, and much more. They had been presented with a mechanical miracle. An Oracle. Science had given birth to an answer and they would be part of a country where order and respect ruled once more.

  It was several minutes before the menagerie of guests had passed, all on their way to the manor house of Justice Brash, further up Corin Street, and several minutes before Rosie, Henry and Zanga felt it safe to move on.

  The old man slumped onto Zanga’s arm and lifted his three-pointed hat from his head, revealing his beaten face underneath.

  ‘I think it’s time we left,’ he said.

  ‘I agree,’ replied Zanga. ‘The walk to the mill shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. I’ll lead the way.’

  Rosie exhaled nosily as she watched the backs of the guests disappear through the front door of Brash’s magnificent house.

  ‘Such a pity though,’ she said. ‘I did so want to go to the ball. Do you know how long it is since I enjoyed the pleasures of a fine dance?’

  ‘Quit your bellyaching girl.’

  ‘Too long by half,’ she sighed. ‘And I was so hoping to dance the galliard with Justice Brash. He is such a man…well except for this business with the Oracle.’

  ‘Damn it girl, if we get out of this mess in one piece I’ll throw a rout and a ball especially in your honour and you can dance the galliard until you’re blue in the face! But first, we’ve work to do, you hear me.’

  ‘I was only saying…’ Rosie quietly huffed as they left Corin Street and continued down the road until they could turn off onto a track running by the river.

  They quickly left the lights of Hope behind them and were plunged into the darkness of midnight, all the more absolute with the hills towering over them in the deep valley. The crescent moon and the stars hung in the firmament and offered small comfort to the trio. As conversation dwindled and they were each left to their own thoughts, the only sounds around them were the weak swishing of the nights breeze through the long grass, the bubbling of the river and branches knocking together on nearby trees. All else was silent and still and it was clear they weren’t being followed. Henry didn’t air how unusual he thought this to be, he only limped on, eager to get to the old mill.

  The time passed slowly. The hours after midnight always did. There was a certain thick, treacle-like quality to them, as though one had to wade through the time, thought Rosie, pulling the red and black uniform tightly around her. She was insistent on finding out what had happened to her grandfather in the ante-room but the old man shirked around the subject,
avoiding giving any definite picture of the events and his answers were vague and diffident, almost to a worrying extent if she hadn’t excused his behaviour due to his beating. Whenever she claimed that she was adamant to know, Henry always knocked her back and scolded her like a child.

  After what seemed like hours the path began to ease gently uphill and the silver light of the moon illuminated the silhouette of an old mill in the distance. The sails of the mill were tattered and skeletal in the low light and sprouted from the centre of the dark brick building like a web. The closer they got the more foreboding a place it became. It was a lifeless place, a broken place that hadn’t seen work or life for decades.

  The three of them trudged past the out-house, where the remains of the water wheel clattered and turned in the river, and up towards the windmill. The lock on the door was newly broken and they carefully made their way into the pitch-black space.

  The meal house smelt old and dusty and the old, chalky grain crunched under their feet as they made their way further in, around the wooden, lice infested cogs of the mill.

  A single candlelight hovered above them then slowly came down a ladder from the reefing stage and a face came into view.

  ‘Sam!’ shouted Rosie, running to him and, without thinking, throwing her arms around the young man before he’d reached the floor. ‘I’m glad indeed that you’re unharmed.’

  Sam blushed and drew away from Rosie, too stunned to return her embrace.

  ‘Just a knock to the head is all. Nothing that Master Mystery can’t handle.’

  Rosie smiled, though when she looked at him closer she could see that the young man was shaking as if it were the middle of winter.

  ‘Young Master Steadfast,’ said Henry, stepping forward. ‘Though it shames me say it, I’m pleased to see you back with us. Fared you well?’

  ‘If running for my life through what I can only describe as some sort of living nightmare is faring well, then yes, I fared well,’ he said, dropping down from the last rung of the ladder. ‘I think I remember saying that you two were bonkers, well, I take it back, if that’s what you call a normal evening, you’re not bonkers, you’re both stark raving MAD!’

  In his temper he went to leave but Rosie held him back.

  ‘Sam, tell us what happened.’

  ‘Miss Simp…Miss Versatile, Rosie, all that happened is I saw things I cared not for and took my fair share of blows to the pate…oh and discovered that my father is mixed up in all this and has been lying to me all along.’

  His eyes were wet and glistened in the candlelight.

  ‘I’m sorry Sam, we shouldn’t have…’ she began, taking hold of his hand, damp with sweat.

  ‘Shouldn’t have got me involved? You can say that again, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I’m not cut out for this snooping about lark, or mixing with the likes of you.’

  ‘The likes of us?’

  ‘Yes, there’re not many I know that start an evening as a lady of society, continue it as a page boy and end it as a guardsman. It’s not right I tell you.’

  Rosie looked down at herself in the uniform and pulled out the grip holding her hair in place and let her unruly black curls fall back down over her shoulders.

  ‘Merely the attire of some obliging officer, nothing more,’ she said.

  ‘You change so much you must hardly know who the real Rosie Versatile is at all.’

  Rosie drew her hand away from his and felt her body tighten.

  ‘That is not for you to consider Master Steadfast. Kindly refrain from such impertinence, a lady of polite society wishes only to be discussed favourably, or not at all.’

  ‘You see, there you go again, changing. I meant no offence, only…’

  ‘And look at you for that matter,’ Rosie continued, ‘adorned with a whole armoury. It’s playing at adventures you’re up to…playing!’ She stamped her foot and folded her arms.

  ‘I only meant to say that you must find it difficult to keep two feet on the ground and to stand still at all. If your daily life is but a patch upon the evening I’ve just endured then I have admiration for you Rosie, admiration by the pail full.’

  Rosie could feel her cheeks reddening as Sam went to leave once more.

  ‘Sam,’ she called out, stopping him. ‘I’m sorry. You meant only to be kind. My mouth runs away with itself sometimes and I’m not used to company my own age, you must forgive me…’

  ‘Have you two quite finished?’ bellowed Henry, silencing them both. ‘There are plenty of things I’d rather be doing right now other than listening to the two of you arguing like children over spilt milk.’

  Rosie and Sam huffed as Henry walked over to them and snatched the candle from out of the young man’s hand. As the old man paced back, Sam saw for the first time that there was another figure with them and clearly started.

  Zanga, noticing this, threw off his cloak and pulled back his mask, smiling a warm smile over at Sam.

  ‘You…you’re…you’re from the…er…the bed…to here…I mean…’

  ‘That’s right Samuel Steadfast the younger,’ said Zanga, striding over to him and shaking his hand with a firm grip. Sam, not knowing what else to do, obliged and the stranger leant in to him and tapped a finger from his other hand to his nose as he whispered in his ear, ‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘I…er…don’t know what you mean,’ blushed Sam.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ said Zanga, still smiling.

  Sam, wondering if the night could get any more peculiar, returned the smile and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. One hand touched something and he felt paper against his fingers. It was the picture, the picture he’d snatched from the circular room. He’d forgotten all about it. He scrunched it up in his closed fist and scuffed his feet into the dust and dry straw of the floor, avoiding Zanga’s knowing gaze and was only interrupted when he heard Rosie and her grandfather raising their voices on the other side of the room.

  ‘…but we can’t possibly! We don’t even really know what’s happening here…’

  ‘We know enough! I’ve thought this through and come to my conclusion.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘That’s the end of it girl, no more!’

  The old man raised his hand to silence her and walked into the middle of the room, holding the candle high enough to spread its light around them, making their shadows dance on the walls.

  ‘Master Steadfast, many thanks for your endeavours,’ he said, grasping the young man’s hand and shaking it. ‘I hate to tell you they were in vain, but there we are. You are now free of our company and may return to your usual concerns.’

  Sam was dumbstruck.

  ‘You don’t want to know what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘It makes little difference to me boy,’ said Henry, striding over to Zanga. ‘And you Zanga, my thanks for saving us, I will forever remember it. We should be happy to open a door so that you may return to wherever you came from.’

  Zanga looked confused and his smile faded. ‘I have not seen this happen,’ he said, rubbing his temples. ‘This is not right. This is not what you’re meant to do. What are you doing?’

  ‘We are doing the only thing we can do,’ said the old man, taking the reluctant Rosie by the arm and kicking open the door.

  ‘What’s that?’ Zanga asked, rushing to stop them.

  Henry turned, dragging Rosie with him, and for a moment the two of them were perfectly outlined in the doorway by the light of the moon.

  ‘We’re leaving.’

  ◆◆◆

  For a handful of guests leaving the excesses of Justice Brash’s ball earlier than most (for matters of drink, biliousness and two left feet), they were about to be presented with an uncommon sight on a night brim full of uncommon sights.

  Passing through the town, the small group heard a groan come from the dark entrance to an alley. They ignored it, as is usual, and passed on, but when it came again, louder still and joined by
another clearly pained voice they decided to investigate and crept down the alley together.

  In a heap, like a couple of vagabonds, were two gentlemen, one tall and thin, one squat and stocky, waking up amongst the detritus of grocer’s pallets. This was not the queerest sight they had seen, for it was nearly the weekend and it was common to see this very thing on their doorsteps, but the fact that one was wearing a tatty, but well-made, ball gown and one was wearing the breeches and apron of a page boy so small that the seams were splitting, was a sight they were not used to down their way.

  They all burst out laughing.

  Trigger rubbed his head and stared over at Stool who, in turn, stared over at Trigger.

  ‘Best not tell Apollo about this,’ said Trigger.

  ‘Best not,’ agreed Stool.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘What do you mean you are leaving?’ said Zanga, rushing over to Henry and Rosie in the dim light of the windmill.

  ‘It’s fairly self-explanatory my friend,’ the old man replied. ‘We’re leaving. We’re going to open that door, step through it and walk away from this place without ever looking back.’

  ‘I cannot allow this. It is not what happens.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is Zanga, watch and see. Now please step aside.’

  Zanga stood upright, as solid as a stone wall. ‘I will not do that Henry Versatile. This is not how it is supposed to happen.’

  ‘You’re wrong Zanga. The future isn’t fixed, that’s the beauty of it; you can change it in a heartbeat. What’s going to happen is that you’re going to step to one side and let us pass or feel the hard knuckles of an old man’s fist.’

  Rosie had never seen her grandfather like this. She pulled at his grip but he held her firmly and didn’t let her budge an inch.

  ‘If enduring a beating is what it takes for you to see sense, then I am ready. I am prepared for this.’ Zanga rubbed his hands down his face and presented his cheek to Henry as a lady would present her cheek to a gentleman to be kissed. ‘The man who imagined me was a fine warrior prince, the strongest in the land, and I am in his image. A hit from you should be like the stroke of a feather to me.’