The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  ‘I may be an old man, with aching bones, but I still have plenty of vim. I’ve knocked down men twice your size and would welcome the challenge to do it again.’

  The two men squared up to each other, though Henry only reached up to Zanga’s chest and had to strain his neck to stare into the other man’s eyes.

  ‘I did not see us fight old man. I am confused. I do not believe that this is what happens…’

  ‘Huh-hurm!’

  The two men turned at the sound of a throat being cleared from the other side of the room. Sam stood with the candle above his head and his other hand held up high like a willing schoolboy.

  ‘There is something you would like to say boy?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is. It…er…might be just me, but…er…I haven’t the foggiest idea what’s going on!’

  He pointed across to Zanga.

  ‘Why does he keep on saying things like “this does not happen” and “I have not seen it”?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Not to me it’s not!’

  ‘He can see what will happen Master Steadfast, a version of what will happen at any rate,’ said Henry. ‘He can see the days and weeks and months ahead of us as if they were all happening today, at this very moment.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘Well…er…if that’s all…’ he mumbled, trying not to sound as impressed or shocked or confused as he was. ‘How can he do that?’

  ‘He’s from the other side of the door,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s part of imagination. Where else are the ideas for the future formed but in our own minds?’

  Sam thought about this for a second, before it made his head hurt and he stopped. ‘Thank you, that’s all I wanted to know, you can carry on with your…er…fight now.’

  The two men turned to each other once more, but the moment of anger had passed them by and they both felt an unpleasant shame for their petulance.

  ‘I wish to fight no more than you Zanga. You saved my life and a beating is no way to repay you…’

  ‘You would not beat me.’

  ‘That is likely. I was lying about knocking down men twice your size. But be that as it may, I only wish to leave. You must wish to leave to and return to your home, am I right?’

  Zanga nodded, his face falling to one of sudden melancholy, his gaze straying, becoming distant and fixed. Henry watched him and slowly brought Rosie forward.

  ‘Open a door for him girl.’

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Do as I say. Open a door for him and we can be left in peace and be free to go.’

  Rosie, knowing all too well that her grandfather wouldn’t waver, huffed and pulled the stone from around her neck and slipped it onto the middle finger of her right hand. She took Zanga’s hand in hers, brushed down the wood of the door and knocked on it three times before opening it, just as Sam had seen her do in the room back at the Hope and Charity and just as she had done countless times in her own life.

  The door squeaked open on its old hinges and at first the light was blinding and the noise was deafening in the midnight silence of the mill’s dull and dusty room. They all shielded their eyes until they could face the piercing daylight flooding in through the doorframe.

  Sam quickly parted his fingers and looked through, aghast. Trees formed before his eyes, not oak or spruce or pine or willow or anything that he might have recognised but trees with thin trunks and long, thick leaves sprouting from their tops like the petals of giant flowers, surrounded by bright green bushes at the base.

  The lush landscape stretched out in a seemingly endless vista, split cleanly down the centre by a sparkling river, like a blade, and a lake in the far distance glittered like a jewel on the horizon.

  The long grass and branches of the trees gently swayed in a morning breeze of the foreign land and Sam watched, hypnotized, as he saw unusual creatures pass by. Most surprising was one animal with a body like that of a horse with a sandy, brown spotted coat and a neck that stretched up two or three times its own height. He’d never seen anything like it and openly gawped as he watched the strange animal gallop with a bobbing gait towards more of its kind near the waters edge.

  In the azure, cloudless sky birds dived and span in a rainbow of colours and endless varieties, cawing and singing in a wonderful harmony.

  This must surely be paradise, the young man thought.

  Rosie looked down to the basement of the valley and saw a figure walking up towards them through the long grass. It was a woman, as black skinned as Zanga, and as perfect as he was to the male form, so too was she to the female. She was shapely and strong with skin that shone with health and eyes that glowed with warmth and promise. Around her waist she wore a simple cloth, but otherwise she was walking proud and unashamed of her nakedness. She had adorned herself with fine stones, hanging by straps of leather around her neck and wrists and from small metal bands in her ears, and her hair was pinned back with exotic feathers of many colours. Rosie swore that she had never seen anyone so beautiful in all her life, and by Sam’s blushes only a few paces from her, she could tell that he thought the same.

  ‘That’s Isabella, isn’t it?’ Rosie asked Zanga.

  The man’s eyes were welling up with tears as he gazed upon the woman walking towards them so smoothly through the foreign land. He nodded once and Rosie placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘You spoke of her in your sleep and in your raving. Is she your…’ Rosie didn’t know how to ask such a question. ‘Is she your love?’

  ‘She is my wife,’ answered Zanga in a small voice. ‘She is all that really matters to me. She is my always.’

  The beautiful woman reached the summit of the valley in front of them and, smiling with delight, beckoned Zanga to her. He reached out his hand so that it passed through the doorframe and he felt the heat of the sun on his skin and his eyes hardened.

  ‘Emi ko le se ololufe mi, mo ni latise iranlowo titi ti yio fi yanju ati tit di ipadabo gbogbo. Gbogbo awon ti o wa ninu tubu ni won ni olori tiwon lati pada lo ba, osi digba ti atunpada won lehin ipinya ba duro ni iwo ati emi papa tun le wa papo mo.’

  The woman’s face softened and became sad. On such beauty it was as if the sun had gone out and left the sky.

  ‘The prince who imagined me was taken from his wife,’ Zanga whispered to Rosie, his eyes never straying from Isabella’s, ‘In his grief he dreamed of a place where they were still together, he and his wife, a place away from harm and danger, where they could live out their lives in peace. I am part of that dream, part of his imagination.’

  ‘Then return and be with your wife my friend and do not worry about the troubles here.’ Henry said, putting a hand on his shoulder and ushering him forwards toward the door, but Zanga held him back and stood still.

  ‘I cannot. I must remain here until this business is over with.’ The difficulty with which he spoke was clear. His muscles were tense and it was obvious to the rest of them how much he was fighting to not jump through the door without another pause. ‘I am here at the end. I have seen that much of it.’

  Henry sighed and his grip on Rosie’s hand fell away. ‘I don’t understand why it’s so important that we stay here.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ replied Zanga, turning his eyes to Henry. ‘You understand perfectly, and you and I both know what you are running away from.’ And without looking back he slammed the door to his home and his wife shut and they were all plunged back into the relative darkness of the mill once more, the only illumination coming from the feeble light of Sam’s candle.

  Henry knew how hard it must have been for him to close the door on his wife and on the world beyond the door. He knew well enough indeed.

  Zanga wiped one lone tear off his cheek and walked back into the room, taking the candle from Sam and turning back to the others.

  ‘Will you now do as I ask?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I don’t know Zanga, I don’t know.’

  Rosie couldn’t begin to imagine what had happe
ned to her grandfather that made him so impatient to leave. It went against all she knew of him. He was a man who got the job done, whatever it took, whatever the stakes. He didn’t run away from anything, until now.

  ‘What will happen if we leave?’ he finally asked after pacing up and down the length of the room several times.

  ‘I can show you if you like.’

  Sam went to raise his hand again but Rosie gave him a sharp look, insuring that he thought better of it and would just let the two men work out their problems on their own.

  ‘You can show me?’ asked Henry. ‘How will you do that? You can’t open a door to the other side, there are few of your kind who can, how are you going to show me?’

  ‘First,’ said Zanga, ‘there must be some sort of a connection between us. It is very simple.’

  Henry walked over to him and offered his hand.

  ‘Then give me your hand friend and a connection is made.’

  ‘It is not that simple Henry Versatile. You are right in thinking the connection must be a physical one, but it must be stronger and more severe than the mere clasping of hands. It must be something that will bond us in an ancient way.’

  ‘Then what is it that must be done?’

  ‘I will hit you very hard,’ Zanga smiled. ‘That aught to do it.’

  ◆◆◆

  Inside the manor house of Justice Brash the ball was still in full swing. Such a rout hadn’t been seen in that corner of England since the younger more decedent years of the King and though Ambrose Brash was gaining quite a reputation as the host of the events to be seen attending, not one guest could have imagined the pomp, ostentation, splendour and spectacle of that evenings party.

  As each fortuitous guest ascended the steps up to the front door they were greeted by servants dressed as fauns offering them their first glass of sparkling wine and ushered through the fire lit vestibule of the manor into the grand ballroom. Their senses were delighted by the menagerie of friends gossiping and laughing and mingling around them and struck by the perfumed air of dark musk and zesty bergamot. Fireworks sparkled and burst from high in the corners of the grand room and fireplaces roared with burning logs along the whole length of the hall. The chandeliers sent out jewelled starlight from the high ceiling and the whole room pulsated with the rhythm of a hundred dancers caught up in the galliard and the waltz. There was jesting and flirting by the pail full.

  Hoots of laughter erupted from one side of the hall, which had been converted into a well-appointed gambling den, as cards were dealt and dice were rolled. Tables were laid out and circled by excited players throwing their notes and coins into the pot in the centre as if they were used handkerchiefs and calling their bets and taking their winnings and dismissing their losses. Bowls overflowed with money all around them.

  Everyone freely emptied their purses for Apollo and his promises of supreme happiness in his new Empire, his new Arcadia.

  They emptied their purses for the Oracle.

  The wine and punch flowed from fountains and there were willing fauns never far away should a glass be near empty. As the evening drew on and the drink performed its duty the ballroom turned into a swaying morass of drunken bodies, tripping over low gowns and slipping on the polished parquet floor.

  Mr Hugh Monk folded his arms, leant against the doorframe of the ballroom and watched the havoc before him. He’d never seen anything quite so ridiculous in all his life. When let off the leash of respectability the folk of high society were clearly as base and as objectionable as the beasts of the field.

  He looked about him at all the animal headed figures posing and flouncing in the blazing firelight until he saw the honoured host, masked and standing away from the rabble in the shadow of a candelabra. He pushed and shoved his way through the company and stood beside his sometime master.

  ‘You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a problem Mr Monk,’ said the masked man. ‘Isn’t that the case?’

  Monk nodded.

  ‘Where is his nibs?’ Monk asked, his lips barely moving.

  The masked man turned to him.

  ‘Is it of such import that you need to see him?’

  Monk nodded again.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, there he is,’ the man sighed.

  Monk followed his gesture through the crowd until it settled upon another masked gentleman, dressed in a blue frock coat and red waistcoat. The man was surrounded by a gaggle of young ladies, all pawing for his attentions, and, by the look of him, having a thoroughly marvellous time of it.

  Monk tutted and rejoined the dance, waltzing in a wide arc around the room before leaving it only a few short paces from where the man he sought stood, the bringer of light himself; Apollo.

  The eyes behind the frowning headed mask caught sight of Mr Monk as he approached.

  ‘My beauties,’ said Apollo to the gathered party of young ladies. ‘It troubles me that I cannot enjoy your affections for a moment longer. It is the duty of those who lead to…well…er…lead. Ha ha!’

  Monk shook his head.

  ‘Except for you,’ said Apollo, catching one of the girls in his arms. The young beauty, dressed in a gown that looked to be made of butterfly wings, flushed and swooned in his grasp.

  ‘What’s your name my flower?’

  ‘Elaine sir Apollo sir,’ she said, blushing. ‘Miss Elaine Easy.’

  ‘You can come back and see me later Miss Easy,’ he winked.

  The young lady nodded and returned to her friends, giggling behind her fan.

  Monk waited until they were left alone before he turned his gaze upon the great Apollo.

  ‘All right, all right, allow me my pleasures Mr Monk,’ said Apollo, watching the retreating maidens. ‘After all, they are such delightful creatures.’

  Mr Monk pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it.

  ‘Such a pity I can’t seem to find that flower from yesterday,’ said Apollo. ‘She surpassed these young ladies as first does last. What was her name?’

  Monk tapped the face of his fob watch in an obvious fashion.

  ‘Simply. That was it,’ Apollo went on. ‘Miss Lizzie Simply. What a catch she would be. I can imagine many a pleasure I could share with that one…’

  ‘We don’t have all night,’ Monk said finally.

  ‘Yes, yes. I can take a hint. Your patience has all the subtlety of a court jester Mr Monk. Follow me.’

  Apollo wandered through the party, past the tables where every penny lost was funding his grand schemes, and through towards Justice Brash, still shirking in the shadows.

  ‘Are we all met?’

  Brash shrugged.

  ‘Then let’s see what’s on your mind.’

  Apollo grabbed the head of a bust by his side and pulled it down. The bust moved, clicked and released a catch, opening a hinge in one of the fireplaces. The three men squeezed through the opening and the fireplace clicked back into place.

  The three gentlemen walked down a narrow low-lit passage behind the fireplace, which soon opened out, quite naturally, into a room only big enough for a dozen people to stand shoulder to shoulder. The curved walls of the intimate room were curiously covered with painted faces. Not a space of bare wall was left uncovered, but everywhere hundreds of different faces peered down with hundreds of varying expressions, like a cramped audience.

  ‘This is where I practice my speeches,’ said Apollo, turning on his heels. ‘It helps me get rid of those wretched nerves that can trouble me so. This way I have my own private audience.’

  ‘Quite wise,’ assented the stooping figure of Justice Brash.

  ‘Oh do stop sucking up, it’s a vile habit,’ said Apollo throwing a glove at Brash. ‘And look at you! You couldn’t pull off the style of Ambrose Brash if I got up and bit you on the behind!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You have no style man. Should anyone here tonight know me better they would instantly see you as the fraud you are.’

  The
masked figure of Brash stooped even more.

  ‘You see. Don’t stoop. Brash never stoops. He faces the world with his shoulders wide. You must be pleasant, but not personal, agreeable, but not gaudy, spirited, but not flighty, and most importantly, you must be the very height of fashion! Ha ha!’

  The masked Brash scratched his head and sighed.

  ‘That is the habit you must wear, if you are to convince the world you are me,’ said Apollo.

  ‘Speaking of habits,’ said Brash. ‘I cannot abide this one a moment longer. I’m afraid I must rid myself of it. It does cause some obstruction to the breathing you know.’

  The figure of Justice Brash pulled off his mask, revealing himself to be Dr Styx and threw the thing onto the floor.

  ‘Oh you will never make an actor Dr Styx,’ said Apollo, removing his own mask and revealing himself to be the true Justice Brash. ‘You have no grasp of the theatricality of things. What is all this but one big stage to perform one big play on anyway?’

  ‘Hurm…’ mumbled Dr Styx. ‘Why do I have to be you anyway? Why can’t I be me and you be you? It would make things so much easier.’

  ‘Oh no, that would never do. My own reputation may be growing apace, but people would never invest in me. I am merely a man, a mortal man and nothing more. I cannot command the hearts and minds of the people. They…’ he gestured down the passage to the swarm of guests at his party. ‘They need to believe in someone more than a man, like a King.

  ‘Our King once had their hearts, he was ordained by God after all, and he had all the power he could wish for. He said kneel and the country knelt. He was more than a man. But he was bored and the people’s hearts are fickle, they wander easily. If I am to get their support I must be more than a man. I must be a symbol to inspire hope, hope for the country and hope for the future. Who better could I choose as my symbol? Who better to carry the new world on his shoulders than Apollo?’

  Dr Styx knew he had a point. They would never follow the unthinking dandy Justice Brash into a new Arcadia, but from the reaction to the evening’s events and the unveiling of the Oracle, they would gladly lie down and be the carpet upon which Apollo could tread.