‘You try digging potatoes,’ shouted Boris Polk.
‘He’s too busy muck-spreading,’ added Fanguin.
But they were lone voices in the crowd; many townsfolk were enthusiastically engaging with Snorkel’s new dispensation. He stopped seconds before time, raising a hand aloft to acknowledge the wash of applause.
However, Orelia’s message did linger and, with it, unspoken questions. Wouldn’t Snorkel and his friends control distribution? How much of the benefit would truly reach them?
Into this breach sidled Strimmer, who clapped his hand above his head, twice, slowly, without enthusiasm, on his approach to the lectern. ‘I applaud Mr Snorkel’s idea,’ he said. ‘But I deplore its execution. The antique dealer has no policies, but she does know a shoplifter when she sees one.’ He nodded backwards at Snorkel, without the courtesy of turning. ‘He and his mates always clean up – after all, truffle pigs don’t change their spots.’
The image raised a ripple of mirth. Snorkel had been forced by a legal ruling to abandon his attempt to wrest control of the town’s ancient herd of truffle pigs, which, with spotted hams and flanks, looked uncommonly like him.
Snorkel spluttered, ‘Preposterous!’ but Strimmer sailed blithely on.
‘I give you a policy: this valley boasts more than a hundred barns, which can serve as luxury homes for countrysiders. Their present houses and gardens are above their station. We will do a census – the Regulations allow me an inspection to put flesh on the bones of my policy – then we will evict and re-allocate. Every town family will have a week’s timeshare in a countrysider’s home – apologies; former home. There will be auctions, negotiation and a right to exchange.’
Strimmer had pressed all the right buttons: Rotherweirders liked a market and they liked a gamble. Gorhambury did not open his copy of the Regulations; he knew them by heart. The Secretary of the Liaison Committee, an otherwise insignificant clerical office entrusted to the Assistant Head Librarian, would oversee Strimmer’s inspection. At least he knew he could rely on Madge Brown to keep a weather eye out for improprieties.
As Strimmer extolled the virtues of the town (the electorate) and decried the vices of the countrysiders (the disenfranchised), Orelia felt physically sick. A missing volume had lured her and Fanguin into hunting down the Popular Choice Regulations; now she cursed their moral rectitude.
Strimmer, exuding the arrogant chutzpah of a born ruler, strutted back to his chair, swamped in applause.
Gorhambury closed with an announcement: ‘Within the next fortnight, the Guilds may invite candidates to their respective Halls for a private conclave.’ His tone became stern. ‘But should they invite one candidate, they must invite all.’
*
Bill Ferdy watched Snorkel and Strimmer spin their ugliness from a side street off Market Square. He had long viewed himself as the countrysiders’ ambassador and The Journeyman’s Gist as cementing the join between the rural and urban communities. Snorkel’s cynical sale of the pub to Slickstone had been a warning, but this onslaught felt different.
Strimmer worried him more than Snorkel. He was cruel to women, but had a knack for attracting them. He also had an unreasoning dislike of countrysiders, and Ferdy had little doubt he would execute his policy with relish. Yet he had always judged Strimmer too aloof for political ambition. He recalled The Journeyman’s Gist on Challenge Day, and Strimmer’s baffled face when his jacket pocket had yielded a velvet glove. Darker forces were at play. He locked the pub, drew the shutters, loaded the empty barrels on the beer-cart and hastened home to brief Ferensen.
They would not go quietly.
*
‘We need to watch this Strimmer,’ said Pomeny Tighe to the Mayor. ‘Commandeering your policy on the hoof was really quite disgraceful.’
‘He’s a physics teacher,’ replied Snorkel, now in recovery, ‘and physics teachers lack the common touch.’
‘You’re right,’ reassured Tighe. ‘He has no chance.’
11
Licking of Wounds
Gorhambury slunk back to his rooms. He took out a small tower made of three open circular trays, each indented with shallow scoops, and placed it on the desk in front of him before lifting an old, deep-grained, gleaming mahogany box from the drawer. This was his only heirloom after his parents’ debts had been paid, but an invaluable one. Nobody in Rotherweird owned marbles comparable to these. His father, a glassblower, had excelled at his craft, but sadly, not at the management of money.
The resulting bankruptcy had spawned Gorhambury’s obsession with fine print, detail and good order.
He placed the marbles in their allotted depressions. The objective, leaving a single marble remaining dead-centre in the middle tray, had to date eluded him, but he played three-dimensional solitaire for its therapeutic value.
The board was looking promising when Madge Brown arrived.
‘Well!’ she said.
‘No,’ Gorhambury disagreed, ‘not well, not well at all.’
Madge’s benign face flickered with anxiety. ‘I thought Secretary to the Liaison Committee was a clerical role.’
‘It is,’ he reassured her. ‘You record time of departure, whose homes you visit and time of return. You ensure due process and the common courtesies. Mr Strimmer’s right of survey is limited to one working day. Be strict. I’m afraid it is your job, not mine, and you cannot delegate.’
He felt exhausted by pressure and controversy on every front, and there was still no sign of Finch.
‘Snorkel wants to join,’ she said.
‘It’s not his policy,’ Gorhambury said firmly. He leaned back in his chair as she kneaded his scalp from behind the ears to the crown, her touch first firm, now gentle. His angst slowly ebbed away.
*
The return home compounded Fanguin’s depression. He and his long-suffering wife had always shared a spiritual bond born of a common loathing of Snorkel – but now, to Fanguin’s deep surprise, it sundered.
‘Outrageous!’ he yelled, but she was shaking her head.
‘You don’t buy the vegetables. They charge the earth.’ Bomber had a distinct flush about the cheeks.
‘They’re the ones who work the earth.’
Her thoughts tumbled out, unrefined, but buying in to Strimmer’s twisted vision. ‘But why should they own all the space? All the views, all the stand-alone houses? They use our roads, our School, our square . . . and our earth.’ Bomber saw the utterly appalled expression in her husband’s face – at that word ‘own’ in particular – and half-relenting, she searched for middle ground. ‘I’m sure he meant outbuildings – and if he did mean their houses, he must have been talking exchange.’
‘That’s not what Strimmer said.’ Fanguin located a bottle and wrenched out the cork. ‘And if they are moved from their farms, who tends the livestock, the crops, the hens, the hops, the fruit trees?’
‘You only care about hops.’
‘No, I care for their children.’ He had unwittingly strayed into painful territory, which they’d always avoided until now.
Bomber winced as if physically struck and left the room.
Old History
1590. London.
Mist dislocates London, blurring contours and dulling her street music; the sun’s sharp disc is but a distant lantern in smoke.
Such special effects mimic the haziness of early recollection (so much has happened since) and his present desire for secrecy. He has come full circle: from youthful book thief to a grown man on legitimate bookish business.
He is fretting over his choice of bookbinder – Mr Pinnart of Oxford, or Mr John Gibson of Edinburgh, now fleetingly in London? Nothing separates them in skill; both bind books to last the centuries he needs. The issue is security, for everything will turn on this book-to-be. Bole fears Oxford’s studious minds – imagine Mr Pinnart showing the
diagrams to a student of letters? No secret is beyond teasing out, even his own identity.
Mr Gibson of Edinburgh wins, hence his visit to London.
A slat in the door flicks open. The young girl peeking through has pinched cheeks and squirrel-coloured hair. He reads in her look and clothes straitened circumstances, and a fear that he is creditor or bailiff.
‘Mr Mason of Cheapside,’ lies Bole grandly, ‘with a commission.’ He brandishes the fur on his sleeve; good for money, the gesture says. In this quarter, a rich man’s cuffs open all locked doors.
He is ushered into a back room with a workbench against one wall and a table for business in the middle. Gibson’s ornate ledger sits in the centre, a fine advertisement for his work, with its gilded spine and semi-precious stones studding the covers. It promotes the craft and records its rewards.
Gibson sidles in: he is short in the body but long in the fingers. He has a clever, wary face.
They sit opposite each other, like chess-players, and Bole unwraps his velvet parcel. ‘The job is simplicity itself,’ he explains. ‘These pages are to be bound in this leather. There are to be two books: both have the diagrams at the front. In the first they are followed by these worked pages and then a goodly section of blank pages. The second has exactly the same number of pages – but with the second section blank without the workings.’
Gibson eyes the printed diagrams, the manuscript calculations and the blank pages, all of a size. He has never encountered such a request before, binding virgin paper. He notes the provoking title, Straighten the Rope. The leather is maroon and of rare quality.
‘It is work in progress, like your ledger,’ adds Bole.
‘Is this registered with Stationers’ Hall?’
‘It will be, when it matures.’
Gibson drums his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Printers lose their hands for forbidden books – we binders may be next.’
‘These are for my eyes only. The duplicate in blank is for overflow,’ Bole reassures him.
Gibson senses that there is more to come, and he is right.
‘And I would like these in gold, on both spines.’
He places the ink drawings on the table. Gibson cannot suppress a gasp of appreciation: the draughtsmanship is exquisite. Bole orders them, with the caterpillar at the base to crawl the shelf, the chrysalis in the middle on its blade of grass and at the top, the butterfly, free to fly away.
‘The author’s name?’ asks Gibson.
‘None.’
‘Dedication?’
‘None.’
No patron then, thinks Gibson; it is truly for his use only. ‘What is the subject matter?’
‘The study of solids,’ replies Bole.
Gibson’s Scottish royal master has Euclid in his library – an unusual subject, but respectable.
‘Would you wish a “I” on the first spine with a “II” on the second?’
‘Neither; just the butterfly symbols on both. From the outside they are to be identical twins.’
As Gibson states his price, Bole taps the ledger. ‘And there is to be no record here. For your oath of secrecy, Mr Gibson, I offer a generous advance.’ Bole picks up a beautifully bound Bible; and Gibson, one hand on the cover, swears.
Gold coins spin on the tabletop, hands clasp and the contract is made.
*
On Bole’s return, London is very different, all gleam and bustle under a cloudless sky. There are trunks in Mr Gibson’s hallway and the squirrel girl has new shoes. Mr Gibson, he is told, is shortly to return to Scotland; he is back in royal favour and has a contract for a Psalter.
The bookbinder hands over Straighten the Rope as if it were nothing more than a common prayerbook. On the spines, Morval Seer’s drawings have turned from ink to gold.
‘Should your draughtsman ever want work, I pay well,’ Gibson says.
‘My draughtsman is otherwise engaged,’ replies Bole curtly.
Gibson senses a story he would be unwise to explore. Bole hands over the balance and leaves.
He walks past St Paul’s and up the Strand. Young and old, the tall and the short, the dumpy and the lean, the gifted and the dumb, articulate lawyers, all pass by, and Bole smirks. I can be you, any of you.
A hawk plummets into a cloud of sparrows, prompting him to restrain his exuberance. It will not be easy. He has barely tried the shapeshifting power yet, but he will have to use it again and again in the centuries to come. With what consequences? he wonders; how many garments can you hang on the same frame?
But for now, he must return the book to Rotherweird, putting in motion the intricate machinery of Mr Wynter’s resurrection.
1592. Rotherweird.
Twenty years pass before Fortemain returns to Rotherweird. It’s a spring day and the light is soft, a time for new beginnings.
Already Sir Henry’s island estate taxes the distinction between a hamlet and a town. A forest of wooden scaffolding surrounds the built and half-built; piles of materials and pegged ropes crisscross the ground. Finch’s house is as imposing as the Manor, and the foundations of a perimeter wall break the earth like new teeth.
The Herald welcomes the only man to face up to Wynter and presents him with a beautifully bound volume headed Straighten the Rope. Fortemain flips the pages to see his own calculations staring back.
Finch explains, ‘Workmen found it in the North Tower – it had a slip of paper in it, recording your authorship.’
Fortemain examines it carefully. ‘It’s not my binding, nor my title either, but they are my notes,’ he says, mystified.
‘Take it as an invitation to keep up the good work.’
‘But who bound it? And why?’
‘An admirer, no doubt – you had many here, and there are several excellent bookbinders near Hoy, so consider yourself thanked.’
The flaw in the argument – the cryptic title – slips past him as an old ambition rekindles. The many blank pages invite further research. The symbols of resurrection on the spine also encourage: someone knew he would be back to revive his research. Science is ever on the move. Even now, twenty years on, his initial workings are primitive.
Deftly, he changes the subject. ‘Am I the last? Where are the women?’
For the first time, Finch looks uneasy. ‘Both served their penance,’ he says. ‘Five years’ incarceration in the Manor. They wove a confessional tapestry; then undertook never to return. To be honest, I’m glad to be rid of them.’
‘Both – weren’t there three?’
‘One died before Oxenbridge arrived.’ He lowers his voice. ‘An accident in the other place – even Wynter accepted that at his trial.’
‘He showed regret?’
‘Oh no, he seemed proud of it.’
Pleasantries take over, and after a guided tour of the works, they shake hands and Finch watches Fortemain go. The man has held his youth uncommonly well.
NOVEMBER:
THIRD WEEK
1
A Commission
Dusk in Ember Vine’s studio. The sculptress had chosen the neutral light of a northern aspect, not that any light could penetrate this fog. A trestle table held her instruments – mallet, gouge, chisel, rasps and files. Sleeves rolled like a surgeon, she was polishing the beak of a large griffin when the wooden owl on the wall waggled its ears, hooted and rotated brightly coloured eyes.
Despite the inclement weather, she had a visitor.
‘Do come in,’ she said politely, moving to one side, but the cowled figure stayed outside, stock-still in the greyness. The gas-lamp above her door had failed, or her visitor had extinguished it.
‘I’m told you work in stone.’ The voice had a neutral, sexless timbre. A muffler and wide-brimmed hat starved the face of detail. The figure held a sack in one hand, a thick envelope in the other. The mouth looked
curious, as if waxed with black lipstick.
‘I’m also told you have a gift for exactness.’
Ember opened the proffered envelope to find a rarity: a maroon thousand-guinea note and a complex plan. She retreated a pace to read it and found a scrupulous sketch of different-shaped pieces, each colour-coded.
‘You fashion, I assemble,’ continued the figure, opening the sack and holding it out towards her.
Inside, a jumble of multi-hued rocks peered back at her.
‘My stone is rare, flawless and never splinters.’
If the rock is so rare, how did he – or she – come by so much? she wondered.
‘My terms are exactness to match your reputation, delivery within the fortnight and absolute secrecy. You will receive a further two thousand guineas on completion.’
Ember Vine had never lacked boldness. ‘What does the object do?’
‘It’s for an anniversary.’
‘Whose?’
‘The town’s.’ The figure opened its gloved hands and asked, ‘Do we have an understanding?’
Troubled by both the size of the payment and the purpose of the pieces once assembled, she nonetheless nodded. Love of a challenge and the novel beauty of the rock had decided her.
The figure walked backwards, as if to deny her even a profile, and disappeared into the fog.
2
Dreamland
Ferensen had long lost the art of dreaming. In sleep, he sank into unrelieved darkness – a rebuke, he felt, for the loss of love and ambition in his life. He felt a need for solace after hearing of the election speeches: countrysiders had assisted in the destruction of Wynter and the Eleusians; countrysiders would be marked men if Wynter did return.
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