A Traveller in Time

by Alison Uttley

  “Music!” I said, turning to Uncle Barnabas. “There’s music coming from the church.”

  “I can hear nowt,” said Uncle Barny, “but this chopper makes such a tarnation racket.”

  “There is! Listen Uncle Barnabas,” I cried. “Who can it be?”

  “It’s maybe Mrs. Pluck, practising for Sunday, but why she wants to come on a bad afternoon like this, I dunno know,” he replied, and he trimmed the turnips and fed the whirling chopping-machine, with never a moment’s respite. “Dunno talk to me,” he continued. “I canna attend to two things at once.”

  I wrapped my coat over my head again, and unlatched the half-door and fastened it behind me, to keep the rain from pouring in the barn. Then I stepped across the deep puddles, keeping to the cobblestones, and avoiding the liquid manure which was spreading over the yard. I ran lightly over the wet grass and up the path to the church door, but even as I went I was suddenly filled with fear. The church door was shut and there was never a glimmer of candlelight although it was nearly dark with the pouring rain. I stopped running and walked more slowly, dragging back, yet constrained to move forward as the music came in elvish sweetness. Mrs. Pluck never played like that; her music was faltering and broken, except when she thumped out a well-known hymn. This was no hymn, it wasn’t sacred music at all, and for that I was glad, but it was unearthly and fairy, as if the wind had come down to earth to play a harp of willow boughs. It was unlike anything I had ever heard, and I stood in the church porch sheltering from the rain, listening, hesitating. I felt dizzy and sick and I began to tremble. I unlatched the great door and slowly pushed it open. The church was in pitchy darkness as if it were the middle of the night, and I could smell the green rushes on the floor. Then the blackness lightened and I could distinguish a figure crouched by the font, with intense white face and closed eyes. It was Arabella with a small harp in her hands. She continued to play her magical tune, and I walked over to her, as if drawn by an invisible cord. Her long white hands moved on the strings, and she seemed to sing some strange words although her lips never moved. Then she looked at me, and started as if she had only just seen me. She rose to her feet and bowed in a formal way, and smiled pleasantly, although her smile filled me with the same strange fear.

  “How charming you look, Penelope!” she said. “But you are pale, my sweet wench! Didn’t my poor music please you, or don’t you wish to visit this world in which we dwell? You see I know all about you, Penelope. I have some powers which my father has taught me.”

  I stood motionless before her, waiting for something to happen, bound as if in a dream.

  “Francis has told me about the tunnel, Penelope,” she continued in the same honeyed voice. “I am a Babington, too, and must share the fortunes of the house. The work is going well. I have never seen it, but you have. Do you think Cousin Anthony would take me down? Or Cousin Francis? He is your friend; perhaps he would go with me if you asked him.”

  There was a long silence, and I heard only the loud ticking of the clock and the rustle of mice among the rushes. The wind caught a curtain and swayed it to and fro and the door creaked on its hinges. My heart was beating rapidly, and I caught my breath to keep down my rising fear. The strangely bright eyes of the girl were fixed upon me.

  Then Arabella lowered her voice and spoke in a different tone, as if reassuring me.

  “Francis wants to speak with you, Penelope, privately about the queen’s passage. He has something we can do to help, but we must meet him secretly. He is waiting in the old ivy-barn.”

  “But he doesn’t know I am here,” I said.

  “Oh yes, he does. He knew you would come from wherever you were to give him aid, for you love the queen as he does.”

  That was true, and when Arabella went towards the door I followed her. The rain had ceased, the stars shone in the clear, frosty air. We went past the brew-house, where the smell of the malt was strong, and by the store-barn, now emptied of its fleeces. The immense wooden bins were filled with winter corn which trickled on the floor, and hens ran there pecking in the dust. A cowhouse door was open and I saw the backs of a row of cows, small beasts, not like our Lusty and Rose. But Arabella beckoned me on, hurrying me as I loitered to peep into the familiar buildings to find somebody whom I had seen but lately.

  She took me to a small stone building which I had never entered, a tumbledown place smothered in ivy. She pushed open the broken door and we stepped into a small chamber whose floor was covered with bracken and litter. The room was chill and the rough walls ran with moisture, which shone in the faint light of the doorway. I stared round at the rusty bills and broken longbows hanging on the walls, and the flail and stone-headed hammers and bits of leather and mouldy gear piled on the floor. It was evidently an old storehouse, seldom used, for cobwebs hung black from the corners, and piled rubbish lay decaying on the ground.

  “It’s not very pleasant, is it?” Arabella remarked cheerfully. “It feels quite ghostly, doesn’t it? A haunted barn, the servants say. That’s why nobody ever comes here and Francis thought it would be a quiet place to meet.”

  In the half-darkness her voice had taken on a shrill quality, and her eyes shone green like a cat’s from the shadowed doorway.

  “I don’t think I will wait,” I said. “I will go back to the house and see Aunt Cicely.”

  But Arabella sprang to the door and put her back against it, facing me with flashing, wild eyes.

  “Yes, you must wait,” she cried. “You will have to wait a long time too. Now I have you, Mistress Penelope, and you needn’t scream, for no one will hear you. Anthony’s at Wingfield and your beloved Francis has gone to meet him. Mistress Babington has a megrim, and your aunt is attending her. Nobody knows you are here. Nobody at all.”

  “Please let me pass, Arabella,” I said, and my voice was calm, for suddenly I felt no fear.

  “Not till you tell me how you know about the future. What do you know about the Queen of Scotland? What do you know about Anthony? Is he in danger? Will he save the queen? Answer me.”

  I shook my head. “I cannot tell,” I said sadly.

  “Confess, traitor! Francis and Anthony have told you secrets. They have trusted you and you are sending news to Walsingham through that spy Ballard, for I know he is a spy.”

  “I’ve never heard of Ballard, and I know nothing of Walsingham,” I answered truthfully. “I know less than you do.”

  “You can read and write with ease which is unnatural in a wench of your position, and Mistress Babington takes your part, and would have you in her household. You are a tool of the State, and a spy against Mary Stuart, and you have wormed your way into this household only to betray them all. Is their work for nothing? Are they tunnelling this passage only for your gain?”

  “I want to save the queen too,” I cried indignantly, “but nobody can save her. She is doomed.” My voice dropped, and I swayed, sick with my knowledge.

  But Arabella thrust her passionate face close to mine, and spoke in fierce rapid whispers.

  “If I told the justices about you, they would burn you as a witch.”

  “Even if you told them it would change nothing,” I cried defiantly.

  Perhaps she meant to murder me with one of the pikes on the wall, I thought, and nobody would ever know where I was. I should be lost outside time, and never go back to those others, my dear ones, who were so very far away.

  “Is all this work for nothing?” asked Arabella again.

  “Why do you ask me?” I asked miserably. “You don’t believe me. I wish it wasn’t true, for I can do nothing.”

  “Yes you can. You can save the queen and Anthony.”

  “If only I could,” I moaned. “I want her to escape.” I put my hand to my head; I felt ill and weak.

  “What will happen to Anthony?” she asked, so urgently that I wondered if she loved him, for only love could excuse the girl’s wild gestures.

  I shook my head. Never would I say what I knew. If I didn’t speak t
he fateful word, perhaps life would change, and he at least be free, safe to live at Thackers in the shelter of the woods he loved.

  “Tell me, tell me, witch girl!” She struck me violently across the cheek so that I reeled to the wall and blood poured down my face from a cut of the sharp stones. I could do nothing but accept her scorn, for I was filled with grief for them all.

  “You’ve bewitched them with your cunning,” said she. “Where is Anthony’s jewel? Why does Francis ride with you? I had your wax image but it made no difference; I let it melt slowly before the fire, but you were unharmed. You were beyond my powers, but now I am going to keep you from spying any more. You will never interfere in our lives, because you will die.”

  All the time she spoke her hand had been groping on the wall for a rope which hung there, attached to the floor. She pulled the rope, and the bracken at my feet parted, a hidden trapdoor swung back and the earth seemed to open. I was thrown, bumping against the rocks, deep into a hole underground. Arabella peered down at me as I struggled to my feet, dazed with pain and anger.

  “Nobody will find you here, for this tunnel has been given up. So here you’ll stay and here you’ll die, and if ever in the future they open the trapdoor and find your skeleton they will think you were spying on their work and got imprisoned.”

  She shut the trapdoor and shovelled earth over it. I could hear the clatter of a spade, and the outer door of the hut slam. Then all was silence except for the dropping of water under my feet.

  I scrambled up the rough stones, clinging to the rocks, but I could not reach the door. I called and called, half-dead with fright and bruises. There was no answer. I listened and called for hours it seemed, but only a queer echo came from the darkness of the shaft. I knew only too well where I was. This was one of the deserted tunnels, a boring which had been attempted and abandoned, and there was little chance that any one would ever look down the shaft. I remembered how neglected was the shed, for I had never seen any one enter, and its bad reputation kept the maids away.

  I fumbled my way along the passage with my arms outstretched to feel the rocky walls, remembering the tunnel I had entered with Francis. There had been little shelters for tools and perhaps I should find something forgotten by the miners when they excavated this old cutting before they disbanded the working. Creeping slowly inch by inch, to save my scratched and bleeding skin, I moved along. Water ran under my feet, and I stooped and drank and bathed my face. At last I found what I sought, a standing-place for the miners to pass, and I searched the rocks with my fingers, tracing the cold stones. My search was rewarded, I gave a cry of joy as I touched a tinder-box and flint and candle-end. I dried my hand on my dress and struck a light. The tiny flame gave me more comfort than a basket of food would have done. I shielded it with my hands and looked about me. The tunnel ended fifty yards farther on, where solid rock blocked the way. Then back I went to the entrance and gazed up at the roof. I could never raise the door, it was too high to struggle against. I could only wait and call and wait again.

  The candle flickered with the draught which came down the spring of water, and I knew I should have plenty of air. Water and air and a light now and then! The candle would last an hour if I allowed it to burn, so I blew it out and kept it for future comfort. I sat in the darkness, clasping the candle and the tinder-box, my feet tucked up out of the water, my coat wrapped round me.

  I thought of Aunt Tissie and Uncle Barnabas, of Francis and Anthony, of all those I loved. I thought too of the Queen of Scots. I knew now the feelings of the queen, imprisoned like a wild bird in a cage, beating her wings till she died. It was a terrible thought which brought panic to me, so that I had to summon all my powers to keep from crying hysterically and beating my arms against the rocks. There was no sound, only the tap, tap of the falling water.

  Again I lighted the little candle, and again I blew it out. I called, and then, exhausted with my cries, I sank down with my head on my coat and fell asleep through sheer weariness. When morning came I would call again, I decided, forgetting that I should not know when it was daylight. I tapped on the rocks, but nobody came, and I lay for many hours alternately sleeping and calling for help. The terror of a living grave was the worst of all, and when this swept over me I quickly lighted my candle-end and tried to sing “Greensleeves was all my joy”, and this song gave me hope although my voice was hoarse and cracked with calling.

  I brought from my pocket the manikin Jude had made for me, and held it tightly in my hands, stroking it, talking to it, as if it were alive and could help me. I felt happier and warmer with my thoughts of Francis, and I blew out the candle and settled myself on some stones I had collected and fell asleep.

  Each time I awoke I couldn’t remember where I was. Once I thought I was in bed at Thackers, imprisoned in the bedclothes, and I said to myself: “This is a nightmare,” but although I struggled I could not get free. I might die down there, nobody would ever find me, and the panic fear which I sometimes had that I should be left behind in that life of the past was coming true. I knew that if I didn’t escape I should surely perish, and I fought vainly for freedom.

  But the candle burned away at last and my strength went too. I had no desires, I sipped a little water and lay half in the stream, in a stupor, waiting, waiting, dreaming of Thackers and Dame Cicely and Francis.

  I dreamed I was in the passage by the closed door, banging my fists on the wall, unable to get out. Tabitha and Margery walked in front of me, bearing hot possets, and they stopped at a door. I called but they did not heed. I ran to them and pulled their arms, but they never saw me, for I seemed to flow past them like mist. I raced in and out of rooms, my mind in a turmoil, my feet making no sound, seeking help which did not come. Nobody saw me or knew I was there.

  I opened the door of Mistress Foljambe’s room and Mistress Babington was there with Dame Cicely sitting by her, comforting her, holding her hands, and to me she was Dame Cicely and Aunt Tissie too.

  “Dear child. Don’t take on so,” she said. “God will keep him. In life and death we are in His hands.”

  “Aunt Tissie! Help! Save me!” I cried. I dropped on my knees and tried to clasp her, but my arms touched nothing. She could not feel my sorrows and I went speeding along the passage to Francis’s room. He lay asleep on his narrow four-poster with the moon shining on his face. “Francis!” I called, but my dream-voice was soundless and he tossed and turned and muttered without waking.

  Down the narrow stair I pattered on my dreamfeet, cold and thin as icicles, without feeling, like bones, and into the Thackers’ kitchen I went. The dogs slept by the warm embers and Jude lay curled among them, his arm round the neck of Fury.

  “Help! Help! Jude!” I called. “I can’t get out. I am shut in the tunnel. Help!” and he roused himself and rubbed his eyes, and the dogs growled as I called in their dreams. Then I awoke and lay weeping softly on the wet earth.

  Soon afterwards there was a sound of some one entering the ivy-house, and the trapdoor was raised a few inches. I struggled and tried to call but no sound came from my dry throat. I recognized Jude’s snub nose and gleaming eyes, and I feebly waved, fearful lest he shouldn’t see me in the darkness. He gave an excited grunt, and tugged at the door, pulling it back with the rope. Then he slid down to me, making little inarticulate noises, rubbing my hands, and raising my head from the water.

  He clambered up the rocks, and ran back to the house, banging on doors, thumping with his fists, so that Dame Cicely and Francis came out to see what was the matter. But Jude was away to the big bell in the church tower. He rang it, swinging on the rope, and all the household came tumbling out at the alarm to see what was amiss. He led them to the disused tunnel, where I lay listening and waiting with new hope. They followed the excited leaping boy over the churchyard, through the croft to the ivyshed.

  A lantern flashed into my eyes, and I heard Aunt Cicely’s warm, rich voice.

  “It’s Penelope, down there underground, Master Francis. She�
�s fallen in, poor mortal.” But Francis was already half down the shaft, with Anthony following. Together they lifted me from the rocks and carried me to the surface.

  “She might have been killt, poor lamb,” cried Aunt Cicely. “Art hurt badly, my chuck?” She kissed me tenderly and held me to her heart.

  “No, only I thought you would never find me,” I whispered.

  “My sweeting! My fondling!” murmured Dame Cicely, “how long hast thou been down there?”

  I shook my head, I had no idea. It seemed years and years of endless time.

  They carried me back to the house, Jude following with leaps and bounds like a goat. Then they wrapped me in hot blankets in front of the kitchen fire which Tabitha was blowing with the great leather blow-bellows.

  “Now what made Jude find her? How did he know she was down there?” they asked one another, but nobody could explain. I was too weak to tell them my dream, but I knew the dumb boy was the only one who had heard my last cry for help. He knelt on the hearth by me and touched my clenched fist, rubbing it with his cheek. Slowly I opened my frozen fingers and the little wooden manikin fell out. He pounced upon it and held it up for all to see, nodding his head to me, and then he gave it back again to my keeping. I realized that this toy of his making was the key to the mystery, that through it I had kept a contact with that strange primitive mind, which like mine could move out of time.

  The maids crowded round, bringing hot possets and spiced drinks, making poultices and wrapping hot cloths round my chilled limbs. But Dame Cicely wrapped me in blankets made of sheep’s wool, thick and soft, and carried me upstairs. Instead of going to her own chamber, she took me to the great best bed with the carved posts and the curtains of worked tapestry.

  “Mistress Babington says you must rest here, and she’ll come and doctor you. I’ll sit by you, my chuck, while you go to sleep. Jude found you by a holy miracle of God, and we shall never know what led him to you.”

  She gave me hot bread and milk with a dram of eau-de-vie in it, and then she drew the curtains round the vast bed.