The Tunnel Behind the Waterfall

by William Corlett

  ‘Oh, why?’ Alice wailed. ‘I’m starving, Phoebe.’

  ‘I can’t help it. You’ll have to wait. Jack’s going into town with Meg,’ Phoebe told her.

  ‘You hardly ever go to town, Meg,’ William said, in a surprised voice as he sank his teeth into the slab of cake which Mary had just cut for him.

  ‘No, dear,’ Meg replied, miserably. ‘Well, I don’t very often get letters, either.’

  As she spoke the children all noticed the letter lying open on the table in front of Jack. It looked official, on headed notepaper and covered in typing.

  ‘What’s it about, Uncle Jack?’ William said with his mouth still full of cake.

  ‘You must ask Meg that,’ Jack replied. ‘She may not want to discuss it with you.’

  ‘Of course I do. You’re my closest friends – after the badgers – and my badgers owe you their lives. Go on, dear, you can read it if you want to.’

  William picked up the letter and stared at it.

  ‘Read it out loud, Will,’ Mary said, nervously. She had an awful feeling that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good news.

  ‘“Dear Miss Lewis,”’ William began, ‘“I am instructed by my clients, Playco” . . . Playco?’ William exclaimed, ‘what a funny name!’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Meg said, ‘but I doubt that they’re funny people. Go on reading, dear.’

  ‘“I am instructed by my clients, Playco UK,”’ William continued, ‘“that the land adjacent to your smallholding is about to be developed, subject to planning consent, and would ask you to call at my offices at the soonest possible opportunity to discuss certain matters which would seem to be of mutual benefit to both yourself and to the directors of Playco UK. If you would like to contact my secretary to arrange a meeting, I will look forward to seeing you then. Yours sincerely, Martin Marsh, solicitor.”’

  William lowered the letter and looked at the silent faces round the table.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Alice asked, in a whisper. ‘What does “developed” mean?’

  ‘Buildings, dear. It means buildings,’ Meg replied in a shocked voice.

  ‘At Goldenwater?’ Alice cried, horrified that the beautiful peaceful place that they had so recently left should be changed in any way. ‘What sort of buildings?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘We know no more than you do.’

  ‘But any buildings at Goldenwater would be horrible . . .’ Phoebe said. ‘I mean . . . who could possibly think of building up there? They can’t mean houses. It’s miles from anywhere.’

  ‘People do extraordinary things, dear, if there’s money in it for them,’ Meg said quietly.

  ‘Who owns the land, Meg?’ Jack asked.

  As he did so, William gasped and looked quickly at Alice and Mary.

  ‘What’s the matter, William?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ William mumbled, ‘it’s just that . . . well, we were told to find that out, just this afternoon.’

  ‘Told to? By whom?’ Phoebe asked, looking at him suspiciously.

  ‘What I mean is . . . we were wondering who owned it . . . that’s all,’ William said, lowering his eyes, avoiding her questioning gaze.

  ‘When old Miss Crawden died,’ Meg said, ‘the estate went to Sir Henry Crawden, her nephew.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It was through Sir Henry’s solicitor that our sale was negotiated,’ Jack said.

  ‘A real Sir?’ Alice asked. It sounded very impressive.

  ‘He is now,’ Meg answered quietly. ‘He was plain Henry Crawden when I knew him.’

  ‘You knew him, Meg?’ Mary said.

  ‘Oh, yes dear. I knew Henry Crawden. But that was years ago. In another lifetime.’

  ‘Are you really saying that all the land round here used to belong to Golden House?’ Phoebe asked in amazement. ‘Including Goldenwater? And the yew tree with the secret house?’

  ‘Yes, dear. That’s how my grandad was able to stay at Four Fields when he was turned out of this house. Otherwise there’d have been nowhere for them to go. They were penniless, you see. The house went to pay off the debts, but they got no money for it.’

  ‘Who owns the land on the other side of your fields, Meg?’ Jack asked.

  ‘The Jenkins did, originally. They owned both sides, but they sold it to the Forestry Commission, dear. Short of cash. That was some time ago. I was worried at first. Government people owning the land . . . But they leave me to myself, look after the woodland pretty well and of course, as luck would have it, they’ve left the broadleaf trees, and not replaced them with those miserable firs, as they did the other side of the water. All in all, it’s been quite satisfactory, really.’

  ‘So what land is being referred to in this letter, then?’ Jack asked her.

  ‘Between my fields and Goldenwater, dear. The whole area round the lake is still supposed to be owned by the Crawdens. Acres of land, from Goldenspring in the west all along the side of the bridle path, round the Standing Stone and spreading as far as the yew tree and the edge of Golden Valley. Or that’s what’s always been said.’ She frowned for a moment, then shook her head, as if dismissing a thought. ‘There are always rumours, you know. And anyway, it’s never mattered who owned the land. It’s not suitable for farming. It may look pretty, but farmers see land in terms of productivity, not beauty.’

  ‘What about the valley?’ William asked.

  ‘Well dear, I couldn’t say. I’d have thought the steeps up behind the house here still belonged to you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Jack said, shaking his head. ‘My deeds only show me owning two acres here round the house, in the valley bottom.’

  ‘Strange, dear,’ Meg murmured. ‘It wasn’t always so.’

  ‘You should check, Jack,’ Phoebe said.

  ‘I will, don’t worry. It’d make a huge difference if the valley sides belonged to us. Not that I think anyone could build anything on them; they’re too steep . . . but, even so . . .’

  ‘You can never be sure of anything, dear,’ Meg said, glumly.

  ‘Just let me get this right,’ Jack continued, thoughtfully, ‘what you’re saying, Meg, is that the only way through from the Forest Road to Goldenwater is on the track that leads to your farm?’

  ‘That’s right, dear. I dare say you could put a track through Mr Jenkins’ land, but I don’t think he’d let you. He keeps that land for pheasants. Breeds them for the sport. Sport? Shooting the poor creatures. Funny idea of sport if you ask me.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Jack said, thoughtfully, ‘to think that all that land was once part of our estate.’

  ‘And so it should have remained, dear. It should never have been sold. But, as I explained to you once before, my grandad was a terrible gambler and eventually, as must always happen, his debts caught him up and found him out and he died a ruined man – as did my father after him.’ Meg shivered and rubbed her hands.

  At this moment, Stephanie started to cry and Phoebe went and lifted her out of the cot, rocking her gently and soothing her.

  ‘You’d better be going, Jack,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Or else you’ll be late for Meg’s appointment.’

  ‘What appointment?’ William asked.

  ‘I telephoned this solicitor who’s written to me. He said for me to go in this evening. He seems in a great hurry to see me. I can’t figure it out.’

  ‘Come back with Jack and have supper with us, Meg,’ Phoebe said, still gently rocking the baby as she spoke.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mary said eagerly. ‘Then we can find out what happens.’

  ‘And we can run you home later,’ Jack offered.

  ‘Thank you, dear. That would be kind. But no need to run me home. I can walk back and check on the sett on my way. I did the milking before I came down here, so there’s nothing to worry about. What can it mean?’ she mused, following Jack to the back door. ‘Mutual benefit? I don’t like the sound of it at all . . .’ and, still talking, she disappea
red out into the yard.

  After she had gone, the children told Phoebe they’d go up to their rooms at the top of the house. William challenged Alice to a game of Spite and Malice, their favourite card game, and Mary said she was going to write a letter to their parents.

  This could have been the truth. The children’s mother and father had recently been moved from the hospital in Ethiopia, where they were both working as doctors with the Red Cross, to one of the refugee camps. The children only heard from them occasionally, because letters didn’t always make it in either direction. But Mary still liked to write every week, because it made her feel in touch with them. However, as soon as they left the kitchen the children decided to go up to the secret room instead and made for the huge inglenook fireplace on the other side of the hall. Once there, they glanced back over their shoulders, to make sure that Phoebe hadn’t followed them and then, moving quickly, they climbed up the protruding stones on the left of the hearth to the ledge and squeezed their way round the corner at the back to where the concealed steps commenced their spiralling ascent up the inside of the chimney.

  As they disappeared from view Spot nosed his way out through the kitchen door and stood, tail wagging slowly and head tilted sideways in an enquiring position, scanning the hall. He looked up the staircase to the landing and then, nose twitching as he caught a whiff of the children’s scent, he padded across the hall into the fireplace and followed them up into the dark.

  3

  An Unexpected Visitor

  TO THEIR SURPRISE the Magician was waiting for them when they reached the secret room. He was standing looking out of the back window and didn’t even turn as they appeared in the doorway behind him.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, ‘I was expecting you.’

  The children moved into the empty room, their feet ringing hollowly on the bare boards of the floor. The light was dim, for the front window was closed and shuttered and the candle sconces had not been lit. A thin veil of dust moved on the evening air and a spider darted for a fly in a cobweb beside the old man’s head, as he continued to gaze at the scene outside the window. The sun was setting in a riot of pink and gold. The colours streaked the sky above the valley side, staining the clouds purple and suffusing the woods with soft honeyed light.

  Spot had followed the children in from the stairs, his tongue hanging out as he panted. He sat down in the doorway and scratched his stomach with one of his hind legs, then he licked a paw, yawned and, with a sigh, flopped down on the floor and watched what was going on through hooded eyes.

  Not that there was much to watch. The scene within the room remained peculiarly static; the Magician staring out of the window at the darkening sky and the children standing behind him, as if they had been summoned to his presence, without knowing why, and were awaiting his instructions.

  Then somewhere, distantly outside the window, an owl hooted. Still the Magician remained motionless. He seemed not to have heard the sound, but Mary took a step towards the window, expectantly.

  ‘Jasper!’ she cried.

  Stephen Tyler held up a hand, silencing her, and, a moment later, the great owl descended out of the bowl of inky sky on to the rim of the window with a fluttering of wings. Once safely perched, he blinked, preened his feathers, turned his head, as if on a pivot, and glared at the Magician.

  ‘What have you discovered, my bird?’ Stephen Tyler said and, as he spoke, he raised his hand and stroked the owl’s neck feathers with the back of his fingers.

  ‘The fox, Cinnabar, and the otter, Lutra, have seen men up at the Water with measuring sticks and plans.’

  ‘Plans?’ the Magician said, sounding immediately cross. ‘What are these plans?’

  ‘Rolls of paper, Master, over which they ponder and upon which they write innumerable notes.’

  ‘Impertinence!’ the old man exclaimed, crossly. ‘Children, we have a most serious situation here.’ And, as he spoke, he turned away from the window, and walked towards the centre of the room. ‘It is essential that you act swiftly to put a stop to this outrage. Otherwise all my endeavours – a lifetime’s work – will be reduced to nothing.’ He shook his head and rapped the floor with his silver cane, angrily. ‘The greed of men! It will be my undoing. You, boy, you are the oldest. What have you discovered for me? Who has taken my land?’

  William cleared his throat and repeated, as well as he could remember, all that Meg had told them down in the kitchen. During this the Magician listened closely, sometimes nodding as if he half remembered. Then, as the account was drawing to an end, he raised his good arm, holding the silver cane above his head, stopping William in mid-sentence.

  ‘Good,’ he said, speaking more kindly and with less anger now. ‘You have done well.’ Then he turned and looked at the owl. ‘Crawden?’ he continued. ‘The name Crawden is familiar. What do I know about this Crawden, Jasper?’

  The owl had been listening silently from his perch on the window opening. Now, being addressed, he flew into the room, his wings moving the air so that it swirled the dust and struck cold on their faces. Reaching with his claws, he landed on one of the candle sconces and stared down at them.

  ‘It was a Crawden who took the house from Jonas Lewis,’ he trilled, sternly.

  ‘Jonas Lewis,’ the old man repeated thoughtfully.

  ‘He got into debt,’ William said, not wishing to be outdone by the owl. ‘He had been experimenting with alchemy. I think you’d been helping him . . .’

  ‘Jonas?’ the Magician said the name again, broodingly. ‘Yes, I remember Jonas. He was a good pupil. But he misused his powers. What did he do?’ He fired the question at the children, as though it was part of an examination.

  ‘He made gold,’ Mary replied, nervously.

  ‘That is correct. He made gold.’ His words were like a drum roll. ‘Gold,’ he repeated the word with contempt. Then, after a moment’s silence, another thought occurred to him. ‘What do you know about this?’

  ‘Only what you’ve told us,’ Alice said.

  ‘But we first read about it in a book that Uncle Jack borrowed from a lady in the town, last Christmas,’ William reminded them. ‘A sort of diary, written by Jonas Lewis himself.’

  ‘Meg knows something about it, as well,’ Mary added. ‘She’s Jonas Lewis’s granddaughter, you see . . .’

  ‘Is she? The badger woman? The woman who caused me this injury.’ As he said the words, he moved his arm in its sling and winced at the pain.

  ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Alice said, leaping to Meg’s defence. ‘She didn’t want the badger baiters to come. It was one of their dogs who did it.’

  The Magician smiled at her.

  ‘I like a person who stands up for her friends. I hope you will do that for me one day . . . Minimus.’ He said the name so gently, lovingly almost, that Alice rather liked it. ‘So this woman is Lewis’s granddaughter,’ he continued, thoughtfully. ‘Mmmh! Interesting,’ and he walked over and stared at the owl.

  ‘Lewis sold the house to Crawden when his debts overwhelmed him,’ the owl murmured, almost as though he was prompting the old man’s memory.

  ‘Yes, yes, I recall,’ Stephen Tyler snapped, making the owl sigh with resignation. ‘I am not so old that my memory has quite gone, thank you Jasper!’

  ‘No, Master,’ the owl trilled and he blinked patiently.

  ‘He was in debt,’ the Magician continued, ‘because he was working every hour that God gave him at the Alchemical Arts. That is correct, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ the owl murmured.

  ‘Perhaps, dear bird, one day you will forget. I hope you have somebody kind,’ he said the word ruefully, ‘to help you in your hour of need.’

  ‘I try, Master.’

  ‘But must you always sound so superior?’ the old man asked.

  ‘I cannot help my tone, Master.’

  The bird and the old man glared at each other for a moment.

  ‘Now you’ve made me forget what we were talking about.’<
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  ‘Jonas Lewis,’ the owl said, in his most superior voice.

  The Magician sighed and then smiled at Jasper. Reaching up, he stroked the owl’s chest feathers; it was a gesture full of love and admiration. The bird puffed out its chest and whistled quietly. Then Stephen Tyler turned back to the children and began to speak in a confident voice.

  ‘Jonas was not a wealthy man. He made a modest living from farming, but he was a scholar at heart. The two attributes do not sit happily together. A farmer must farm; a scholar must study. However both such men must eat. Lewis had no private income.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘That was his trouble. But he was a diligent scholar. That’s why I chose him . . . He learned well, and quickly. I introduced him to the chimistrie. That was my mistake. It didn’t do at all. He became obsessed. Working all hours. The house still echoes with his pacing footsteps – back and forth, back and forth – and with his wife’s pathetic cries. It ruined them. He took to gambling to finance his experiments.’ Stephen Tyler threw up his good arm, in a gesture of disgust. ‘He lost everything he owned and, worse, he put an end to his studies. As for me, I lost a good pupil. It was most annoying. After all the time I’d spent on him. But a pupil is essential to the work. So I determined that the next one should be a child. I’d had enough of men with their set ideas. The innocent mind, that’s what was needed. Something fresh and unsullied to work on. But, of course, I had not expected that there should be three of you. Nor that you would be so very young. I am not good with children. I never had one of my own . . .’ and he stopped speaking suddenly, remembering sad times, and, producing a large square of material from the voluminous folds of his coat, he blew his nose loudly.

  During all this time Spot had been lying on the floor, just inside the doorway. He appeared to have fallen asleep. But now, suddenly, he raised his head, his ears pricked forward and his nose twitching. Then rising quickly to his feet, he started to growl and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  ‘What is it, Sirius?’ the Magician asked, irritated by this interruption.