‘What I really want to know,’ William said, his brow creased by a frown, ‘is . . . If Morden never comes here to our time – how does he get animals . . . well, the rat anyway . . . on his side and to do his work for him?’
The owl stared and blinked.
‘The mind,’ he fluted, after a moment, ‘is much easier to move about than the body. He sends his mind. Because he isn’t nearly as clever as the Magician, he hasn’t found a way of sending his body yet. He projects his mind . . .’
William sighed. It was another of those impossible answers.
‘But,’ the owl added, ‘what he doesn’t realize is that he is close – very close – to moving his body as well. All he has to do now . . .’ Jasper continued, lowering his voice and looking over his shoulder out of the window, ‘is . . .’ he hissed the word, turning his head once more and blinking at them. Then, with a sudden movement, he launched off his perch and soared up towards the raftered ceiling.
The fly was taken completely by surprise. Jasper snapped it up into his beak and swallowed it down.
‘What happened?’ Alice gasped.
‘Fly,’ Jasper replied. And he returned to his perch. ‘What was I saying?’
‘What Morden had to do in order to bring his body to our time,’ William prompted him.
‘Oh yes!’ the owl hooted. ‘That got his interest!’
‘Whose?’
‘Morden’s, of course!’
‘Where?’ William cried, beginning to lose his patience.
‘The fly,’ Jasper told him in a weary voice.
‘You mean, Morden was hiding in the fly?’
‘No, William!’ Jasper trilled, irritably, ‘Only his mind.’
‘Like before,’ Mary gasped, remembering, ‘with the spider?’
‘Precisely,’ the owl hooted. ‘Stupid man! You should never use the same trick twice.’
‘So now – you’ve just eaten Morden?’ William demanded, trying so hard to work it all out.
‘Of course I haven’t,’ Jasper whistled.
‘But . . .’
‘I have merely blocked his attention. I keep telling you . . .’
‘So what will have happened to Morden?’
‘Nothing,’ the owl cried. ‘Except that he won’t now be hearing our conversation; he won’t now be witnessing our time.’
‘But – when the Magician was inside the badger at Blackscar Quarry and was attacked by Fang,’ William insisted, ‘his arm was hurt – it’s still bad in fact, months later.’
‘Because the Master has managed to travel his body, not only his imagination . . . his attention . . . The Master brings his entire self . . . sometimes . . .’ The owl shrugged and looked wide-eyed and thoughtful for a moment. ‘At other times, of course, only his mind is here.’
‘Like now?’ Mary asked, in a whisper.
Jasper looked at her and blinked.
‘Oh, I don’t understand!’ William groaned. ‘It’s all too difficult for me.’
‘That’s because you concern yourself with the wrong questions . . . you’re trying to understand all the wrong things, William,’ the owl said. ‘But, I’ll give you the answers, if that’s what you want. Listen. Don’t try to work things out. Just . . . Listen.’
The word crackled on the air and was followed by a long silence. Jasper stared at William with such piercing eyes that he seemed to be trying to see right into his head.
‘Now,’ he whispered at last, ‘Just listen to me, William. All right?’
William nodded and swallowed nervously. He wasn’t at all sure what was being asked of him. After all, he was listening. He wasn’t interrupting what was being said. He wasn’t talking instead. What else was he supposed to do? . . . Then he realized that the owl was already speaking and that so far he hadn’t heard a word that was being said, so he tried to stop thinking and to attend.
‘. . . Magician’s assistant has discovered that he can allow his mind to travel across time in certain creatures,’ Jasper was explaining in a slow voice. ‘He doesn’t come himself . . . but his thoughts, his awareness, can travel . . . As the mind travels in dreams. Or in the imagination. When you imagine being in a different place – you are almost there, aren’t you? You smell and sense the new place and, for a time, you become oblivious of where you are . . . You understand?’ The owl shifted his feet on the candle sconce and rotated his head, thoughtfully. ‘The fly existed in your time,’ he continued, ‘and also then, in Morden’s.’
‘The same fly?’ William demanded.
‘Of course not – and yet, perhaps . . . Yes – why not? There are an awful lot of flies – silly creatures!’ Jasper shivered. ‘Not only flies, of course. The owl too is common to both times . . . and the fox . . . the badger . . . the blackbird . . . otter . . . fish . . . Most of us exist in both times.’ Then he stared at them coldly. ‘Although,’ he added, ‘in this age, some of us are becoming scarce, not to say lonely,’ and he shivered again and trilled. ‘Yes, I have to say that my family is not as abundant now as it used to be. And that would make a difference. For example – the Magician would not now choose to travel here in a wolf – because, sadly, the wolf has gone from these woods; or a bear – because there are no bears . . .’
Alice yawned and cuddled closer to Spot. Jasper’s fluting voice was making her sleepy. She placed her head on the dog’s gently breathing body and closed her eyes.
‘But,’ Mary said, ‘there are human beings in the Magician’s time – and human beings now. Why doesn’t he come in one of us?’
‘Doesn’t he?’ the owl whispered.
Mary frowned.
‘Sometimes I sort of . . . think his voice,’ she admitted.
‘Or do you hear his ideas . . .?’
‘Well, yes – I suppose that’s it,’ Mary said with a shrug, not quite sure that she saw the difference.
‘Dear Mary,’ Jasper said kindly. ‘You have a natural ability not to dwell on problems . . .’
‘So . . .’ William cut in, not wanting the subject to change before he’d at least tried to understand, ‘what you’re saying is that it is all in the mind?’
‘Everything is in the mind, yes. Everything you see, everything you hear, everything you touch, smell, taste . . . All interpreted through the mind. But it’s more than that, William. Your mind and Mary’s mind are now linked, as you both join in this discussion . . .’
‘But Mary might be thinking quite different things from me,’ William observed. ‘We may be hearing the same words and yet thinking totally different things about them.’
‘Precisely,’ the owl hooted excitedly. ‘That is why the essential step on the journey is the stilling of the mind. Just as in making gold you must first hold still the mercury, so with true alchemy the mind must be silent before realization can begin.’ The bird raised a claw, stopping William from interrupting him. ‘Listen to me, boy!’ it hooted severely. ‘If you and Mary were now free of your own individual thoughts . . . If you were both able to listen to me entirely, without any disturbance at all in each of your minds . . . What would happen?’
The children shook their heads. They didn’t know what answer was expected of them.
‘Would you not be linked . . .? Joined . . .? United . . .?’
‘It would be like when I go in Spot,’ Alice said, in a sleepy voice. ‘That’s all that happens, really. I see through him, hear through him, and all that . . .’
‘Yes,’ the owl agreed, ‘and at the same time, we are seeing and hearing, through each of you. The mind, William. The mind. When it is still and silent and empty of all your thinking . . . Then it is free to go anywhere.’
‘But,’ William cried, ‘how do we get the mind to become still?’
‘Just by giving up,’ Jasper said, ‘by stopping asking questions, by not trying to think . . . by allowing ideas to come and go without immediately pouncing on them and worrying them to death . . .’
‘Oh, William!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘I can’t see that ever happening for you
.’
‘I’m starving for a mouse,’ Jasper said, his voice changing as he looked over his shoulder at the gathering night outside the window. ‘Any of you want to go hunting?’
‘No, thank you,’ Mary replied quickly. She’d been hunting with Jasper once before. The memory still haunted her.
Jasper stared at her and blinked.
‘You mortals are strange creatures. You eat all manner of rubbish and scoff at a nice little mouse. I’m off. All this talking has made me feel peckish!’
11
The Public Meeting
THE FOLLOWING EVENING a meeting was held to discuss the planning application for the development at Goldenwater. The hall where it was to take place was already crowded when the party from Golden House arrived. The audience was made up, for the most part, of people they didn’t recognize, but Mary picked out Dan sitting near the front. Mr Jenkins, the farmer from the moor road, was there with his wife and gave them a wave and Miss Prewett, the librarian at the local museum, actually squeezed out of her row and came to stand beside them at the back.
‘Oh, I am so glad you came, Mr Brown,’ she whispered to Jack. ‘This concerns you as much as anyone. It’s an outrage, you know. Have you seen the plans?’ she asked, handing him a folder of papers. ‘Look at the expense they’ve gone to already – preparing all this. They mean business, I’m afraid, Mr Brown . . . it is Brown, isn’t it?’
‘Green,’ Jack corrected her, in the narrow gap she left between two sentences.
‘Green, of course! How stupid of me. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, if they’ve already forked out this much money on presentation – they’re not going to give up the fight in a hurry . . .’
Miss Prewett would have continued to talk all night, but three people now climbed up on to the small stage at the end of the hall and one of them, a woman, was trying to silence all the chattering. Jack drew Miss Prewett’s attention to this fact and she whispered:
‘That’s Mrs Sutcliffe – our local MP. I don’t trust her one little bit. She has absolutely no interest in history. Never trust a person who doesn’t like history!’
Mrs Sutcliffe was a short, fat woman with very black hair and bright red lips. She was wearing a blue summer dress that was too tight for her and carried a handbag hanging over one arm. She started the meeting by introducing ‘the two other members of the panel who have come here tonight to tell us all the exciting plans they have for our lovely area. On my left is Mr Martin Marsh, who I’m sure many of you will recognize. Mr Marsh is, of course, a much respected local solicitor, who has lived in the town for most of his life. And on my right is Mr Charles Crawden, son of Sir Henry Crawden who is, I need hardly tell any of you, the owner of much of the forest land around here. The Crawdens are a fine old local family and are themselves part of our heritage and our history. I think I’m right in saying that there have been members of the Crawden family living in these parts since the first Elizabeth was on the throne. So that means they go back a good few years!’
Miss Prewett nudged Jack and raised her eyebrows as much as to say ‘you see what I mean?’!
Martin Marsh now rose to address the meeting, producing from his briefcase a set of notes on which his speech was written. A thin man, with thin hair and even thinner lips, Martin Marsh wore a permanently mournful expression – ‘like death warmed up’ was how Meg described him, which made Alice giggle. He was dressed in a dark, pinstripe suit and an old school tie. It was difficult to guess how old he was because he had the air of someone who had always looked middle-aged.
He first thanked Mrs Sutcliffe for ‘giving up her valuable time to come here tonight’. Then he went on to explain that Playco UK was a new company and that they were all very lucky that Charles Crawden, one of its directors, was a local man, otherwise ‘the potential of the Goldenwater site could have been totally overlooked.’
The other man on the stage beamed and smiled and nodded at this mention. Charles Crawden had a shiny face with a lot of tight, light brown curls above it. Mary thought he looked like an overgrown baby, with his plump body encased in a brown tweed jacket and plus-fours. He leaned his elbows on the table in front of him and rested his several chins on his podgy pink fingers, apparently listening with rapt attention to all that was being said.
‘Obviously,’ Martin Marsh continued, referring to his notes as he spoke, ‘any development in this area will be welcomed by us all; not only because it will bring much needed job opportunities but also because it may help to save a once thriving community from stagnation and ultimate death.’ There was a great deal of clapping from the audience at this, which seemed to encourage Mr Marsh. ‘For any business to survive in the present economic climate it is necessary for the directors and the work force to pull together. We here in this room are both the directors and the work force and this,’ he stretched his arms out as he spoke, ‘our glorious countryside, is the family business. The picture is far from reassuring. Farming is in decline, the Forestry Commission has had to cut back on expenditure, industry has deserted us, local mining is a thing of the past, and the small businesses of the town are closing down one by one due to lack of patronage. The whole country is in a recession – but, more than that, we here feel that we are in the forgotten corner of England. Well, so be it. If Whitehall won’t help us – we must set to and help ourselves.’
More clapping welcomed this statement, during which Phoebe turned to Jack, shaking her head:
‘How is destroying the Goldenwater supposed to help?’ she whispered.
‘Idiotic man!’ Jack said aloud, making one or two of the people near to him look round.
‘It must be clear to us all,’ Martin Marsh’s voice droned on, after he’d taken a sip of water from the glass in front of him, ‘that our one real asset is our scenic and historic heritage. But this must be made to pay. We cannot live on our past. We have to make our past into our future. For this reason alone, I welcome Playco UK and its scheme wholeheartedly and pledge them my support. My reasons must be obvious, not only for the short term, but also in the long term. We are speaking here tonight about the future; the future for our children and our children’s children.’ He paused, dramatically, allowing a scatter of applause. ‘Playco-Gold – the proposed name of the Goldenwater development – will put us not only firmly on the map of England, but of Europe and the entire civilized world. We live in the age of the tourist. I can see a time, in the not too distant future, when Americans and Japanese will be rubbing shoulders in our market square, their plastic cards at the ready! Now, thanks to Playco, the spenders will be coming to us. Like apples ripe for picking – the harvest will be ours!’
Martin Marsh returned to his seat and Mrs Sutcliffe rose again. She thanked him for opening the debate so stirringly. Then she turned to face the audience.
‘Our reason for being here tonight is our natural concern for our community. There may be some of you who will be opposed to what Playco UK proposes. But perhaps now Mr Crawden could be prevailed upon to answer any questions that might arise? Mr Crawden?’
‘I would be delighted,’ Charles Crawden replied. His voice was silky smooth and he smiled radiantly at the audience, without rising from his seat. ‘Not that I’m an expert on all matters, of course . . .’
There was an awkward pause, while he looked round the hall, waiting for someone to speak.
‘Don’t be shy. I’m sure someone must have a question.’
A woman halfway down the hall rose to her feet.
‘Can you tell us,’ she said, in a nervous voice, ‘will there be a hotel in the development?’
‘It’s all in this pamphlet,’ Charles Crawden replied, holding up a copy of the prospectus that Miss Prewett had handed to Jack. ‘The details are quite complicated. But, yes, there will be a large hotel up at Goldenwater. There will also be holiday chalets and a Wildlife Lodge has also now been incorporated into the scheme, where guests will be able to observe the nocturnal activities of the large badger sett that is situa
ted up there.’
Meg glanced at William and whispered;
‘They didn’t waste much time did they, dear? They didn’t know about the badgers till I told them.’
‘But in that case,’ the woman who had asked the question continued, her voice getting strong, ‘isn’t there a possibility that this scheme, far from helping local businesses, will take custom away from them?’
‘Are you in business yourself?’ Charles Crawden asked, his smile beginning to set on his face.
‘Yes,’ the woman replied. ‘I run a registered boarding house.’
‘Then I’m sure that you won’t suffer from a little competition?’ Charles Crawden said, his voice becoming crisper. ‘If you run a good boarding house,’ he said the words as though they were somehow distasteful to him, ‘you will no doubt keep your regular patrons. Playco-Gold can only increase your guests’ enjoyment and add to their holiday experience. At the very least it will give them somewhere else to visit. It will add an extra dimension to their holiday.’
‘My guests are not the sort of people who go to funfairs. They are mainly walkers. They come here to enjoy the freedom of the forest . . .’
‘Yes, that, of course, is another point that I think I should raise,’ Charles Crawden said, cutting across her speech. ‘My father, as the owner of the Goldenwater estate, has been extremely patient with trespassers in the past. But the land is privately owned and, as such, people are only permitted there through the goodwill of my family.’
‘That’s absolute nonsense,’ an elderly man said, getting up from his seat and introducing himself as though he were used to public meetings. ‘Colonel Dearing, Ramblers’ Association. The whole of the forest area is covered with a network of bridleways and footpaths. The public have every right to be there.’
Charles Crawden shrugged and beamed.
‘Obviously I don’t have all the facts at my fingertips, Colonel. But I think you’ll find that the lake itself should not be used. My family have fished it in the past and my son has every intention of doing so this summer . . .’
The Tunnel Behind the Waterfall Page 8