Arcadia

by Iain Pears

  Two people walked past him, talking. Could he understand them? He followed closely, until one turned round and looked at him suspiciously. He had heard enough, though; he had understood. Could he speak? He had not been impressed by his one attempt with the girl. The idea made him feel nervous, but it seemed necessary to find out. He stood to one side, summoned his courage, and prepared. Choose your target, walk up, stop, smile. Wait for eye contact but don’t stare. Polite expressions at both beginning and end of sentence. Keep your distance.

  ‘Excuse me, dearest Madam. Would you kindly do me the great honour of informing me of the time, please?’

  Then he stopped. Time. The word jogged something deep in his memory. He was short of time. Why? Again, almost like the answer to his question, thoughts began to pour back into his head, so many that he had to sit on a wall, oblivious to the passers-by, who stared nervously at the strangely dressed man rocking to and fro, head in hands.

  He had wanted to show off, maybe win himself a little praise and added job security. It had been a bad mistake. He’d contacted the security man about his ideas to show he was more important than was the case, and because More had brought up his record. More had then passed the message on to Hanslip because he also needed to show he was on top of things. He should have kept quiet.

  5

  The ceremony proper began at dusk; all day the senior villagers presented their dues to the Visitor, handing over wooden tablets with markings which tallied what they had produced and what they owed. Each figure was written down meticulously, and if there were any discrepancies, the elders would be called across to account for the problem. The Visitor had arrived that afternoon; the space around the great oak tree where the ceremony always took place had been carefully prepared, and the senior men of the village had dressed in their best before walking to the limits of the village territory, marked by a great stone at the side of the road.

  There they had waited to greet the Visitors. It was not a grand procession – although as grand as anything the village ever witnessed. One man was on a horse, which tossed its head and neighed as its rider came to a halt. He was in his forties at least, with fair, thin hair and bright eyes; a little fat as well, and dressed in a light brown cloak of wool. On his feet were sandals of leather, another luxury. There were rules, and there were laws, which could be applied severely or gently. He did not look particularly gentle, and the villagers worried when they cast eyes on him.

  Curiously, it was not he who replied to the words of welcome. Rather a much younger man on a donkey behind him dismounted and came forward. He was hesitant, almost nervous, as though he was not used to the task. This did not reassure them either; they did not want someone too inexperienced to bend the rules. Still, he had an open face, with darting eyes and a faint smile that played around his mouth; he did not appear over-impressed by himself, but everyone knew that he was as aware of the older man as they were.

  ‘I thank you for your welcome,’ he said, speaking each word with care, ‘and I declare that I am the Visitor you expect. Does anybody here dispute this statement?’

  No one replied. ‘Then let it be accepted.’ He took a step forward, over the boundary between the village and the great world outside.

  That step cast the law into motion. He had been recognised as the Visitor, he had been welcomed, he had entered the village. Until he left again he was now the master of them all. Everything and everybody, every man and child, every animal, every tool and every sheaf of wheat, belonged to him. He could take what he wanted, leave them as much or as little as he pleased, guided only by custom. When he heard the complaints and arguments that had built up over the year waiting for resolution, he could punish any wrong-doing as he saw fit. His decisions were final.

  For people who respected age and saw it as being little different from wisdom and authority, there was puzzlement that this man had come forward, not the older one on the horse. There was something unseemly about it. It had got the ceremony off to a bad start, and what started badly ended badly.

  If the young man understood this, he did not seek to allay their fears. He did not introduce the other man, nor even give his own name. He was the Visitor; that was all they needed to know. But he jumped to attention when the older man came down off his horse, stretched himself and rubbed his sore back.

  ‘I would like a drink, Visitor,’ he said in a pleasant voice. ‘I am dusty and tired. Could that be arranged, do you think?’

  ‘Certainly, Storyteller,’ came the reply, which sent a wave of shock through the villagers. ‘At once.’

  *

  Once the arrangements had been made, and the villagers assembled in the dip by the oak trees where the meetings were always held, then the young man, the Visitor, stood up, peered at the audience severely and began to speak in a dry, monotonous voice. The older one, the Storyteller whose presence had so alarmed everyone, stood behind him, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. Still no one knew why he was there.

  ‘The counting took place on the fifth day of autumn, and these are the results. The settlement has in the last four seasons raised forty-two goats, sixty-seven sheep, 120 bushels of wheat and sixty-two of barley. In addition there were twenty-four pigs, 122 chickens, fifteen geese and eight oxen.’

  He looked around. ‘A very much better result than last year; you are all to be congratulated. It is a blessing. The tithe is therefore four goats, six sheep, twelve bushels of wheat and six of barley. In addition, during the drought of the past few years a portion of the tithe was waived. This amounts to twelve goats …’

  A quiet groan went up from the assembled villagers. They knew this was coming, of course. It was the law, and it was fair. The Visitors had been gentle during the drought; they could easily have insisted on their rights and left them to starve. But for three years they had taken less than their due and the debt had mounted up. Now there had been a bumper harvest, and there was no reason why they should not take what was owed.

  The village could have taken their surplus – once enough had been put aside for the winter – loaded it onto wagons and traded it at the market. Bought cloth and pans and tools with the result. A few luxuries. It was not to be this year. A gloom descended and they all looked up at the Visitor, who was waiting for the murmuring to subside.

  He didn’t look annoyed, as he had a right to be. The Visitor was not to be interrupted. Then they noticed that, if he was not actually smiling, he was at least looking faintly amused.

  ‘It is decided, to give proper thanks to the seasons and our common good fortune, to collect this by adding a quarter of the tenth to the next four years. This will amount, this year and the following three years, to three goats, nine sheep …’

  Another murmur, but not from despair this time. Broad grins spread over all those listening. It was better than they could possibly have hoped. Yes, they’d have to pay their debt, but they’d have something to take to market as well. The Visitor had been generous; not for the first time, there were many who counted their blessings. They’d often heard tales of what life was like elsewhere, where the Visitors were not so flexible.

  Their Visitor – who was trying hard to keep a solemn expression – spread out his arms. ‘The judgement is given,’ he pronounced. ‘The tithe will be made ready to depart after the Storyteller has spoken and the feast has been eaten.’

  *

  Even by nine o’clock, the air was still warm and thick with the insects which flew wildly around the lamps set to mark the boundaries of the assembly.

  Only a few remembered the last time a Storyteller had come. If there was any reason for their rare appearances, no one knew what it was. But they knew that he knew everything. How the world was, how it operated, the laws of men and nature and of God. What was right, and what was wrong. Why it was that men walked the face of the earth, their past and their future. All this the Storytellers knew and kept safe.

  Now he stepped forward, and waited until the Visitor – now seen as a very m
uch lesser figure – walked to one side.

  No one knew what to expect. Would it be some terrifying, awe-inspiring ceremony? Were they expected to listen on their knees, heads bowed reverentially? Could anyone listen, or were they meant to send the young away?

  ‘Firstly,’ said the old man, ‘I must thank you for your good work over the past year, and say how pleased I am to be here on this wonderful evening, when the world has been smiling on us so generously.’

  He had a gentle, melodious voice, and talked just like a normal person – well, less roughly, obviously, but there were no words they did not understand.

  ‘Many of you know little about storytelling. Before I begin, let me explain. The Story is the Story of us all. If understood properly, it is of immense power. It tells you who you are, what you might expect from this life. Some believe it can foretell the future. Mastery of the Story gives you mastery over life itself. It contains precious, holy relics of the age of giants which preceded us. It tells of our rise, our glories and our occasional disgraces. It tells of our fathers and grandfathers, of the animals and the trees and the spirits, containing all the knowledge you need to please them so they will help rather than punish you.

  ‘I am one of the guardians of this great Story. My telling is the truthful one, no matter what tales your grandmothers may have told you in the kitchen, or your grandfathers over a pint of ale, or wanderers who offer to entertain you in exchange for food and shelter. I keep the truth and you are commanded that, if you have heard differently from my account, you remember only what I say.

  ‘So we shall begin, and afterwards I will explain the importance of what I have told you, and what it teaches us. I take my story not from the beginning, not even when God abandoned this earth, when the darkness fell and mankind was oppressed and begging for relief. Not even in the days of Exile, when cruelty stalked the lands. Now, to match the bounty of our days, I will tell a tale from the Return, when men led by Esilio came back to the places that once were theirs, and now are so again. They left a land of hardship, “of cruelty and ice, of hardship and desert”, as it is said, and travelled to a place of peace and plenty …’

  ‘How can you have desert and ice at the same time?’

  The Storyteller looked almost as though he had been slapped in the face. The audience drew in its breath as one person. Many people felt a cold shiver running down their spine.

  Someone had interrupted. Someone had queried a story. That did not happen. No one, even a madman, was so stupid that they didn’t know that silence – total silence – was required. Even a cough was like a rebellion.

  ‘Who said that?’ the Storyteller said sharply. No one dared reply.

  ‘I asked a question, and it will be answered. Someone spoke. He must identify himself immediately.’

  The Storyteller, whose authority was now self-evident to everyone, stood and walked forward, surveying the crowd. He was insistent, but not angry. He seemed to have no doubts that his command would be obeyed.

  ‘Well?’

  The Storyteller was already walking towards him. He knew full well who had spoken. There was no possibility of hiding or denying it. He stood over the young boy until he reluctantly rose, then stuck his chin out defiantly.

  ‘I did,’ he said in a clear voice, which had no trace of a shake or tremor in it. He was scared witless, but at least it did not show.

  The old man nodded to the two soldiers, who came forward. He nodded again, and each took him by an arm and began to lead him to the door of the tent.

  Jay did not protest or resist. He knew there was no point. His mother looked on, petrified and helpless. The worst possible thing now would be if she doubled Jay’s sin and made some noise or protest herself. Then the entire family would be shamed.

  *

  ‘You’ve done it now, boy,’ one of the soldiers muttered. ‘You’re going to get a whipping like you wouldn’t believe. If you’re lucky.’

  ‘I just wanted to know …’

  They led him to the tent where the visitors were to sleep, which had been put up for them in the afternoon.

  ‘Sit.’

  Jay moved to obey. ‘Not in there!’ the soldier said as Jay bent to go through the tent entrance. ‘Who do you think you are? Maybe you want a sleep in the Storyteller’s bed? I’m sure he’d be happy to camp out on the floor so you can be comfortable.’

  ‘Please forgive me.’

  ‘Perhaps a glass of his wine? Would you like to try on his clothes?’

  The soldier looked at Jay’s miserable, frightened face, then relented. ‘Well, we’ll forget that one, shall we? Sit down, shut up and don’t move. Right?’

  Jay nodded. He buried his face in his hands and began to pray to the spirits of village and family for help. He was, in truth, more worried about his mother’s look of sadness and fear, and what his father would do, than anything that might befall him in that tent. That he could not even imagine.

  *

  The Visitor and the Storyteller stood talking, muttering, to each other a few yards away from where the lad squatted on the ground, now cold, hungry and miserable. He had been sitting there, scarcely moving, for more than two hours. It was dark, and the cold was spreading through his young body. On the far side of the village, the feast was continuing despite his best efforts to ruin it; he could hear the sounds of merriment as it went on, and he thought wistfully of the food he was missing. The best food of the year, the feast that everyone looked forward to – wine and beer, fruit and bread, pork and mutton, vegetables fresh from the ground. People ate as though they had never eaten before, or never would again. The children would be given presents – little presents, certainly, but the only ones they ever got. Then they would sing and dance …

  He was missing it all. His fear began to dissipate and be replaced by resentment. What had he done, apart from ask a question? So it was unheard of. So it was rude. But to miss the feast!

  One of the soldiers walked over. ‘Up,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  He took him by the arm and led him towards the tent, which the Storyteller had just entered.

  ‘Now listen,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to. Answer any questions. Don’t try to be funny or smart. Understand?’

  He had never been in such a thing before. The tent was almost as large as his house, and rich hangings had been draped over bars to hide the fact that it wasn’t a real building. Candles – wax ones, not tallow – burned, almost a dozen of them. More hangings hid what he assumed was a sleeping area.

  There was a makeshift desk, covered in cloth and laden with papers, behind which sat the Storyteller, who examined him keenly as he stood nervously by the tent flap. He had spoken for nearly an hour, telling the story, weaving it into a grand tale of entertainment and instruction, entrancing them with the sound of his voice, bringing out the melodies and meanings hidden in the words in the way that only many years of training could permit. An exhausting, draining experience because it was so important, and because no mistakes could be made. The story had to be delivered without hesitation or doubt.

  ‘You will find a seat in the corner. Bring it and sit down.’

  He obeyed, and then sat silently, as instructed, while the Storyteller looked at him carefully.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked eventually. His voice was quiet but hoarse from his efforts.

  ‘Jaramal, son of Antus and Antusa.’

  The old man seemed almost annoyed by the response. He threw a piece of paper on the desk.

  ‘Very well,’ he said with a sort of finality.

  ‘Everybody calls me Jay, though.’

  The Storyteller snapped round as he finished delivering this entirely useless piece of information. Jay cursed himself. Speak when you are spoken to. Answer the questions.

  The Storyteller had been about to get up and let him go. Jay was sure of it. Now he was infuriated, perhaps confused.

  Maybe not, though. More a look of caution, worry. Not anger. Jay l
onged to ask; the questions were almost bursting out of him.

  ‘Did you work in the fields yesterday, Jay?’

  Jay nodded, and said nothing, just to be safe.

  ‘Did you leave the fields at any time? To get water, for example?’

  Jay nodded once more, but very cautiously.

  ‘Describe it.’

  ‘I went up the hill, filled the bag and came down again.’ Jay was scared, and he knew it showed. He knew nothing about the world, or its laws. But if he could get into trouble for having asked a question, what could happen to him if he told the truth? He couldn’t lie, though. He was clever enough to know that, if he were found out, then the punishment would be severe indeed.

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  Jay kept silent.

  ‘You didn’t, for example, bathe your face in the water?’

  ‘I … I … yes. Maybe.’ How did he know that? He hadn’t even told his mother that.

  ‘It was a hot day, of course you would have done. Perhaps you heard something? You are a curious boy; everyone I have talked to in the past hour says that your nosiness knows no bounds. If you heard a noise, you would have gone to investigate, no? Don’t lie to me. I have talked to your mother, and others. Now I want to hear it from you. You alone were there.’

  The old widow, Jay thought. He knew his mother would lie to save him, knew the old widow would tell the truth to get him into trouble. He was trapped. He didn’t know what to do. He stayed silent still.

  ‘It would be best if you told me exactly what you did. Every single thing. I am not angry, Jay. You will not be punished for telling me the truth. The truth is sacred, you know that. Even murderers have their punishment reduced if they tell the truth.’

  It was strange. His tone of speaking hadn’t changed. His expression was still the same. He hadn’t moved, but something about him was reassuring. Not very; but enough. Jay began to speak. He told how he had indeed heard a noise, how he had walked round an outcrop of rock and seen a light, and then the fairy. The Storyteller listened passively, not saying anything until Jay stuttered to a halt.