Arcadia

by Iain Pears

  Catherine found this both amusing and exasperating. She once remarked to a visiting scholar of particular dullness that it might be easier for everyone if she merely wrote a weekly letter detailing her health and marital status. That would spare them the trouble of having to travel so far. She intended to hold on to her lands until her death, and she was in no hurry to discover whether or not the narratives of the Afterlife were true or should properly be interpreted as allegories. As for marriage … there were stories about her affections, but anyone who became close to her was much too discreet to talk of it.

  Under her rule, the domain had prospered greatly. It had always been wealthy, but now it was, in addition, content. It needed nothing from the outside world; the land provided everything in abundance, fruit and flowers, crops of all sorts. There was fresh water in a multitude of brooks and rivers; good grazing land for cows and sheep; clay for tiles, stone for buildings. Great woods were as well stocked with deer as the lakes and rivers were filled with fish, and the skies with pheasant, doves and partridge. So Henary – waxing a little poetical – explained to Jay when they were about two hours away.

  For Jay, this was an immense adventure. Henary had extracted him suddenly from his lessons without explanation and told him to pack a bag. Jay was delighted; very few students ever left Ossenfud except at harvest time, and fewer still were taken on official visits like this. He could scarcely contain his excitement and had been pestering Henary with questions throughout the journey.

  ‘It is a delightful place, although mainly because of the character of the Lady Catherine herself. “She is the sun which keeps the land fertile and content. Her smile makes the flowers bloom, her frown brings the rain.”’

  Jay racked his memory. ‘Level 1, 17?’

  ‘Close. Level 2, 14. The same theme, though. She is an exceptionally able woman, far more so than her dolt of a husband, who would have brought the domain to ruin had she not restrained him – and had he not so conveniently died. Don’t look so shocked, boy. I speak only the truth. A pity you will not meet her. Or even see the Shrine of Esilio, which is certainly the most remarkable thing in the domain.’

  ‘What? I thought …’

  ‘She dislikes uninvited guests. Well, she tolerates scholars, of course. As you are only a student, I fear you will have to stay outside.’

  ‘Why did you bring me then?’ Jay cried.

  ‘I hate travelling on my own. It is so tiring.’

  ‘That’s very unfair.’

  Henary looked almost puzzled, although he was more occupied with not showing his amusement. ‘Unfair? Why? I give the orders, you obey them. Where is there room for unfairness in that?’

  ‘It is unfair because you made me look forward to something you knew I was not to get.’

  ‘I gave you information and my company. What more could you want?’

  Jay wanted to snort with derision, but could not, so fell into a sulky silence instead.

  *

  When they arrived, Henary left him just outside the borders. On either side of the little track was a stone pillar, each about three feet high, with a bird carved into every side. This, Henary explained, was the sign of her lands, and had been for longer than anyone could remember. Once crossed all but scholars were subject to her laws, and anyone who crossed uninvited – here he looked severely at Jay – could be declared a trespasser.

  ‘You know what that means,’ he said. ‘Disgrace and servitude. So you have been warned. Busy yourself with pitching the tent over there by that stream, and get back to the fourth theme. You may have forgotten, but I have not, that you have to deliver an oration in two weeks’ time. You may embarrass yourself if you wish, but you will not embarrass me.’

  He mounted his little horse, saluted his young charge and soon enough disappeared into the woods which lay just ahead of the stone markers.

  Jay watched him go. There was one follower only, borrowed from the kitchens for the occasion, as there was no need to maintain the dignity of the college. Nor was Jay yet senior enough to get someone else to do all the work. Had he tried, he would just have got a look of sullen refusal, together with a bad reputation when he returned. Besides, he had no sense of his own place. It never occurred to him not to help out.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get the tent up. Then you can start preparing the food and I’ll get some firewood.’

  His plan was already formed. He knew – everybody knew – about the Shrine, where Esilio had been buried after leading them back from exile countless generations ago. He had read about it; the passages where the old man’s body was laid to rest were some of the most beautiful and touching in the entire Story. To come so close and be denied such an experience was too much. He simply had to see it for himself. Besides, it was work, he told himself: to compare the description and the reality. No one would know, no one would see him; Henary would never suspect.

  He and the kitchen boy – who was no older than ten at most – put up the tent, and one part of Jay was looking forward to the great luxury of spending the night alone in it. For the first time he was going to have a proper bed, and covers, and everything a young man might desire in the way of comfort. Once, that is, he had done a little exploring. Really, if Henary had been trying to rouse his curiosity he could not have done much better. Still, he would have to be discreet. He did not want the kitchen boy to get into trouble, or to get into trouble himself.

  He had fetched wood while the boy prepared the food but deliberately picked up only a very little, just enough for the cooking. By morning, it would all have gone. They could do without, of course; generally few but the most fastidious had anything but cold water to wash in and breakfast was, in any case, just bread or perhaps some cold porridge. Still, they would need more wood for when Henary returned.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said the lad.

  ‘No. I insist. It was my fault.’

  The boy did not argue; he was quite happy to settle down on the ground and dream of whatever ten-year-olds dream of.

  So Jay strolled off, going left and staying out of the domain until he could not be seen from the tent. Then, briefly glancing back so he could be sure he was not observed, he veered sharply to the right and walked over the invisible line which divided the domain of the Lady Catherine of Willdon from the common lands outside.

  *

  It was completely unremarkable, although he didn’t really know what he was expecting. He walked for ten minutes or so straight into the woods, and found them to be perfectly ordinary woods. He crossed a stream, which was a perfectly ordinary stream, and if there were indeed lots of birds they were, for the most part, perfectly ordinary ones. There was little point in continuing to trespass – and risk who knew what punishment – just for the limited pleasure of looking at trees. He decided to go a little further, then turn back. Another ten minutes later, however, he came to a clearing which made him change his mind.

  It was a few hundred feet long, covered in soft grass with the trees rising up all around so that they formed a natural circle. Presumably animals came to graze here, and to drink at the stream that cut straight across, tinkling and chortling as it fell through stones and dropped a few feet through a natural, if miniature, waterfall.

  Other things in the clearing gave him pause, however. A second, smaller circle was formed by stones set in the middle, each one shaped and covered in moss and lichen. Within this circle were half a dozen tall round columns. His curiosity was aroused and he was, in truth, a bit scared. Were these put there by the hands of giants, those mythical creatures who never existed except in firelight tales?

  Then, of course, he realised: this was it, the Shrine of Esilio, the great glory of Willdon. But how very unimpressive it was! It was peaceful and pretty, certainly, but he had imagined something grand, something which overwhelmed with its holiness and majesty. Instead it was just a clearing, surrounded by a circle of stones. What he now realised was the tomb of the Leader was no more than a plain and untended stone oblong. It
was one of the most famous places in the whole of Anterwold and he could easily have walked straight across it without giving it a second thought.

  He walked around the perimeter for some time, not daring to cross into it for fear of enchantment, but eventually his curiosity could no longer be denied. He put first a hand, then his arm over the boundary. Nothing happened, so he stepped over and ventured further towards the centre.

  He wished Henary had been with him; he would be punished for his disobedience, no doubt, but it would be worth it to hear Henary’s explanation, for he knew his teacher would have grand tales to tell about the place.

  But enough was enough. He had satisfied his curiosity and quelled that irritated feeling deep inside which began to niggle at his soul whenever he was prevented from doing something. He had entered Willdon, seen the Shrine, and now it was time to go back. With one last look at the circle, he began walking down the path that would take him back to the boundary. There was nothing in his mind; just a feeling of contentment to be out in the sun, and satisfaction at having seen something interesting. He paid no attention to anything; didn’t hear the twigs breaking behind him, or the rustle of leaves ahead of him. He noticed nothing, in fact, until he went round a gentle bend and saw three armed men standing in the middle of the path. They were tall and strong, and did not look happy to see him.

  ‘Trespasser. You are under arrest, and your freedom is forfeit. Give yourself up peacefully,’ one called.

  Jay’s stomach churned. The trees grew thickly to the path; there was no chance of breaking through the dense undergrowth and getting away. He looked back, but two more soldiers had quietly slipped into view; they must have been following him all along. There was no possibility of escaping, even if the man with the bow proved to be a poor shot. He did not intend to find out.

  Instead, he lifted his chin and replied defiantly. ‘Who do you call trespasser? I am a student of Ossenfud. I do no harm here.’

  ‘You could be the greatest scholar in the land, and you would still have no right to enter the Lady’s domains without her permission. You will give yourself up – peacefully or not, it makes no difference to us.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To what end?’ came the mocking reply. ‘To the end, young student, of being taken to the tribunal. You have violated the circle, the most precious part of her domain. You have entered the land without her permission. You will be punished for it.’

  Jay knew that already; Henary had gone out of his way to explain it. The magnitude of his foolishness now swept over him. Nothing could save him from – what? Henary would be humiliated; to have a student fall from grace in such a spectacular fashion would be a blot on his reputation that would never be forgotten. Jay’s own name would be erased from the college roll, his story obliterated from memory. How could he have done anything so stupid?

  In the time he took to think this, one of the soldiers had walked up to him and whipped out a rope, which he fastened around his neck – not tightly, but impossible to throw off rapidly. No chance of making a dash for freedom now.

  ‘Right. Two ways of doing this. Peaceful and helpful, or kicking and screaming. Which do you prefer?’

  ‘I’ll be peaceful,’ Jay said. ‘I’m not afraid. When my master hears about this …’

  ‘You’ll get the worst beating of your life,’ the soldier completed for him.

  ‘Then you’ll go to the tribunal,’ added another.

  ‘Stop the talking,’ called the man who was, Jay presumed, the sergeant in charge of the little platoon. ‘We’ve got the other one to catch as well.’

  ‘What other one?’ Jay asked. ‘There isn’t anyone else. I’m quite alone. I left my servant by our camp, outside the domain. You may not touch him.’

  ‘Quiet. You two’ – he gestured at the two soldiers who had appeared behind Jay – ‘back to your places. Whistle when you hear something.’

  Ten minutes later, the whistle floated softly through the trees.

  16

  A day after Angela’s disappearance, Hanslip’s various damage limitation committees presented their findings. Some progress had been made in wiping out all suggestions that the damaging power surge had originated with them. None, however, had been made in analysing Angela’s machine and establishing if it had been used in earnest.

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Hanslip snapped. The strain of the last day was beginning to take a toll. It was so rare for him to display any emotion that the unfortunate target of his frustration fell silent.

  ‘That was the point of the surge,’ another said tentatively. The electricity had coursed through their systems, burnt through their defences and not only erased all the data but also wiped out any trace of whether the machine had been used. Before it could actually damage the machine itself, it had been diverted into the outside world, where it had caused havoc.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ this second man said. ‘I spent half a day checking the records in the computing department. It seems that all the data was copied out at noon the previous lunchtime. So presumably a copy of it does still exist somewhere.’

  ‘Why would she do that? She had the information in her head already.’

  There was no answer. Hanslip turned away from them in disgust. ‘So now we know what we are dealing with. This is terrorism on a huge scale. Perhaps someone here has something helpful to say? Mr More? Have you found her?’

  ‘I am limited by the fact that you do not wish anyone to know we are looking,’ Jack replied. ‘Unless you change your orders, I cannot put out a general alert, or search records to see if she checked in anywhere or bought anything. I can’t examine surveillance material. If I could do that …’

  ‘No. The fewer people who know the better.’

  ‘Then I will have to go the slow way round. I intend to travel south, so I can contact old friends in security and make unofficial enquiries. I plan to leave as soon as possible.’

  Hanslip nodded. At least someone was taking the initiative. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said, handing over the piece of paper Angela’s assistant had pushed into his hand as he was heading for the meeting. ‘I was asked to give you this by Mr Chang. He was unable to make an appointment, as he is insufficiently senior to talk to you directly.’

  Hanslip looked curiously at him, then unfolded it.

  1960, it said.

  *

  Hanslip summoned Chang the moment the meeting broke up; he had to wait outside until everyone else had gone and only Jack More remained. The director waved the piece of paper at him: ‘Well? What does this mean?’

  ‘There is a trace in the historical records for 1960 which matches Angela Meerson. So I thought it important to tell you.’ He had the tone of a man who thought he was perhaps making an enormous mistake. In truth, he was somewhat overawed by being in the same room as the man he had only ever seen before from a distance.

  ‘Did anyone ask you to make such a search?’

  Chang blushed a little. ‘Mr More here asked me to see if I could think of anything. Data analysis is my speciality, you see, and the techniques are as easily applied to historical records as anything else. So I thought …’

  ‘I see. How did you come to this conclusion?’

  ‘Conclusion might be too strong,’ he replied. ‘I was just experimenting. I know of the theories – her theories, if you see what I mean – and just wanted to check. You know, see if she really had gone to a parallel universe. If she turned up somewhere I could find her, then obviously she hadn’t.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I began by assuming that she does not change her name; I had to start somewhere. So I ran a search for every record with someone of that name in the period after 1700.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘It’s when the records became good enough. I identified 1,639 individuals. After 2034, when global biological identification became compulsory, it was easy enough to prove that no one recorded was her. I eliminated all t
hose who died before the age of twenty-five, as well as women who had children, as this was a capability she had removed eighteen years ago, and finally took out those who died of a communicable disease she could not have contracted, and I was left with twenty-one people.

  ‘One of these stands out. In 1960, there is a footnote in an article which states simply, ‘My thanks, as usual, to Angela Meerson for her help with translations.’ That is all, but the languages referred to are Serbo-Croat, Finnish and Sinhalese, which is a very unusual combination. Angela took a full language suite with her, including those three.

  ‘Significantly, in my opinion, there is no other trace of this individual. There is no birth or death certificate. No parents or siblings. She never fell ill. Never went to school, never paid tax. She may have changed her name to keep out of sight, but there is no trace of her marrying – women then used to adopt their husband’s name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No idea. The point is that there ought to be abundant traces. Now, it seems that some personal papers of the man who referred to her still exist, so I would recommend examining them. I haven’t had the time to be completely certain.’

  ‘I don’t have time either,’ Hanslip interrupted. ‘This is nonsense. You are peddling this rubbish about time travel that she was obsessing about. You know full well that Angela is not to be listened to when she is in one of her states. Did she tell you to undermine me and sow doubt? Is that what’s going on here?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Hanslip glared at him, then relaxed. ‘I will consider what you say,’ he said in a more even tone. ‘Come to my office in an hour.’

  *

  More was waiting in the corridor when a very frightened Chang presented himself as instructed. He was not pleased. It was obvious to him that efforts to cover up the debacle of Angela’s disappearance were becoming increasingly illegal and risky. He did not greatly appreciate being drawn into other people’s disasters.