by Iain Pears
The spirit, meanwhile, appeared sombre, frightening in his authority and wrath. He held up his hands when he saw the crowd that was kneeling in fear of him, and made a gesture that seemed to be an order to step back from his presence. They obeyed without question, scarcely daring to look. Only Rosalind stood her ground, taking her eyes off him briefly as the light behind him flickered and then vanished.
Gontal was trembling, Pamarchon terrified, Catherine stood stock still. Henary looked as though he was about to be violently sick.
‘Master,’ Jay whispered, for fear that the spirit would hear. ‘What is happening?’
‘It is the end, Jay. The day spoken of, when the god judges us. He returns, and either sets us free or destroys us utterly.’
‘That’s a myth, an allegory. You said so yourself.’
‘I was wrong. This is my fault. I meddled with things I should have never ever touched. That manuscript foretold it all. You on the hilltop, the coming of the Herald, the return of Esilio. And next, the judgement.’
‘Rosalind? She is the Herald?’
‘The messenger who prepares the way for the return of the god.’
‘You knew this?’
‘No. I wanted to prove it was nonsense.’
‘It’s not possible,’ Pamarchon said.
‘Why not?’
‘Well … she agreed to marry me. If all went well.’
‘If what went well?’
‘The trial.’
‘Which trial? Your trial, or the trial of Anterwold? Did she say?’
‘This is not in the Story,’ Gontal objected. ‘These are just superstitions. There is not a single text which states anything like this. You know this, Henary. You have studied them as well as I have.’
‘This may be older than the Story,’ Henary replied. ‘Far, far older.’
56
‘Well? What do you think?’ Rosalind asked enthusiastically as she examined Lytten’s bemused expression.
For a long time, Lytten could think of nothing to say. The smells were real, the warmth was real. The sunlight through the tall trees was real. ‘This is … very peculiar,’ he said lamely.
‘You sort of get used to it after a while. Professor, could you do me a favour? I think it’s normal to go into the am-I-dreaming routine. I did. But you aren’t. So please just concentrate on what is important. You may be here for some time, as the light has gone out, so you might as well make yourself useful.’
Lytten looked. True enough, the light he had just walked through wasn’t there any more. ‘Angela said something about opening it up at dusk, I think. Where am I?’
‘You are in Anterwold. To be precise, at Willdon, in the stone circle of Esilio. Do you remember that?’
‘Of course. I thought it up as a sort of sacred spot. I never figured out its precise importance, though. I didn’t get round to that bit.’
‘It acts as a sanctuary. People are safe from the law here. They throw themselves on the judgement of Esilio, the all-wise. That’s you.’
‘Me?’
‘Who else is going to pop up out of nowhere in the middle of his own shrine? Apparently your coming has been foretold for generations.’
‘But I’m not.’
‘Are you sure? As you’re here, you might as well play the part. We have two people accused of murder, and they are appealing for judgement on which one is guilty. They will naturally expect you to take charge of things. So, tell me now. Who did kill Thenald?’
‘How should I know?’ Lytten said, still looking around him at the scene he had somehow entered.
‘You must. You wrote it.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I never wrote that bit. I sketched it out years ago, but I can scarcely remember it.’
‘You’ve got to remember, Professor,’ Rosalind said desperately. ‘You’ve got to. If this goes wrong, all sorts of horrible things are going to happen. There may be a war. We have soldiers here, and outlaws around us. It’s all your fault.’
‘Why is it my fault?’
‘It is your fault because you never finished it. You’ve been writing that book of yours for years, and now it’s fed up waiting and is trying to finish itself. You should tidy up loose ends. Agatha Christie does.’
‘But I’m not Agatha … Listen. I’ve had enough of this. This is simply absurd. I don’t believe any of it.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s what they believe that counts at the moment. You have now appeared out of thin air. You can guess how that seems. Your word is law. As long as you don’t make a mess of it. Who is Esilio, anyway?’
‘No idea. He’s just a sort of foundation figure. Like Solon the lawgiver for Athens. A mythical character who gets everything going.’
‘According to Henary, the Story says he reappears, and when he does all sorts of things start to happen. Like the end of the world. You judge your creation and destroy it if you find it wanting. You can see why you’ve scared the life out of them.’
Lytten snorted. ‘Just because people believe things it doesn’t mean they happen. Esilio’s not meant to be a god, anyway. I try to avoid gods. Tricky characters.’
‘You’d better tell them that. But please will you help now you’re here? Listen to what they have to say? It might jog your memory. You can see for yourself they are all real people. Prick them and they bleed, you know.’
For the first time, Lytten smiled. ‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Yes. You have a choice between seeming like a god and seeming like a right idiot.’
*
His face fixed in an impenetrable mask, Lytten walked around the stone circle, out to the edge where ever greater numbers of people were gathering. They stiffened with fear as he approached. They had seen his appearance with their own eyes. They were terrified that, if they said or did anything wrong, he would raise his arms and bring the vengeance of the heavens down upon them. This was the day of judgement. Everybody now knew it was true.
He studied their faces carefully. Good solid faces, he thought; well fed and healthy. Their clothes were simple but comfortable and practical. They were not so very poor, these people. Anterwold could support itself well; he’d done a decent job there. He caught himself. He was even beginning to believe this nonsense.
‘Stand up, man,’ he said to one kneeling figure. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
Slowly, eyes cast still down, the man he had picked out stood.
‘Look at me,’ Lytten said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Beltan, Majesty,’ he said, choking in fear.
‘Are you afraid of me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then stop, please. If I remember correctly I made you a tailor. Is that right?’
‘Yes, Majesty. A good one, I hope.’
‘A rather lovely wife as well. Jolly and kind. Renata, no? I hope you are good to each other.’
‘We are very happy, and always have been, Majesty.’
‘Excellent. Give her my best wishes. You live well, without cheating anyone?’
‘I do.’
‘Where do you get your cloth?’
‘Mostly from the towns and villages nearby. Sometimes a trader comes through with foreign stuffs.’
‘I see. Where do those foreign stuffs come from?’
A puzzled look passed over the rubicund, simple face. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Then I command you to find out.’
Lytten walked on thoughtfully, stopping and questioning the occasional person whose face struck him as interesting.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Aliena, Holiness.’
‘Do stop the Holiness. You’re the singer, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I gave you the most beautiful voice in many generations. Do you use it well?’
‘I … try to follow the rules.’
‘I very much hope you do not. That would be a terrible waste. Sing what is in your heart, not what is in th
e rulebook.’
After many minutes he turned to Rosalind, who had been tagging along in case he panicked and needed encouragement.
‘Extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Some people here I put in my notes. Others seem to have come from nowhere. And they do all seem to be real.’
‘Told you.’
‘What do you think of this place?’
‘I think it needs a bit of a shake-up. They are a bit stuck in their ways, somehow. We can talk about that later. Are you convinced?’
‘For want of a better explanation. Like falling downstairs and getting concussion.’
‘Will you help sort out the mess you’ve caused?’
‘I don’t see why it’s my mess, you know. Angela made it, apparently, not me.’
‘Angela? That friend of yours?’
Lytten glanced at her. ‘You’ve not met her, have you? I’d forgotten that. Yes. This seems to be all her doing. Don’t ask how or why, because I don’t know. She’s going to get an earful when I see her again. But I still don’t know the answer to your question. It was never in the slightest bit important what happened to Thenald.’
‘It is now. If you listened to the arguments, maybe you’d get an idea …?’
‘I suppose that’s possible. Who are the suspects?’ he asked with a tone of irony.
‘Catherine and Pamarchon. He’s the one I’m going to marry.’
‘Oh, good Lord! I certainly didn’t put that in. Aren’t you a bit young?’
‘Not here.’
He groaned. ‘Yes. That’s true. I’d forgotten. My memory, really. Well, congratulations, then. I think. I’m not too sure your mother … What’s he like?’
‘Oh, he’s wonderful, he’s everything he should be. Unless it’s a trick, and you made him like that so he’d be the last person I would suspect.’
‘Not consciously. So, Catherine, then.’
‘No! She’s really nice too.’
‘Which one is she?’
Rosalind pointed her out.
‘Good heavens! She looks a little bit like Angela. I suppose that one is Henary.’ Lytten examined him dubiously for a moment. ‘Does he look like me?’
‘Just a little.’
‘Dear God!’
‘You’re much more handsome, though,’ Rosalind reassured him.
‘I’m glad to hear it. What about the others?’
‘Jay and Pamarchon.’
Lytten studied the taller man for a moment.
‘Yes, well. All stories must have a love interest, eh? If I remember, that was your idea, so you can’t blame me for that. He’s a handsome devil, though; I see what the appeal might be. He looks very like a student I taught years ago. Nice young man. I think he went into the army. It’s very strange, all this. An awful lot of people resemble people I know, or knew. There’s even someone who looks like that odd fellow who was watching my house. See him? Over there, next to the tailor.’
‘You may have got that from The Wizard of Oz. You steal ideas from everyone.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. There’s everything in here. Could you concentrate on the main task?’
‘You understand that I’m not at my best? It’s not as if this is – you know – normal.’
‘You’ll stop noticing soon enough. Why are you dressed like that?’
‘It’s my dressing gown. I’ve just had a bath.’
‘Hence the heavenly odour of sanctity which seems to be so impressing everyone.’
‘Old Spice.’
‘You look the part, you see,’ Rosalind continued. ‘As far as they are concerned, you have been summoned to sit in judgement.’
‘Why is the result so important?’
‘Because if it goes wrong, Willdon is inherited by Gontal, merges with Ossenfud and …’
‘… the combination is overwhelmingly powerful and the whole of Anterwold is unbalanced. Yes, yes. I remember. Hence the need for a figure of Solomonic wisdom.’
‘Probably. But all we have is you, who can’t even remember his own plot. So will you just listen and look solemn? At least it will gain us some time. Go and sit on that stone thing over there. I will concoct some ceremony, and you act the part of a spirit of awesome power.’
‘I still think it is all ridiculous.’
‘Can you come up with a better explanation of why you are standing in the middle of a field, surrounded by worshippers while dressed in your bath robe?’
‘Very well. I will do my best. But stay close, in case I need your help.’
*
‘Do any here deny the evidence of their own eyes? Do any here deny that Esilio has returned as foretold?’ Rosalind intoned, once the manifestation had taken his place on his own tomb. ‘Do any deny that he has been summoned, to this place and to this moment, for a purpose beyond understanding? Do any think they are greater than he? That they have a greater claim to sit in judgement?’
Not a whisper. She stared pointedly at Gontal for the last one, but he pretended not to notice.
‘Do any doubt that if his will is gainsaid in any way, then his wrath will be more terrible than the land of Anterwold has ever witnessed?’
A quiet muttering, which sounded like assent.
‘Pamarchon and Catherine, accused. Jay, defender, Henary, defender. Step forward.’
Henary moved first, if anything more nervous than his pupil. He went to the altar and bowed. Jay followed his lead. Both were conscious of the calm, wise gaze examining them with what seemed like curiosity and, in a way, kindness.
Before he could say anything, Gontal also stepped forward and approached the figure on the altar. ‘I humbly request the right to speak, lest a great injustice occur,’ he said.
‘You must be Gontal,’ Lytten said. ‘Putative heir to this place, known to friends and foes alike as Gontal the Fat. Is that so?’
Gontal shuffled from one foot to the other.
‘What is the injustice you are worrying about?’
‘Henary cannot speak for Pamarchon,’ he said. ‘It would compromise the validity of the trial.’
‘Your reasons?’
‘He is a close friend of Catherine. All would be concerned that he did not argue Pamarchon’s case well enough, out of favour for her.’
‘What is your recommendation?’
‘That this trial be postponed until a more suitable advocate be found.’
‘Your point is a good one, Gontal the … Yes, a very good one. Do you not think so, Henary?’
‘I would speak as my duty compelled,’ Henary said.
‘And very unpleasant it would be for all concerned, if I understand things properly. Gontal here does not wish you to be put in an unfortunate position, though. Very kind and thoughtful of him. Good for you, sir.’
He nodded approvingly at the now smiling Gontal. ‘You are quite right, Gontal. Henary must not speak for Pamarchon. Fortunately, a suitable advocate is to hand, so there is no need to postpone.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Why, you, man. You. I know full well that for the past few years you have studied in minute detail every circumstance of this business, hoping to find some way of dislodging Catherine from her place. You have lain awake at nights rehearsing the speech you would give that would cast her out. Now’s your chance! How fortunate, eh?’
‘I am very much afraid that I must refuse.’
‘I am very much afraid you will do no such thing,’ came the thunderous reply.
Gontal stared at the figure which seemed to know all about him.
‘You will speak for Pamarchon. There is no more to be said.’
Gontal bowed and withdrew.
‘How was that?’ Lytten whispered to Rosalind.
‘Pretty good,’ she said. ‘You’re a natural.’
57
Lytten hoped very much that the participants would talk for as long as possible. Rosie, the one in his house, had told him that Anterwold existed, but he had assumed that she was talking nonsense. Yet here he wa
s, listening to people act out his own book. Except that they weren’t. He had jotted down notes on the death of Thenald, but only as a device to explain Catherine. It was not something that he had ever intended to explore in any depth. He had only very vaguely forged a link between Pamarchon and the death, and then once more to explain his existence in the forest, so he could discourse on the young and those outside the law. Not for a single moment had he thought about drawing all the threads together into a murder. He wasn’t writing a detective story, dammit.
Yet this – thing – this invention, this whatever it was, had developed some huge crisis out of it all. Taken a few pencilled jottings and extrapolated outwards, adding the details he had never bothered with. This trial, for example. The legal method, the stone circle, the crime, the participants. Idle musings had come together in ways he had never thought possible. And there they were. Gontal talking, laying into Catherine, while Jay stood stony-faced, no doubt wondering how he was going to reply. Catherine and Pamarchon, standing apart on opposite sides. Henary, who currently felt that he had failed everyone. He didn’t know how lucky he was.
Had this been Shakespeare or Sidney, it would all have been easy. In As You Like It a goddess comes down and sorts it out. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream the action is controlled and directed by Oberon. Homer also, when he gets stuck, sends a god from Olympus to intervene. Modern novelists of a lesser variety have recourse to a man jumping through a door holding a gun. But, of course, that was exactly what was happening. He was the coincidence, the god descending. He had appeared out of nowhere and was now meant to wave his magic wand and sort everything out. He was Oberon, Athene, even Poirot himself. The trouble was that he had no magic wand, and he hadn’t a clue how to sort it out, and his little grey cells were not at their best this morning. He hadn’t even had time to finish his coffee.
He listened to Gontal’s speech, and it didn’t help him in the slightest.
Gontal scarcely touched on the subject of who had actually killed Thenald. Lytten hoped for detail, evidence, background, something to give him a hint. He got none of it. Gontal defended Pamarchon by barely referring to him. The man began with motive, hammering away at the fact that Catherine had gained the most from her husband’s death. That this was the best reason to suspect her guilt. That she had no other claim to Willdon, and could not have taken it unless both her husband and Pamarchon were either dead or discredited, preferably both. That she was, therefore, a monster of unparalleled duplicity.