The Calling

by Philip Caveney

  David returned the key to the hollow book and closed it. ‘I suppose we’d better go and release Wally?’ he suggested. ‘Or perhaps we should give him a

  miss this year?’

  ‘Are you kidding? We’d never hear the last of it,’ said the Colonel. ‘Come on, you know we have to.’

  They crossed the road and started along Princes Street. A couple of cars were parked at the traffic lights, their headlights on, but inside them, the drivers seemed curiously still.

  The Colonel chuckled. ‘The boy thought I was pretending to be a statue,’ he said. ‘Got me mixed up with one of those blasted street-performers.’

  David made a face. ‘Oh, that lot,’ he growled. ‘Amateurs!’

  ‘How they’ve got the cheek to call themselves statues is beyond me,’ said the Colonel. ‘I’ve seen them on this very road. It’s all they can do to stand still for five minutes.’

  ‘I saw quite a good one today,’ said Ed. ‘Well, he fooled me, anyway.’

  ‘That’s not saying much,’ said the Colonel. ‘No offence, lad, but you don’t strike me as being

  particularly bright.’

  ‘Go easy on the boy,’ advised David. ‘This must all seem strange to him.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ muttered Ed. ‘I’m still not sure this is really happening.’

  ‘Oh, trust me,’ said the Colonel. ‘It’s happening. It shouldn’t be, but it is.’

  ‘So, I’m not dreaming?’

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘Trust us, you’re wide awake.’

  They continued on their way along Princes Street and it suddenly occurred to Ed how eerily quiet it was. There was no traffic moving at all, but now he noticed a couple more cars actually parked on the road, as though they’d suddenly stopped dead in mid journey, the drivers all slumped asleep behind the wheel. Then they passed a bus, the windows brightly lit up and Ed could see that several seats were occupied by sleeping people. Sultan came level with the cab and there was the driver, upright at the steering wheel, his head drooping slightly, his shoulders rising and falling, his eyes closed. Ed began to understand what the Colonel had said earlier.

  ‘So… most people fall asleep when the clock strikes twelve?’ he asked.

  ‘Not most people,’ said the Colonel. ‘All people. Everyone, that is, but you.’

  ‘It’s a wonder there aren’t accidents,’ said Ed.

  ‘Oh, it’s very cleverly done,’ said David. He gestured at the bus. ‘You see, at midnight on the 2nd of August, human time in Edinburgh simply ceases to exist. Automobiles stop dead in their tracks. Engines simply stop operating. People fall asleep exactly as they are.’ He pointed to a man standing at a bus stop just ahead of them, a thick-set fellow in a raincoat, his hands shoved in his pockets. As they came closer, Ed saw that the man’s eyes were shut. He was fast asleep, but somehow still upright. ‘Weird,’ he said.

  ‘They know nothing of the situation,’ continued David. ‘Of course, most people will simply sleep through the whole experience at home in their beds. But those who do not, well, at midnight tomorrow, they’ll open their eyes and think they’ve simply blinked for an instant. The engines of their automobiles will start to run again and life will go on just as before. This is the miracle of the Calling.’

  ‘But… don’t they notice that they’ve lost a day?’ reasoned Ed.

  ‘No, because they haven’t actually lost anything. You see, the Calling slots in between the two days. It exists in a separate dimension entirely. In the softie world, that whole twenty-four hours passes in the blink of an eye. But for us, it runs in real time.’ He made a gesture of exasperation. ‘I wish James was here. He’d be able to explain it much better than I.’

  ‘James?’

  ‘James Clerk Maxwell. Famous Edinburgh

  physicist. He’s the only one of us who really understands how it works.’

  ‘Mind you, he is a bit of a genius,’ said The Colonel.

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said David. ‘Everyone knows that Albert Einstein couldn’t have come up with his famous theory without James’ discoveries.’

  Einstein, thought Ed. Another name he thought he recognised.

  ‘So that’s… the theory of relativity, right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ David glanced at the Colonel. ‘Maybe he’s not so dim after all. Did I get it about right, by the way? The explanation?’

  The Colonel chuckled. ‘I’ve never understood it,’ he admitted. “But I’m just a simple military man. I prefer to think of it as magic. All I know is, it happens and I’m very grateful for it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ David shrugged. ‘Well anyway, we might see James around later.’ He glanced at Ed. ‘He has a statue too.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s a blow-in,’ said the Colonel. ‘Didn’t get his until 2008.’

  ‘When was yours?’ asked Ed.

  ‘Me? 1906,’ said the Colonel, proudly, as though he’d rehearsed it.

  Ed looked at David. ‘And you?’

  ‘1875 to 1876.’

  Ed raised his eyebrows. ‘What took so long?’ he asked.

  ‘The artist was a bit too leisurely for her own good,’ said David. ‘Kept breaking off to work on other things. Most frustrating.’

  They were approaching a huge stone monument a short distance into the upper level of the gardens, a kind of arch with three pointed spires that reared

  up into the night sky. Sitting beneath the arch was the huge white stone figure of a man, draped in a cloak. Ed noticed that he had a large dog at his side, which

  he was stroking affectionately. As the group drew nearer, he turned his head and looked down at them. ‘Ah, good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d never get here. Now, hurry up and get this gate unlocked. It’s time for the night’s festivities to begin!’

  Five

  Sir Walter

  David opened his hollow book and took out the keys. He inserted one into the lock and opened the gate. The white statue got to his feet and came down the steps of the monument, walking with a pronounced limp. Now Ed could appreciate exactly how big he was – perhaps three times life size.

  ‘Wow, you’re huge!’ exclaimed Ed and the statue stopped in its tracks and stared down at him, his stone eyebrows raised.

  ‘Is somebody going to explain this apparition?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, well now, Walter…’ began the Colonel.

  ‘That’s Sir Walter, if you please,’ snapped the man. The dog had followed him down the stairs, but he turned and snapped a command. ‘No, Maida, stay here and guard the tripod,’ he said. The dog, a huge skinny thing, gave a disappointed whimper and slunk back up the steps, looking extremely sorry for himself. Sir Walter turned back to the Colonel. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Umm… yes, well, you see I woke up as usual and there was this young softie just standing there, looking up at me.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he asleep?’

  ‘I really don’t know. It is unique in my experience. I’m wondering if it’s something to do with the fact that he’s lost his memory. Maybe the usual rules just don’t apply to amnesiacs.’

  ‘Curious.’ Sir Walter came closer, looming over Sultan and his two riders. He inspected Ed at close range, the expression on his big face suggesting he didn’t much like what he was looking at. He had a large forehead and his curly hair was cut in a sort of short fringe. Ed noticed that Sir Walter too was carrying a book. ‘To answer your impertinent question, my lad, yes, I am big. But no bigger than my legend demands.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘That, my boy, is the Scott Monument and it is the biggest monument in Edinburgh. It is over two hundred feet tall and cost more than sixteen thousand pounds to build, which, let me assure you, was a pretty penny back in the 1840s. The construction took over four years to complete.’

  As he spoke, Ed was aware of David b
eside him, rolling his eyes. Sir Walter didn’t seem to notice and continued loudly.

  ‘It is possibly the biggest monument ever dedicated to the memory of a writer,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you’re a writer?’ muttered Ed.

  Sir Walter looked affronted. He actually took a step back. ‘Of course I’m a writer, ‘ he said. ‘Did you not pick up the clues, boy? Were you not listening?‘ He leaned close again. ‘Sir. Walter. Scott.’ He said the three words slowly, as though speaking to an idiot, and when this prompted no reaction, he added, ‘You’ve heard of me, of course?’

  Ed frowned. He wanted to shake his head, but was afraid to.

  ‘He’s heard of me,’ muttered David, but Sir Walter ignored the taunt.

  ‘It must be because he’s lost his memory,’ he said. He looked Ed directly in the eyes and prompted him. ‘I mean, everyone’s heard of me!’ He glared at Ed. ‘The author of such literary classics as The Heart of Midlothian?’

  No reaction.

  ‘Ivanhoe?’

  Again nothing.

  ‘The Peveril of the Peak?’

  This last title seemed to strike a chord with Ed. There was a familiar ring to it. Sir Walter must have noticed his look because he smiled triumphantly. ‘Of course, everyone’s read that book,’ he said. ‘It’s a classic.’ But in Ed’s mind, this was nothing to do with a book. There was a fleeting but vivid image of a green doorway and a dark green sign above that door with those same words written on it. The sign was set against a tiled wall of a paler green. Then he saw, quite clearly, a man going in through the doorway and the door swinging shut behind him. The vision was only there for an instant and it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, but a powerful conviction remained in Ed’s mind. This was a place he knew, a place he had seen in real life.

  ‘The Peveril of the Peak,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes?’ said Sir Walter, expectantly.

  ‘Isn’t that… isn’t it a pub?’

  Sir Walter couldn’t have looked more offended if he’d tried. ‘A pub?’ he cried. ‘How dare you? You’re speaking of one of the greatest masterpieces ever written. A pub indeed!’ He looked accusingly at the Colonel. ‘I’m holding you responsible for this,’ he said. ‘You brought him along.’

  ‘Well, what else was I supposed to do with him?’ asked the Colonel.

  ‘Couldn’t you have… drawn your sabre and dispatched him?’

  ‘He’s a wee boy!’ protested the Colonel.

  ‘And a very ignorant one,’ said Sir Walter, flatly. ‘Well, be it on your own head. I don’t know what Charlie will have to say about it.’

  ‘I don’t really understand,’ said Ed and the three statues looked at him in surprise.

  ‘What don’t you understand?’ asked the Colonel, half turning in his saddle.

  ‘Well, I’m not being funny…’

  ‘I can assure you, none of us are laughing,’ said Sir Walter.

  ‘But… you guys are just statues of famous people, right?’

  All three of them nodded.

  ‘So, you’re not really Colonel Alexander… and he’s not really David Livingstone.’ He turned his head. ‘And you’re not really Sir William Scott.’

  ‘Sir Walter Scott!’

  ‘Er… sorry! Yes… you’re just statues of them. But you all talk as though you really are them, so…’

  ‘Don’t you know anything?’ muttered Sir Walter. ‘Are you really that stupid? When an artist creates a statue, the spirit of the person the statue represents enters into the stone or the bronze or whatever it happens to be made of. It becomes an embodiment of everything that they ever knew or did. I should have thought that was obvious.’

  Ed winced. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Well you know now,’ growled Sir Walter. ‘And you’d do well to memorise the fact, before you go making a fool of yourself again.’

  ‘Erm… right. Sorry.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Walter, ‘we’ve wasted enough time talking to this urchin. Shall we be on our way?’

  The other two statues nodded. The Colonel clicked his tongue and urged Sultan on along the street at a sedate walk. Ed couldn’t see the Colonel’s face but he noticed that David was trying very hard not to laugh, something that suggested he found Sir Walter every bit as pompous as Ed did.

  They travelled onwards through the heart of the neon-lit city. They came to a set of railings that was hung with a row of brightly coloured posters.

  ‘All these things,’ said Ed, pointing to them. ‘They’re like shows that you can go and see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sir Walter, disdainfully. ‘It’s what passes for entertainment these days.’ He indicated the grinning face of a man. ‘Look at that oaf. A so-called comedian. That’s what this city is best known for now. Gurning fools who stand up on the stage with the sole intent of making people laugh. And idiots come from all across the globe to see them. They actually pay money for the privilege.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, a good laugh isn’t so bad, surely?’ said David.

  ‘But what about culture?’ asked Sir Walter. ‘What about intellectual debate? Once upon a time people were happy to lose themselves in a good book.’

  ‘They still are,’ reasoned Ed. ‘What about J K Rowling?’ He gasped, realising that he’d just come up with something else that he somehow knew. Yes! J K Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter books. He knew this. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he knew it just the same.

  ‘She’s an Edinburgh girl,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Oh, wow. Has she got a statue?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Sir Walter, ‘but it’s probably only a matter of time. Most of us have to die before they’ll consider doing one, but no doubt they’ll make an exception for her.’

  Ed considered what he’d just learned. He knew an author’s name and he knew the books that she’d written, so, he assumed, he must have read them back in his everyday life, wherever that was. Maybe, given a little time, he’d remember more things, things that might help him to remember who he was.

  They continued on their way. Every so often they passed the occasional human asleep in some strange posture, but there weren’t that many people around. Halfway up the hill, they came across a group of young men who had stopped in mid-walk on the pavement, obliging Ed and his companions to move into the road to get past them. They were all standing, their arms raised, their mouths open as though they’d been yelling at each other when the clock struck, but every one of them now had his eyes closed. Ed noticed that each man was wearing a red t-shirt with a bright yellow slogan printed on it. ‘The Groom,’ read one. ‘The Best Man,’ read another, while others simply had a series of nicknames printed on them – The Rooster, Six Dinner Sam and Billy Boy were amongst the ones that Ed noticed.

  ‘A stag party,’ muttered the Colonel, sounding faintly disgusted. ‘There seem to be more of them every year. Giving our proud city a bad name.’

  ‘Oh, they’re just letting off steam,’ said David. ‘I don’t mind them myself.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mr Livingstone, you have a very liberal attitude,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Some might say, too liberal by half.’ He made an effort to change the subject. ‘Are you two entering the Agon?’ he asked.

  David frowned. ‘I thought I might give it a miss,’ he said. ‘My talk about the lakes of Africa didn’t seem to go down too well last year.’

  ‘Oh, you’re being modest,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I spoke with one or two people afterwards who claimed to have found it… quite diverting.’

  ‘I’ve been mulling over another epic poem,’ said the Colonel. ‘About the Scots Greys’ charge…’

  ‘You did that last year,’ interrupted Sir Walter. ‘Sounded a bit too much like the Charge of the Light Brigade for comfort.’
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  ‘No, that one was about our charge at the Battle of Diamond Hill,’ said the Colonel. ‘This one would be about our charge at the Battle of Fontenoy, during the War of Austrian Succession.’

  Sir Walter scowled. ‘But that would surely have been before your time,’ he complained.

  ‘Well, I’ve used my imagination,’ said the Colonel. ‘To be honest, one epic charge is much like another. A whole lot of galloping. And you’re not telling me you have personal experience of the kind of jousting that takes place in Ivanhoe?’

  ‘Fair point, well made,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I myself have composed an ode to the city of Edinburgh itself. I’m rather pleased with it. It’s thirty-four verses long. I’m fairly confident of winning the tripod again. Obviously, over the year I’ve memorised it in its entirety. If you gentlemen would care to hear a few verses, I’d be more than happy…’

  ‘The Agon is a competition,’ said David hastily. He was pretending to speak for Ed’s benefit, but Ed was fairly certain he was just trying to get out of listening to Sir Walter’s poem. ‘We statues hold it every year. It’s named after a Classic Greek tradition. It’s for poetry and oratory in general.’

  ‘And… the tripod?’

  ‘That’s the prize,’ said David. ‘It’s actually kept up in the Scott Monument, but each year it’s awarded to whoever is judged the best performer.’

  ‘I win it most years,’ said Sir Walter, with stunning immodesty. ‘The tripod is a replica of a prize given in 334 BC at the theatre of Dionysus in Greece. Obviously, on the rare occasions that somebody else wins it, it cannot be taken away, but it is awarded symbolically. It’s very valuable.’

  ‘Is that why you left your dog to guard it?’

  asked Ed.

  ‘Absolutely. One cannot be too careful. Most of the older statues are completely trustworthy but some of the more contemporary fellows have a more cavalier attitude to property.’ Sir Walter paused for a moment and the Colonel pulled Sultan to a halt. ‘Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’ll go and pay a

  visit to the University,’ said Sir Walter. ‘I like to see if there’s anything new going on in my old stamping ground.’