The children all started talking at once, making so much noise that the old man raised his hands to his ears as if he were being deafened.
‘Silence!’ he roared, making each of them stop in mid-sentence. ‘That’s better,’ he said in the ensuing silence. ‘What a horrible noise. Now – each ask a question in turn.’ He turned and glared at William. ‘You, boy, you start. You’re so full of theories and logic, you must have questions that stretch from here to London. You’re only allowed one, mind – so make it a good one.’
William thought for a moment. It was a bit like being given a single wish, you had to be sure it was the best one.
‘If, as you say,’ he began, ‘the alchemy isn’t for turning poor metal into gold – then what is it for? I mean – what is our task really for? When we know our . . . true Self, as you call it, what then?’
Stephen Tyler nodded and there was almost a glimmer of a smile on his stern face.
‘There you go, William! Just as I predicted. I allow you one question and you ask three.’
‘But they’re all the same question, really,’ William protested.
‘No, they are not,’ the old man countered. ‘They are very different questions that may, I say may, in the end lead to the same answer. Now, which is your question?’
William wrestled with all the confusion in his head. It was hard – trying to ask just one simple thing, when there was so much he didn’t understand.
‘If all we have to do is to get to know ourselves,’ he said at last, ‘well, what use will that be?’
The Magician answered him quietly.
‘A person who really knows him or herself,’ he said, ‘a person who understands the true potential in Mankind, such a person will leave their mark on the world; for the world will be a better place, just because such a person has lived there. The person who speaks for justice and honour, for compassion and understanding, speaks for all Mankind. The person who acts truly and deals wisely compensates for the base and the evil in Man. Listen to me, William,’ and he drew closer to the boy, speaking directly to him, ‘one brave act of true compassion can undo a hundred works of the devil; one loving gesture wipes away the tears of humanity. For, at the heart of us all, each and every one of us, there is a grain of pure Gold. That Gold is the Self. That Gold is called Love. It is everyman’s birthright.’
‘What, even your horrible assistant?’ Alice exclaimed.
Stephen Tyler swung round and looked at her.
‘Your question is about Morden, is it?’
‘Well, no. Not really,’ Alice replied, hanging her head.
‘But – surely, you have just asked about him?’
‘All right, then,’ Alice said, sounding braver. ‘Why was the rat so horrible at Christmas – and now, why are there men who kill badgers for sport?’
‘Badgers?’ the old man asked, sounding perplexed. He walked away from them and, when he turned to look at them again, his eyes had a faraway look. ‘Badgers!’ he repeated as though he’d just had a wonderful idea. ‘Good. Good, Alice. Be concerned for the badgers. That’s good.’
‘But why do men try to kill them? Why does Morden get a rat to make everything horrible?’
‘Why, you are asking, is there evil? It is a big question for a small girl.’ The Magician thought for a moment. ‘There is evil in order that there can be good. Evil is necessary, if good is necessary. One day, perhaps, we will live in a world where evil no longer exists. In which case good will not exist either. Some people refer to this state as a “Golden Age”, perhaps what they really mean is paradise. But, you know, if, in the story, Adam and Eve had not been banished from Eden, would they ever have known how special Eden – paradise – was? You have to lose a thing to want it badly enough. Evil makes good. The one cannot exist without the other. So, never be afraid of evil, Alice. It is a useful property. You and I must talk about this again. It is a very big question. But a good one. It is a question from the heart.’
Alice pursed her lips and looked at her feet.
‘I still don’t see why men have to go killing badgers,’ she muttered.
‘No, well . . .’ the Magician said, nodding. ‘As I say, it is very difficult. Perhaps you will discover that answer. Oh, and a word of warning,’ he continued, peering at them as though he was seeing them from a long distance. ‘If you are to continue with this work, it is more than possible that you will be persecuted for it. People do not like their perception of the world to be changed.’
‘Is that why the stories about this valley tell of how an evil Magician once lived here?’ Mary asked, remembering suddenly Meg Lewis’s words to them.
‘Is that what they’ll say about me after my death?’ the old man asked. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Perhaps you will be able to . . . correct the stories? I’d be most grateful. One’s reputation is so important, don’t you think? Or, is that just an old man’s vanity? So, Mary, now it is your turn. What is your question for me?’
Mary didn’t hesitate. She had decided quite definitely what her question should be.
‘Why is Phoebe’s baby, Stephanie, so important to you?’
The Magician was silent for a long moment and when he answered her, his voice sounded older and more tired.
‘Perhaps here more than anywhere else you will witness an old man’s vanity. I was once to have had a child. I was once to have been a father. My wife died in childbirth. I lost them both in one bleak moment.’ He shook his head. ‘My child was a boy. I would have taught him all I knew. He would have been my future. He would have prospered in the secret arts. He would have achieved what his father will fail to achieve; he would have reached beyond my capabilities.’ He was silent, again, lost in his own thought.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mary whispered. ‘I didn’t realize . . .’
Stephen Tyler put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t be sorry. It is good that I tell you. It was all a long time ago. But, imagine my surprise when I discovered that another Tyler had moved into Golden House – the woman Phoebe, living in your time . . .’
‘We were right, then,’ William exclaimed. ‘But Phoebe’s surname is Taylor . . .’
‘Yes,’ the Magician explained, ‘names change as time passes. I wanted her to have a boy child . . . for me to influence before I am called away from this life. But, instead, she had a girl, this Stephanie, as you called her. Well, so much for an old man’s vanity! Besides, if you two girls are the product of your age – then she will do very well. But it will be for you to train her, not I, for I am already past my time,’ he frowned and shook his head, ‘and I find that babies are not very receptive to ideas – they’re too busy just Being, I suppose!’ He stopped speaking for a moment, and then raised a hand, as if a memory had suddenly occurred to him. ‘What is the meaning of “O. K.”?’
The children were puzzled by his question.
‘The meaning of the letters O and K placed together,’ he repeated the question, testily.
‘Well, OK means sort of . . . OK. You know,’ Alice said, with a shrug.
‘Little girl, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Come . . .’ and he beckoned them to follow him. He led them to a dark corner of the room. On the wall was a round mirror, with a convex glass which reflected most of the room.
‘This is my glass,’ he explained. ‘If you ever come to my time, you will discover that where here the glass is convex – and reflects a wide horizon, in my time the glass is concave – like the inside of a bowl – and it reflects back and forth across itself to the inner infinity of absolute nothing.’ He nodded. ‘It is a little complicated, I see that. But look for yourselves; someone has written on it.’
As the children peered at the dark glass they saw words, written in the dust on its surface.
‘What does it say, Will?’ Alice asked, reaching up and trying to read it.
‘The Fang Rules – OK,’ William read out, in a shocked voice.
‘The Fang?’ Alice gasped. ‘That
’s the same message that was written on the cellar floor, isn’t it?’
‘The cellar floor?’ Stephen Tyler asked.
Then, before anyone had time to explain, Mary reached across and wiped the mirror clean with the palm of her hand, saying:
‘I don’t like it. There’s something nasty about it.’
‘But – who wrote it?’ Stephen Tyler asked quietly. ‘And why? Who, or what, is “The Fang”? You will find out for me? The message belongs to your time – it wasn’t one of you who wrote it by any chance?’
‘No!’ Mary exclaimed.
‘But you understand its meaning?’ Stephen Tyler asked her.
‘No, not exactly. But it just seems . . . cruel.’
Stephen Tyler looked at her thoughtfully. Then he nodded and smiled.
‘I thought so as well,’ he said. ‘Forgive me – which one are you?’
‘I’m Mary.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Jasper, the owl, speaks often of you. Good, good. I’m tired now. Being old is a confounded nuisance. If only I’d managed to meet you years ago. Never mind. Old men dwell on “if onlys”. That will never do. “The Fang Rules, OK.” A fang is a tooth, isn’t it? Tt tt tt,’ he tutted and turned, looking once more at the mirror.
‘What is the date in your time, Mr Tyler?’ Mary asked him.
‘The date?’ he repeated, with his back to them. ‘Oh, dear – that sort of detail always taxes me. The date . . .?’
And suddenly, he wasn’t there any more. He went like a light goes when the electric current is switched off; one moment he was present, the next . . . he was not. It took them so by surprise that none of them spoke. They simply stood staring at the vacant space that he’d occupied a moment before. In front of them the mirror, now wiped clean of its message, faced them on the wall. And, as they watched, it seemed as if, for an instant, the other side of the glass was filled by the shadowy form of Stephen Tyler’s head.
‘Is he looking at us, d’you think?’ Alice whispered. But, of course, none of them knew the answer nor did it seem very important. ‘He’ll come back when he’s had a rest, I expect,’ she added. ‘Actually, I find him quite tiring. I don’t understand what he’s talking about most of the time. In fact it often seems as though he isn’t really speaking to us – more to himself.’
‘Who d’you suppose has been up here?’ William asked, looking round at the dusty, empty room. ‘I mean it has to have been either Jack or Phoebe.’
‘They wouldn’t write a thing like that, Will,’ Mary protested.
‘Why was it so horrible?’ Alice asked. ‘I don’t see why it was so horrible.’
‘Unless, of course,’ William continued, thoughtfully, ‘it might have been one of the builders Jack mentioned. They could have found the room when they were working on the roof.’
‘Well, whoever it was, it was a nasty message,’ Mary said. ‘I can’t explain why. It has the same sort of feel as when we saw the dead badger. Sad and senseless and . . . I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘It was just vile.’
Spot, who had remained silently watching, crossed to her and licked her hand. This sudden gesture of affection was too much for Mary who felt tears rising in her throat.
‘Oh, Spot!’ she whispered, bending and kissing him on the head. Then she ran to the door, saying: ‘Come on, I’m going down now.’
William crossed quickly to close the shutters.
‘Yes, we’d better get down,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to put Phoebe in another temper and it must be nearly breakfast time.’
‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘I’d give anything for some sausages. I bet it’s because she only eats vegetables all the time that makes Phoebe so cross.’
11
The Map
‘POOR MR TYLER,’ Mary said. ‘I wish I hadn’t asked him about the baby.’
They were sitting on a bench in the walled garden. A warm sun was shining down. Around them stretched rows of fruit trees, covered with blossom. The air was filled with the singing of birds and the buzzing of bees.
‘At least you understood your answer,’ Alice said. ‘I hadn’t a clue what he was saying to me.’ Then she sighed, ‘Oh, it’s like being a prisoner here. I mean, what are we supposed to do all day, if we can’t go and explore? Oh, Phoebe! I always hated her, you know. I was the one who thought she was probably a witch . . .’
‘Oh, don’t go on about it, Alice,’ Mary said wearily.
‘I wish I’d gone into town with Uncle Jack,’ Alice continued. ‘At least it’d have been less boring than this.’
‘We mustn’t waste time,’ William announced unexpectedly and, as he spoke, he stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ Alice asked, jumping up, glad that something was happening at last.
‘I won’t be a minute,’ he called as he hurried towards the house.
‘Oh, cup cakes!’ Alice swore miserably, and she kicked a pebble along the path, peevishly.
‘Al,’ Mary said after a moment, ‘d’you suppose Mr Tyler is unhappy all the time?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Alice asked, sitting down on the bench again and not really listening to her.
‘I shouldn’t have asked him about the baby . . .’ Mary said again.
But Alice was busy working out a scheme and didn’t really hear her.
‘Next time Jack goes into town,’ she said, ‘I’m going with him – and I’m going to spend all my money in a butcher’s shop buying really bloody bits of meat . . . and I’m going to parcel them all up and send them to Phoebe. “Oh, lovely!” she’ll say, in that stupid voice she uses, “somebody’s sent me a present!” and she’ll tear open the parcel . . . and all the blood and stuff’ll come pouring out all over her and I expect she’ll faint or something . . .’
‘Alice!’ Mary groaned.
‘I expect it’ll send her right round the bend, and she’ll have to be put in a loony bin. Then Uncle Jack can live with another woman instead. Perfect! It’s a good job he never married her . . .’
‘I wonder where William went,’ Mary said, and the two girls fell silent again.
William had gone in search of Phoebe. He found her up a ladder in the first-floor bathroom, painting the ceiling.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Phoebe,’ he said coming in through the door and almost tripping over a tin of paint.
‘Careful!’ she yelled.
‘Sorry,’ he said again and then he stood, awkwardly, waiting for her to finish painting a straight line between the wall and ceiling.
‘What can I do for you?’ she said, concentrating on her work. ‘It isn’t time for a break yet, surely? You’re not hungry, are you?’
‘No,’ William assured her. Phoebe seemed to think that the only thing any of them ever wanted was food. ‘I just wondered . . . You said you were going to get a map for us. Did you remember?’
Phoebe glanced down at him.
‘I did, but you won’t be needing it now, will you? You’re not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘Sitting in the walled garden,’ William said with a shrug.
Phoebe frowned.
‘Don’t you want to play or something? Sounds a bit boring to me – just sitting.’
‘We don’t actually do much playing,’ William told her, trying not to let his voice sound disgusted at the thought.
‘Oh, William!’ she said, pushing some loose hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand and climbing down off the ladder. ‘We’ve got off on the wrong foot again. It isn’t meant to be like this. You’re supposed to come here and have a lovely holiday and want it to go on for ever . . . I am sorry.’
‘It’s our fault as well. It was wrong of us to stay out all day.’
Phoebe shook her head.
‘I lost my temper, William. I admit it. I should know better.’ Then she smiled at him, as though she was trying to be friendly. ‘The least I can do is apologise!’ She sighed. ‘The map’s in the centre drawer of the dresser in the kit
chen,’ she said.
‘Can I take it?’ he asked, eagerly. ‘It’s just . . . I wanted to see where we got lost in the forest yesterday.’
‘Yes, of course. I bought it for you.’ She picked up the paint tin. ‘Jack thinks I’m being unreasonable, anyway, stopping you going out. But then he thinks I’m being unreasonable about a lot of things. Including the builders. That’s one of the reasons he’s gone into town. To ask them back.’ She shrugged and pushed a lock of hair back from her forehead again. ‘I know he’s right. Of course we need help. Look . . .’ she said, glancing at him, ‘maybe . . . after lunch, you could go for a walk . . . if you promise not to go too far.’
‘Terrific!’ William exclaimed. ‘We won’t get lost again, honestly. Not with a map.’
‘I only stopped you going out for your own good, you know,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but we’re quite grown up really. We don’t need . . . watching all the time. Mum and Dad let us explore for miles on our own when we’re with them.’
‘Yes, sure,’ Phoebe said, climbing the ladder once more. ‘I’m not used to having children around, that’s all.’
‘Thanks anyway, Phoebe,’ William called, hurrying away.
The girls were still sitting on the bench when he returned, with a look of utter dejection on each of their faces.
The Door In the Tree Page 9