Arcadia

by James Treadwell

  She draws herself up. “I’m twelve,” she says. “And I can fight. Don’t think I won’t because I’m a girl.”

  “Silvia,” Rory says sadly. “You’re not twelve.”

  “I am!”

  “Look at yourself.”

  She looks at her hands. “All right!” She’s beginning to get angry now as well as frightened. “I’m only ten. But I’ve fought lots of boys like you.” He’s walking carefully down the steps towards her. He’s afraid she’s going to start running and he can’t bear the thought of losing sight of her even if she is mad. “Stop following me!” she says. She backs away faster, trips over the leg of a green plastic chair and falls with a clatter among the upended picnic tables. “Ow!”

  He’s got to stop talking to her like she’s Silvia, he realizes. He’s got to imagine she’s Pink, except not annoying. “Careful,” he says. “It’s OK, I don’t want to fight.”

  “Who are you?” She sits up, rubbing her knee. “How did you get here?”

  “You’ve forgotten,” he says. “You don’t realize but I promise you have. Why don’t you tell me what you remember, all right? That might help. How did you get here?”

  She’s jutting her chin out at him. “I remember you now,” she says, quite obviously lying. “I remember all the orphanage kids. I remember all about you. I know what you’re after.”

  He goes around the tumbled picnic tables, giving her a wide berth so he won’t scare her worse. He’s near the fountain now. It’s a big dirty stone bowl under loops of twirly metal, which are where the water would have come down when it was working. It’s full to the brim with rainwater. Yellowing leaves mottle the surface.

  “I’m not from the orphanage,” he says. “I’m not following you. I never thought I’d see you here. Please don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not scared!”

  “Something weird’s happened to both of us. What’s . . . What’s the last thing you remember?”

  She stands up carefully, dusting herself off (though there’s no dust).

  “Swear you’re not with the police?” she says.

  “I swear. I bet we’re the only two people for miles.”

  “Where’s your family?” She looks around. She’s hemmed in by the pile of tables.

  “Nowhere near,” he says. “I’m a bit lost too. That’s why I was so happy to see you.”

  “I just want to find Ygraine,” she says.

  “Maybe we can look together.”

  She seems a bit less nervous. “Could I have gone the wrong way out of the village? Is there really a temple around here? It’s so empty. It looks like the middle of nowhere.”

  He makes a face like he’s thinking about it. “I think there is, actually,” he says. “Far as I know.”

  “She said it’s a temple to Apollo. He’s the god of prophecy. I bet you didn’t know that.”

  “Wow,” Rory says. “Is he?”

  “That’s my gift. So she was going to walk to his temple, just to see it. She left in the night; she wanted to be back before I woke up. I wonder if she got lost.”

  It’s almost funny, Rory thinks. She’s an abandoned child, just like me.

  “That’s probably it,” he says. “Bet I can help you.” Saying that, he glances down at the leaves floating in the bowl of the fountain and has an idea. “Hey,” he says. “Can you come here? I want to show you something.”

  She plants her feet and glares. “What?”

  “It might help you remember.”

  “You keep saying that. I think you’re crazy.”

  “No, please. How old did you say you were? Twelve? Look, I’ll show you something’s happened to you.” He gently sweeps the leaves to the edge of the bowl. “Here. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”

  “What are you doing?” She comes towards him. “What’s that? There’s nothing there, is there?”

  Although she obviously thinks she’s somewhere else she still steps around the plastic chair, so, Rory thinks, there must be some bit of her that’s still here, wherever here is. He fishes a few of the leaves out of the fountain. They’re lobed, oak leaves. A few acorns are bobbing around in the water too, blown down with them. He scoops them out too, trying to disturb the surface as little as possible. “What have you got there?” she says.

  Maybe if he gives her something from here she’ll understand that she can’t really be there? “Acorns,” he says. “See? I just picked them up.” He reaches out and puts them in her hand, one two three four five smooth nuts in nubbled caps.

  She frowns at them. “Where did you get those?”

  “From the fountain. Look.” The water’s smooth again, a dark mirror. He takes her hand and leads her gently to the edge of the bowl. “Look at yourself,” he says. “Look, Silvia. You’re not twelve. You’re grown up. You left the orphanage and all that ages ago. You met Lino and Per. You were all coming to England. You always know where you’re going, you told me. You’ve got to remember.” She’s staring down into the water, her eyes wide and clear. “It’s your gift,” he says, leaning over beside her.

  There’s a third face reflected in the water.

  Rory’s had a complicated sort of day, by any standards, but this is the most intimately uncanny thing that’s happened to him yet.

  First, he sees the face: a man’s face—a tall man, it must be, because he’s behind Rory, leaning over him—reflected quite clearly. That’s OK. But second, he’s aware that there’s no man standing behind him, where his reflection says he ought to be; that’s less OK. But third, he’s quite sure that the man is in fact standing at his back even though he appears not to be. And that’s not the end of it, because fourth and strangest of all, he knows that the reflection man is also the man with the yellow coat who appeared out of nowhere by the gorse bush where Rory was hiding from the Black Pack and said things about God, and he knows this even though the reflection man has a different face. As to how he knows that it’s the same man, even though the reflection man’s face is younger, smoother, perfect in some way there’s no word for (perfect isn’t quite good enough), Rory couldn’t say, not even if someone put a gun to his head and threatened to shoot him if he didn’t explain. He can’t explain. He just knows. It’s completely obvious, plain as day.

  Silvia’s transfixed. She’s stopped talking. She’s staring at herself in rapt silence. As Rory gawps, she reaches her hand to her collar and pulls out the little pouch thing she’s got tied there like a secret necklace. She looses the top of the pouch and drops the acorns in, one two three four five.

  Something too big and dark to be a thought revolves wordlessly and mightily in Rory’s mind, like the whole universe turning itself upside down around him.

  “I have walked at her shoulder all her life,” the reflection man says. His voice comes from the place over Rory’s shoulder where he ought to be standing. Although (on reflection) Rory’s not sure about that either: maybe it’s coming from everywhere and everything. “But she can’t see me, or hear me.”

  “What’s happened to her?”

  Rory’s pretty sure he’s talking to God. This would be extraordinarily cool if it was in any way believable.

  “Her gift,” the man says—you can see his mouth moving, reflected on the surface of the water, framed by the faded leaves of oaks—“is also a curse.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  The man laughs. It’s like a bundled sheaf of sunlight. “No,” he says.

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “She has come,” the man says, “where she was going. This is the end of the road. I am the light she sought. I am here.”

  “You mean she’s going to die here?”

  “To you”—Rory feels the reflection man’s attention turn to him; it’s like a mountain moving—“I do not prophesy.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “To you.” The shadow of the mountain falls on him. “I do not prophesy.”

  “You should cure her. If you’ve been with he
r all your life.” Rory swallows. “It’s not fair to leave her like this.”

  “Among my many names is the name Destroyer.”

  “So you’re a bad god.”

  “And I am the Youth. And He of the White Hands. I am Far-Aiming and Shining and The One Who Compels the Muses. And I am Helper.”

  Rory interrupts to save himself. The names feel like they’re piling up on him like an avalanche. “Why don’t you help her, then?” Silvia’s staring at her reflection as though she’s a reflection too, they both are, neither able to move first and so both stuck forever.

  “I have told you the truth. Have you forgotten? So my gift goes. It is the truth that will always be denied.”

  “I haven’t, actually,” he says, annoyed. “I do remember.” And, saying so, he does. The trick is to concentrate on the fact that the reflection man is the same as the yellow-coat man who spoke to him before. “You said you . . . You said God’s everything which people can’t . . .” He can’t remember the exact words. It was right before the foreigner turned into a dog-beast and ripped the big hairy man’s throat out: there was a lot going on. “You said God doesn’t care.”

  The reflected face smiles, and in doing so becomes so beautiful Rory can feel the image of it burning itself into the back of his eyes.

  “Shall I tell you why you have lived to reach this place, when so many before you have died?” It’s not a proper question—God doesn’t care—so Rory just listens. “It is because you are unsurprised. You do not doubt yourself. I am the Helper. Make me your offering and I will help.”

  “What d’you mean, offering?”

  “Make me your offering and I will help.”

  “No, thanks,” Rory says. He’s not doing deals with a bad god.

  The god’s smile becomes, if anything, brighter. If it wasn’t reflected in dark water he thinks it would actually turn him to ash.

  “You,” the voice says, “are wiser than many. Here,” it finishes. Or it could be Hear, or perhaps both words at the same time, because as soon as the god finishes speaking a telephone begins to ring.

  It’s very loud, startlingly loud in that empty soft waste space, and it makes Rory’s head jerk away. As soon as he moves the god’s gone. Silvia steps back from the fountain with a vaguely puzzled expression. The phone keeps ringing. She turns her hands in front of her eyes as if wondering who they belong to.

  “Are you all right?” Rory says. The phone’s horribly insistent.

  Silvia opens her mouth, shuts it, then slumps to her knees. She doesn’t look like a child anymore. She doesn’t look like anything. Something inside her has been completely switched off.

  “Silvia?”

  She mouths the word back at him without looking—Silvia—but makes no sound. The shrill ringing nags.

  “I’ll just get that,” Rory says. “OK? Wait here.”

  She doesn’t seem to understand but since she’s kneeling in the junk looking blank he thinks she’s probably not going anywhere now. He hurries around bushes of woody lavender and scraps of broken pottery into what used to be the café, where the noise is coming from. The phone’s in a whitewashed side corridor, in a niche by a window. It’s a dusty yellow pay phone. In the corridor between him and the phone someone’s hung a length of knotted tablecloths from a beam in the ceiling and put a plastic table under them, like they were trying to escape through solid wood from an invisible prison. The phone rings and rings, daring him to answer.

  Just as he’s putting his hand on the receiver he remembers something the old man at the crossroads told Silvia: They say in the heart of the Valley there’s a room with a phone, and if you use it you can speak to the dead.

  He picks it up anyway. He’s grateful for the silence.

  27

  Who’s there?

  “Hello?”

  Rory! Oh, thank God!

  “Mum?”

  I’m so glad you called. I’ve been worried about you.

  “Is that you, Mum?”

  Is everything all right?

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  Oh, good. Good. I don’t know why I’d got so worried.

  “Where are you, Mum?”

  I’m . . . Never mind that. Where on earth have you been?

  “I’m sorry, Mum. It was an accident.”

  Well, as long as you’re OK now.

  “Yeah. I’m OK.”

  You should have called before.

  “I know. Sorry. I couldn’t, I got caught up in stuff.”

  Anyway, you’re here now. That’s the main thing. Isn’t it?

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

  I was worried . . .

  “What, Mum?”

  For some reason I was worried I wouldn’t be able to talk to you again.

  “Really?”

  Yes. Stupid of me to worry like that.

  “That’s OK.”

  You’ll understand if you ever have children of your own. One day.

  “I suppose.”

  Well. At least it all worked out.

  “Yeah.”

  And you’re sure you’re all right?

  “Yeah. Are you . . .”

  What did you say?

  “I was wondering if you’re at home.”

  Home? Where else would I be?

  “Just wondering.”

  Where do you think I am?

  “It’s nothing, Mum. Just wondering. Don’t worry.”

  I’m not . . . I’m not sure . . .

  “So how are you? How’s everything been?”

  Oh, you know, Rory. Same as usual. It’s so nice we can talk like this!

  “Yeah.”

  I’ve missed you.

  “Me too. Missed you, I mean.”

  For some reason I thought you were . . .

  “Don’t think about that.”

  About what? No. You’re quite right. Sensible Rory.

  “Yeah.”

  Funny, the things you start imagining.

  “I know.”

  So. It’s late, isn’t it? Is it? You must be tired. After . . . Everything.

  “Not too bad.”

  Do you have everything you need?

  “Yeah. Think so.”

  Glass of water? You should have one by the bed.

  “OK.”

  Got your comics? For the morning?

  “I think I lost them, actually.”

  Lost your comics?

  “I think so.”

  Oh no! Where?

  “I’m . . . I’m not sure exactly. Don’t worry. Actually, you know what, I’m sure I’ve got some left.”

  Are you sure?

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.”

  You and your comics. Perhaps we can look for some new ones for you, when we . . . In the morning.

  “That’d be nice.”

  I’m so glad you’re here! I thought . . . For some reason I thought . . .

  “Don’t worry. It’s all OK now.”

  Don’t you go off like that again. I was worried sick.

  “I won’t, I promise. I never meant to. It was an accident.”

  Well. Never mind. You’re back, that’s the main thing. You’d better go to sleep now. It’s been a long day.

  “All right.”

  I’d give you a hug if . . . It’s very dark tonight, isn’t it? I can’t . . .

  “Doesn’t matter, Mum. Don’t worry about it, remember?”

  As long as you’re here.

  “Yeah.”

  That’s the main thing.

  “Yeah.”

  Sure you’ve got everything?

  “Think so. Yeah.”

  All right then. Well. It’s such a relief! Good night.

  “Mum?”

  What?

  “Love you.”

  Rory!

  “What?”

  You don’t usually say that!

  “. . . Sorry.”

  No, it’s nice. It’s like tucking you in when you were little. I love you too. Night nig
ht now. See you in the morning.

  “Night night.”

  Night.

  “Night.”

  * * *

  Later on he goes back out to the fountain. Silvia hasn’t moved. He’s been watching her through the window by the phone.

  “Silvia?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Can you stand up?”

  She doesn’t answer, let alone stand up. Rory looks up at the owl. It doesn’t fly off anywhere to show him where to go next.

  He waits awhile. No one comes along to tell him what to do. There’s no god now, good, bad, or indifferent. There are no talkative foxes. There don’t even seem to be any insects.

  His mother is dead.

  It’s the end of the road.

  He wonders whether he’s actually dead now too. There were some apple trees back by the big house but you can’t live off apples and blackberries forever. If nothing goes on happening it doesn’t matter about food anyway, you can’t just keep eating and doing nothing else and say that’s the same as being alive.

  Or he wonders whether he’s like Silvia. She’s not dead, as far as he can see, but she’s not alive anymore either. When he speaks to her or pokes her she either ignores it or frowns a little and looks aside with that look of someone who’s trying to remember what they were just doing.

  He wonders how his mother died.

  * * *

  At some stage he gets an idea.

  He’s been thinking about his mother, and the phone which lets you talk to dead people, and thinking of that must in turn have made him think of what the old man said about the Valley, which then made him think of all the other things “they” say about the Valley, and he remembers the one about the well which cures every illness of body or soul, and that sets him wondering whether Silvia would go back to being herself if she was cured, which makes him think about whether he could find the well, and that’s when he gets the idea.

  The last time he remembers coming up with an idea, it ended up with his getting accidentally kidnapped. If he hadn’t had that idea, he thinks, he’d still be on Home, with (probably) his mother, waking up in Parson’s every morning and going to bed there every night, working day after day with the women so they could all stay alive another week, another season, boring, tiring nonstop work, until they got too old or too few in number.