Arcadia

by James Treadwell

  He stands up.

  “I’ll be right back,” he tells Silvia.

  The owl coughs, whuk whuk whuk. It doesn’t follow him.

  28

  It’s not clear what time of day it is. Fitful sunlight washes over the grassy path. It might be afternoon light but he can’t be sure. He stops by the clothed skeleton. He’s extremely nervous now. This often happens when you have an idea, he’s noticed. You don’t actually grasp what’s involved until it’s right in front of you, and then it suddenly all looks very different.

  “Hello?” he says.

  The grotesque thing—halfway between an extremely ugly miniature man and a chunk of a rotting branch, with a bit of toad thrown in—pops up from the ground as if from a concealed hole. “Travelers!” it cackles. “Game of ch—Hold on. Weren’t you just here?”

  “Yeah,” Rory says.

  It limps closer on warty leg-things. “Not dead yet?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Or mad? A lot of them go stark raving bedlam first.”

  “I’m OK.”

  The creature swivels around, making a sniffing noise. “Something funny must be going on.”

  “Do you still want that game?”

  “Say what?”

  “That game. With the dice. Do you still want it?”

  It goes motionless.

  “What are you saying?” it says, very suspiciously.

  “I’m up for it now.” Rory’s feeling a bit sick. This is now feeling like the worst idea in the universe. “If you are.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Long as it’s fair. No cheating or anything.”

  “Cheat? Me? At the game of chance? What would be the point of that? I always win anywaghhagghh.” The last word becomes an extended cough. “Aghkk aghkkk. Excuse me. That is to say. I always winnow out any possibility of, ahem. Foul play. Yes.”

  Rory shoves his hands deep in his pockets and closes his eyes for a moment. Bad god, he thinks. Help me out now and I’ll give you . . . His left hand bumps into something. It’s Amber’s little silver crucifix. He’d forgotten he still had it. That, he thinks. OK?

  “Are you really the irritating little squirt who wouldn’t play before?” Rory doesn’t feel this deserves an answer. The thing hops closer and appears to study him from below Rory’s knee height. “It seems unlikely.”

  “Well, I want to play now.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “You said you’d answer three questions.”

  “Three? Three? No, no. What on earth do you take me for?”

  “Yes you did. You said three.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Well, you did. I’m not playing otherwise.” He makes as if to walk away.

  “Two,” the thing says hurriedly.

  “Three questions, or I’m going.”

  “Oh all right, curse you! It hardly matters anyway, since you won’t—” It does a thing like clearing its throat. “Anyway, never mind that. So, on your way back, are you? Did you find what you were after?”

  “What would I have been after?”

  “How should I know? The fountain of youth. The philosopher’s stone. The golden apples of the Hesperides. The secret of perpetual motion. The healing waters. The room where all your wishes come true. The perfect cocktail. Whatever you people”—it kicks the skeleton’s foot, loosening a small toe bone—“come in here to find. Was it as remarkable as advertised?”

  “Can you find anything you want in the Valley?”

  “In a manner of sp— Wait! Ah ah ah! Aren’t you the slyboots! Trying to slip a question in without”—it extrudes a kind of arm, holding the tiny cup, and rattles whatever’s inside it—“playing.”

  Rory takes a deep breath and grips the crucifix in his pocket. “I’ll play,” he says, “but I have to know it’s fair. No cheating.”

  “Of course it’s fair! We each roll the same pair of dice, in plain view, we count the pips together. How could anyone possibly cheat?”

  “Then how come you said you always win?”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Yes you did. You nearly did. It’s what you were going to say, it’s obvious.”

  “That’s a cruel aspersion. Do you really mean to impugn my honesty? I’m not like you lot. None of your lies from me. I’m incapable of them.”

  “What, lying?” He remembers the fox saying the same thing; at least, he thinks it was the same thing.

  “Precisely.”

  “OK, then. If you can’t lie. Do you always win?”

  There’s a rather stunned silence.

  “Go on. Answer. I’m not playing unless you answer. Do you always win this game?”

  “Yes,” it admits, as sheepishly as a thing with no resemblance at all to a sheep can manage. “I always win.”

  His hand feels sweaty. “How come?”

  “I don’t know! And that’s enough free questions!”

  “You must be cheating. It can’t be fair if you never lose.”

  “Sir. Look.” It hops onto the skeleton’s skull, making bones in the neck click softly. “Watch. Come down so you can see. I entreat you.” It pats out a smooth area on the coat covering the skeleton’s back, arranges itself in a crouching down sort of way, and motions with its bulbous version of a hand. Two tiny white dice spill out over the coat and come to rest. Each one’s smaller than a cuff button but the black pips are clear and Rory can read them easily enough: a two and a six. The creature scoops them up and casts them again: two twos. It keeps throwing them as it talks. “See? Random! Entirely random! Stay and watch as long as you like. I’d defy the most warped of mathematical prodigies to discover any trace of a pattern in the throws. Two dice, one total. Add the pips up and look. Higher sometimes, lower sometimes, more usually towards the middle, which is as you’d expect, so the science of statistics tells us, not to mention plain common sense. See? See? Try them yourself. Go on. Pick them up. Roll the bones.” It hops down and backs away as if to encourage him. Rory sits beside the skeleton and picks up the dice between his fingertips. “As many times as you like.” He drops them. Six and four. “If you can discern any power other than mere blind chance directing the fall of the dice, you’re welcome to accuse me of whatever fraud you please.” It’s almost like playing with grains of sand, but they roll and stop just like any other dice he’s ever used. Six and three, three and five, double ones, three and four. “There! Look at those last four throws. Imagine that had been the game. The first thrower would have won the first, the second the second. Luck, I’m telling you. Luck!”

  “Who goes first when you play the game?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? That’s precisely my point!”

  “But you always win.”

  It sniffs.

  “I must just be very lucky,” it says.

  Rory’s remembering what it said when he arrived: something funny must be going on.

  “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll play, but I get to roll both times.”

  “What? That’s hardly fair.”

  “You just said it doesn’t make any difference. If it’s just luck, who cares who’s rolling?”

  “But where’s the fun in that?”

  “Technically, I suppose, but—”

  “Yeah, well, that’s the deal. I throw both times. I’ll do it for you first, then for me. We do it again if it’s a draw. Highest or lowest wins?”

  “Highest, of course, but—”

  “Highest wins, OK. That’s the deal. Otherwise.” He drops the dice again. Two and three. He makes himself glare at it, as assertively as he can. It’s a bit more like a person close up, though it would be a miniature person made out of splinters, pus, flaps of snakeskin or fish scales, and the rind of rotting fruit. “No game.”

  “It’s a poor deal,” the thing mutters.

  “You’d better take it if you want a game. I don’t think anyone else is coming by here anytime soon.”

  “All right
all right all right! Have it your way. Satan’s skunks. I fully expect your soul to be as bitter and shriveled as an old pea. All right, then. If you’re going to take all the fun out of it you might as well get on with it.” It clumps back on top of the skull to get a better view. “Go on.”

  Rory’s been concentrating so hard on arguing with it that he somehow missed the fact that he now has to play. “OK,” he says.

  “Not really. But, whatever.”

  “Ready?”

  “Of course I’m ready.”

  “First throw’s for you.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Highest total wins.”

  “Yes yes yes yes! I’ve already agreed to your blasted deal, haven’t I? This is poor sport.”

  “Right.”

  He closes his eyes, thinking again of the bad god, and rolls.

  “See? Just lucky.”

  He opens his eyes. He bends close to the dice and peers at them in case he’s somehow reading the pips wrong. Five and six.

  He wonders what it’s like having your soul eaten. Will it be quick?

  “Normally at this point I’m capering with delightful anticipation. But watching my good fortune fall from someone else’s hand takes all the fun out of it, I don’t mind telling you. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have not played at all. Well, hurry up.”

  His fingers are clammy and won’t grip properly. He fumbles the tiny dice as he gathers them up again.

  “And don’t try running away, or any nonsense of that sort. I’ve seen it all before, believe me. You won’t be able to avoid your turn. Which is particularly satisfying in this case, I must say, since we’re playing by your blasted rules.”

  “Destroyer,” Rory whispers. “Accept my offering.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He rolls.

  “Right. That’s that. Lie down, please, and open your mouth.”

  Rory opens his eyes. He rubs them. He blinks. He counts the spots again.

  “I won,” he says.

  “You may also want to keep your eyes sh— What?”

  “I won.” He hunches right down and looks at the dice very, very carefully, to make sure they really are showing double sixes. The thing wasn’t even paying attention. It crooks over the dice too.

  “Twelve,” Rory says. “You only got eleven. I win.”

  The thing doesn’t move.

  Helper, Rory thinks. Thank you. He feels like if he stood up he’d take off and fly like Lino.

  “You can’t have,” the thing croaks.

  “But I did.”

  “It’s . . . It’s . . .” The thing springs down off the skull and begins hopping around in the grass, shrieking. “I lost! I lost the game! Unprecedented! Intolerable! I demand an inquiry!”

  “So,” Rory says. “That’s three questions.”

  “Play again?” it wheedles. “Rematch?”

  “No.”

  “Double or quits?”

  “No.”

  “Six questions if you win again. Go on.”

  “Deal’s a deal. You agreed.”

  “Ten questions.”

  “No.”

  “Twenty! A hundred! As many as you like!” It’s choking on its own rage. “You won’t win anyway. You can’t possibly. A thousand! Ask whatever you want and I’ll stake your soul against it. Anything you want!”

  “When you’ve quite finished,” Rory says.

  “Raaahh!” it squeaks, and smashes a limb down on the skeleton’s head, which shatters. It chases fragments of bone around the path, kicking them. “Raaah raaah raaah!”

  “First question,” Rory says.

  “One! No, there’s no way out of the Valley. Two! Yes, you will die here. Three! No, there’s nothing you can do about it. There! Done! And I hope you’re happy! Now be off with you and never ever come this way again!”

  He waits until it’s stopped hopping and kicking and shrieking.

  “First question,” he says. “Is there really a well in the Valley where the water cures every illness of body or soul?”

  “Ha!” It dances with angry delight. “Ha! Ha ha ha! Yes there is, but you’ve already been told that, obviously, so that’s a total waste of a question. Idiot! Bumpkin! Fathead! Epic, epic f—”

  “Second question,” Rory says loudly, feeling stupid. “OK, so where is this well?”

  “It’s in the deepest darkest part of the woods at Pendurra, of course, but oh dear, oh dear oh dear, you don’t have the foggiest where that is, do you? Oh dearie me, could that possibly be another wasted question? I suspect it might be. You know, I never thought losing the game would turn out to be such fun. I should almost thank you for the experience. Although I can’t imagine anyone else would have been as stupid as—”

  “Last question.” He nearly shouts. He can’t let the taunting get to him; he’s got to be careful. He’s got to think. He’s so ashamed and cross he nearly says Are you listening?, but by some miracle he just manages to bite his tongue in time, because that of course would have been a question. He takes a few deep breaths. “OK,” he says. “OK. Tell me exactly—exactly—how I get there from here. Along roads. Proper roads. Which I can use. Safe ones.” It’s not answering. “Turn by turn. Tell me each turn.”

  It stands still.

  “I’m waiting,” it says.

  “For—” He so nearly says For what? And then even as he chokes off that question he nearly says Why aren’t you answering? and then he’s so frightened by how close he’s come to messing up that he can’t say anything at all, he just scrunches his eyes shut and tries to make himself concentrate. It’s his last chance. Why won’t it tell him?

  “Still waiting.”

  Is it that there aren’t any safe roads? Is that it? What’s the best way of rephrasing it? He knows it’ll trick him if it can.

  “Sometime before Christmas would be convenient.”

  Take your time, he tells himself. Be careful. Think.

  “You’re not very clever, are you?”

  “Shut up.”

  Of course. He never actually asked a question.

  “If you can’t think of a third one, that’s fine with me. I’ll let you off.”

  “I said shut up,” he says. “Right. Here goes. What would you say, exactly, if you had to—like, absolutely had to—say the very best and most helpful description you possibly could say of how I can get to the place I just asked you about?”

  It’s quiet for a long time, so long that he starts thinking he must have messed up. He’s going over his question in his head again wondering where he went wrong when it kicks the ground, raising a little spray of earth.

  “All right. That was quite good, I’ll admit.”

  He thinks he’d better not do anything at all except shut his eyes and concentrate very hard on what it’s about to say.

  It does the throat clearing thing again. “Very well, then. I would say: ‘Leave Trelow by its main gate, turn left, then immediately left again, follow that lane to the first village you reach, there turn right and then the next left, where that lane ends go left, and then ignore all turnings right or left until you reach the gate of Pendurra on your left, and if you are able to gain access there you may ask Holly the way to the well.’ That’s what I’d say. And I won’t repeat a single word of it if you fall on your knees and beg me. And it gives me particular pleasure to inform you that you won’t be able to enter Pendurra should you try from now until Doomsday, and indeed you’ll almost certainly die impaled on a thousand thorns if you do try. That’s no small comfort to me.” It snatches up the dice. “It’s my earnest hope that we never meet again. You’ve ruined my whole day.” It’s burrowing into the ground, or just sinking as if the earth were thick water, grumbling as it goes. “Keep your nasty little soul. I never wanted it anyway. Yuck.”

  Rory pays it no attention. He’s repeating the directions to himself. He sits there, saying them over and over again until he’s made them into a little song.

  29

&n
bsp; Silvia’s where he left her. The owl’s come down to perch on top of the fountain. It’s very big when you see it close up, especially its enormous round face with the odd inside-out cheeks and stony eyes. Rory’s still humming his song to himself, but he takes a moment to say “Hi, Lino.” The bird blinks.

  He’s decided to drop the crucifix in the fountain, since that’s where the god appeared. After that he’ll worry about how to get Silvia to follow him. First things first. He’s pretty sure you’ve got to keep promises you make to gods.

  “Helper,” he says aloud, feeling silly. “Thanks. For, um. Helping. So here’s what I said I’d give you. OK?” He takes the silver statuette out of his pocket and holds it over the water.

  Silvia moves so fast he doesn’t even see her get to her feet. She almost takes Rory’s fingers off in her eagerness to snatch the crucifix out of his hands. She grabs it and stares at it as if it’s the answer to some problem she’s been trying to solve her whole life.

  “What are you doing?”

  Her mouth works, but nothing comes out.

  “I need that back,” Rory says. “I’ve got to give it to that god.” She doesn’t resist when he tries to tug it out of her grasp, but nor does she let go, and she’s a lot stronger than him.

  “Please, Silvia,” he says. He peels her fingers back one by one. “I really have to. I promised.” He has to wrestle her fingers away, but there’s no fight in her, and eventually he manages to get the crucifix back. He drops it in the fountain quickly.

  “There,” he says. “Now we’ve got to go, OK? Out the main gate, left, immediately left again.” He sings the whole song to himself again to make sure he hasn’t forgotten it. “Come on.” He pulls at her arm, rather shyly. “Understand? Go.” He makes a walking motion with his fingers.

  It’s easier now she’s standing up. He tugs her off balance. To his surprise she makes a hesitant motion to follow him. “Yeah, that’s right. Off we go.” It’s like he’s taking a dog for a walk but it seems to be working. “This way. I saw a sign for the main gate, it’s up past that big house. Keep going.”

  She’s about to follow him out of the courtyard when she stops and looks back, for all the world as if she’s forgotten something. She goes back to the fountain and sticks her arm in without rolling up the sleeve. She fishes around for a bit and comes back out with the crucifix. Satisfied, she trots back after Rory and stands beside him. Her wet sleeve drips onto her shoes. The owl coughs raucously.