I pulled myself free, and I walked away.
I walked for miles, in the grip of nothing worse than a terrible thirst, through a forest without tracks or guidance. I was directionless, but nothing mattered. I did not look down at the rock I carried within me, and I did not attempt to touch it. I walked onwards until, by sheer chance, I came to a place where the forest ended and farmland began, and found there a collection of wooden buildings that must have once housed animals, but were now empty. They appeared to have been left that way for some length of time.
A small barn with a heavily slanted roof, the two sides raised up to a steepled peak like hands in prayer, had a rusted trough outside, into which rainfall had collected; I put my head inside it and drank deeply, uncaring of the metallic taste. Inside, a dusting of grey straw remained upon the floor, and I lay down and slept. I had no thoughts beyond my immediate needs. I think, perhaps, these were my last moments of true connection to my humanity, because humans are creatures of the earth, are they not? To drink, to sleep, to respond to these needs and think no further upon it – we are like the mice in the fields and the deer in the forest when we obey these instincts. I am not saying that the rock inside me has removed such demands; I must still eat, and drink, and take my nightly rest, of course! But I do not complete such actions without the knowledge that I must keep the remains of my body alive only for the sake of the rock, and what it asks of me.
I did not stay long at the barn. Only long enough to come to the realisation that the rock could not be removed. It was fused within me, rock melded into flesh with no discernible seam. I thought at first of trying to prise it from me, but when I put my hands upon it to make an effort I discovered the purpose of the rock. It bore a missive, activated only by the touch of my palms upon it. How can I explain it? The rock itself was a tool of communication, and it opened a…portal within my mind. A portal to the future.
I thought I was going mad, of course. It took me a long time to understand that the images I received were not originating from a disturbance within my own mind, but from the rock.
I cannot adequately describe what I see except in the most general of terms, for it makes no sense in words and my arm is already tired of writing. I will put this down, then, and rely upon your trust in me to guide your thoughts on this matter further: I have conversed with the leaders of the future. They are fearful. They plant images into my mind of the wars that await us and are befalling them, and they have devoted their lives to finding a way to end all such conflicts. They use the rock to reach back and enlist aid in their struggle. I am determined to do their bidding because I have been shown what will become of mankind if they do not succeed.
Now, my dear Shirley, I have enlisted you.
After reflection, I can recognise you now for what you truly are: you are a Godsend. I wonder if you have been presented to me as an instrument in much the same way that I was chosen as the instrument of the future. For, you see, I have been given a task that I simply could not find a way to undertake. But you – you with your charm and grace and feminine ways – will make easy work of it. And I promise you I will not ask you to do anything that will be beyond your talents.
So start by fetching those horseshoes, my most able pupil, and I will be forever in your debt. As will the world and every living thing upon it.
Yours sincerely,
Your schoolmaster and ally,
Mr Arthur Tiller, Esquire.
He ends formally as if he has written his passion, his desire to communicate these events, out of himself. Yet I find myself no closer to understanding. Am I meant to take his story literally, or to treat it as some kind of parable from which I should learn? It occurs to me that this could well be a test of my loyalty, to see how blindly I am prepared to follow.
I must also consider the possibility that he is mad. I know men have returned from the war with many ailments, including those of the mind. Mr Whittle, the publican at the Three Crowns, did not speak upon his return for many weeks, although he worked on easily enough. Men can seem able and whole, but inside something important is missing. Something that prevents them from seeing the world as an ongoing aspect of war.
Or perhaps dark times do await us on the road ahead. This, as an idea, makes much sense to me. I can picture the final remains of humanity in some terrible future, reaching back in desperation to right a wrong that never should have occurred. I think many people would wish for the ability to correct mistakes already made.
Well, he calls upon my trust, and so I will prove myself. Besides, there is no decision to be made, not yet. Thinking of it in practical terms alone, I must fetch the horseshoes; this is my instruction. It's hardly a daring dash across no-man's land. I will complete my task, yet reserve my judgement. If Mr Tiller is unsound, I will try to restore him to health. If he fights a brave and true battle for humanity, I will aid him as best I can. As befits a woman in love, I will do my best for his continued good. I will be his confidante and ally. He will soon realise that he can rely upon me utterly.
I put the letter under my nightdress, against my bosom. It will not leave the proximity of my body at any time; that is the safest way. The roughness of the paper brings with it a sudden awareness of my own flesh – the perfection of it, unmarred by injury. How clean and whole I am. Is it sinful to think so? What would I do if someone took a blade to me, sliced me through? Would I fight to live on, no matter what the cost? Would I accept strange visions and the perversion of my form as the price of survival?
I blow out the candle on my bedside drawer and nestle down. I picture Mr Tiller's smile. I have never felt so close to him. And yet it is not his body that I see, but a strong, supple one. I squeeze my legs together, feeling the shame of such thoughts. In the fevered grip of my overstimulated imagination I cannot sleep. I do not even try to sleep.
*
Saturday morning, and I am at my task.
I have always liked the smithy, which is a place of interest and excitement for irregular visitors, although I suspect it is a hell of sweaty tedium for those who work there. There has been a Redmore's in Westerbridge for an age, working alongside the farms to provide hoes, shovels and ploughs, and shoes for the horses, of course. The Redmore men all carry heavy-set shoulders and an attitude of forbearance, as if the responsibility of the smithy is a cross they must all carry across the generations.
It occurs to me, as I find the shop door locked tight and skirt around the wall to the forge instead, that Daniel does not quite fit this pattern. Yes, he has the strong shoulders, but he is not destined for this life in the same way as his older brother, Dennis. It is Dennis who will inherit, and the whole village knows that Daniel remains in school in order to work on his talent for thinking instead. Mr Redmore – their father – has plans to expand the business, it is said, and wants Daniel's learning to make him into some sort of manager. Managers wear suits and make charts, and I am not altogether sure that this will suit Daniel. But then neither would the life of a blacksmith, and so he goes along cheerfully enough, not being one thing or another, except a general annoyance to me.
I can see the glow of the forge at the centre of the open-sided stone building, and the smell of smoke and hot iron is strong. And then there is the sound: the roar of the flames, like a monster caught in a deep pit, and I see Dennis standing at it, the strings of his heavy apron caught at his back as his muscles bunch. He is working.
'Hello there, Miss Fearn,' says a deep voice behind me, gravelly with age and experience. Mr Redmore steps forward, out of the gloom; he has been standing at the back wall of the forge the whole time, and I did not see him. 'It seems a time since I've seen you here.'
'It has been a fair while,' I say. He went away to fight, but returned unhurt. I remember I saw him in church on the Sunday after his return, but he has not attended since.
'Farm business? Or have you come to see Daniel? He's gone to Taunton to make a delivery.'
'No,' I say, quickly, and Mr Redmore moves further ou
t, into the light, and smiles at me in a knowing way that I do not much like. 'I am on business for Mr Tiller, in point of fact.'
'Indeed? He has you running errands, has he?'
There is a tremendous noise, like a great bell ringing close by, making me start. Mr Redmore does not even flinch. He flicks one hand towards the forge; I follow the gesture with my eyes and see that Dennis has moved to the anvil and is hammering at heated metal with a patient, steady stroke, moulding it to his will. He pounds in a rhythm over which I must shout to be heard.
'For May Day. Horseshoes.'
'Of course, of course.' Mr Redmore nods. 'Do you want to take them now? They'll be heavy, though. I can get Daniel to carry them to wherever you would like when he returns. It'll be a few hours yet.'
'I can manage myself,' I say.
He raises his eyebrows, then turns away and walks back into the darkness of the building, and I can see that he has become so much older since I last saw him, stiff in his gait. Perhaps it will not be long until Dennis takes over the running of the smithy. It makes me sad to see the slow, painful tread of his feet over the well-worn floor, and the way his hair thins at the back and looks threadbare where it meets his collar.
If I could see my own parents with such objectivity, would they look so much older too? What, then, would they think of such changes in themselves? Do they hate the passage of time, or will that emotion shrivel along with their bodies?
Perhaps all old people look upon the young with envious eyes, and give their orders to reach beyond their natural time and steal from ours.
These thoughts are uncomfortable, so I put them aside in order to concentrate on my mission. Mr Redmore emerges with a wooden box in his hands that does not look too heavy. He walks past Dennis, who ceases hammering as he looks up at his father, and then sees me with a frown. Dennis is only two years older than me but he has always kept a distance, as if we are not meant to socialise. It always seems to me that he acts as if he has a secret knowledge that he imagines I could not possibly understand, even though I am the better learner by far within the confines of the classroom.
'What're you after?' he says. 'Daniel's not here. He's gone to Taunton.'
'Manners,' says Mr Redmore.
I wonder why everyone keeps telling me about Daniel. It's not as if I have done anything to encourage the belief that I have an interest in him, and I do not urge him to be interested in me. Besides, if I did want to see Daniel it would hardly do for a young lady to turn up at a gentleman's house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him.
'Here,' says Mr Redmore, and holds out the box. It has no lid and is about the size of the bible on the lectern in our church. The horseshoes are arranged within, in two rows. I put my hands out, so he places the box in my arms and relaxes his grip a little, just so I can feel the weight of it. He laughs as I stagger, and lifts the box up. 'Told you,' he says, quite kindly, then, 'come on, lead the way, Miss Fearn, and direct me to the place for these. I'll deliver myself just this once. It will take me back to my youth when I ran the length of this village and beyond carrying all manner of whatnots. Back to the farm, is it?'
'No,' I say. I know when I have lost a battle. 'To the schoolroom, please.'
'Very well.'
I start walking, aware of Mr Redmore's presence behind me; he keeps pace to stay in my wake. What a strange procession we must be to behold, and when we reach the main street and start to spy familiar faces I find myself blushing fiercely. Why do they all smile at the sight of us, as if they are complicit in some joke? I cannot bear it, so I stop walking and turn to Mr Redmore. He is smiling too.
'Everyone is very cheerful today,' I say, as he catches up with me, and then I dawdle so that he must walk alongside me whether he likes it or not. He carries the box so easily and there is no strain in his voice as he replies.
'It being a lovely Saturday is the cause of that, I dare say.'
'Indeed. It has made them all very jolly.'
'May is a lovely month,' he says, then nods in greeting to Mrs Norman and her children, the six of them hand in hand behind her crocodile-style.
'But we are not quite in May yet.'
'No. Not quite. But it will not be long. And then it is only a month or so until your schooling days are over, is it not? Yours and Daniel's.'
'Perhaps,' I say, coolly.
'O ho!' he says, but does not comment further.
How I hate this village sometimes, and the people in it.
We reach the schoolroom, but my destination is behind it – the hut that lurks in the long grass behind what was once a cricket pitch when Mr Fisk was in charge, and keen on the sport even though nobody showed any talent for bowling. It is a small, dilapidated wooden shed into which all manner of objects have been crammed, from stumps to wickets to long-forgotten texts and broken slates. 'I have been given the key especially,' I explain when Mr Redmore gives a puzzled glance to the hut, and I produce the key from my apron pocket. It takes an effort to turn it in the lock, but eventually it succumbs and clicks open.
The door swings back to reveal the cobwebbed interior and the lines of dusty shelves filled with a tangled mess of defunct possessions that look as if they belong in a museum. Mr Redmore must be thinking a similar thought, because he steps into the hut and puts down the box of horseshoes on top of a pile of leg pads, and sighs. He says, 'Who can believe we are at the end of your schooling? You and Daniel both. It seems only yesterday you were barely as tall as my knee.'
I step back and wait for him to emerge, but he does not. He stands inside the hut, unbothered by the dust and the corpses of flies dangling from the roof by the thin strands of spiderweb. He fills the space, and something in his quiet contemplation brings an unwelcome intimacy to the moment. I find I do not want to be there.
Then he turns to look hard at me.
'Pretty little thing, aren't you? Strange to think you'll have that big farm, to run all by yourself. Your father is no doubt showing you all you need to know, though. He's a man with one eye on the future.'
I sense a warning in these words. I realise that Mr Redmore has also heard of my letter to Taunton, and that is what he speaks of: the place where the plans of the old and young do not quite meet.
'He took you along to all those farmers' balls, didn't he? The Taunton ones. But they say in the village he's stopped that now. Did you not see a young man you liked?'
'We must all make our own plans,' I say. 'Who knows what the future holds?'
He smiles, and shrugs, crossing his broad, scarred arms over his chest. So many burns have been sustained from the forge that the skin is puckered and shiny. 'I know that all businesses needs a strong pair of hands to guide the way. I have Dennis. And your father has you. Who will you have, miss?'
'Thank you for your concern, Mr Redmore, and I appreciate your kind offer, but I think I'll be looking for someone more my own age when I cast around for marriage material.'
Did I really say that? Yes, I really said that. I can't believe my own rudeness. He moves towards me, and I half-expect a clip around the ear, but Mr Redmore just laughs, and walks out of the hut to stand in the long grass once more.
'Whoever makes up your marriage material will have his work cut out for him, and no mistake,' he observes as I lock the door once more. When I turn around he is already halfway across the yard, returning to the smithy, where he belongs.
It is as if, I think as I walk slowly home, a light has been switched on inside of me. It is a light that only men can see, and it attracts them, draws them close. It makes them think that I will be receptive to their glances and comments. I'm not ridiculous enough to think that their interest is all about my beauty or other talents. It is simply that I am now, in their eyes, the right age for such treatment.
I did go to one or two of the farmers' balls, at my father's insistence, and found nobody there to hold a candle to Mr Tiller. I thought this had gone unnoticed, but it seems I am transparent; everyone has a great interest in me, and the fa
rm I will inherit.
In Mr Redmore's case, he wants Daniel to benefit. I have no doubt Daniel would do a grand job of running the farm. I'm beginning to get the feeling, when I remember the look on everyone's faces as I walked along with Mr Redmore in tow, that the entire village is already in agreement with that sentiment.
But my father is in rude health, and such decisions are years ahead. When I do inherit I will simply pay somebody (maybe even Daniel, if that is whom everyone wants in the position) to manage my affairs. I wish I could explain my thinking, which is most sensible, to everyone who smirks at me, but nobody seems to really listen. Nobody but Mr Tiller.
*
The Sunday morning service is a regular opportunity for quiet contemplation on my part, and today is no exception. Reverend Mountcastle has a soothing voice, too soft and low to really enthuse a congregation, but with a mesmeric quality that steals my thoughts away to examination of a topic that has lodged itself in my mind.
Rocks.
The rock that has merged with Mr Tiller. I remember the way the skin peeled back from the jagged stone, and the unnatural pulsing of silver through it, casting its glow through the kitchen.
I shudder.
My father, next to me in the back pew, nudges me with his elbow. He has hardly spoken to me since I was out late the other night. It is easy to tell that he is allowing the unspoken words to build up inside him, until they will erupt at some moment. I can guess what he will spout forth then; what I cannot know is what I will say in return. I must try to keep my newfound temper to myself. It is only a matter of time before my mouth gets me into trouble. I feel quite certain of it.
The Arrival of Missives Page 4