A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In

by Mills, Magnus

  I approached the cake and entered by the postern door. Over the past few days I’d discovered that apart from the main door there were also three fire exits and a small side entrance. This led all the way to the orchestra pit via a tiled passage. Even before I opened the door I could hear music playing, and once I was inside the building it resounded ever more loudly. As I expected, the orchestra was playing a variation on the imperial anthem. I’d heard this one before and it was already my favourite: a piece of music in which the melody seemed to go round and round even more frequently than usual, as if it was somehow being constantly folded into itself. Greylag had previously explained to me that this particular variation was known as a fugue. Furthermore, each different treatment had its own designated number. The one I could hear at present, apparently, was the sixth in the sequence.

  During my brief tenure the musicians had learnt not to bother rising to their feet every time I put in an appearance. I’d made it clear that I preferred them to carry on as normal, and today was no exception. As I entered the pit, Greylag glanced in my direction, we exchanged nods and I headed straight for the podium. From somewhere or other he’d unearthed a proper conductor’s baton for me to use. I found it where I’d left it last time, lying on top of the podium rail, and for the next twenty minutes I enjoyed ‘leading’ my orchestra through the sixth variation.

  Eventually, though, I gave Greylag the signal to stop, and after another few bars the music ceased.

  ‘Thank you, Greylag,’ I said, stepping down from the podium. ‘That was very good.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I continued. ‘Is there any other music apart from the imperial anthem and its variations?’

  ‘Well, we do have the other composers, sir. Which one would you like?’

  ‘Who’ve you got?’

  ‘All of them, sir.’

  ‘All the famous ones?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Greylag went to the antechamber and opened a cupboard, returning a minute later with a stack of manuscripts.

  ‘Here we are, sir,’ he said, and began leafing through the papers, one by one. ‘We have the joyous composer, the innovative composer, the outlandish composer, the dreary composer, the child prodigy, the charlatan, the . . .’

  ‘Just a second,’ I said. ‘Which one’s the charlatan?’

  Greylag handed me the manuscript and at once I recognised the name of the composer in question.

  ‘Oh, I quite like his music,’ I said. ‘Why do you call him a charlatan?’

  Greylag stood awkwardly before me, but said nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ I urged. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said after a pause. ‘In the humble opinion of the orchestra, he’s a complete fake.’

  As usual all the other musicians were sitting around us in silent rows, their instruments perched on their laps. I’d become accustomed to Greylag acting as their spokesman and the rest of them remaining mute. This last utterance, however, caused a low murmur of assent to pass through their ranks.

  ‘A fake, eh?’ I said. ‘How do you mean exactly?’

  ‘We consider his compositions to be laboured,’ said Greylag. ‘They lack any lightness of touch, which is the sure sign of a true artist. Take his first symphony, for example. We start off skipping through the flowery fields; then suddenly we’re crawling through hell’s cauldron; then we’re back in the flowers again; then there’s an angry bit; then a quiet bit; then another angry bit. None of it seems to have any proper meaning. As I said before, sir, a complete fake. Writing a symphony should be like constructing a universe. You can’t simply make it up as you go along.’

  After he’d reached his conclusion, Greylag reddened somewhat and bowed his head, perhaps thinking that he’d overstepped the mark a little.

  I puffed out my cheeks. ‘Well, Greylag,’ I said, ‘you obviously have very strong views on the subject.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘And what about these variations?’ I asked. ‘Who composed them?’

  ‘They’re all ascribed to you, sir.’

  ‘Me?’ I said, astounded. ‘How can I have composed them? I’ve only been here a week and a half!’

  ‘As Principal Composer to the Imperial Court, sir, all new works are ascribed to you.’

  ‘Yes, but who actually writes them?’

  Once again Greylag appeared overcome by reticence, and once again I had to drag the answer out of him.

  ‘Who writes them, Greylag?’ I repeated.

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Every one of them?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see.’

  For a minute I stood silently absorbing the implications of what I’d just heard. Then suddenly I was struck by a remarkable thought. Judging by the quality of his musicianship, Greylag had the ability to turn me into one of the greatest composers the court had ever seen. All I needed to do was look and learn, and bide my time.

  ‘Was there anything else, sir?’ enquired Greylag.

  ‘Not for the moment,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we should have another variation.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you like to hear the seventh?’

  ‘That will do nicely, Greylag, but I think we’ll try something slightly different today.’ I handed him the baton and pointed towards the podium. ‘You can conduct from up there for a change.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Greylag. ‘I think you’ll like this one. It goes at quite a gallop.’

  The entire orchestra stirred with anticipation as Greylag headed for the podium and mounted the steps.

  ‘All right, everyone,’ he said, tapping the rail with his baton. ‘This time I want to hear the hooves of the imperial cavalry!’

  Yet again they launched headlong into the anthem, and now they were playing one of ‘my’ compositions! I watched and listened with pride as the music soared up into the highest corners of the auditorium. I could see plainly that the podium was the natural place for Greylag to be, and I determined to allow him a much freer hand in future.

  This seventh variation definitely went at ‘quite a gallop’, and the theme had already come back round to the beginning when I noticed someone standing up at the rear of the hall, just along from the main doorway. The figure was half-concealed in the gloom, but after some moments I realised it was Wryneck. He appeared to be watching the proceedings intently, but the instant he saw me looking he turned and walked towards the door.

  ‘Wryneck!’ I called, but my voice was drowned out by the orchestra.

  I signalled Greylag to carry on, and then walked swiftly up the centre aisle. By the time I reached the door and looked outside Wryneck was striding away across the park.

  ‘Wryneck!’

  Again there was no response, and he had soon disappeared into the distance. Inside the cake, the orchestra played on. Meanwhile, the trees rustled in the rising breeze. Another afternoon was fading towards twilight. For a few minutes I stood in the doorway pondering Wryneck’s unheralded visit. I decided it was quite rude of him to leave without even acknowledging me, but after that I thought no more of it. The time had arrived for me to go on a certain errand.

  During my earlier explorations of the royal quarter I had made an interesting find. Just around the corner from the Maypole I’d noticed a shop with the word HOBBY painted in large letters above its front window. This was no ordinary ‘hobby’ shop, however. Hobby was the name of its proprietor, and what it sold was all kinds of confectionery. The window was filled, row upon row, with neatly labelled jars of sweets.

  I arrived about half past five and gazed through the leaded glass at yellow pear drops, pink marshmallows and golden sticks of barley sugar. There were sherbet fizzers, peppermints, liquorice comfits and the proprietor’s very own dolly mixture. Further back I could see fruit pastilles, fondant creams, caramel fudge, everlasting toffee, coconut ice, butterscotch, chocolate nougat, hear
ts-of-violet, strawberry shrimps, bulls-eyes, broken rock, lemon crystals, jelly babies, rhubarb-and-custard, alphabet candies, black jacks and gunpowder lozenges. A small bell rang as I opened the door and entered the shop. Instantly I detected the scent of aniseed, vanilla, cinnamon and sarsaparilla. Yet more jars lined seemingly endless shelves. Outside, the sun was gradually sinking, and as it did the light appeared to refract through these colourful jars so that the whole shop was immersed in a soft, reddish gleam.

  I was just peering at a jarful of ‘lions and tigers’ when suddenly I heard a voice behind me.

  ‘Had a good look, have you, sir?’

  I turned to see a man emerging from the dimness at the back of the shop. He was wearing a white linen coat.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I see you’ve got a very extensive range.’

  ‘Indeed we have, sir. Indeed we have.’

  ‘So I’d like to buy some of your wares.’

  My comment evidently came as something of a surprise to the shopkeeper. He raised his eyebrows and gave me a quizzical look before moving behind the counter. This was equipped with a pair of scales.

  ‘What can we do for you, sir?’

  The way he addressed me as ‘sir’ was quite different from the subservient tone employed by Greylag. By contrast, this ‘sir’ was spoken with a sort of begrudging courtesy. In other words, I got the impression that he only called me ‘sir’ because it would be discourteous not to. Customers, apparently, were an inconvenience which he was obliged to tolerate. Nevertheless, I was much taken by the contents of his shop, so I made up my mind to ignore his unfortunate manner.

  ‘To start with,’ I said, ‘I’d like some jelly babies and some sherbet fizzers.’

  ‘Separate bags, sir?’ enquired the shopkeeper.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Put them all together please.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  He unscrewed the appropriate jars and tipped a few sweets on to the scales. Then he waited.

  ‘Some lions and tigers,’ I continued. ‘Also, some rhubarb-and-custard, some hearts-of-violet, some liquorice comfits and some peppermint creams.’

  Again he tipped out the required sweets.

  ‘How much does that all come to?’ I asked.

  He placed a weight on the opposite scale. Then he added another. ‘It comes to fivepence, sir.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll just have some of your dolly mixture to round it up to sixpence.’

  ‘Round it up, sir?’ said the shopkeeper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re only allowed a pennyworth.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s an imperial decree, sir, to stop people from being greedy.’

  ‘But they’re not for me,’ I protested.

  ‘Ho ho,’ answered the shopkeeper. ‘That’s what they all say.’

  ‘No, really,’ I said. ‘I’m Principal Composer to the Imperial Court.’

  ‘I know exactly who you are, sir.’

  ‘The sweets are for my musicians,’ I explained. ‘They’ve been working very hard lately and I want to reward them with a treat.’

  The shopkeeper frowned.

  ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so, I think that’s a big mistake. Oh, I know you’re only trying to be nice to them, but what you regard as an act of kindness they’re sure to interpret as a sign of weakness. Believe me; I know what these serfs can be like.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The shopkeeper stood with his hands flat on the counter and a broad smile on his face. He was clearly very pleased with himself.

  ‘All right then,’ I said, after giving the situation a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll just have a pennyworth.’ I put my hand in my pocket and produced my stipendiary sixpence.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t take that.’

  ‘Why not?’ I queried. ‘Haven’t you got any change?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ he said, ‘but I can’t just go dishing out pennies willy-nilly. Pennies are for commoners.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see.’

  I stood there clutching my sixpence in the palm of my hand. It was all I had, but I was quite unable to spend it.

  ‘Tell you what, sir,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘how about a toffee apple on the house?’

  Chapter 5

  On Wednesday afternoon at ten to three I rounded up Whimbrel and Brambling, and we went over to the great library. Smew was due to deliver one of his talks on the history of the empire, and apart from anything else I was interested to find out who would be there. The great library was an impressive edifice with a huge pair of wooden doors at the front. These doors remained wide open for long periods every day, as if inviting people to come and see the vast collection of books inside. We spent a few minutes admiring an apparently infinite maze of fully laden shelves; then we proceeded to the reading room. This was an annexe at the west side of the building, graced with a large bay window which allowed the daylight to come flooding in. There were a good few bookshelves here as well; also, some carefully placed tables and chairs. Everything was arranged, it seemed, for the convenience of the reader.

  Today, however, half a dozen extra chairs had been added to accommodate Smew’s listeners. These were positioned in two rows of three. Before them was a small lectern. When we arrived Smew was standing with his back to us, staring out of the bay window as if completely lost in thought. It came as no surprise to see that Wryneck was already sitting in one of the front seats. Also present, immediately behind him, was Sanderling. There was no sign, though, of either Dotterel or Garganey. The clock had begun striking three when Brambling and Whimbrel slid into the other two seats in the back row. I sat down in the front row, at the opposite end to Wryneck. Then Smew turned and addressed us from the lectern.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear,’ he began, ‘that I am not a dates man. It makes no difference to me when such-and-such an event occurred. Such details are for the record books only, and have no relevance in the stream of history. Therefore, we will not be learning any dates during the course of this talk.’

  From Wryneck there now came an appreciative chuckle, as though he was sharing some sort of ‘in’ joke with Smew. The rest of us were silent.

  ‘Neither will I be listing any princes, kings or even emperors,’ Smew continued. ‘I am not concerned with naming names despite their undoubted achievements. Instead, I intend to talk today about the empire itself; about the process by which it came about; and about the factors which sustain it.’

  While Smew spoke I found myself gazing at the walls that rose up around the bay window. Looking down at us from these heights were several portraits of previous emperors; but none, yet, of the latest incumbent. Smew stood below them at the lectern, having just revealed that they would not be included in his talk.

  ‘So how does an empire begin?’ he asked. ‘Well, in our case it started with sailing ships. As we all know, the realm of Fallowfields lies on a western seaboard with many natural harbours and landing places. Consequently, our people since time immemorial have been masters of the deep. They built the finest vessels; they sailed and traded north and south along the coast; they cast their nets and brought home all manner of fish; and the more time they spent plying the waters, the broader their knowledge of ships and sailing came to be.’

  Smew went on to describe how we swiftly attained maritime supremacy over our landlocked neighbours in the east. Hemmed in by swamps and forests, they were unable to reach the ocean without passing down our rivers and through our great ports. For this privilege they were required to pay ‘ship money’ which went directly into our coffers. Yet even when they finally left the harbour their seamanship was instantly exposed as being far inferior to ours. Smew told us a number of enjoyable tales about how our ships were often obliged to go and rescue theirs because they’d been blown off course; or because they’d simply lost their way. The
y were hopeless at navigation compared to us; there was no question of that. Furthermore, their ships had a marked tendency to sink without trace. Whenever we put to sea we invariably gained an advantage, one way or another, and this was all because we were better at sailing than anyone else.

  ‘And because we were better at sailing,’ announced Smew, ‘we gradually came to believe that we were superior in all other respects as well. At some stage we began to use the title “Greater Fallowfields”, rather than the more literal “Fallow Fields” of yore. “Greater” was a purely geographical term, of course, and originally appeared on maps; its purpose was to include the islands and inhabited sandbanks dotted along our coastline. Very soon, however, we started to take it as meaning “greater” as in “more important”. The way was now open for us to declare ourselves an empire, which we duly did.’

  Smew paused and glanced at his audience. He had been going for a good hour and the talk had certainly been absorbing. To my left, I realised for the first time that Wryneck was busy taking notes of the lecture. Now he stopped writing and waited with pen poised for Smew to resume. Someone in the seats behind me shuffled his feet restlessly. I guessed it was Whimbrel. All else remained quiet in the reading room. A few moments passed; then Smew turned towards the bay window and looked out.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ he said, still with his back turned, ‘it should be emphasised that the empire was not established by force-of-arms. Such action would have been regarded as most improper. Instead, we strove merely to create benign “spheres of influence”. Just beyond the border existed several small duchies and principalities who found it quite convenient to drift into our sway, especially as they were thereby exempt from paying “ship money”. Other outlying territories were incorporated because they happened to share the same language. Hence, the “associated realms and dominions” began slowly to come into being. Meanwhile, in dealing with our larger neighbours, and those countries which were further removed, we chose to lead by example. We soon discovered that we could win people over by setting high standards in diplomacy, husbandry and good governance; in short, by showing them that our way of doing things was always the best. It was not long before the whole world wished only to emulate this illustrious empire of ours; and in the next talk I’ll examine the subject in greater depth.’