With that cheering possibility in the offing, she reached up and knocked at the door.
Becky and Johnny stared at each other, nervously waiting. However, there was no let up in the raucous singing or wild accordion playing. Clearly the singer hadn’t heard a thing.
Shrugging, Becky tried again, this time much more firmly.
There was exactly the same result.
After some moments, she tried again and this time Johnny joined her.
Finally, the singing stopped and the concertina stopped wheezing. Taking advantage of the silence, Becky knocked briskly again.
Then they heard heavy footsteps, and the door opened.
A large figure stood before them. He had long greasy grey hair and a dishevelled greasy grey beard wrapped around a pair of surprisingly pink lips. His eyes were bleary and somewhat unfocused, his cheeks were red and his nose large and bulbous and flecked with veins. He stood unsteadily with legs apart as if to support his large, protruding belly. His clothes, to Becky, looked like those worn by Robinson Crusoe in a picture in one of her books. They seemed fashioned out of deer or goat hide and clumsily stitched with string or fastened with wooden pegs. Around his dirty bare ankles and feet rubbed two arching marmalade cats.
Despite the bizarre appearance of the householder, Becky and Johnny were somewhat comforted by the wafting steam of an aromatic stew.
After a welcoming burp, the figure wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blinked as if to focus, and then leaned down to inspect his visitors.
‘Goodness me, what have we here? Come in my dears and have a beer.’
This was said with a slurry voice and breath so full of garlic and beer that Becky and Johnny instinctively stepped backwards.
‘We … we seem to be lost,’ said Becky.
‘Lost? Lost, and tempest tossed! Not now I see, but you soon will be,’ said the man, giving a huge fiendish smile and stretching his arms widely in welcome. ‘Come in, I tell you, come in to my humble cottage and share my humble meal.’
The beaming grin was so alarming, that Johnny, with a frightened look at Becky, stepped back another step.
‘I’m sure you’re hungry!’ added the man.
‘What do you mean we will soon be tempest tossed?’ asked Becky. ‘Is the weather going to change?’
She looked over her shoulder up at the sky. Although it was significantly gloomier, it was clear with just a suggestion of stars and quite still. There was no sign of drizzle let alone a tempest.
‘To be sure,’ cried the figure in the door. He rubbed his nose knowingly, and then stepped aside as if to usher them in. ‘There’ll be thunder, lightning, driving rain. Mark my words!’
It may have been a combination of the deepening dusk and the wide open door, the man’s apparent friendliness and the threat of the alleged bad weather that encouraged Becky and Johnny inside. Later, though, Becky would have argued that it was the smell of the cooking that was wafting through the door. It was some sort of rich stew, she couldn’t tell of what — perhaps rabbit, or chicken or game, or a combination of these — heavily herbed and with the sweet scent of bubbling vegetables all combined into a heavenly steam that reached around the man with delicious beckoning and whispered Come in, come in, try me, try a deep steaming bowl of me with crusty bread …
Whatever it was, Becky gave Johnny a small compliant nod, and then with an equally small, nervous smile at their host, she stepped past him and into the cottage.
The light was dim inside although already brighter than outside, with a soft glow from two or three lamps. The first things Becky noticed were a long clunky wooden table with rough stools scattered about and a bulging iron stove, glowing logs burning through an open door, with a large steaming tureen on top. Around the walls were shelves with earthenware jars, iron pots and glass bottles, and hanging here and there were sprays of dried herbs. The flagstone floor was littered, dusty and scattered with bones.
A fat earthenware flagon with the stopper beside it sat on the table, and also a pewter mug and a concertina stretched out like a curled dead caterpillar.
‘You liked my song?’ asked the large man, closing the door behind them.
Johnny nodded.
‘Very much,’ agreed Becky, hoping she sounded sincere.
‘Good! You are music lovers then! I love music lovers,’ cried the man, and for one horrible moment Becky thought he was going to seize the concertina and start singing again. However, to her relief, he pushed the instrument to one side and indicated that they should sit down at the table. He then strode to a shelf and returned with two large tankards, which he set before them with a happy smile.
‘We will have some of Silenus’s wonderful beer!’ he declared.
‘Silenus?’ asked Johnny.
‘That is me!’ cried the man. ‘I am Silenus and this …’ pointing to the flagon ‘… is my beer.’
‘Is there anything else we could have?’ asked Becky hurriedly. She had rarely tasted beer and had not liked it when she had. Besides, she knew her mother, who would be distressed if she were ever to find out Becky had entered the house of a drunken man scantily clad in goatskin, would be even more distressed if she discovered Becky had spent the night drinking home brew with him. Johnny Cadman was looking somewhat alarmed as well.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said, ‘but I’m not thirsty. I’m not thirsty at all really.’ And then, quite decisively, he pushed the tankard away.
‘No beer?’ asked the man named Silenus disappointedly.
Becky and Johnny shook their heads.
‘None of Silenus’s wonderful ale?’
They shook their heads once more.
Silenus shook his shaggy head in dismay and bewilderment for some moments but then a slow smile returned followed by a deep rolling laugh. ‘Well, no beer for thee, means more beer for me, and more beer for me the merrier I’ll be!’
The simmering tureen was driving Johnny beyond the limits of his manners. ‘Food?’ he whispered.
Silenus stared at him blearily, remembering.
‘Food! Of course! We’re all hungry, are we not? Even if not everyone is thirsty,’ he added, upending the flagon and refilling his own tankard until a snowy foam eased over the top. Then he crossed to the shelf and returned with three large pewter bowls. Becky noted that these were none too clean, but she was beyond caring. Silenus lurched forward depositing the bowls with a clatter on the table.
‘This way, my dears instead of beers!’ he ordered. He picked up one of the bowls, indicating that they should do the same and then led them to the stove. He took a large ladle and, after removing the lid from the tureen, ladled the rich, meaty stew into their bowls. They returned to the table with their steaming food, and shortly after Silenus joined them with his own bowl and a long loaf of crusty-looking bread secured under one elbow. He furnished them each with a spoon and handed them broken pieces of bread.
The meal was delicious. It would have been delicious even if they had not been particularly hungry, but as they were, it was delectable. They dunked the bread, and spooned the herby stew, and as they ate greedily in the savoury air it seemed for the moment that they were in heaven.
Once the bowls were empty, Silenus, having licked the last remnants from his, leaned back and belched with pleasure.
‘I can never tell which I enjoy the most,’ he said, ‘the eating, or the drinking. How lucky it is that I can do both together.’
‘It was great,’ said Becky.
Johnny Cadman nodded eagerly. For a slightly built boy, he had a huge appetite, Becky had noticed. He had nodded whenever Silenus proffered him another ladle. He must have had several helpings. Now, though, he was content and finally he pushed the bowl away.
‘What was it?’ he asked.
‘Meat, of course,’ laughed Silenus. ‘Good meat stew.’
Johnny nodded. He knew it was meat, but he had meant what sort of meat. However, he felt that pestering their host for a more accurate description might b
e thought a criticism, so he did not push the issue. Becky did not care. She was inclined towards vegetarianism usually, although she had enjoyed the stew tremendously. She did not feel she had to know which particular animal had forfeited its life for her enjoyment.
‘So,’ said Silenus finally. ‘You are lost?’
‘Sort of,’ said Johnny.
Now that they had the chance to explain their circumstances, the full craziness of the situation became more apparent. Where to start? The woods and the hillside? Jumping out of the window? Arcady House? Dr Faunus renewing and climbing out of his wheelchair and trotting on little goat feet? The flute?
As Becky hurriedly thought through the options, she considered it best to start with the old man in the wheelchair. He had manoeuvred her into this situation. His flute had started the whole thing. It was the damn flute. Becky thought the smelly little pawnshop man had sold her an instrument, but she now realised she had become an instrument herself, an instrument played by Dr Petrus Faunus of Arcady House.
‘Do you know Dr Faunus?’ she asked suddenly.
Silenus started. His smile faded and his eyes narrowed with calculation.
‘Why do you ask?’ he demanded.
‘Because, it’s because of Dr Faunus that we’re here, wherever we are,’ said Becky.
Silenus did not reply. He lifted his tankard again to his lips but his sharp eyes now never left hers. Becky understood she was to continue. So she did. She told the story of how Donna Pym had bought her the flute, and how Becky soon discovered that it was somehow enchanted: instead of her playing it, the flute immediately began playing her and how, via the card in the case, it had led her to Arcady House and the hunched decrepit figure on the lawn. She told of Hester Nye, the frightening housekeeper, and how, despite this woman, she had sought the old man and played to him.
Johnny listened to all of this with acute interest, much of it being news to him.
So did Silenus. He cocked his head to one side and pulled at his hair, frowning.
Then Becky told of that afternoon’s events. How she and Johnny had gone to Arcady House and how she had once more played. When she told how Dr Faunus had climbed out of the wheelchair and led them inside, Silenus’s eyes widened. Then Becky described how they had been locked in the curtained room, but had climbed out of the window and escaped into the woods only to discover that they had escaped into a world different from the world they had left behind and how, finally and to their enormous dismay, had found Arcady House itself disappeared, vanished from the face of the earth along with the streets, the suburbs and the traffic of the city.
‘We thought this place was completely deserted,’ Becky explained, ‘but then from the hill we saw your smoke and came down to find your cottage.’
‘We did hear a motorbike though,’ Johnny added, ‘and found a basket of berries and stuff.’
Silenus, though, did not seem to hear this addition. He was still staring at Becky with astonishment.
‘What you tell me is wondrous strange,’ he murmured, and then he looked away and fell silent, as if he were staring into a time long ago.
‘Right! It’s completely freaky,’ said Johnny.
Silenus did not respond.
Becky and Johnny sat and waited. He’s as bewildered as we are, thought Becky, helplessly. He’ll be of no use in getting us out of here. She wondered how many hours had passed since they had left her house. Her mother wouldn’t have worried for a while, she would probably have been quite happy with that guy Max, but she would have realised that not even the excitements of Johnny Cadman and a PlayStation game would keep Becky away for hour after hour, especially when there was a dinner to be eaten. She’d probably be frantic by now. And what about Johnny’s people? Perhaps he got more freedom, but even so they would have no idea where he was. Would Donna ring them? Becky shivered. If Donna Pym did ring the Cadmans then she’d find out that she and Johnny had tricked her, had lied to her. The cat then would really be among the pigeons.
Eventually, Silenus turned back to them, muttering to himself under his breath and shaking his head.
‘It does not make sense,’ he said finally. ‘I know nothing of shops and flutes and housekeepers. You say Arcady House? But here, here where we are, this is Arcady. What means this other Arcady?’
Becky shook her head. She did not think it made sense either. However, she was startled by the admission of the name of the place they had found themselves in: Arcady. Was this the same as Arcadia? Was this the place Pan had chased Syrinx in the story Ms Paddy had told her?
‘And Faunus? How can this be?’ he asked.
Becky shrugged. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Because Faunus is dead,’ said Silenus tragically. ‘Faunus has been dead for years, for centuries!’
‘Centuries?’ echoed Johnny, bewildered.
‘Well he certainly wasn’t dead this afternoon,’ said Becky flatly. ‘You must be thinking of a different Faunus.’
‘There are fauns,’ said Silenus, ‘but there is only one Faunus, and he is dead. Dead to this world.’
‘Well clearly he is not dead to our world,’ said Becky.
‘Astonishing,’ whispered Silenus. He studied her closely and Becky had the impression he very much wanted to believe her, but somehow could not bring himself to.
‘Do you know how we can get back?’ asked Johnny Cadman. He gave Becky an apprehensive glance and she shook her head at him. All at once she felt sorry for him. She had worked out some time ago that Silenus was going to be of little use. It was sad to see Johnny coming to that realisation himself.
Silenus looked at him blankly.
‘I know very little,’ he said. ‘I know my goats, and I know my beer. I know my songs and I know my mountain. I thought I knew Faunus was dead. He was one who sported well, you know. We had such merry times. But now you say he is alive …’
‘What about that motorbike?’ asked Johnny.
‘Mo Terbye?’ Silenus looked confused.
‘We heard it from the hillside,’ Johnny explained.
‘Some sort of machine,’ added Becky.
‘M’Sheen?’ Silenus looked even more puzzled.
‘He has no idea,’ whispered Becky.
‘He must have,’ Johnny said desperately, ‘it was making a hell of a racket.’
Becky tried again. ‘It made a very loud noise, like an angry wasp …’ She tried to imitate the sound of a motorbike, but not very successfully. ‘About the size of a big goat,’ she said, ‘with wheels instead of legs and very fast. Someone riding it?’
Silenus stared at her, frowning with concentration as if trying to work out a difficult algebra problem. And then as Becky repeated her motorcycle imitation, his frown disappeared and he nodded, grinning. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Wasp noise.’ And Silenus joined in rolling his r’s in a more than passable rendition of a brrrrm brrrrm bike at full throttle. ‘It was here today up and down the river flats. A shiny monster with flashing feet and a screaming noise.’
‘Who was it?’ asked Johnny.
Silenus looked confused. ‘I have just explained,’ he said patiently. ‘A shiny monster with flashing feet and a screaming noise.’
‘But who was riding it?’ prompted Becky.
‘Riding it?’ The notion seemed strange to Silenus. ‘I know not “riding it”, but it was the strangest and noisiest centaur I have ever seen. It was not from this side of the mountain, I can assure you of that.’
This sounded to Becky as if he were defending the neighbourhood. One thing was quite clear, though: motorbikes were not a common feature of this world. Silenus obviously had no idea what a motorbike was.
Which, of course, raised the question of where the machine came from? Becky was inclined to think it had to have come from the world they themselves had left earlier that day, the world of lawnmowers and motorbikes and PlayStation games. And then she realised something else. Silenus had said Faunus had been dead for hundreds of years, and yet he had spok
en fondly of having good times with him.
She stared at their host with growing fascination. How old was he?
‘Who are you Mr Silenus?’ she asked.
Silenus glanced at her over his tankard and roared with laughter. ‘I am Silenus,’ he cried. ‘Silenus the goatherd!’
However, beyond that he clearly did not feel it necessary to explain.
That night Becky and Johnny had been offered a small room to sleep in. Silenus had provided them with an oil lamp and there were a pair of prickly straw mattresses and a quantity of rather strong-smelling goatskins that were presumably to serve as blankets.
Silenus himself stayed in the main room, apparently still drinking, and then to their distress had taken up his concertina and begun singing once more. It was like a hound baying at the moon with a frightened cat whimpering in the background.
‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Johnny.
‘To shut him up?’ asked Becky.
‘No, to get back, you know, home. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up sometime soon, but it hasn’t happened.’
‘Me too,’ whispered Becky.
She lay on her back staring through the darkness. Johnny was right. The events of the afternoon were like some kind of bizarre dream. They had tumbled into this world unexpectedly and she couldn’t see any way of tumbling back into their own world, except by allowing chance to organise things again. There didn’t seem to be anything they could do to hurry things along. The trouble was, chance was a pretty unreliable thing to rely on. She knew one thing: Silenus had no more idea than she did about how to retrieve the situation.
‘Will your folks be worried?’ she asked.
Johnny didn’t reply for some time. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘Well, they will, I guess. Most of the time they spend fighting and bickering with each other. Sometimes they hardly seem to know I’m around.’
Becky recognised confession time when it arrived. She did not have many friends and she had realised why some time ago. She was quiet, not given to gossip and was a good listener. For that reason, when she did make a friend it wasn’t long before the friend, feeling safe with her, shared her deepest, darkest secrets, the awful things that had happened to her or the awful things she would like to do. It was a pattern. The next and inevitable stage was that the friend would feel alarmed, perhaps embarrassed, that she had told Becky so much and would begin to withdraw. Within a few days or weeks the friendship would end altogether. Sometimes the ex-friend would turn quite nasty and trash Becky to whatever new friends she had made.
The Enchanted Flute Page 8