Harvest

by William Horwood

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Stort, ‘it would be irregular, of course, but I would be obliged if I might take the Embroidery to my humble, along with Brief’s monograph and text. I feel a need . . .’

  ‘I seem to remember hearing that Master Brief used to let you take texts home to work on.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Well then, take it and return it when your work is done.’

  Thwart left him, but Stort himself did not immediately leave. As he went to roll the Embroidery up, he found himself entering once more into the world of seasons it depicted.

  To the left was Spring, to the right was Winter, and all the passage of the seasons between. But just then it was not the overriding image that drew him but a solitary character who appeared, as did others, again and again, in and out of the shadows and the light of all the seasons.

  She started as a child, caught in the light of Spring. She ended as a crone withered by the icy cold of winter.

  ‘Judith,’ he whispered, ‘the Shield Maiden, always alone as she journeys through the seasons, no one knowing how to help her, not even me, who . . . who . . . who . . .’

  Was it for this that Stort had come down to the stacks: to get as near as he knew how to what his heart felt?

  This world of a feeling to which he, until so recently, had been a stranger.

  This chaos through time in which a hydden is whirled along helpless, not able to make sense of the feelings he felt, nor why something so glorious should hurt so much.

  This thing whose word he found so hard to say.

  This mountain so vast he could never climb it, never see beyond.

  Bedwyn Stort reached out and touched what, in real life he could not, which was her, from birth to old age as he felt he knew her. From life to a living death.

  He stayed like that until Thwart called his name.

  Sadly, he rolled up the Embroidery and put it under his arm with the other things. Perhaps in a different time and place, when his mind was clearer, he would be able to make more sense of it all.

  Thwart let him out, the last Reader of the day, and Stort crossed the Square again, turning on impulse towards the centre of the Universe and standing there, as he had earlier.

  What then?

  The stirring of a wind through his head, the Embroidery opening out and him inside it, an Autumn landscape in which he could never catch her up as leaves fell across her body and her face and she grew old, the child he knew in Spring; older than him now.

  Out of darkness came her scream and he, speaking her name, knew he could not be heard, not there, not then.

  His feet rooted to cobbles, the compass on which he stood showing him the way, and as someone called out, ‘Morning, Mister Stort!’ he heard the hiss and hish and the uprooting of buildings, cut down by the Scythe of Time.

  Then he was running because it was after him, running all the way home and banging for Cluckett to open up.

  ‘Mister Stort, sir, wherever have you been? We’ve been worried sick for you. Where have you been!?’

  He put the Embroidery on the table in his laboratory, Brief’s texts too. He took food and drink and noticed that the clock seemed wrong.

  ‘Cluckett?’

  Somehow, somewhere, between leaving the Library and getting home, Stort had lost more hours than he knew and no one, not a soul, had seen him do it and he did not know where they had gone.

  26

  OUT OF THE ETHER

  A week had passed since Arthur had found the secondary communications room and set things up so he could send and receive messages. That was the good news.

  The bad was that he had no way of knowing if his message signals were being picked up. He had received nothing back and had no real hope that the ticker tape-style machine he had rigged up was capable of receiving and stamping out a message from the outside world.

  ‘It keeps me occupied and it gives us hope,’ was the best he could say to Blut.

  Like a fisherman who casts out his bait in water that never yet produced a fish, he held onto the hope that he might yet receive a bite.

  Certainly the routine needed to send another message and check for anything received gave him a daily occupation.

  His lighting system was a success but he was careful to leave the first part of the tunnel unlit so his activities beyond that point remained unsuspected. Soon he knew the tunnel and its hazards so well that he had no need to use up his torch’s battery.

  This habit of walking in the darkness also helped him make a discovery he might otherwise have missed. It was while he was retracing his steps one day that he noticed a dull glimmer of light under a door which he had thought led nowhere. In fact it went via another into a subsidiary tunnel and the light, dim though it was, filtered in from a low tunnel off that. Crawling down it to find the source, he discovered a vertical shaft upward with a grille that gave him a view of greenery. It was an air shaft which led up into the wood under which the bunker was buried.

  The floor beneath the shaft was no more than decayed earth and cement, in which a forest of ferns grew up towards the filtering light. The grille itself was square, made of thin metal bars, held in place by rusted bolts. Vegetation grew thickly in and around it. On his second visit, rain dripped down. He had never tasted water so sweet.

  He saw at once that it might be a useful escape route, though not one he was yet willing to test by opening the grille. Blut had established that the Fyrd routinely patrolled the wood above the bunker and he had heard them walking on that small part of it which actually projected above the forest floor. He and Blut decided that he should build up supplies under the grille all ready to grab and take with them if the opportunity came to make a run for it.

  But as the days went by that possibility began to seem less likely as Arthur began to receive the unpleasant attentions of a new and stricter orderly.

  It had already puzzled him that he was given such freedom to roam, but two things were in his favour. First, the Emperor’s support for and liking of him; second, more subtly, the Fyrd under General Quatremayne were a force so well disciplined and fit that they saw Arthur as old and so out of shape and useless that he could not possibly be a threat or source of danger. But one orderly, a junior Domo, was actively hostile, perhaps feeling that since he could not be seen to bully the Emperor, he could safely project his feelings onto his friend. Domo Krill was pig-eyed and belligerent, slow on the uptake but physically very strong.

  So much so that his seniors used him as a workhorse, lifting boxes others couldn’t, heaving open doors that were corroded and stuck, shifting the heavy wood and metal tables that many of the rooms had as standard issue.

  The rest of the time he cooked bad food for the Emperor’s small entourage, whom he treated more like undeserving prisoners than guests. If he thought his authority and honour were being slighted, he reacted rudely and with subtle violence: a hard step on a toe, a deliberate bump of his shoulder, a too-tight grasp of an arm. He was a dam waiting to burst.

  Increasingly, as the days went by and it felt as if Blut’s position was weakening, Krill’s aggression became more overt.

  He would bring his bloodshot eyes near Arthur’s and hiss, ‘I know your game, Prof, I know it. Give me my chance and I’ll show I do. Okay?’

  He would finger his stave as he said these unpleasant things, as if about to use it.

  ‘Prof, you didn’t eat yer food today. Tryin’ to tell me something? Eh? Yer saying I made it bad?’

  ‘Er, no . . .’ replied Arthur, disliking such confrontation and not sure what to do about it. He did not want to trouble the Emperor and he doubted that Krill’s seniors would be sympathetic if he complained.

  Sometimes Krill would turn away, muttering oaths about upstarts and uppity ones, pulling out his stave and smashing it into the walls hard enough for lumps of plaster to fall, always when no one else was around.

  Then, from a safe distance, he would turn and look back directly at Arthur and shout, ‘Friggin
’ bastard – meanin’ no one particular of course, yeh!?’

  Then some coarse laughter as he left and a muttered, ‘One foot wrong, Prof, and I’ll get yer!’

  Was he serious or mad?

  Arthur decided he was both.

  This personal unpleasantness only added to the general and growing tension Arthur felt in the bunker. From being allowed into all meetings, he was suddenly barred from some. At times Blut was more irritable than he had been initially. At others General Quatremayne looked aloof and cold, his liking and respect for Blut appearing to falter, his inclination to huddle with his staff to the exclusion of others – including the Emperor – increasing.

  ‘My Lord,’ Arthur essayed more than once, ‘is anything the matter?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Er, well . . . You appear distracted.

  ‘Nothing is the matter.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘All is well, Arthur, all is in hand.’

  Blut said the right words, looked the right looks, but something was not right. A day or two later, Arthur noticed more than once the lenses of his spotless spectacles were less than spotless. They were smeared for the first time ever.

  Something felt very wrong indeed.

  ‘You should take a stroll outside, my Lord,’ said Arthur. ‘Fresh air, exercise . . . it will do you good. Surely that’s permissible for you if not for me.’

  Blut shook his head.

  ‘They say they do not wish me to risk my life,’ he said, referring to the Fyrd Command, ‘and insist I stay down here.’

  Blut, normally so much in control, seemed suddenly a little out of it and he began to look ill. The battle for power and authority with Quatremayne was beginning to be lost.

  Then: ‘I think Krill is poisoning me,’ said Blut, ‘though I am eating only food that I believe cannot be contaminated. But he is sly. Arthur, we need to leave, our time is running out.’

  Arthur took his own advice, for the bunker was oppressive, the endless dark lit only by wan electric lights, depressing the spirit. He took to standing beneath the grille onto the outside world and breathing in the cool air of the wood, letting any rain that came in fall on his face. The routine of visiting his Morse station several times a day to tap out his messages, the general one and the particular call sign, and checking if the ticker tape had moved to show he had a reply, and the walking about, kept him alert.

  He and Blut had discovered a great deal of the Fyrd’s routine outside and in. The patrols outside were regular, the changeover four times daily, at midnight, six, twelve and six in the evening. It was the evening one he had his eye on because the individuals concerned were slacker than the others, slower to get going, inclined to chat, their boots too clean on their return for them to have walked their full round. That time of day, too, would give them the cover of darkness if they were able to get away after supper.

  Blut confirmed that he had committed the General’s invasion plan for Brum to memory and knew exactly how the Fyrd intended to carry it through. It was now a few short weeks away at most. From the talk of the Fyrd they heard, it seemed that troops were coming in daily from the Continent and billeting in the City. Supplies were being brought forward and placed at strategic points along the London– Birmingham railway line and some others they intended to use for rapid night runs into the heart of Brum.

  Arthur knew that this intelligence would be useful to his friends in Brum, if only he could get it to them.

  It was plain enough from conversations both witnessed and overheard that there was a division of opinion between some of General Quatremayne’s junior officers and his more senior – and more cautious – staff, including himself. The former began urging immediate action before Brum could get its defences in place, but Blut and the General were more cautious.

  The supplies for the longer-term occupation were taking time to gather, so too the troops required. Two transport craft carrying troops and supplies were lost in a violent North Sea storm; the rail lines into Brum were disrupted by minor Earth movements; the earlier good weather had now given way to floods, one of which caused water to seep into the bunker and put the main corridor, and the one Arthur used, under three more inches of mucky, muddy sludge and water.

  This worsened morale, as did the hold-ups caused by bad weather. Everybody was getting irritable and, while the tunnel Arthur had made his own was his diversion and life-saver, he realized that it was a matter of time before he was found out.

  Arthur made a point of never letting Krill see him enter the tunnel but was concerned that the slosh-slosh-slosh echo of his feet in water would be heard when he walked back and forth.

  Darkness and the whine and howl of the wind became his friends.

  As for the grille to the surface, he finally overcame his reluctance to risk opening it one evening, when the ‘lazy’ patrol was on duty. He put a crate beneath it to give him better height and cautiously eased the rusted bolts he had found, for fear of being heard.

  It creaked and it was heavy but the biggest problem was lowering it back on itself to the forest floor. But he did it, and there it was, freedom, up above him through brambles and nettles, up towards the darkling sky and trees he could see straight above.

  He heaved himself up sufficiently to look around without getting out.

  The wood was an old one, its floor littered with fallen branches and thick layers of the rotting leaves of deciduous trees.

  The air was fresh, the wind clear, freedom was his for the taking.

  Not yet, not quite yet. He felt he owed a duty to Blut.

  He lowered the grille back down, checked the ticker tape, sent his messages out again tappity-tap and returned to grim normality. Later, he lay on his bed reliving that moment of smelling the wood, feeling the wind.

  Next morning, Krill swore to his face and deliberately spilt a scalding flagon of brew close enough to burn his leg.

  ‘Sorry, Prof, Sir, really I am,’ he said muttering curses under his breath.

  Time to leave, Arthur told himself.

  The day was an odd one, the tension and differences in the bunker turning to arguments on all sides, crackling around corners and from under doors.

  Arthur kept a very low profile, sensing a decision or decisions had been made. Equipment was collected and placed near the entrance, the train loaded and set ready.

  In the late morning, Arthur escaped into his secret world and to the grille and a breath of fresh air. He heard movement above, and conversation.

  The patrols were different, maybe more thorough.

  Things were changing fast.

  Definitely time to leave.

  He heard the word ‘tonight’ and hurried back inside, a new nervousness making him stumble more than once. By a door marked ‘Kitchen’ he slipped in water, fell on a pile of rusting cutlery, broken china, a frying pan.

  He righted himself, thought for a moment and impulsively picked up one of the kitchen knives and thrust it in the sheath that hung from his belt, empty until now.

  Then back to the main corridor where officers and orderlies were hurrying about.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Not even Emperor Blut would say, his skin taut and white, his eyes wary, his smile extinct.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Tonight?’ murmured Arthur.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Blut, ‘perhaps.’

  Things had worsened for them both.

  Orderlies who had been friendly before no longer looked Blut in the eye.

  It felt like a death sentence had been passed but the hour of execution not yet set.

  If he and Blut could have fled there and then, Arthur would have insisted on the attempt, however great the risk. The bunker air had the thick odour of death about it.

  ‘You!’ a voice murmured in his ear.

  It was Krill in passing, sneering, confident, turning as he often did to stare. This time he ran a finger across his throat, his big teeth showing in a grimace.

>   For the first time in his life Arthur was glad he was carrying a knife.

  The Emperor detained him after lunch and engaged in a strained conversation about nothing, as if he did not want him to go. His voice was thinner than usual; it was as if he wanted to say something but could not. Was someone listening?

  ‘Sinistral?’ said Blut suddenly, quite loudly, out of the blue. ‘Did I tell you that he taught me to survive?’

  ‘Er, no, you didn’t,’ said Arthur, puzzled.

  ‘He used to say, “When the moment comes and you’ll know it, Blut, leave. Waste no time in making the decision. Leave.” Now . . . you had better go to your room . . .’

  It was said as a command.

  As Arthur rose to go, he understood all in a rush. Blut was saying he could not get away but if Arthur could, he should. Now.

  Perhaps if he went and got away to Brum he could find a way to send help back for Blut. It was no more than an empty promise made by someone who was in the act of leaving someone else behind.

  Leave . . .

  In a moment, as he walked towards his quarters, Arthur decided to do so and he headed straight for the tunnel.

  Then he was there, heading into darkness, slosh-slosh-slosh.

  He had almost reached the point in the tunnel where it turned and he felt safer when he heard slosh-slosh-slosh behind him, noisier than his own sounds, and that voice he had grown to hate: ‘Hey! You, Prof. Come here, you friggin’ . . .’

  A crossbow bolt purred by and slammed into the tiled wall, sending sharp shards into his face.

  Oh dear God, his voice screamed inside his head. Oh God.

  ‘Prof, come back here!’ roared Krill, beginning to run sloshety-slosh, sloshety-slosh.

  Arthur ran on, as best he could, the normally silent tunnel now echoing with the noises of pursuit and flight. Another bolt shot by, bouncing from wall to wall before it splashed in the water.

  He reached the turn into his tunnel, but the grille was just too far off for it to be possible for him to run there and climb out before Krill could reach him.

  He froze, Krill’s steps getting nearer.

  His breathing became difficult, his throat dry, his heart hammering.