Harvest

by William Horwood

  ‘The former Emperor Slaeke Sinistral?’

  The guide shook his head.

  Blut was tempted to correct the impression that my Lord was dead, but wisely did not.

  ‘No? No one knows? It was the hydden who made this Square and the High Ealdor’s Residence, who created the famous Chamber of Seasons of which there is a tour once in a while, when permitted, and who was tutor to the aforementioned gennelman, Slaeke Sinistral, who, by the by, was born in this city but for obvious reasons ain’t much missed. I refer, of course, to . . . to? Does no one know?’

  ‘To ã Faroün,’ said Blut, prepared to believe, from the antique look of the cobbles and the old way in which the flat brass plate surrounding the circle was inscribed with places and distance, that they had been made by him.

  ‘Correct! Will that gennelman kindly come here!’

  Blut thought it best to do so.

  ‘It is a common belief that any who stand on this fabled spot will, if they face the right direction, be well on the way to becoming a citizen of the Universe!’

  ‘What’s the right direction?’ someone shouted.

  ‘Now that, one and all, is a secret I cannot reveal!’

  The tour was over, tips given, and moments later Blut found himself standing alone on the spot.

  He closed his eyes and felt, or thought he did, a shiver in the ground and shift in the air, a brief wobble in things all about.

  He heard a running of feet.

  ‘My Lord,’ whispered that same guard who had spoken to him a few minutes before, ‘they are all assembled, the Council awaits you.’

  Blut shook his head but still felt dizzy. He looked at his feet and tried to ascertain which way he was facing. Not the way he had begun.

  ‘My Lord . . .’

  ‘Already? I thought I had only been here a few minutes.’

  He stepped off the star and looked at his chronometer. He had lost more than twenty minutes. He stared at the cobbles and the star shape they made. There was something odd about it which . . . which . . . which did not quite please his sense of order, and how come it was later than it ought to be?

  ‘My Lord . . .’

  ‘I’m coming now,’ he said. He looked back again and knew he had left something of himself behind in the ‘centre of the Universe’. The city of Brum had taken a little of its newest arrival into its huge, warm, eternal heart.

  41

  SOMETHING MISSING

  By the following morning Blut had matters so well delegated that he was finally able to attend to an item on his continually updated list which kept being put back to the bottom: Mister Stort.

  He turned to Jack and Arthur, now his advisers and sounding boards, and said, ‘I meant to say goodbye to Bedwyn Stort before he left the city ahead of the invasion, but I never did. Not top priority, but important all the same. Is there some way I can get a message to him?’

  Jack looked puzzled.

  ‘He hasn’t left Brum,’ he said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Blut sounded surprised, even slightly alarmed.

  ‘He was at home in his humble this morning when I left.’

  ‘Pardon?!’

  ‘Stort is still . . .’

  For the first time since he had arrived in Brum, Niklas Blut looked annoyed.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘He’s still looking for . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know what he was looking for. I thought he was about to find the gem. That was nearly a week ago.’

  ‘He has – as good as. But . . .’

  ‘Bedwyn Stort should not be in Brum hours before an invasion by the Fyrd. He should be far away, somewhere safe, where he can continue his work. He will be no good to us dead.’

  ‘He says he can only do his work in Brum.’

  ‘Does he indeed?’ said Blut standing up, a touch aggressively, which showed how tired he now was. ‘There is nothing to stop him going to . . . to . . . anywhere to do his work and he can take as long as he needs. But if he’s in Brum and the Fyrd get him he . . .’

  ‘He cannot take as long as he needs, my Lord,’ said Jack, as puzzled by this turn in their conversation as Blut obviously was. ‘He only has until Samhain and then . . .’

  He too stood up.

  Blut held up his hand.

  ‘Why only Samhain? Why not . . .’

  Arthur, who had been slumbering, woke up. He had heard this kind of thing before, usually between academic colleagues who were so into their own work that they forgot to ask a few basic questions about someone else’s, with consequent wrong understandings and false expectations.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘please . . . Jack . . . my Lord . . . both of you, sit down.’

  They sat and glowered at each other.

  ‘It is my fault,’ said Arthur, ‘and mine entirely. I had assumed, my Lord, as I am sure Jack also did, that you understood the nature of the quest for the gem of Autumn. Or rather, as you might put it, its parameters. The gem must be found by the night of October 31st and given to the Shield Maiden by the end of that night, which is, of course, the feast of Samhain, last harvest, the end of Autumn and beginning of Winter.’

  Blut considered this, still frowning.

  Various things fell into place in his mind.

  Lights went on, doors opened, things were illuminated and he was appalled at his own stupidity.

  He had been so stuck down in Level 18 of Bochum all these years that he had forgotten the salient details of the legends and prophecies concerning Beornamund, the gems and the importance of their rediscovery and return to the Shield Maiden.

  He now realized that since he came to Brum, he had been so involved in directing the work of the War Council that he had completely underestimated the problems connected with finding the gem.

  Yes, I have, he conceded.

  Finally he spoke, ‘I believe I have made a mistake.’

  He looked at his chronometer. Time was ticking by, but rarely is anything too late.

  ‘Stavemeister,’ he said in a measured way, ‘if Stort stays in Brum, how capable is he of looking after himself?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘If he leaves, can he do so alone?’

  ‘He could; he often has, but he is inclined to get lost. If he did that before finding the gem it might be a disaster.’

  ‘I had thought that you and Katherine were keeping an eye on him?’

  Jack laughed.

  ‘We are, but, as Arthur knows, keeping an eye on Stort, or in any way trying to control how he works is . . . difficult. He does not respond well to pressure. He likes to go his own way. Many of us keep an eye on Stort, in fact I would say that the whole of Brum keeps an eye on him as best it can . . . he is the most beloved citizen we have . . .’

  Blut looked shaken by his own ignorance.

  He said quietly, ‘In this matter I have failed and have been less than thoughtful. I imagined it was just a matter of time before he worked out the things he has been thinking about.’

  ‘It is and it isn’t. The gems are elusive, this one in particular.’

  Jack and Arthur explained.

  ‘So when he talked of finding the gem,’ said Blut finally, ‘he merely meant finding where it is, not getting it into his hand to pass on to the Shield Maiden. Incidentally, where is she?’

  Jack shrugged and said, ‘You might as well ask where a storm is. You don’t know until it arrives.’

  ‘But I might ask, I suppose, for I never really have, who she is?’

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ said Jack, ‘and Katherine’s . . . I mean, I thought you . . .’

  Blut shook his head.

  ‘It seems I have been so lost in my own world that I closed my eyes to a much bigger one. Well then, we must see if there is anything further we can do for Mister Stort at once. Where is Stort’s humble?’

  ‘It’s a ten-minute walk.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The journey to Stort’s was not the discreet affair Blut wou
ld have preferred. It seemed his likeness had been made public and he was recognized. The crowd outside, most of whom had never seen him, let out a great cheer. It seemed they recognized him most of all by his spectacles, which they had heard he was always cleaning.

  ‘Whips ’em off his face like a mask off a wolf and hypnotizes people with his eyes,’ some in the know had said. ‘By the time he’s got ’em on again his victims will do anything he says.’

  Blut, Jack, and Arthur were followed now by a friendly crowd. The lane where Stort lived had never been so full.

  Jack felt it best to observe the formalities now that Cluckett was back from her family visit and knock on the door. She opened it instantly and gazed at her visitor only briefly before she said:

  ‘You’re Emperor Blut, I know you from your specs. I’m Goodwife Cluckett who does for Mister Stort. Call me Cluckett, and he prefers Stort. Come in, but wipe your feet, it’s been raining. He’ll say he’s busy but I say a visit’s good. I’ll make tea.’

  Jack went to fetch Stort . . .

  ‘Who? What? Now . . . ?!’

  ‘Now,’ said Jack.

  ‘But, look, can’t you see I . . . am . . . ?’

  ‘Busy?’ said Jack.

  ‘That’s it! Very.’

  Stort was lying under a bench, a pillow under his head, the Embroidery so draped above him that it cut out most of the light. He had been asleep.

  ‘Now!’ repeated Jack firmly.

  ‘Who can possibly want me now, at this minute?’ said Stort ingenuously, emerging, blinking at the light.

  ‘I do,’ said Blut, who had smilingly evaded Cluckett and was now at the laboratory door. ‘Ah, is this the famous tapestry?’

  ‘Embroidery.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ he asked amiably.

  ‘An excellent question. Let me explain . . .’

  Blut was only too happy for him to do so and, as Stort began, Jack left, amazed. Time was passing, he had a lot to do, there was a crowd outside, war was looming, yet Stort and Blut, upon each of whom in very different ways Brum’s future depended, were talking technicalities about arts and crafts.

  They continued to do so for nearly hour, tea being served in the laboratory, Jack coming and going, Barklice appearing, Cluckett offering scones to the crowd outside.

  Jack watched in awe as Blut applied his charm on Stort, who, in his own shambolic way, applied his on Blut. The two were instant friends.

  ‘So . . .’ said Blut, finally getting to the point, ‘have you got any further with your search?’

  Stort shook his head.

  ‘I will say again as I said before, I am nearly there . . .’

  They were standing looking at the Embroidery once more, which Stort had now draped at the far end of the laboratory so that Blut might see it more clearly.

  ‘Until recently my attempts to make sense of the Embroidery had been utter failures. But of late I begin to see a few things and understand that the gem will be found not far from a raging shore, after a dangerous battle and, if the wyrd is with us, near some place with a universal view. This may seem something of an advance. But where is that shore? Which that fort? Who the enemy? And why the view?

  ‘All I need is a clue, a key as it were, to unlock these mysteries. I feel sure it lurks in the seeming chaos on the margins of my mind, as it does in the Embroidery before you. Find that last clue and I believe I shall see what I must do!’

  ‘Mountains, sea, a rocky shore,’ said Blut, pointing at a spot on the embroidery, ‘and is that a castle?’

  ‘An earthwork, I think,’ murmured Stort, ‘of which there are any number in Englalond, including one here in Brum!’

  ‘. . . a river, a wood, a steeple . . .’

  ‘Half a steeple,’ said Stort, ‘and a ruined village.’

  ‘. . . and people, different people, a girl here, an ageing woman there . . .’

  Stort put his hands over his ears.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘I know it all, I see it all, but I cannot see the wood for the trees!’

  Blut stepped back startled, but not at Stort’s outburst.

  ‘Something in that image seemed to move.’

  ‘Does that all the time, my dear chap,’ said Stort matter-of-factly, ‘but you get used to it. Never quite the same.’

  ‘You know, it does give the sense of almost wanting to give something away but not quite. I suppose details are one thing, clues or keys another, perhaps. They are more . . . constant. I mean door keys don’t change, do they? What’s beyond the door does. Just a thought . . . As for not seeing the bigger picture, we are all prone to that. My Lord Sinistral would sometimes step backwards if faced by a problem, to remind himself that he needed a wider view.’

  Blut stepped back now, backing away between the benches but still looking at the Embroidery.

  ‘Odd,’ he said suddenly. ‘I felt a kind of shiver, as if I saw something there . . .’

  ‘That happens too,’ said Stort.

  ‘But still . . . I thought . . . I . . .’

  ‘Almost but not quite?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Blut.

  He stood, hesitating.

  Stort too.

  ‘. . . so many questions come to my mind, Stort, I cannot bear to go! For example, you made a passing mention earlier of ã Faroün as being the creator of this Embroidery.’

  ‘I did and that seems likely. He designed the Chamber of Seasons in Festoon’s Residence. Have you seen it?’

  Blut shook his head. He had had no time to see any of the sights of Brum.

  ‘He was an interesting hydden . . .’

  ‘My Lord Emperor mentioned him from time to time . . . from the name, I presume he was of Eastern origin?’

  Stort shrugged.

  ‘Possibly. Probably. I have read Master Brief’s monograph on him but there are no clues about his early life or what happened later.’

  Blut’s face darkened.

  ‘On that I know something, though it is only a rumour. It is said that the former Emperor, whose tutor he was, murdered him to gain the gem of Spring. When I first knew the Emperor I thought it possible. Later I came to the conclusion it was quite impossible.’

  Stort shook his head indifferently.

  ‘I doubt that ã Faroün had much to do with the gem of Autumn.’

  Blut smiled.

  ‘My Lord used to say that, when faced by an intractable problem, it is sometimes wise to doubt one’s doubts. Now . . . to more practical matters before I go. I would be much obliged if you would agree to leave Brum very soon; I would suggest in the next twenty-four hours. Jack here will see to your safety and it might be an idea if you have someone else who might accompany you on any journey you might decide to make should you work out where the gem is.’

  ‘Barklice,’ said Stort. ‘He’s good at finding routes and does not stop my brain functioning. In fact the opposite. Perhaps Katherine too, unless they are needed.’

  ‘Whatever you need,’ said Blut. ‘I wish I had had time to talk to you properly before. Most interesting. But now . . . !’

  The visit was suddenly over and Blut back at the front door.

  The waiting crowd cheered more, he waved, and someone shouted, ‘Good on yer, Milud!’

  He waved again and they laughed and cheered more loudly still.

  ‘For someone who doesn’t like making public appearances,’ said Arthur, ‘you certainly know how to work a crowd!’

  Blut smiled, he waved, he enjoyed being jostled by the friendly Brum crowd and for a little while the affairs of state did not weigh so heavily.

  Yet strangely, as he mounted the steps of the Residence once more and turned to wave to the crowd again, it was not these great matters he was thinking about, nor anything of that kind at all. It was of Stort and the Embroidery and the sense that he now had, as he had then, that they were both missing something and it was staring them in the face.

  42

  WAITING

  That evening, as d
arkness blew in on a front of bad weather, the Shield Maiden sat alone and tired, angry and disappointed.

  Her body ached.

  Her breasts had known their brief moment and now sagged.

  Her hair was grey, no getting away from it. Caught in the night wind, it was a pale tangle of a thing.

  Oh, but she was old.

  ‘Stay back!’ she commanded her Reivers, who circled on their dogs.

  Then: ‘Stop staring, I know what I’ve become without your foul eyes telling me.’

  ‘Mistress . . . you need to eat . . .’

  ‘Leave me,’ snarled the Shield Maiden, shivering and wet through. ‘Where’s that Horse?’

  ‘Wandering, Mistress, across the wide vales and down to the shore. Our dogs are scared of the Horse on nights like this.’

  ‘They should be scared of me,’ she said, rising, running at a dog and kicking it off its four feet so that it spun squealing through the air. ‘What food have you?’

  ‘Stew.’

  ‘Hot or cold?’

  ‘Greasy.’

  ‘Thick or thin?’

  ‘Glutinous.’

  ‘Near or far?’

  ‘Gone.’

  The Reivers laughed at their joke and so did she.

  ‘Give me some.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  She ate, she drank, she stood with her bare feet in mud and her hands in the heavens and she cried out, ‘Stort, where are you? Why is it taking you so long? The days are running out until Samhain.’

  She was so alone and tired.

  So angry and lost and withered within.

  Blood used to streak down her legs but that had not happened for days and days, which for the Shield Maiden was years.

  Age was eating her.

  She felt a woman no more.

  She felt the pendant at her neck and the stones he placed there. Spring, Summer; Autumn to come.

  ‘Stort,’ she whispered into the wind, ‘the gem of Autumn is not so hard to find. Can’t you feel it in the musica, my love? You’re looking in the wrong place.’

  Spring, Summer, Autumn: but it was Winter she dreaded, when her body would be old as time and Stort would want her no more.

  ‘Oh, my love, but I’m getting old.’