The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  ‘Off you go,’ she gestured to Sam. ‘Open it.’

  Sam walked over to the door, letting out a nervous chuckle and opened the door.

  He stopped short and stared through the wooden frame.

  Beyond it was nothing.

  There was no landing, there was no passage leading to the other rooms, there was no staircase. There was nothing. Only blackness.

  ‘What sort of cheap parlour trick is this?’ he whispered.

  ‘No trick,’ replied Rosie. ‘Go on, go in.’

  Sam walked forwards and stepped through the frame into the darkness on the other side of the door. The ground felt soft and mossy under his feet. As he lifted his arms and moved them through the space the air felt heavy and thick, all around him there was a weight and an overwhelming absence of anything. It was a place of nothing.

  He turned back and saw Henry and Rosie on the other side of the door as if the frame was hanging in space. There was blackness all around them but he could still see the bedroom perfectly on the other side.

  ‘What is this place?’ he called out to them.

  ‘It is where ideas are born boy, and where dreams run wild,’ smiled the old man, looking through at Sam. The young man laughed, disbelieving as he let himself fall forward through the thick, syrupy air.

  ‘What did you dream about last night Master Steadfast?’ shouted Rosie.

  Sam thought and tried to remember, as soon as it came to him there was a great change in the light. Beams of brightness shone up through new cracks in the blackness, driving aside the nothing as Sam shielded his eyes and all the dark retreated. He became engulfed in colours running together around him and closed his eyes tight until he felt that the change had come to a close.

  He slowly opened his eyes again and saw that he was now standing on a wind swept beach. The sand under his feet moved with the gusts of air and the sea crashed against the shore and moved up until it nearly reached him. He was breathless as he looked around the grassy headland and the far off rocks. The whole place had the look of a finished painting, beautiful and accomplished and so nearly real. He turned and saw the frame of the doorway again behind him on the beach and Rosie and Henry still looking through at him.

  ‘I dreamt of this place last night,’ he called out. ‘Exactly like this.’

  ‘It’s a nice dream Master Steadfast, lovely detail.’

  ‘Am I in my own dream right now, in my own mind?’

  ‘No, you’re in everyone’s minds, everyone’s dreams. They all come from the same place. That’s where you’re standing right now, in Imagination.’

  Sam laughed out loud as he picked up a handful of sand and felt each tiny grain fall through his fingers. He clapped his hands together and looked back through the door.

  ‘Who are you people?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you. We’re the Versatiles,’ Rosie smiled. ‘We go where others can’t and see what most folk wouldn’t believe Master Steadfast, and now we need your help.’

  Sam took a breath of the salty sea air and stood looking at them both through the doorway. Rosie reached out a hand towards him and beckoned him away from the shore.

  ‘Will you help us Sam?’ She stretched out to him. ‘Will you?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Like a child’s first visit to a big city, there is a certain look of shock, surprise and wonder when someone comes to realize, all too suddenly, that the world is larger, more dangerous and more fantastic than they had ever imagined. Rosie saw that look in the face of the young Master Steadfast as she reached out to him on the other side of the door. There was a renewed innocence in his wide-eyed expression and a lightness to his smile that was all too familiar to her. It was the same expression that stared back at her from a worn looking glass on the night of her first time, years ago. The first time she saw what lay on the other side of the door. The first time she sent someone back there and the first time she came to know that her life would be spent not in one world, but two. She looked at Sam, his messy brown hair blowing across his brow in the imagined wind, and she remembered…

  ‘I believe it is time,’ Rosie’s grandfather said to the small girl, prodding the fire with a stick. ‘I believe tonight’s the night I could do with your help girl. If you are willing that is?’ He had a twinkle in his eye and a shiny coin in his hand, which he held out to her.

  Rosie picked the coin out of his hand; bit it to make sure it was genuine, and beamed up at him. How she had longed to help her grandfather in his work, the work he was always so secretive about it nearly drove her to distraction, and it seemed that the time had come at last. Wherever they travelled she was so often left alone in their lodgings, left alone with nothing but her wearisome studies and her own thoughts to keep her company and never allowed to join in on all the fun he was having without her. But now, on the very day she turned seven years old, not only would she finally see what her grandfather was always up to, she would also be able to lend a helping hand. This was surely the greatest birthday present anyone had ever been given ever in the history of everything. She could hardly believe her luck.

  ‘Really grandpa, do you really mean it? You’re not toying with me?’

  ‘Of course I mean it,’ he said, ruffling her wild, black hair.

  Rosie laughed and flicked the coin up into the air; it caught the light of the fire, turning briefly from silver to a burning red and she snatched it back.

  ‘It will be as easy as pie,’ the old man said. ‘And before long, you’ll be able to help me wherever we are sent and whenever folk need us. That’s what you want isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh grandpa, that’s what I wish for every night. I squeeze my eyes up tight and wish that one day I’ll help people, just like you do.’

  The old man knelt down and gave the girl a big hug.

  ‘Then you’ll have your wish,’ he said, drawing back and looking at her in a most serious manner. Rosie wasn’t afraid of him, but she stopped laughing and folded her hands in front of her nonetheless, letting him know she was ready for whatever was coming her way.

  ‘I only have one question for you, my flower, before I set you on your task.’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘I know you’re not scared of me, old and haggard as I am, but what does frighten you?’ he asked, in a quiet voice she had never heard him use before.

  Rosie put a finger up to her lips and thought as hard as she could. There were many things that frightened her; squeaky floorboards late at night, rattling windows when the wind was trying to get in, the shadows under the bed, old women with big, toothless grins, but she knew her grandfather didn’t want to hear about any of those things. How could he trust her if she was still afraid of blowing out the candle at night? No, she was a big girl now. A good apprentice couldn’t be afraid of such stuff.

  ‘Nothing,’ she answered, firmly. ‘Least of all squeaky floorboards or shadows under the bed or old women without their teeth that’s for sure.’ She stamped her foot and pulled a mean face.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said the old man, offering her his hand. Rosie remembered how grown up and special she felt shaking his hand in agreement and how excited she was to hear of her adventure (for it was sure to be an adventure) and she stood as patiently as she could until he imparted her charge.

  ‘You are to tell a boy, of about your own age, that he has to go home.’

  Rosie’s arms fell back down to her waist.

  ‘I’m to do what?’

  This didn’t sound as adventurous as she had expected. It didn’t sound adventurous at all, and her grandfather’s smile wasn’t making her feel any better about it.

  ‘That’s all it is,’ he said. ‘You are to tell a young boy, who you will find near this very village, that it’s now time for him to go home. And the best thing is, you can do this all by yourself. You don’t even need an old so-and-so like me there to hold your hand. This shall be your very own adventure. Yours and yours alone’

  She grimaced and tapped a foot
in the dust near the fireside as she considered his offer. Finally she smiled and agreed, on the one condition that she should be rewarded for her work, more than one shiny coin at any rate. No job should go by without some reward, she said to him.

  And so it was that on the evening of her seventh birthday Rosie Versatile wandered into a graveyard, not thirty minutes walk from their lodgings, and tapped a young boy, dressed in tatty grey clothes, on the shoulder.

  The face that turned her way was open and happy, with crinkled, half-moon shaped eyes and a button nose, but pale and ashen, framed by untended hair the colour of dry straw. Rosie recoiled when the boy smiled and showed a set of brown teeth that had seen better days. She took a breath, got a-hold of herself and smiled in return. She then delivered her simple message.

  ‘Little man,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time you went home. I shouldn’t like the thought of you lingering around any longer, you could catch your death.’

  The boy’s face fell to one of mild displeasure and he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll go ‘ome,’ he said in a voice as rough as a saw, ‘as long as you can better me in a game of your choosin’.’

  Well that was easy, thought Rosie, clapping her hands together. It could only be the one game she insisted her grandfather played with her whenever she wanted to stay up late for another story. It was her most favourite game.

  ‘I challenge you to a staring contest,’ she said. ‘If you blink first I shall have won the game and you’ll have to be on your way.’

  The boy accepted and they sat down on the damp earth, a small, unmarked gravestone the only thing between them, and stared into each other’s eyes.

  Both giddy to begin with, they snorted for a time, holding back the awkward laugher in the sinking light of evening, until a seriousness took hold of them. Rosie strained as she held her eyes open as wide as possible, clenching her jaw with the effort, whilst the scruffy boy looked carefree and cool on the other side of the gravestone, as though it was against his very nature to blink in the first place. This went on for some time and, loathed as she was to admit it, the boy was very good at this game. Her eyes were sore and her cheeks were cold and wet with watering, but this didn’t quench her determination. She refused to return to her grandfather if she hadn’t been successful with such a simple task.

  It was soon getting dark and Rosie was a little bored of the whole thing.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said, staring with eyes as big as plates. ‘I’ll tell you a story to pass the time.’

  ‘Please yerself,’ replied the boy. ‘But it shan’t make me blink.’

  ‘Then I shall tell you of a Prince and Princess of a kingdom called…um…Abalonia. There names were Prince…um…Gunter and Princess…um…Gerta. Yes, that’s the story I’ll tell you.’ She was thinking on her feet, but seemed to have the boy’s attention.

  ‘Gunter and Gerta were very nice children and hoped to become fine rulers of Abalonia, though they would have to wait several days for their birthday when their father, the merry King Able, promised to teach them many secrets. Each day stretched out longer than the last until the day before their birthday (which felt as though it was as long as a whole year) arrived. To pass the time they decided to play a game, their favourite game as a matter of fact, a game called chuckers. The rules were easy; a handful of stones were thrown into the air and the person who caught the most on the backs of their hands was the winner. They spent a slow hour collecting nice smooth stones from around the grounds of the castle and insisted that their father, the King, come and watch.

  ‘On that sunny afternoon Prince Gunter and Princess Gerta stood between the King and threw the stones up into the air. The King looked up and, squinting against the bright sunlight, didn’t see the stones fall towards him. He didn’t see one particular stone fall straight into his mouth and lodge itself nice and snug inside his throat.

  ‘The King coughed and spluttered and choked for a short while, until he collapsed back onto the grass, quite dead.’

  The little boy, still wide-eyed, gasped and put his hands over his mouth.

  ‘Now, if you were listening and remember, the Prince and Princess had yet to learn anything his father’s secrets, and since they found themselves unexpectedly in charge, Abalonia quickly fell on hard times. The hard times quickly turned to dark times and soon enough Gunter and Gerta were booted out of the kingdom and spent the rest of their days poor and alone and wretched. The. End.’

  Rosie could see the bottom lip of the pale boy begin to wobble and a small tear collect in the corner of one wet eye. The tear fell down onto his cheek and as the boy’s eyes grew redder, against his will, he blinked.

  ‘I win!’ shouted Rosie, jumping up with a great cheer. ‘You have to do as I say and go back home now!’

  The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Alrigh’, alrigh’, yer beat me fair and square. I’ll be on me way ‘ome.’

  Rosie curtsied as the boy walked over to the old, splintered door of the run down church and stroked his hand down the wood and knocked on it three times.

  ‘Um…young man, the town is back that way,’ said Rosie, pointing in the direction of the nearby hills.

  ‘Not for me missy,’ said the boy as the door opened and Rosie saw through. It was only a brief glimpse, but on the other side of the door was a great swirl of colours and shapes, every nightmare she had ever had and every story she had ever heard, staring right back at her. The boy gave her one last brown-toothed smile, a small wink, and closed the door shut behind him.

  When she got back to the lodging house the sun was creeping over the horizon and her grandfather was still up, sat in his chair, waiting for her.

  ‘What did you see?’ he asked as she pulled the door quietly behind her.

  ‘Everything, I think, grandpa. I think I saw everything,’ she said. ‘Is it all real?’

  ‘It’s as real as a story, girl.’

  ‘Then it is real. And it’s all there, on the other side of that door?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Not just that door, every door, any door you like. It’s all there.’

  ‘And that’s what you do isn’t it, you make sure folk like that little boy in the graveyard stay there, on the other side of the door.’

  He patted her head with his large, callused hand. ‘Aye girl,’ he said. ‘That’s what I do.’

  Rosie knew the world had changed forever that night. She could never go back to the way it was. And by the familiar look on Master Steadfast’s face, he too felt the same.

  ◆◆◆

  There was, of course, no decision to be made. Sam returned from the beach of his dreams and stepped through the doorway back into the bedroom. He didn’t really have much to say. There was a glazed look in his eyes as he excused himself and promised that he would return and be ready for whatever lay ahead the following evening. He left the room, equally surprised to find that when he opened the door it led back onto the landing of his father’s tavern, and walked away with gentle, careful steps.

  That night he lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling and shaking his head in disbelief. Finally, he fell into a light, fretful sleep and dreamed again of the beach, the waves and the sand slipping through his fingers.

  Henry Versatile couldn’t sleep.

  The old man sat up in the rickety chair by the broken window. He’d wrapped a thick woollen rug around his shoulders, shielding him from the night’s cold, and looked down towards the town, sleeping in the valley.

  ‘Can’t sleep either?’ came Rosie’s voice from a corner of the room.

  ‘Hmm? No girl. Can’t sleep. Truth be told, my stomach’s full of knots. Something very curious is going on here, and I don’t like it one bit.’

  ‘You say that every time grandpa,’ said Rosie, smiling.

  ‘Do I? Yes I suppose I do. But it’s different this time, I can’t put my finger on it, I feel like we’re…I’m not sure…’

  ‘In a smal
l boat heading towards a waterfall?’

  ‘Precisely,’ he grunted, drumming his fingers against the brittle arms of the chair. ‘I can’t just sit around like this. I have to do something.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That’s an idea! I may go down and find the old workhouses, over the wall as the guard put it yesterday. Maybe I’ll find something out there.’

  Rosie sat up in her makeshift bed on the floor next to the sleeping stranger. ‘Need me to come along. I could use the fresh air.’

  Henry hadn’t yet turned to her, but continued to stare, quite transfixed, down towards the town.

  ‘Hmm? No, no, better if I go alone. Less chance of being noticed.’

  He quickly pulled on his heavy travelling cloak and slipped quietly through the door, leaving Rosie lying in her bed, listening to the ragged breathing of the stranger.

  Borrowing a strong looking black horse, from the small stables at the rear of the tavern, Henry made his way down Hope Hill and veered away from the lights of the town and towards the tree lined valley and the river running behind the hills. The horse followed his encouragement well enough and crossed the shallow waters until they came to a well-trodden wide pathway on the other side. Henry followed this down for a mile or so, taking it as slow to keep the sound of the horse’s hooves as quiet as he could until he saw the stone wall rise up behind the trees on his right hand side.

  The wall was maybe twice the height of a tall man and built in the old style of intricate dry stoning. It was quite a structure, thought Henry, as he dismounted and scratched the horse hard behind the ear. The horse nuzzled him and stamped a hoof in pleasure.

  Henry looked up at the wall and knew there was no chance that he could climb such a thing. The workmanship was skilful enough that there were hardly any foot holes in the tightly packed stonework for him to push himself up at all. He leant against the tree next to him and tapped the end of his cane into the soil at his feet and let out a long breath, which steamed in the night air.

  ‘Nothing for it,’ he whispered to the horse. ‘I guess it’s going to have to be the tree.’