The Versatiles

by Alex Duncan

  ‘How can it be? There are no secrets between us. The very idea is ridiculous…’

  ‘Then let them talk and we’ll hear the ends of their discussion when they’re done. We can do nothing about it, so shouting and worrying will do no good,’ said Sam, kicking a stone into the water and watching the ripples spread out. ‘Sorry,’ he added, for good measure, afraid that he’d offended her yet again.

  Rosie lifted her shoulders and dropped them down with a sigh.

  ‘No apology is needed Sam. You’re right, and that’s the wisest thing I’ve heard you say all night.’

  Sam smiled and kicked another stone in the water. The circles rippled and splashed against the bank in the quiet of the night. The gentle, cool air moved about the two of them in the dark and in the silence. There was a curious tautness to the silence, like a string about to snap. Sam realized his fists had been clenched, his nails digging into his palms, and relaxed them. There was an unconscious tightness to the world around them. They both felt it though they tried to ignore it.

  The crescent of the moon above them glowed dully behind its shroud of clouds and shone down a low light onto the scene. Few stars were out now. Most were hidden behind the scattered clouds and only a handful appeared in the usually rich tapestry of the night sky and the gentle babble of the river seemed to hush yet more as the mumble of two voices from inside the mill drifted towards the two young folk staring at the water and pondering their fate.

  ‘I’ll admit it freely Rosie, though I’ve said it before now, but I’ve no idea what’s going on. Do you?’

  ‘Hmm?’ she asked, pulling her gaze away from the hypnotic flow of the river.

  ‘Do you know what’s going on?’ he repeated.

  ‘I’ve got some thoughts, yes.’

  Sam waited for her to continue.

  ‘Care to share them?’ he prompted.

  Rosie fingered the precious stone at her throat and turned to the young man, his mousey hair brushed across his forehead and his features particularly fine in the low silver light.

  ‘I may be wrong, so don’t take everything I say as the word of truth, but this is what I have gathered so far. We arrived in Hope but two nights past. We thought we were sent here by the King himself but that has since been proved otherwise. Someone else wants us here. Who that is I don’t know. During my brief sojourn around the town I could easily grasp that the majority of the town’s people were frightened of something. From the evidence of this evening’s event I first thought it was this strange “dream machine”, this Oracle, that had put the creeps up them. I thought that they were perhaps under the constant watch of Apollo and his guards through this machine but, from what grandpa has said, it is not the machine they are using to read the minds of the town’s people, that was just for show, it is all the others you saw underground that they’re using, all those who were taken from the other side of the door, like Zanga in there. I think that’s why folk are stealing objects, so that the one’s from the other side of the door can use them as a connection to their past or future or something. I can only wonder if it is all some bizarre social experiment…if this Apollo is trying to forge the perfect tool or method to create the perfect town, free from all the troubles we see up and down the country. Only in Hope if you put a foot wrong you are subject to the same fate as Mr Smith and the others who seem to have been frightened to death (by what I can’t imagine. Such devilry I have never come across), or held captive like the others who grandpa saw over the wall in the old factories away from the town centre (heaven alone knows what he’s using them for). I’m afraid it seems that your father is mixed up in this somehow as well as the estimable Justice Brash, although he’s far too handsome to know he’s performing ill deeds…’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ muttered Sam. ‘He’s so slimy he practically leaves a trail.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Rosie went on, ignoring him and drawing a breath. ‘That’s about all I’ve got. Except that grandpa seems to be more spooked than I’ve ever seen him. He’s not one to scare easily, and he’s even less likely to leave a place without finishing a job. The thought that he’s running from something or someone is more frightening than all the rest, and I’ve seen such things that would you turn you as white as the moon Sam. There,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘That’s the end.’

  Sam whistled through his teeth.

  ‘Rosie Versatile you are a rare one. I wouldn’t have put that together if I had all week!’

  ‘I’ve been doing this a long time Sam,’ she admitted. ‘You get used to putting two and two together and making five.’

  The young man laughed and shoved his hands down into the pockets of his frock coat.

  ‘I can hardly believe it’s only been two days,’ he said, scuffing his feet in the dust. ‘How the world can change!’

  ‘These things tend to happen pretty quickly. We once had to deal with a landlord who was disturbing all the guests in his lodging house in Reading. We were in and out in a few hours and onto the next job.’

  ‘What was wrong with the landlord?’

  ‘He’d been hanged the week before.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘That must have been…fun.’

  ‘It can be…this one time in Canterbury…’

  ‘Don’t you ever get…I don’t know…tired of moving about, having no home?’

  Rosie drew a fair hand through her thick, black curls and looked down towards the valley.

  ‘I try not to dwell on it Sam. This is what I do. It’s like you said; whatever I think, shouting and worrying will do no good.’

  Sam moved slowly into her and reached out a hand.

  ‘Then you have my sympathies. It can’t be an easy life. You’ve seen and done so much what else is there left to surprise you?’

  Rosie felt herself, quite unconsciously, moving into Sam and the back of her hand brushing his.

  ‘There is still a great deal I’ve yet to do,’ she said.

  Sam felt his cheeks go red and his heart quicken as they moved closer still. The chill of the late hour changed to an uncommon warmth. He clenched his other hand inside his pocket and felt, deep down in his frock coat, the parchment from the circular room, the drawing of the two of them, the drawing of him stabbing Rosie.

  ‘I know it might sound…strange, but I want to tell you that I’ll never hurt you Rosie.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she whispered, leaning up onto her toes. Sam swallowed back hard. She was so close he could smell the sweetness of her hair and her skin.

  ‘It doesn’t matter why. I just want you to know. I’ll never hurt you. I promise.’

  ‘Promises at night are like politicians Sam,’ smiled Rosie. ‘Quickly spoken and not to be trusted.’

  ‘I said I promise Rosie, and I meant it. I’ll never hurt you.’

  They were now so close that their noses touched and Sam took her delicate hand in his and, in a rare moment of courage that took even him unawares, gently beckoned her in to him. Rosie felt heady as their lips went to find each other until…

  The muffled voices from the mill nearby rose to a great torrent of shouting and the wooden door was kicked outwards with such a crash that it shook on its fragile hinges and Henry bowled out in a wild fury.

  ‘…don’t understand how you know all this Zanga, but if you think I’m going to perform what you ask you are as deluded as a simpleton in Parliament!’

  The old man wiped a handkerchief across the open cut on his nose and threw it onto the ground.

  ‘You must!’ shouted Zanga, grabbing Henry by the arm and spinning him back to face him. ‘You know you must do what I ask. She needs to know what we are up against. There is no need for this arguing. You will do what I ask. I have seen it.’

  Rosie and Sam, both flustered and a little embarrassed, released their grasp of each other and rushed away from the riverbank and up to the mill towards the others.

  ‘Grandpa? What’s this about?’

  ‘Nothing Rosie. It’s about not
hing!’ bellowed the old man, never taking his eyes from Zanga.

  ‘That is not true Rosie Versatile,’ said their strange friend. ‘Your grandfather knows exactly what this is about. It’s about…’

  ‘Don’t Zanga!’ said Henry. ‘Please don’t.’

  Zanga turned away from him and set his powerful gaze upon Rosie.

  ‘Rosie Versatile, it is about your mother and father.’

  ‘Why you…!’ shouted Henry, pulling his grip free from Zanga and throwing his arm out to strike him. Zanga, without even looking, raised his own arm and caught Henry’s fist in his.

  ‘You see Henry Versatile, I knew you were going to do that.’

  Henry pulled free and stomped off into the clearing drawing his hands down his haggard and swollen face.

  ‘My mother and father?’ said Rosie. ‘Mercy and grace defend us! What on earth do they have to do with anything? I haven’t thought about them for as long as I can remember. Grandpa, what does he mean?’

  ‘I can’t Zanga, I can’t tell her,’ he said, stopping and turning back to the group. His eyes were wet and he looked thoroughly wretched. ‘Some secrets lie so deep, it’s as if they were never true in the first place.’

  The old man’s eyes then shifted and turned upon Rosie and, for the first time, she saw something fragile and almost young in his expression as if she could see for a fleeting moment the man he once was.

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘I cannot tell you girl,’ he coughed, as tears fell from his eyes and mingled with the blood on his cheeks.

  Rosie walked over to him and took his callused hands in hers and squeezed them.

  ‘Please?’ she asked one last time.

  The old man blinked and waited and thought and finally nodded his head once more. He brought Rosie down and all of them sat in the clearing in the damp grass as he wiped his eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Right girl,’ he began, clearing his throat. ‘I’ll tell you of your father.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Your father. Your father. Where to begin?’ the old man spoke in a reluctant drawl, drawing his hands down the side of his jaw.

  ‘I realise you know little about your father and mother and I’ve always been grateful that you haven’t turned too curious, but it would seem that the circumstances of the past few days have led us directly to this point…’ he looked over at Zanga as though he blamed him for the whole fiasco and shook his head, ‘…and it is now time to tell you your fathers tale.’

  Rosie, cramped up with impatience, dropped down to her haunches and squeezed her grandfather’s brittle hands.

  ‘Please grandpa, go on.’

  ‘A fire first.’

  ‘But we don’t…’

  ‘A fire!’ the old man demanded. ‘A story and a fire are fine bedfellows and, besides, my bones ache out here. I need some warmth damnit.’

  Rosie huffed and cast a shrug Zanga’s way, knowing all she could do was to acquiesce. She’d spent enough time with the old man to know that he was as stubborn as a rusted lock when he put his mind to it.

  The three of them, Rosie, Zanga and Sam, quickly gathered as many dead and dry twigs and branches from beyond the clearing of the mill. Sam silently built the collected sticks together in the middle of a small circle of rocks and within minutes the smoking kindling had caught aflame and the small fire spluttered and popped into life. The undulating glow of the flames warmed their faces and the clearing immediately turned into a cocoon of dancing shadows.

  They sat round the fire and rubbed the warmth into their hands as they watched and waited for Henry to begin. The flames lit the old man’s eyes as he prodded the burning wood with a twig and sighed a sigh so deep it was as if he wished the world would open up and swallow him whole.

  ‘Your father was a great deal like me in his younger years, a great deal,’ he began, not once lifting his gaze from the lapping flames to look at Rosie crouched on the other side of the fire. ‘He was reckless, flighty and could hardly sit still for a moment.’

  Sam looked over at Rosie and saw her enraptured face never wavering from the old man’s, hanging on his ever word. The poor girl mustn’t know a thing about the man she called father, he thought, turning back to Henry.

  ‘The young man could barely finish a meal, so full of fidgeting and eager to run off he was. Always running into trouble. Always that was, until he met your mama.’

  The smallest curl of a cold smile creased the corners of the old man’s mouth.

  ‘Daisy Homespun,’ he said, enjoying the ring of the name in the cool air. ‘Daisy Homespun, the fairest girl in the town and the heart’s desire of many a young man. Daisy Homespun, with beauty to match Helen of Troy. She tamed him good and proper, I’ll tell you that. After barely a month of stepping out together, under the watchful eye of her mother, your pa was well and truly lost to her, wit and will. His fondest wish was nothing more than to make his home with her, lock the door and throw away the key. And not to boil the bones of his story, that’s just about what he did.

  ‘Their wedding day was as joyous as any Sarn’s day fete with more eating, drinking and dancing than the folk of the town had yet witnessed, and everyone wished them nothing but happiness in their future together.

  ‘They didn’t have much in the way of money back then. This was years before your father sought employment with the crown. Their life was a modest one; a small cottage half a miles walk from the town, a brace of pigs and chickens and one old donkey. Your father didn’t even have a purse of pennies to buy a ring for his bonny bride, so he carved one out of a pebble no bigger that a skimming stone and wished for good tidings and prosperity with every moment he took to perfect the stone band.’

  Rosie’s hand found the stone ring, still on her finger, and pulled it free, feeling the smoothness of its surface against her rough fingertips. She had never pressed her grandfather to tell her of her parents, over the years they had become like clouds behind her eyes and not part of her life or who she had become, but now the old man had begun his tale she cursed her former self.

  Henry threw his twig into the flames and watched it alight and crackle. Hardly blinking in the night air, he seemed hypnotized and lost in the memories of the past.

  ‘If the tale ended there, there would be few happier ones. They thought themselves as blessed as could be and when Daisy’s belly began to grow your father thanked the sun and the stars for his good fortune. But the tale doesn’t end there. Follow a yarn far enough and you’ll always find a snag and that’s the truth of it.’

  The old man stared into the flames gathering his thoughts before shaking himself and continuing.

  ‘Your fathers tears of joy were short lived and soon dried up when Daisy grew sick. At first they thought it was the morning sickness that those with child are wont to get, but it came more often and more often still, fevers followed by chills and cramps a hundred times worse, stabbing knives inside her as the child grew.

  ‘Your father could do nothing but hold her hand, wipe her hair away from her fair face and rub her back in a vain attempt to ease her sufferings, but he knew he was helpless and felt every jolt of pain that twisted at his wife’s insides as keenly as she felt it herself. Cursed, he would cry and cursed he believed he was for being too happy and now they were to pay for it.

  ‘He went to every doctor, quack and apothecary he could find, many coming to their cottage to look Daisy over and treat her with their unction’s and salves, but eventually they all said the same thing. It was out of their hands and into the hands of a mightier power to decide the fate of his wife and child. Needless to say, this was an answer your father was unwilling to accept and within four months the beautiful Daisy was a withered flower in winter fighting for her life.’

  Rosie’s hand found Sam’s in the darkness and held it tightly.

  ‘Every night was a sleepless one for him, with a wife sick, no money and no food. Poverty is not a kind friend to those in need. He would have sold his soul t
o help his wife in those dark days and wracking his mind night after night he finally knew there was only possible way out of the mess…’

  ‘Run away! He ran away didn’t he the lazy turncoat?!’ said Rosie, jumping to her feet.

  ‘Girl if you interrupt me I’ll sew your lips together with needle and thread.’

  Rosie hesitated before squatting back down.

  ‘No, he didn’t run away,’ said Henry. ‘He’d never do that. He had to go and see the old crone of the forest you see, no one else had been able to help them and she was the only one left. He had to go and see the witch.

  ‘And once his mind was made up he kissed Daisy’s fevered brow and left the cottage that very night. It didn’t take long to find the old crone of the forest, sat by a fire much like this one as if she were expecting him since sunrise, surrounded by cats and frogs and toads.

  ‘He told the witch of his misfortune, pleaded with her on bended knee for her help and when he’d finished the old crone turned her white eyes towards him and smiled a toothless and gummy smile.

  ‘She asked him, what he was willing to give. Your father told him “everything.” She then told your father that it was not her help he needed but that of another, someone who went by many names; Orbog, Loki, Aite, Olkys, the Crow,’ the old man seemed to spit out each unusual name as if he would sooner be sick than speak the words. ‘Olkys would be able to help his wife, the Crow could do it, but he must be willing to part with that which is most precious to him if he wished to save her and the child. Your father nodded wholeheartedly and went where he was directed as fast as his weary legs would carry him.

  ‘The young man ran through the forest, the thought of Daisy driving him onwards and deeper into the dense wood with renewed vigour. He knew when he’d found the place for, just as the witch had described, he came to an oak tree as thick and wide as ten men and in its base a door that reached no higher than the top of his legs. He knocked on the door and waited for an answer, but an answer never came and so he knocked again and waited again, but still no answer came. He rested his hands on the timber of the door and wished as hard as he could, over and over, to meet the stranger with many names. Olkys. The Crow. He wished for what felt like hours, his eyes shut tight, until there came a creaking. The door was opening and a fine golden light was spilling out into the forest. By the time the small door was wide open your father saw that it framed the entrance to a vast golden room as long and as high as the forest on his side of the door. Through the light a distant figure was making his way across towards him. As the figure came closer your father noticed the finery of the man’s attire, a waistcoat that seemed to shift colours with every step, the breeches and coat of a nobleman and the whitest powdered wig he had ever seen.