The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by Magnus Mills

  The remarkable thing about this other tent, though, was its shape: closer examination revealed that the impression in the grass was a perfect octagon. I tried to picture an octagonal tent standing all alone in the south-east, and suddenly I felt a surge of indignation rising up inside me. Having to relinquish the prime position was tiresome enough, but the idea of losing it to some interloper with a fancy, octagonal tent verged on outrageous!

  These sentiments were hardly lessened when I considered the practical shortcomings of such a tent. Surely, I reasoned, it would be entirely unsuited to all but the mildest of weather conditions: if it didn’t collapse under its own weight, then no doubt it would be blown away at the first hint of a storm. The field, after all, could be a harsh billet at the turn of the season. What it required was a robust, low tent of the kind favoured by frontiersmen. Stout canvas would be the fabric of choice. The octagonal tent, by contrast, was most likely fashioned from an untested cloth chosen more for its appearance than its durability. Perhaps, of course, this was the very reason it was no longer in place: maybe its owners had realized their folly, and retreated to more temperate climes. If so, then they were plainly ignorant of the field’s importance; otherwise they wouldn’t have abandoned it quite so readily.

  As I pondered these arguments it struck me that my feelings on the subject were both contrary and illogical. In one instant I’d conjured up an imaginary tent, passed judgement on it and wished it out of existence. In other words, I was displaying all the symptoms of acute envy. Somewhere at the back of my mind I knew I was profoundly jealous of the octagonal tent. Without question it must have been a magnificent sight as it stood overlooking the river, and, to tell the truth, part of me regretted never seeing it.

  Nonetheless, I was cross with Hen for failing to mention the other tent. If I’d known about it earlier I could have made alternative plans; instead of which, I’d spent a futile fortnight waiting to move to the south-east. It was alright for Hen: he was fully established in the field, whereas my base was merely temporary. I was finding it all rather frustrating. Hen’s silence was utterly unfathomable, yet there was nothing to be gained from falling out with him. So I decided for the moment simply to let the matter lie.

  The following morning I awoke early and peered out of my doorway. The sun had barely risen, but to my surprise I spotted Hen patrolling the south-east corner of the field. He hardly ever strayed from his western redoubt, so I wondered what could have tempted him so far. Initially I assumed he was taking a stroll by the river, and that he’d roamed a little further than he intended. After a while, however, I noticed he was inspecting the ground beneath his feet. All at once his purpose became clear: he was studying the impression in the grass. He walked round and round it, bobbing down now and again to get a closer look, and appeared totally preoccupied. For several minutes I observed him with interest, then abruptly he turned and came striding back towards the west. I closed my doorway, and reflected on what I’d seen. The explanation for Hen’s early-morning foray now seemed obvious. His claim to be the first in the field was directly undermined by the impression in the grass; accordingly, the sooner it faded from sight the better. I knew for a fact that it hadn’t faded, not properly, and so for the present he was destined to be disappointed. I had no idea, of course, if he’d ever laid eyes on the octagonal tent; perhaps he only had a mental picture, just as I did. What was certain was that we had a common desire: for different reasons, both of us wanted all traces of the other tent erased for good; then, maybe, normal life could be resumed.

  Judging by Hen’s behaviour, he was rapidly running out of patience. The next afternoon he made yet another trip to the south-east. This time he approached his objective from an oblique angle. After a long excursion he went ambling down the field from the north, paused casually to inspect the ground, then continued on his way. He must have known that I could see his every move, and plainly he was trying to disguise his actions. He needn’t have bothered really, but I had no wish to cause an upset so I willingly played along with the pretence: when next we spoke I carefully avoided any reference to his jaunts in the south-east.

  In any case, I had a feeling that the question of the other tent would resolve itself naturally in due course. The weather continued to improve, and in consequence the grass was thriving. My own tent was already nestling in a soft bed of greenery which thickened visibly by the day, and it was the same story across the whole field. A similar notion must have occurred to Hen. As the grass grew his restlessness diminished in proportion until, at last, he ceased his wanderings. Hen’s precious claim was finally safe from scrutiny. Now it was my turn to be impatient. Another slothful week had gone by, and inertia was beginning to set in. Tomorrow, I decided, I would definitely make my move.

  Unusually for me, I didn’t sleep well that night. Possibly it was the humid conditions keeping me awake, but more likely it was the jumbled dreams which always come with upheaval. Either way, I drifted in and out of my slumbers until the small hours; then, sometime around dawn, I became aware of men’s voices passing close by my tent. They were fairly indistinct at first, but slowly my ears attuned, and I recognized Hen’s formal tones.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I am called Hen, and I have a tent in the west.’

  ‘Been here long?’ enquired a second voice. It was deep and resonant.

  ‘Quite a while,’ said Hen.

  ‘Whose tent is this?’

  ‘He’s a newcomer,’ Hen replied. ‘Just recently arrived.’

  ‘Otherwise you’ve been all alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now the voices began to fade. Evidently, the two of them were moving away towards the river. The conversation dwindled gradually into nothing, accompanied by the receding tramp of feet. After that I lay for a long time dwelling on what I’d heard. Understandably I was a little dismayed at being described as a newcomer, especially by Hen, whom I’d always thought regarded me as a fellow pioneer. Clearly I’d been deluding myself.

  There was something else, though, which was rather bewildering. Even in my drowsiness I’d perceived a certain reticence in Hen’s words. During the brief exchange he’d made no mention of his perennial claim to be the first in the field, and vaguely I pondered the cause of this omission.

  I wasn’t sure how long I slept after that. When next I awoke my tent was bathed in warm sunshine. The voices I’d heard all those hours ago were like a distant memory; then, as the light came filtering in, I recalled my resolution of the day before. I was due to make a move, so I got up and looked out across the field. To my absolute astonishment I saw a new tent in the south-east. It was pure white, and appeared to be shimmering under the clear morning sky.

  After gazing at it with disbelief for several minutes, I finally roused myself and ventured outside. All was quiet. There was no sign of Hen, or anyone else for that matter, and an air of undisturbed calm lay over the entire field. I paused again to contemplate the scene before me. For reasons which I couldn’t explain, the new tent seemed completely familiar, as though it had been standing in the same place for ever. At the same time I felt that it was somehow unapproachable; that henceforward the land it occupied would be out-of-bounds to me. Needless to say, I swiftly dismissed these preposterous notions: what nonsense, I thought; after all, it’s only a tent, nothing more than the product of human invention; then I set off towards the south-east to get a proper look.

  I had to admit it was a splendid sight; the outline of the new tent was almost classical in its perfection. Its walls were quite steep, with an upper rim surmounted by a decorative mantle. The canopy was made from some white fabric which I couldn’t identify, and which gleamed softly in the sunlight. Beneath a curved awning hung an elaborate cloth doorway. Apparently the structure was supported by a single centre pole and a multitude of guy ropes. From its pinnacle flew a distinctive black-and-white pennant, but the tent’s most notable characteristic was its shape. Keeping my distance I walked around it in a large circle, count
ing its many sides. There were eight in total, a fact that confirmed what I already suspected: evidently the octagonal tent had returned.

  All of a sudden the doorway parted, and a bearded man emerged. He was dressed in flowing white robes. I knew that he couldn’t have failed to see me standing there: I was barely a stone’s throw away, and actually our eyes met for a moment as he surveyed his surroundings. I waited for a nod of acknowledgement, which was customary in such circumstances, but to my surprise he turned and began closing up his tent. Next there followed a prolonged interlude during which he appeared to do nothing in particular, while constantly ignoring my presence; then eventually he moved off towards the river. Naturally, I was dumbfounded: the newcomer had effectively rebuffed me at a glance. I watched in silence as he neared the river bank. Finally, after a further delay, he entered the water and started wading across to the opposite side. His chosen point of departure was in the extreme south of the field where the river was conspicuously broad and shallow. I’d noticed on previous occasions that the sandy riverbed was clearly visible, but the idea of it being a possible crossing place had never occurred to me. This I found slightly annoying. The man’s progress was seemingly unhindered by his white robes; they swirled around him as he pressed on towards his presumed destination at the far side of the river. When he reached it, however, he didn’t stop; instead, he continued southwards overland before ultimately disappearing from view.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ said a voice beside me. It belonged to Hen, who had now resurfaced from wherever he’d been lurking.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ I replied.

  I thought Hen was referring to the other man’s inexcusable conduct, but I was mistaken. With obvious bewilderment he peered at me, then at the river, then back at me again.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said at length. ‘What do I make of what?’

  ‘The crossing,’ said Hen. ‘I never knew it was feasible.’

  ‘Oh,’ I murmured. ‘No, nor did I.’

  ‘I’d always imagined it would be fraught with difficulty, yet Thomas made it look quite straightforward.’

  The way Hen uttered the word ‘Thomas’ seemed to imply that I should instantly recognize the name; that its owner should be well known to me; and, moreover, that I should always have known him. As a matter of fact, I could easily hazard a guess who Thomas was. Even so, it was odd to hear Hen talking like this; it was almost as if he was in awe of the newcomer.

  I nodded towards the river.

  ‘Thinking of going across, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Hen, ‘I probably won’t bother.’

  ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Well, at least let’s have a closer look.’

  We strode down to the water’s edge. The soft sand was indented with recent footprints: these were the only signs that anyone had ever been there, but I sensed they heralded the beginning of a change. There was no bridge; there weren’t even stepping stones; yet the existence of a known crossing place was sure to attract others to the field. Whether this presaged good or ill was far less certain. Only time would tell.

  Meanwhile, the river glided quietly past. Hen, I noticed, was gazing abstractedly into the distance.

  I half-expected our next port of call to be the south-east. I could picture an enjoyable ten minutes as the two of us subjected the octagonal tent to a detailed evaluation: comparing architectural notes; criticising the features we didn’t like; and reluctantly granting our seal of approval. I saw this as a harmless pastime; therefore, I was mildly surprised when Hen declined to join in.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be getting back to the west if you don’t mind. It’s where I belong really.’

  ‘You can’t be persuaded then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Sorry.’

  He wished me luck and retreated westward.

  Without Hen’s involvement the exercise seemed rather pointless, but I headed for the other tent just for the sake of it. I soon realized, however, that I was hardly in a position to offer a serious assessment. My own tent was no more than a basic pyramid with a pole in the middle, wholly unlike the palatial edifice which stood before me. As I studied the ornately embroidered seams, the intricately spliced guy ropes and the elegantly draped contours, I had to confess I could find no fault at all; on the contrary I was full of admiration. Whether there was a need for such extravagance posed a different question altogether.

  Equally hard to justify was the sense of trespass that gradually crept over me as I prowled around the newcomer’s tent. I had as much right to be in the south-east as anybody else, yet repeatedly I caught myself glancing towards the river on the off-chance he might be coming back. Angered by my own foolishness, I resumed the inspection and did not cease until I was satisfied I’d seen enough; then finally I sauntered away.

  As it happened, he didn’t return for several days. During this period life went on much as before: the sun shone, the grass burgeoned and I was soon accustomed to the sight of the shimmering white tent. Only one aspect bothered me: undoubtedly the tent looked resplendent in its solitude, but I couldn’t help feeling that the owner was acting selfishly. Essentially, the choicest part of the field was being squandered on an empty dwelling, which struck me as unfair. Reserving a place was one thing; prolonged neglect was quite another.

  At last, though, he came back. Early one morning I emerged from my tent and saw him strolling around in the south-east. Again he was wearing flowing white robes, and again he failed to acknowledge me. I tried a friendly nod, but it was no use: his self-absorption was patent. Indeed, his entire demeanour suggested his presence in the field had been bestowed by divine gift.

  I watched as he approached his tent and began making some adjustment or other. The way he went about it was fascinating to observe: his movements were both unhurried and purposeful in equal measure, as though he had all the time in the world; seemingly every action had to be contemplated in depth beforehand; and he was endlessly pausing for further deliberation. All this I found irritating in the extreme. Why, I wanted to know, couldn’t he simply get on with it? He didn’t even keep to his own corner: later the same day he came roaming across the field and passed fairly close to my tent, yet he never deigned to look in my direction. Instead, he just walked straight on by as if I didn’t exist. Well, I thought, two can play at that game. I decided to have nothing to do with him until he made suitable amends. This, of course, meant my own movements would be severely limited: in effect, I was excluding myself from the whole of the south-east, but it was a cost I was ready to bear.

  Over subsequent days the newcomer continued to wander around as though he owned the place. I also observed that he frequently crossed the river and headed southwards into the lands beyond. Sometimes he returned within a few hours; sometimes he didn’t. Meanwhile his tent remained unattended. I soon got the impression that he regarded it as a kind of summer retreat, and that his main interests actually lay elsewhere.

  I imagined Hen would take a dim view of these relentless comings and goings. He was, after all, a stalwart of the field who set great store by the fact that he’d been the first to settle. I expected him to be distrustful of the newcomer, but if he was he kept his misgivings very much to himself. One morning I saw the pair of them talking down by the river. To judge by the time they spent together, the subject under discussion must have been highly important; then finally they shook hands and went their separate ways.

  3

  Far off in the north-east, beyond the outermost turn of the river, a flock of birds was wheeling in the sky. They were no larger than specks in the deep blue haze but, nevertheless, there appeared to be a purpose in their behaviour. They looked as if they were following the progress of some object moving slowly through the broad expanse beneath them. I studied the horizon but saw nothing. After a while one of the birds detached itself from its companions and flew due east. The others maintained their whirling vigil, and I wondered what could have enthralled them so much.

  Later,
during the afternoon, Hen came across to see me.

  ‘What do you make of those birds?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve been watching their antics all day and they’re slowly getting closer.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘All day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t notice them.’

  We stood in silence for a long time, gazing at the birds. I sensed, however, that Hen’s mind was on other matters.

  ‘By the way,’ he said at length, ‘Thomas agrees I was the first to settle in the west.’

  ‘Nice of him,’ I remarked. ‘Is that his name then? Thomas?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hen. ‘I told you before.’

  ‘You mentioned him, yes,’ I said, ‘but he’s never come and introduced himself in person.’

  Even as I spoke it struck me that I must have sounded very churlish. Here was Hen giving me some news which plainly meant a great deal to him, but my only response was to quibble about some detail. It seemed my resentment of the newcomer was yet to subside, and poor old Hen was on the receiving end. At the same time, I couldn’t help noting that his claim had been somewhat diluted from its original form: ‘first in the west’ was rather different from ‘first in the field’, and to my ears it was more of a concession than a victory.

  I glanced quickly at Hen, realizing I’d probably offended him on several counts, but by now his attention was distracted.

  ‘Look!’ he cried, pointing to the north-east.

  The birds we’d seen approaching had now reached the far corner of the field where the river made its turn. They’d worked themselves into a frenzy of squawking and flapping of wings, and a few seconds later we saw the cause of their ferment. Below them, drifting on the current, came a boat with a high, curved prow. Reclining in the stern was a lightly clad woman. She had no obvious means of propulsion, and was relying solely on the river to carry her along. When she saw the tents she steered towards the shallows; then she leapt out and dragged the boat into a stand of bulrushes; finally, she carried a number of bundles to the bank before stepping ashore.