by Magnus Mills
‘Oh, I’m hopeless at all that,’ said Isabella. ‘My tent’s riddled with imperfection.’
‘Looks alright to me,’ I said.
‘You’ve only seen it from faraway,’ she replied. ‘Actually it’s a mass of sags and bulges.’
Hartopp furrowed his brow.
‘Are your guys equidistant?’ he asked.
‘More or less,’ said Isabella.
‘It’s fairly important,’ he said. ‘A small modification can make all the difference.’
‘Really?’
‘If you like, I can come and see to it for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely. Yes, we really must arrange it sometime.’
‘Tomorrow?’ suggested Hartopp.
Isabella took a moment to consider her answer.
‘Probably not just yet,’ she said, casting him a winning smile.
The sun was beginning to go down. Biscuits and cordial were served. As the guests mingled, I gazed around the little encampment. Over by the river bank, I noticed, the three boats had been upturned and were resting on wooden blocks. Something told me they’d be there for quite a while.
5
The following morning I awoke early. I gazed out at the tents ranged far and wide across the field: all around me was spaciousness, peace and tranquillity. Another warm day lay ahead, so I decided to take a walk by the river while it was still relatively cool. This necessarily involved a detour away from the south-east: in spite of recent events my stand-off with Thomas remained unresolved, and I continued to avoid him at all costs. My plan, therefore, was to aim for the extreme south of the field before heading due west. When I neared the water’s edge, however, I changed my mind. The lack of rainfall had started to affect the level of the river, and it was especially shallow at the southernmost point. All of a sudden I was taken with the notion of wading over to the other side: it would be interesting, I thought, to see the field from an entirely different angle, and a change of scenery would do me good. I wasn’t one of those people who roamed about barefoot, so I removed my boots and carried them with me. The going was easy, and I was soon at the opposite bank. Some footprints in the sand told me this was the spot where Thomas regularly came ashore; today, for the first time, I added some prints of my own. It was beginning to evolve into a proper crossing.
Once I’d reached dry land I turned and looked back at the field. Immediately I was struck by the preponderance of the shimmering white tent; in comparison, my own tent appeared tiny and insignificant, and so did Hen’s, while the new tents in the north-east were barely visible through the early-morning haze. Seemingly, Thomas had chosen his ground well. It gave him full command of the river (as well as the best views) and the implication was clear: anyone approaching from the south was bound to assume Thomas was more important than the rest of us. No wonder he strutted around as if he owned the place; indeed, I would hardly have been surprised if he’d demanded tithes from we lower mortals, or maybe levied a toll for using the crossing. As a matter of fact, I suspected Hen was already in Thomas’s thrall. The way he’d continually amended his claim to be first in the field suggested they’d come to some kind of feudal agreement. Obviously this was only conjecture on my part, but there was plenty of evidence to support the theory. Whenever he mentioned Thomas’s name, for instance, Hen sounded as though he was doffing an imaginary cap. Moreover, he rarely paid visits to the north, the east or the south. In effect, Hen was confined to his western outpost. There were, however, two sides to this particular coin. During the past few weeks I’d never seen Thomas venturing very far into the west: whenever he wandered in that direction he always stopped well short of the margins. Thomas was apparently keeping to his half of the bargain. In consequence, Hen was free to enjoy a solitary existence, which was what he actually preferred. Maybe he was more astute than I thought.
I pondered all this as I continued to roam through the neighbouring lands. I drifted eastward and Isabella’s crimson tent came into view. The sun was up, but it was not yet the hour for her daily swim and there was no sign of movement. (Brigant’s tent, meanwhile, lay silent and still.)
By now I was starting to feel an odd sense of detachment. I was only separated from the Great Field by the width of the river, but already I felt disconnected from Hen, Isabella and the others. I realized that the field was where I truly belonged, and all at once I was overcome by an urge to go back. I turned and headed for the crossing, which was when I spotted Thomas advancing towards the far side. He was strolling down the river bank in his usual unhurried manner. I had no idea if he’d seen me or not, but it was too late to change my mind now. I entered the water at the same moment as he did, and waded into the shallows. As we got nearer to one another it occurred to me how different we were: I was carrying a pair of boots in my hand and he was wearing flowing white robes. Also, he was bearded whereas I wasn’t. We had nothing in common except that we both dwelt in the same field. For some reason he thought he was superior to everybody else, and I expected at least a reprimand for using the crossing without his permission. I was surprised, therefore, when we passed each other and merely exchanged nods. Not a word was spoken, and I was rather nonplussed by the encounter. Whether he’d given me a nod of greeting, acknowledgement or plain condescension remained unclear, but by the time I reached the bank I’d decided it scarcely mattered. I watched Thomas as he retreated slowly and purposefully into the distant south. It was obvious that neither of us were likely to alter our ways in the near future; accordingly, our exchanged nods represented a sort of unspoken accommodation between us. They were nods of mutual acceptance, which was fine by me.
I had to admit this change of perspective was most welcome; in fact, as the morning unfurled I began to feel somewhat uplifted. Presently, Isabella emerged and went bathing in the river uninterrupted. She swam a long way beyond the shimmering white tent, giving it hardly a second glance as she passed it by; afterwards she returned to the shore and spent the rest of the day sunning herself.
During the afternoon I wandered over to see Hartopp. Although they were newcomers to the field, he and his followers seemed to have blended in quite readily. Nothing was too much trouble in the way of hospitality, and they were never-failing in their helpfulness. Hartopp was still awaiting the call to iron out Isabella’s imperfections, but as yet it hadn’t come. Instead he immersed himself in the study of tents. All problems of design, structure and function, he explained, could be solved on scientific principles.
Meanwhile, his two sons went in search of Isabella’s missing boat. The previous evening I’d recounted the events surrounding her arrival, and they’d been intrigued by my description of the errant vessel. Now they were forming a search party. Perhaps, they suggested, the boat had become lodged amongst the reeds at the far south-west turn of the river (they even considered recruiting Hen as a local guide, but then decided they could manage unassisted). I thought the plan was doomed to failure from the start: wherever the boat came to rest, it was sure to have been pecked to pieces by the birds. Nonetheless, the brothers set off eagerly to seek their trophy. Presumably, they hoped to win Isabella’s favour when they brought it back in triumph. Disappointment, however, stood in their way. After hours spent scouring the reed beds, they returned empty-handed.
Following this brief swirl of activity, life continued at its former sedate pace. Thomas finally reappeared and resumed his stately residence in the south-east; and once again he set his sights on Isabella. For several successive mornings he joined her at the riverside, carrying her towel and playing the humble attendant. I had to confess I admired his persistence: without question it was a gallant effort, yet she wasn’t fooled for a moment. Not Isabella. She may have dried herself in public, but she always dressed in private. Thomas’s repeated overtures were getting him nowhere, and ultimately his interest began to wane. As Hartopp could have told him, Isabella was more or less unreachable.
Despite these minor let-downs, there was no real ca
use for complaint. In truth, we lacked for nothing. Each of us possessed the tent of our choice; we enjoyed luxurious seclusion; and the weather was warm and sunny. We were a handful of settlers scattered far and wide beneath the broad, blue sky. All around us was peace and tranquillity and, as the summer rolled on, a sense of timelessness descended over the field.
6
It was Brigant, of all people, who alerted us to the intruders. I say ‘of all people’ because he was the last person I’d have expected to raise the alarm. Generally he minded his own business and kept matters very much to himself. He was the type who noticed a lot but said little in the way of comment. Moreover, he wasn’t usually to be found roaming about at the crack of dawn, which was when the advance party made its appearance.
Brigant had taken a while to adapt to his new circumstances. In the days following his undignified arrival he’d remained hidden inside his tent, lost entirely to the world at large and displaying no obvious sign of life. I soon decided that he must be a recluse by choice, but Hartopp had different ideas. He felt responsible for the welfare of his passengers, and gradually Brigant’s prolonged torpor became a cause for grave concern. Apparently, his recent history was rather discouraging.
‘Brigant was never a good traveller,’ Hartopp explained. ‘We had to stop the boats on countless occasions during our voyage.’
Hartopp, Isabella and I debated what we should do. In my opinion it was best simply to leave Brigant alone until he’d made a proper recovery, but I was overruled by Isabella.
‘We can’t just leave him,’ she said. ‘He looked very peaky when he landed, and he might be even worse now.’
So it was that I found myself in a small deputation heading for Brigant’s tent. It stood in the middle of the field and, by default, I was his nearest neighbour (hence my involvement). The tent was an unglamorous affair: a ridge tent, with a wooden knob at the top of each pole. Its canvas walls flapped limply in the wind as we approached. We paused and listened, but heard no sound; then Hartopp spoke quietly.
‘Brigant?’
His enquiry brought no response.
‘Brigant?’
Again nothing.
‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ I said.
‘Perhaps,’ answered Hartopp. ‘Even so, it’s a bit worrying.’
‘I really think we should have come sooner,’ said Isabella.
We watched as she leaned in close to the tent.
‘Brigant?’ she called softly. ‘Brigant?’
There was a low groan from within, then a hoarse voice demanded, ‘What’s all the noise?’
‘Oh, hello, Brigant,’ said Hartopp. ‘We’re just seeing if you’re alright.’
‘I’ll survive,’ came the reply.
‘We’ve brought you some biscuits.’
I thought I heard the onset of a second groan, but it was quickly suppressed.
Instead, the voice murmured a weak, ‘Thank you.’
The three of us waited. From inside the tent there came a further series of groans, faint cursing and exasperated puffing; then, at last, Brigant’s gaunt head appeared in the entrance.
‘Morning,’ he said, to nobody in particular.
‘Afternoon actually,’ said Isabella.
She was dressed as usual in dazzling crimson, but Brigant seemed unmoved by her splendour.
‘I stand corrected,’ he said, before emerging fully into the daylight.
‘Well,’ said Hartopp cheerily. ‘Glad to see you out and about.’
He presented Brigant with a tin of biscuits and assured him there were plenty more where they came from.
‘Let me know when you need replenishing,’ he added.
Brigant was evidently overwhelmed by this act of generosity. He stared speechlessly at the offering while Hartopp went and fussed around the tent, tightening the guy lines and so forth. There was little to adjust, in fact, but the work kept Hartopp busy for a few minutes.
‘That’s better,’ he announced finally.
‘Thank you,’ uttered Brigant for a second time.
Hartopp smiled, and said he’d better be getting back to the north-east.
After he’d gone, Brigant peered doubtfully at his biscuits.
‘Many more of these,’ he said at length, ‘and I’ll go down with scurvy.’
‘Oh,’ I said, with surprise, ‘I think they’re quite nice.’
‘Maybe they are,’ said Brigant, ‘but you probably haven’t had to live on them for the past year and a half.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Still,’ said Isabella, ‘it was kind of Hartopp to bring them over.’
‘Yes, if you say so,’ conceded Brigant in a weary tone. He put his hand to his brow and closed his eyes for several long moments, then he opened them again and focused properly on Isabella.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘Isabella.’
‘I’m Brigant.’
‘Yes, so we heard,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ said Brigant.
He gave me a nod, then turned and peered at the elegant white tent that shimmered in the distance.
‘Alright for some,’ he remarked. ‘Very posh.’
‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Isabella.
‘Is that Thomas the Proud?’
‘Just Thomas,’ she said, ‘as far as I know.’
I was beginning to warm towards Brigant, in spite of his rather blunt manner. He looked across to the west, where Hen was busily engaged in some task or other.
‘Who’s that fellow?’ he enquired.
‘His name’s Hen,’ I said. ‘He was here first.’
‘Really?’ said Isabella. ‘I thought Thomas was.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Not in so many words,’ she said, ‘but I always assumed he was here before anyone else.’
‘That’s debatable,’ I replied. ‘In any case, Hen was the first to settle so he has the prior claim.’
‘But . . .’
Isabella got no further because she was suddenly interrupted by Brigant.
‘Does any of this really matter?’ he snapped. ‘After all, it’s only a blasted field we’re talking about!’
I glanced at Brigant with astonishment. Plainly he didn’t share my idealistic vision of the field: a place chosen especially to fulfil its purpose; a place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition. In Brigant’s view it was merely a ‘blasted field’. During the silence which followed his outburst I wondered if his judgement was possibly correct, and if maybe I’d been deceiving myself from the very start. When I considered the question in any depth, I realized that nothing of significance had happened in all those weeks since my arrival. There’d just been sunshine, rain, and more sunshine, accompanied by a slow trickle of newcomers. The facts were irrefutable: the sparse population was barely enough to put us on the map, let alone stir up great events.
Isabella’s expectations had similarly failed to transpire. She’d envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft. It was a vivid picture, and I could easily imagine the scene she’d painted, but as yet it had come to little.
Nevertheless, she remained optimistic.
‘Well, whoever was here first,’ she said, ‘I think we’re all fortunate to have such a lovely meadow.’
Her words seemed to smooth Brigant’s ruffles.
‘I suppose it’ll do,’ he said at length.
Brigant may not have been impressed by his new surroundings, but there was one feature that definitely caught his interest.
‘I see we’ve got a bit of a slope,’ he observed.
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly anything really. Almost imperceptible.’
‘A slope’s still a slope,’ said Brigant.
He looked up the field towards the wilderness in the north, then turned again and gazed south.
‘Hmm,’ he said thoughtfully. �
��Always a good test, a slope is.’
I wasn’t sure what he meant by this remark. Over the next few days, however, he gradually expanded on the subject. In conversation, he began making reference to the ‘lower field’ and the ‘upper field’, as though the Great Field was somehow divided into two halves. The slope, apparently, was an integral part of this division. Any land that lay to Brigant’s south was the lower field, while the upper field was the land that lay to his north. The line between the two halves was completely arbitrary, of course, yet Brigant persisted in distinguishing one from the other. Furthermore, I noted that he tended always to favour the north. He could often be seen strolling around in the upper field, as he called it, but he seldom ventured southward.
Consequently, I was surprised when early one morning I heard Brigant’s voice outside my tent.
‘Are you awake?’ he asked quietly.
‘Only just,’ I said. ‘What are you doing up and about at this hour?’
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he replied.
‘That makes a change.’
‘Can you come out here please?’
I detected a sense of urgency in his tone, so quickly I put on my boots and went outside.
Brigant was peering towards the river.
‘What do you make of those characters?’ he said.
Over on the other bank were three tents, buff-coloured and conical in shape, with white pennants fluttering from their peaks. Standing beside these tents was a small group of men. They were all clad in identical buff tunics, and all looking in our direction.
‘Not sure what to make of them,’ I said. ‘Any idea how long they’ve been there?’
‘No,’ said Brigant. ‘I didn’t see them arrive.’
‘They seem to be sizing us up.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’
A movement in the south-east caught my eye. Thomas appeared in the doorway of his tent, and he soon noticed the men on the opposite bank. I expected him instantly to go marching towards them, just as he had when Hartopp and his companions first landed. Instead, though, he stayed where he was, observing the newcomers but, for the time being, doing nothing.
