by R. A Humphry
Darkwells
by R.A. Humphrey
KINDLE EDITION
Copyright © 2013 R.A. Humphrey
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
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Dedicated to my wife, who will never know how valuable her enthusiasm is.
Also dedicated to N.B, J.A., B.H. and those others that read it and enjoyed it when I was raw and nervous. For writers, this is all that matters, in the end.
Kindle Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter One: Bush
Chapter Two: Home
Chapter Three: Stonehouse
Chapter Four: Games
Chapter Five: Leaving
Chapter Six: Impressions
Chapter Seven: Darkwells
Chapter Eight: Narrowboat
Chapter Nine: Crystallomancy
Chapter Ten: Natives
Chapter Eleven: The Earl
Chapter Twelve: Drunk
Chapter Thirteen: Teacher
Chapter Fourteen: Guardian
Chapter Fifteen: Mistakes
Chapter Sixteen: Aftermath
Chapter Seventeen: Landscapes
Chapter Eighteen: Crazy Jack
Chapter Nineteen: Ewitan
Chapter Twenty: The Ball
Chapter Twenty One: The Seal
Chapter Twenty Two: Answers
Chapter Twenty Three: The Master
Chapter Twenty Four: Seeking
Chapter Twenty Five: Glass and Riddles
Chapter Twenty Six: Whispers
Chapter Twenty Seven: History
Chapter Twenty Eight: Black Swan
Chapter Twenty Nine: Desperate
Chapter Thirty: The King
Chapter Thirty One: Duty
Chapter Thirty Two: Evacuation
Chapter Thirty Three: Battle
Chapter Thirty Four: Tor
Glossary
Chapter Sample
Chapter One: Bush
Much later, before Henry and the battles and the revelations that would change his life, back when he was shivering in his bunk and trying not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry, sore and tired and frightened, he would think of those nights spent camping under African skies with his father, talking about the dream that was England.
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“It was in Oxford where you were born, right Dad?” He tried to match his father’s stride through the swaying long grass and dry red earth. The morning sun was just peeking over the rim of the escarpment in a fan of sunbeams and the wide raw loneliness of the empty savannah was their only companion.
He was always pestering his father with questions like these, ever curious and proud that he had some connection to that famous city. Oxford was one of those places that was both hazy and solid in his mind’s eye. He could imagine the imposing stone buildings, the aura of vast knowledge and the stern faced sages that would walk its wide streets in raven black robes to bows and curtsies and tipped hats with people greeting them with a “Good-morning Don.” He imagined the endless spires and the wide green parks and the students in tweed sat on benches, reading. He imagined all this, yet he knew almost nothing of the place.
His father opened the rear door of their Landrover and slung their wrapped up tents into the back and clambered into the driver’s seat, his favourite green shirt and khaki shorts blending with the patched up upholstery of their beat-up monster. “It was not quite Oxford, Manu,” his father replied in his mild voice, the lines in his face creasing as he offered a rare, weathered smile.
Manu clambered in, once again surprised at how large he had grown. Not so long ago he would have felt lost in the passenger seat and now he noticed that he was as broad as his father and was only a hand-span away from being as tall. His growth spurt had been miraculous and he was only just thirteen.
A turn of the key in the ignition resulted in a coughing wheeze from the Landrover. Father and son were unsurprised. With a roll of the eyes his father turned the key again. “I was born in a little village called Headington. It is just up the hill from Oxford proper.”
The chug, chug, chug of the starting motor sounded loud and alien against the chirping grasshoppers and rustling wind of the empty land. “Did I ever tell you…” his father was interrupted as the engine roared into life.
Manu gave a polite round of applause while his father backed out of the little copse of flat-topped yellow fever trees and swung around to drive with caution over the bouncy bush ground. He started again. “Did I ever tell you about when your Grandfather hit the Don of Balliol College in the nose with an aeroplane?”
Manu shook his head, suppressing a grin. He had heard the tale, of course. Like all the other stories his father had of England, of working the land on the Boston Fens, of driving along hedgerow lined lanes on his old motorbike, of mishaps at cricket matches and boring theatre performances; he had heard them a thousand times and yet always would listen to them again and again.
He knew that his father indulged him, seeing no harm in it. Manu treasured these moods of reminiscence as he knew it was a side of his father that few saw. The rest of the district only saw the imposing James Wardgrave, tall and blue-eyed and unruffled. He was grim faced and direct and more than a little frightening. He carried the aura of competence and self assurance around him like steel armour. That was what the others saw and what the others believed - but Manu heard his stories. He heard the little nonsense rhymes he would recite when we was in a good mood and he remembered all the impenetrable proverbs which he would bring out when Manu asked a difficult or stupid question. These were always preceded by: “as my mother used to say,” and a conspiratorial wink. Manu had never met his Grandma Edith, but was sure he would have liked to - if only to thank her for the heavy leather bound books he loved to leaf through while propped on his elbows on the comfortable woollen carpets.
The radio crackled in static and his father reached out and spoke into it in his business like, no-nonsense voice. A garbled message came back in reply and his father nodded to himself, turned the large worn wheel and brought the Landrover off the open bush and onto a rough, dusty, African dirt track.
“When I was a boy, younger than you even, maybe eight or nine, I was very interested in aeroplanes and had my heart set on being a pilot. My mother, who was very kind to me, bought me a model glider set on one of their trips to London for Christmas.” There was a grinding clunk as he changed gear. “I spent two sleepless nights building the plane. It was the best present I’ve ever been given, I think. When I finished it, we all went to the park to see if it would glide. From the top of the hill you can see Oxford stretching out below you, domes and spires and everything. So my father, who was usually such a serious man, helped me load the model glider on the elastic launcher. I wasn’t strong enough to pull it back so he took over.”
Manu saw him shake his head, the blonde hairs glinting in the African sun before he continued.
“I remember it as clear as yesterday: him sat in the snow in his dark suite with this glider on its launcher like a crossbow, my mother wrapped up tight behind
him. So, he aims the glider up into the sky, down the hill and shouts: ‘James, watch it close now!’ then he lets it go and whoosh! Off went the glider, free and perfect into the clear winter sky. It dipped and rose and swerved and made it most of the way down the hill.” His father demonstrated by waving his free hand in a drifting motion, “weaving this way and that until thunk! It lands directly on the nose of the Don of Balliol who was taking a winter walk with some of his students.” Manu laughed as his father’s big finger poked at him in imitation of the rogue plane. “You should have seen his face. He had this great long nose, longer than Mzee Odhiambo even. His students doubled over in hysterics and he went beetroot.
“My father rushed down the hill to apologise while my mother and I tried to hide the fact that we were in stitches.”
Manu was laughing freely now, imagining the indignant, imposing Don brought low. What was that called again? Bathos? He pulled himself up in the chair and leaned forward - he knew the best bit was to come.
“Unfortunately, my father, being a serious man, never learnt the trick of running down a snow clad hill in his flat shoes. So he fell over and slid down the hill on his back, wailing his apologies as he sailed past the put-out Don.
“This set the students to howling and falling over in mirth. The Don, not pleased, strode over and picked up my offending aeroplane and, being a clever man, saw who the culprits were. He then decided to return the model to us by way of throwing it with all his pent up embarrassment and rage.
“Now, my father, having been stopped by crashing into a snow drift, was just picking himself up and apologising as fast as he could but the Don ignored him and threw the model up at us as hard as he was able. For an academic, it was a mighty throw.” His Dad’s hand made a swift motion away from Manu and towards the lonely road and the imaginary snow clad hill, “and the model flew, and dipped and was caught by the wind,” his hand danced and wriggled, “and then turned back down and splat! Back into the Don’s nose a second time!” His father pinched his nose and Manu doubled over in mirth. “Even the Don laughed about it then, but my father was mortified.”
“What happened to your model?” Manu asked, thinking of it for the first time.
“Oh, Father sold it. He said he didn’t like… wait,” his father glanced into his rear view mirror with his deep blue eyes, “here they come.”
There was a loud growling engine noise and Manu tuned to see the small fixed wing aircraft they had been waiting for flying low behind them. His father killed the engine to the Landrover and they drifted to a stop. The plane flew over them and executed a wobbly landing on the wide dirt road.
His father got out of the Landrover and started walking towards the white and blue plane, which had swung around and was now taxiing back. “Have you got the camera, Manu?”
He nodded, cradling the large camera in his hands as he leapt down from the car and followed his father to the loud plane which was throwing up little whirlwinds of dust. The wide propeller slowed and stopped. Two figures emerged: one was a white woman with bright blonde hair stuffed into a baseball cap with the sun faded words Discovery along the top. The other was Robert Kariuki, their nearest neighbour in the valley and, according to his father, one of the last true bush pilots left. Manu always heard the echo of his father’s overheard words when he saw Robert: ‘other pilots are all just glorified bus drivers nowadays, even out here.’ Like most boys, he had taken his father’s causal comment as hard truth and held an unflinching scorn for all pilots who were not Robert.
Manu raised his hand in response to Robert’s languid wave and toothy smile. The contrast between Robert’s dark ebony and the blonde woman’s pasty white complexion couldn’t be more marked in the sharp morning light and Manu felt the urge to snap some pictures. She was new to the bush; her white skin hadn’t darkened to brown like his father’s. James Wardgrave, from his long years outdoors, had skin that was almost as brown as his son’s. This woman was like buttermilk and Manu worried about how fast she might burn.
Her complexion wasn’t the only contrast to Robert, Manu thought as he watched her stride down the road with purpose. Her fixed scowl compared unfavourably to Robert’s easy grin. Her hunched shoulders and tense, curt motions were worlds away from the relaxed athleticism of Robert’s languid walk. Yet, for all that, Manu fancied that the woman was the most beautiful he had ever seen. He was hypnotised by her honey and maize hair, her hazel eyes and her willowy, delicate features. She was so unlike all the other women he knew in his life. Well, maybe Miss Williams was a little similar at school but she was a teacher. And she didn’t speak like the blonde woman, who was from a place in England called Yorkshire.
“’Ere, you sure your lad’s got them pictures sorted?”
“Don’t worry, Ms Borrowdale, Manu has the best eye for wildlife photography I’ve ever seen.”
“I flippin ‘ope so. It’s too bloody hot out ‘ere. I can’t be buggering about chasing Elephants in a plane with that psycho all day,” Ms. Borrowdale cocked a thumb at Robert. Manu had no idea what she was saying, but he found that her accent intrigued him.
“How many did you see?” his father asked as he took the camera out of Manu’s hands and removed the card.
“Themanini, James,” Robert replied in his Kikuyu manner, emphasising the first vowel of the name, Jaaa-mes.
“As many as that? Really? That’s good news. We stuck with one matriarch and her calves, so we missed the rest. Did you enjoy it Ms Borrowdale?”
“I s’pose; I’m proper thirsty though. Fancy coming back to the lodge for a pint?” she gave his father the strangest look as she took the memory card from his hand.
His father smiled and shook his head. “I can’t I am afraid. This one’s mother is looking out for us to be back for lunch.”
The lady frowned at this and Manu felt a sense of disappointment. He had never been to the lodge before. But his father was right. Mother was always getting cross when they were late. He found himself scowling. Why did she always spoil the fun?
“A’right. Make sure you come on soon though, eh?”
His father nodded and the woman turned on her heel and walked back to the plane without a further word. Robert lingered a moment further and talked to his father in low rapid Swahili.
“Getting big now, Manu, aren’t you?” Robert said as he shadow boxed with him. “Mama is giving you too much sukuma?” Manu laughed with his father as the two men clasped hands before Robert turned back to the plane.
They watched Robert take off and arc around, a tiny metal speck against the azure sky, and they started the Landrover and joined the main road heading home. As the car reached tarmac and levelled out, Manu turned to his father and asked, “Did you ever go on the motorway when you were in England, Dad? Did you ever go on it on your motorbike?”
Chapter Two: Home
Manu awoke as they turned off the main road and skirted the dry shallow lake. It was perhaps the flamingos calling out as they scattered and flew low across the still flat water like a swarm of pink javelins that brought him out of his exhausted, dream-less sleep. Or perhaps it was the stench of rotten eggs and the taste of sulphur on the wind, a sure sign they were near the hot springs and the chrome and steel monolith that was the geo-thermal plant. Or perhaps it was the familiar sequence of pitch and roll and bump that Manu recognised, as the old Landrover wound its way across the dirt road his father had built on the otherwise trackless plain.
The sun was setting and draping the sky in shades of red and pink and gold across the vastness of the African horizon. Manu leaned back in his uncomfortable chair and watched the procession of colours through the broad leaves of the tree-lined avenue that marked the start of their long drive-way back to the farm. “English trees”, his father had told him once when he had noticed their difference from the native species and asked about it. “Planted by the Provincial Commissioner, before Independence, back when this was his house,” he had explained. Manu loved them. As he bounced along on t
he road he liked to imagine himself riding horseback across an English woodland with the hunts-master blowing wild on his horn behind him as they galloped reckless in pursuit of their quarry. There was a painting like that in the library. It was one of a set of hunting paintings left by his grandfather and it fascinated him.
Home was a sprawling house of verandas with arched arcades, a wide grassy courtyard and a fountain all contained by shoulder-high white washed walls. The nearest neighbours were a good half hour drive away and the walls were more a line of separation against the enormity of the landscape than keeping others out.
As they drew near Manu sat up as he saw the cattle being brought in by their herdsmen, who were all around Manu’s age but dark black with braided hair. They urged the herds on with little throaty clicks. There was a timeless aura about the scene, with the rolling grassland and the familiar imposing ranges rising imperially in the distance in a series of undulating peaks.
Arap Milgo had once tried to teach him the names of the mountains but he had never managed to remember them. Instead he had preferred to invent new names as he played on the broad balcony that overlooked the grazing fields. Legion were the armies that he would imagine storming down the slopes and crashing against the indomitable ranks of Coldstream guards firing off controlled volley after volley with him in command, sword catching the light as he raised it up in defiance and defence of God, Queen and Country. Or it might be ranks of Longbow men and the sky dark with storms of arrows. Or it would be Manu roaring in shield wall against marauding Vikings with the Raven-Banner streaming.
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They were greeted home by a pack of baying hounds. His father waded through them and started unpacking their gear as Arap Milgo appeared, his long black face as solemn as ever, and shooed the dogs away. Manu always marvelled at how the hounds would obey him without question. Even his father, who was acknowledged by all as having a way with animals, struggled to control the sometimes feral pack. Manu had no fear of the dogs but was not stupid; some things are best left alone.
