by R. A Humphry
Sooner than he would have thought possible, it was time to go. He switched the light off to his room a final time and set off to the ante-chamber and his journey into the unknown. As he arrived he found his father and Arap Milgo waiting for him. His father approached and smiled. It was a warm, genuine, loving smile. The sort of smile that was conspicuous for its recent absence. James Wardgrave, while a sombre man, was always affectionate to his family.
Manu watched as his father approached and listened as his father spoke. “When a boy leaves his father’s house he starts on the journey to become a man,” he said as he kneeled. He presented Manu with a sliver chain with a battered piece of bronze that had the image of a knight kneeling behind a shield. Also attached was a large curved tooth. “This,” his father said, touching the bronze, “is our family crest, and this,” he said touching the tooth, “is the tooth of the leopard which nearly got me, when I was young and foolish.”
Manu bowed his head and his father slipped the necklace on. He felt a giddy thrill. This felt important and right. He raised his head, enjoying the feel the tooth and bronze made on his chest, and saw his father reach behind him and hand him a covered bundle. “This is from your mother,” he said as Manu unwrapped it. It was a fine tan coloured leather rain coat and hood. The trim along the hood was lined with an intricately woven pattern that grew down from the hood and curled around the shoulders and down where his arms would hang. He glanced at the swirling designs and symbols and almost recoiled. He knew what they symbolised; he knew what it was she meant.
“I can’t,” Manu began, shaking his head, trying to find the words. Inspiration struck him, “the school will never allow it,” he finished, looking up at his father with pleading eyes.
He gripped his shoulder. “You mistake her intent. You will do it when you are ready, if you want to. It is not a demand or suggestion. It is just a guide. She wants to make sure you have the right… what was the word for it? Anyway, she wants you to have it done right if you choose to. If she isn’t around to tell you how.”
Manu’s instant relief was followed by a surging concern, isn’t around? Before he could speak Arap Milgo stepped forward. He handed Manu a tattered old rough leather bag, no bigger than his bony fist, which rattled as it landed into Manu’s outstretched hand. He recognised it and drew a sharp, stunned breath. Arap Milgo noticed and gave him a broad, toothy grin.
“I can’t read them,” Manu protested, trying to hand the bag back. They were Arap Milgo’s casting bones; five irregular, carved bones with tied fetishes. He never revealed what animal or animals the bones belonged to, but he would cast them in endless clattering groups in the few moments of free time that Manu had seen him enjoy. “I can’t read them, please. Take them back,” Manu insisted, thrusting the bag back at Arap Milgo. Somehow it seemed wrong taking them. They were so personal. They were the only possession he thought the old man had or cared about.
“Samahani Kijana, the bones will not be read by you,” the old man said, still smiling, “but by your friend, your rafiki.”
With that Arap Milgo picked up Manu’s final cases and loaded them into the waiting car. His father got in and they set off down the road, scattering the wandering geese, and away from everything Manu had known.
Chapter Six: Impressions
One of Manu’s favourite things was when his father could be persuaded into talking about when he first came to Africa from England as a young boy. It held endless fascination. In Manu’s imagination the story always started as he had first heard it from behind the sofa as his parents entertained some new arrivals into the valley.
“We didn’t know it then, of course, but it was the last throes of the Empire. England was broke and broken and my father found that work was not to be had. So, following the encouragement from our government my father packed up his young family and moved into the unknown depths of the Dark Continent.”
His father would go on to describe his journey down on a steam-ship; passing through the Mediterranean, Suez canal, Red sea, and Indian ocean, with stops at such romantic places as Genoa, Port Said, Port Sudan and Aden. Each location conjured images of exotic and timeless beauty in Manu’s mind. His father would talk about how he had stared out of the smoky windows of the madly swaying dining cart in his train that chugged across the rolling plains on uneven tracks to the mysterious inland stations nestled in the blue hills. He would describe, with the perfect wonder of a young boy, how the family had been whisked from the train and put in a car and spirited upcountry and into the rift where they would start their new life.
“I remember when we first got to the edge of the escarpment for the first time; the view was obscured by grey and blue-black curtains of rain. This turned the roads into muddy lanes which I’d only ever seen on English farmyards.
“I remember the car stopped and to my amazement the driver attached chain mesh to the rear wheels and we then set off again on our now clanking way. When the first thunderstorm hit, the reason for the chains became obvious as we lurched from side to side of the narrow road throwing up showers of mud from the back wheels.” His father took a sip from his glass, the faces of his guests caught in his spell. “As the rain fell harder we seemed to be isolated in a tiny alien world of the car and the surrounding bush without any sign of habitation.”
He would describe his first impressions of the friendly and colourful people, the fantastic climate and the raw, unspoiled nature of the country they had moved to. It was a place of excitement, possibility and adventure, fully as wild and romantic, hard and dangerous as any of them had imagined.
#
Manu’s journey back to the old country was nothing like his father’s journey from it. The airport they had driven to, through stinking traffic clogged roads - was a dirty collection of square concrete blocks. His father had left him after helping him check in and Manu had wandered, confused, through a labyrinth of desks and gates. He had flown before, with his mother to the South Island attend his grandfather’s funeral, but he had been young and easy to distract then. Now, with his heart heavy and his mind in an agitated jumble, each minute in the horrible place was agony. His flight was delayed by four hours. He passed them in excruciating introspection on the plastic seats under the flickering fluorescent lights.
The plane was packed and he was sat next to an obese, stinking businessman. He didn’t sleep. He felt trapped by all the plastic and steel and glass. Everything around him was manufactured, from the air to the food to the machine folded sick bags. Below him the endless tracts of African desert and stony country rolled past, the unforgiving miles vaulted with mechanical precision. The dislocation was difficult for Manu to take. Every hour that passed, each gliding set of hundreds of miles, deepened Manu’s unease. To comfort himself he reached up and touched the bronze around his neck, gripping it tight. He should be happy, he told himself, he should be excited. He was, after all, doing what he always wanted - which made it so strange that he had to fight off the tears.
#
London was bathed in the unique English phenomena of dull light drizzle that soaked everything with persistent, invisible droplets of rain from a lead grey sky. Manu had hoped to catch a glimpse of the fabled Thames, or of St. Pauls, or Westminster; the grey cloud obscured all. His arrival in the land of his fathers was announced by a rambling speech from the captain and the pinging of the seat-belt sign. He left the plane via a tunnel and set foot for the first time in England in a starkly lit concrete corridor, checking once again that his documents were in order for immigration. They were not. He spent an hour in a scary closed room insisting that, “no Sir, I am actually British”. Only after he had shown the letter from Darkwells to three different uniformed men did they let him go.
'Uncle’ David was unamused by the delay. Manu thought him a younger version of his father at first glance but his hair was a mousy brown rather than blonde and his expression was bored and restless compared to the stern nobility that James radiated. His welcome to Manu consisted o
f him shaking his hand and exclaiming: “Thank bloody Christ for that, I’ve been ‘ere for sodding hours.”
Manu found it strange how different David’s accent was, compared to his father and compared to his own. It made him wonder, for the first time, if what he spoke was not typical in England. It was the first of many assumptions he started to reassess.
“Right lad,” David said, taking hold of the trolley, “we better rush or we’ll miss your train.”
And so Manu sat in terror as David weaved and sped and swore his way through the London traffic, determined that his Audi was equal to getting Manu to the train on time. The rain fell and all Manu could see was a blur of dirty looking buildings, sodden fields and an endless stream of headlights on the busy road.
“Is your Dad alright?” David asked as he accelerated past a young couple in a bright red mini.
“Yes, he is doing well thank you,” Manu replied. The car smelled strange and nothing like any of the cars he had been in back home.
“He sounded a bit on edge if you ask me. Anyway, you got into that posh school, that’s good isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Old boys’ network. That’s the ticket mate. Get some proper rich mates and you’ll be sorted for life. You cold?”
“A little, I didn’t realise I would need gloves.”
David chuckled to himself at this. “You don’t, not in this weather. It’s only about four or five degrees. All that sun mate, it’s made you soft. Wait till you’re in winter and it gets proper cold. You’ll be hugging the radiator at night, I bet.”
“Radiator?”
David chuckled again, louder. “Oh mate, you’ve got some nasty shocks coming,” he said, still laughing.
#
They made the train, but only after a mad dash through the crowded station. David navigated the labyrinth with stunning speed and all but threw Manu onto the train, which set off as he landed. He gave Manu a lazy wave and vanished into the crowd.
Sitting on the train revived Manu’s spirits. He had always been excited by the idea of a train. The ones back home were old and dangerous and unreliable and so his parents had avoided them. This train was sleek and long and was moving at quite a pace. Manu settled into his chair and watched in fascination as England unfolded outside the window. Granted, the first half an hour was all industrial buildings and a bleak, graffiti strewn wasteland, but this gave way to the wide green pastures that Manu had so craved to see. They were still sodden with rain and he struggled to see any livestock, but he did see the occasional lonely oak and neat hedgerows and even tumbledown stone walls. The houses that he passed interested him. They were so identical. The old Victorian terraces all looked the same in their narrow little rows – but so did the more modern, planned out estates with red walls and sloping ‘A’ roofs.
Long hours later he reached his stop. He leapt to his feet as he saw the cast iron sign proclaiming that they had arrived in North Camland. Only the adrenaline and playing contact sport from a very young age allowed Manu to manage to unload his heavy cases in time for the doors closing shut, leaving him either on the platform without half his luggage or on the train heading to the wrong station without half his luggage.
He sunk to his haunches breathing hard, hoping that he had not left anything on the now departed train, which was already disappearing up the tracks at speed. He glanced up and saw a friendly looking old man with a long raincoat approaching him with a questioning look on his face. The Housemaster Manu decided and stood tall. His mother had warned him to make a good first impression and, for once, he agreed with her. So he stood straight, despite all the punishing hours of travel and forced a smile, despite the heaviness in his heart.
“Master Wardgrave?” the old man asked; “from Africa?”
Manu nodded and took his hand, shaking it with a firm grip. He felt relieved. He had worried that his new Housemaster would be strict and forbidding, like the Deputy Head had been. This man looked unassuming and quite companionable.
“Good, well, we better hurry. My taxi is parked just across the street. Sorry it’s just me picking you up and not your Housemaster but Mr. Killynghall isn’t at Marlborough House at the moment and sends his apologies. He is leading the rest of the Dukes in the parade, which is what will happen to us if we don’t move it.”
Killynghall, Manu thought, his hopes sinking, of course. He put aside his disappointment and lifted up his bags, trying not to think of years and years being under the control of that dour man.
The taxi-driver was in quite a hurry and once more Manu rushed to reach the school he wished he didn’t have to attend. The driver took him through high hedged country lanes, avoiding the “terrible traffic on the bypass, just terrible” and promising Manu that they could dodge the dreaded parade and he could unpack in a peaceful empty House.
Sadly his promises were thwarted by some very old fashioned English mud, which had spilled from an adjoining field into the narrow lane on which they were driving. The taxi swayed about madly as the driver inexpertly attempted to drive through. As he cursed and muttered, Manu commented that he should have kept a set of chains in the boot for the wheels.
“Oh no, Master Wardgrave, we only carry those if the snow gets really bad. Bet that’ll be a surprise for you won’t it? Snow?”
After a while he despaired of being able to drive through the mud and mournfully informed Manu that they would be going through the parade after all.
Chapter Seven: Darkwells
They were stuck in traffic as soon as they rejoined the main road. Manu saw two Policemen pass the line of stationary cars on massive horses in yellow, reflective vests wearing the distinctive oval helmets that were at least as famous as Big Ben. He watched the horses’ necks twitch and listened to the clip clop of their hooves on the tarmac and smiled. This was more like it. Manu marvelled at how patient and civilised everyone was as they waited. Back home the roads would be swarmed with angry cars trying to pass on every possible piece of land - all to a cacophony of hoots and curses. Manu saw one woman tut to herself and shake her head but she still kept a polite distance to the car ahead of her in the line and just got on with it.
The taxi driver prattled on. “Oh, Mr. Killynghall will be furious, when he sees this bill,” the man tapped the digital screen of ever increasing numbers, “You’ll tell him I tried to go around, right?” Manu nodded. “Good, because he can be a right grumpy so and so can Mr. Killynghall. Oh, look,” he said pointing ahead, “you can just see them now.”
The procession was a riot of colour and movement against the drab greyness of the day. A snaking line of costumed figures walked and cavorted along the road to the cheers and jeers of the watching crowds. At the front were four young students, two boys and two girls, on horseback with flowing cloaks and painted surcoats holding streaming banners. “Bloody hell. This is only just the start! How unlucky is that? Sorry about this young Sir, and...er.. maybe you don’t mention my little diversion after all, eh?”
Manu shook his head and promised that he wouldn’t. Curious, he asked a question of his own, pointing at the advancing mounted students: “Who are they?”
“Oh, well now. I suppose you’ll not know anything about the Darkwells’ Hallows Parade. Suppose it’s quite the thing for foreigners. Well then, they,” he said pointing at the horses which were now walking past the windshield of the taxi, “are the Vanguard. Cas - that’s my missus- says they’re supposed to represent the knights of Avalon or some such. I forget the details but there’s lots of history in the parade. And with a place as ancient as Darkwells, that can go on for a long time, so you best get comfortable.”
Manu watched the costumed knights with growing delight. He had been in the area for about half an hour and had seen six horses. If that wasn’t a good sign then nothing was. He craned his neck to get see the next portion of the parade. He could see what looked like seven broad shouldered boys carrying what resembled a carved coffin. The coffin was a pale white and
something silvery glinted on the top, catching the weak watery light.
“That’s Arthur, that is,” the taxi driver responded, anticipating Manu’s question. “You’ll hear all sorts of this stuff around here, what with Glastonbury and the Tor so close.” He shook his head. “If I had a penny for every person or place round here that claimed a connection to Arthur Pendragon - well, I’d not be driving a cab, I can tell you.”
Manu watched, fascinated, as the beautifully crafted coffin passed them by. It was pine and papier-mâché with paint and foil and other materials unknown to him, but he could have sworn that it glistened like marble. He could see now that the coffin was a carved statue in the shape of a crowned man with hands clasped around what he supposed was Excalibur.
“Are they students?” Manu asked, pointing at the coffin bearing boys.
“Oh yes. Those are all part of the First Fifteen. Got a good squad this year, is what I heard. Big lads eh? I swear they get bigger every year. See the biggest lad at the front? That’s Max Bolton, that is. He’s the Captain this year. Ah, look there!”
Manu followed his pointed finger to see. Following the coffin bearers was a large wooden float that was draped in dark material with silver and gold stars stitched into it. Sitting on a throne made of what looked like young living trees and clutching at a large wooden stick that had the intricate, raven-topped, Darkwells coat of arms spiked on it like a Roman standard, was a boy dressed, Manu supposed, as Gandalf.
“Merlin,” his guide said with an appreciative nod. “We only have a Merlin in the Parade when one of the Grenvilles is at the school. Darkwells is quirky like that, you’ll see soon enough. The lad next to him is supposed to be Gerald, the school founder... Not sure how that works seeing as there’s hundreds of years in the way, but I suppose that’s magic. Cas says it’s good luck to have a Merlin at the parade. The Grenville boy is nice as well, very polite, unlike some of the lads. Shame about his leg though.”
