that it was clearly an event intended for the insane.
He scanned the way ahead, looking for somewhere quiet to hide himself but there didn’t seem to be anywhere that fitted that description. He glanced hopefully through the open doors of shops and cafés but all them were rammed to the gills. He wandered down narrow side streets and had to double back when they proved to be impassable. Before very much longer, it dawned on him that it had actually been a bit quieter back where he’d started, so he retraced his steps, running the gamut of the leaflet distributors a second time, but refusing now to take any more flyers from them, keeping his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
He went back down the hill and as the afternoon faded into evening, he eventually found himself once again on Princes Street, walking alongside the park. Finding an empty wooden bench, he slumped down on it and sat, watching the world go by, trying to come up with some kind of plan but he could think of nothing that would be of any use. It occurred to him that perhaps he should try to find a police station, so he got up
from the bench and asked several passers-by where he might find one, but every single person he spoke to had pretty much the same answer. ‘Sorry, kid, I’m not from round here.’ This was said in an American, an Irish, a German and a French accent, before he finally gave up and went back to his bench. He felt completely exhausted by everything that had happened to him since he’d got off the train, so tired that he couldn’t seem to think straight any more.
The hours passed steadily. Darkness descended, the streetlights came on and it didn’t seem to be much quieter on the road than it had been in the day. Now it was dominated by large groups of young people hurrying off to one appointment or another, laughing and shouting to each other, taking no notice of the boy sitting alone on the bench. He started to wonder where he might sleep for the night and, on impulse, got up from the bench and went back through the entrance of the park, wondering if it stayed open all night. He was beginning to feel really tired.
He came to a place where a narrow cobbled path led upwards to a life-sized statue of a soldier on horseback, the horse standing on a tall rock plinth, the soldier gazing steadfastly out towards Princes Street. On the far side of the plinth, on a steep incline, there was a thickly-covered area of trees and shrubs.
The boy paused for a closer look and noticed a narrow opening between the rows of foliage where somebody might be able to stretch himself out without being seen by passers-by. After glancing quickly around to ensure there was nobody observing him, he ducked under the metal rail that fenced the area off and crawled into the opening. The shrubs seemed to shrug around him like a blanket. He pulled up the hood of his jacket and lay on his side, listening to the sounds of the traffic passing by on the main road.
It was a strange lullaby but it worked well enough. Within minutes he was fast asleep.
Three
Strange Encounter
It was the sound of a clock chiming that woke him, a deep echoing tone that he decided must be a church clock or something similar. He lay in the bushes, listening. It went on for a long time before it stopped and he wished he’d been able to count them, but for some reason, he decided it was probably midnight. Then he heard another noise, something unexpected and rather startling under the circumstances: a loud snort, followed by a whinny. It sounded, he thought, like a horse. But what would a horse be doing here in the middle of the night?
Cautiously, he lifted his head and peered out from the shrubs. The park, or at least, what he could see of it from his position next to the statue, appeared to be deserted. He became aware of a deep silence. There were no sounds of traffic from the main road, which seemed odd even at this late hour. Again, he heard the snorting and a weird clip-clopping noise.
‘Huh?’ He sat up, peering around in astonishment and now he heard a gruff voice from somewhere in the air above him, a voice that spoke with a strong Scottish accent.
‘Steady on, Sultan, let’s just take a wee moment to stretch ourselves!’
The boy stared up at the stone plinth rearing into the air above him. He was looking at something that he could scarcely believe. The statue of the horse was moving on its plinth, lifting its hooves and shaking its head. And then the boy saw that the soldier, sitting astride the horse, was also in motion, twisting his head this way and that, beneath his tall bearskin hat, and reaching out his arms as though having a much-needed stretch.
The boy got cautiously to his feet, telling himself that this guy was amazing. He made the statue-man he’d seen earlier look like an absolute beginner. How had he managed to stay still for so long? And how had he ever trained a horse to do it with him?’ In standing up, the boy brushed against the vegetation and the soldier looked down at him.
‘Halt! Who goes there?’ he snapped.
‘Er… it’s just me,’ said the boy, dismayed.
‘Just you? Who’s you?’ growled the soldier. He studied the boy for a moment in astonishment. Then his eyes widened in evident surprise. ‘You’re a damned softie,’ he said.
‘Er… am I?’ muttered the boy. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I can see you are,’ growled the soldier. ‘Soft as anything.’
‘Well that’s not very nice,’ said the boy. ‘You’ve only just met me and you’re calling me names!’
‘I’m calling you what you so obviously are!’ insisted the soldier. ‘You’re made of flesh and blood, boy. A softie. A human.’ He pronounced the last word as though it was something despicable. ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’
‘I was. But the sound of the clock woke me.’
The boy looked around. ‘Look, I‘m sorry. If I’m spoiling your act, I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.’
‘My act?’ The soldier gave a snort of derision.
‘This is no act, Sonny Jim. This is a once a year occurrence. And what do you mean, “the clock woke you?” It’s supposed to put you to sleep.’
‘Is it?’ The boy was completely confused. ‘Well, I’m sorry, I was already asleep and the noise woke me up but… look, I’ll leave you to it. I’m sorry, I can’t afford to give you any money, but…’
‘Money? Why would I want money?’
‘Well, why else would you pretend to be a statue?’
‘Hold on a minute,’ said the soldier. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, laddie.’ He paused to pat his horse’s flank. ‘Sultan, get us down from here.’
As the boy stood watching in astonishment, the horse lunged forward in an elegant leap, cleared the fence below and thudded down onto the sloping grass beyond it. He galloped on for a short distance, carried by his own momentum, then slowed, wheeled around and came trotting back up the cobbled path. The soldier halted the horse by the fence and sat there, studying the boy with interest. ‘This is irregular,’ he said, more to himself than to anyone else. ‘Most irregular. I’ve never heard the like before.’
The boy didn’t know what to say. Now he could see the soldier clearly in the moonlight, he began to feel afraid, because there was no costume on earth that could be that realistic. The man and his horse were clearly made of black metal, yet it was a metal that somehow moved at the joints as easily and smoothly as a human. As the boy stood there staring, the horse flared its nostrils and shook its head and every metal strand of its mane flowed and swayed as though
made of real hair. The soldier was a foot or more bigger than any human had a right to be. He had a fierce, proud face, his top lip adorned with a thick moustache and
the eyes that appraised the boy, despite also being made of metal, were keen and sparkled with intelligence. The boy couldn’t help but notice one odd detail. The soldier’s tall hat was liberally peppered with long white streaks. ‘I’m Colonel Robert Macintosh Alexander,’ he announced grandly. ‘My friends call me… The Colonel. Now you’d better do a bit of explaining. Who are you, lad?’
Good question. The boy shook h
is head. ‘I er… this is going to sound a bit odd,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ said the Colonel, expectantly.
‘I umm… well, I don’t know who I am.’
There was a long silence.
‘Come now,’ said the Colonel. ‘You must surely know who you are? Everyone knows that much.’
‘But I don’t,’ said the boy. ‘I don’t know anything. I guess it sounds weird, but… well, all I know is I woke up on a train just as it was arriving at the station over there…’ The boy pointed in the general direction of Edinburgh Waverley. ‘And since then, I’ve been wandering around Edinburgh trying to remember stuff. Except that I can’t seem to come up with anything at all. Anyway, then I got tired so I lay down here in the bushes. And the next thing I knew, your horse made a loud noise and…’
‘Ah yes, that’s Sultan for you, always eager to get moving. As soon as the bell wakes him, he… well, he has been waiting all year.’
The boy laughed. ‘This is nuts,’ he said. ‘It’s barmy. I’m standing here talking to a flipping statue!’
‘Yes, and very privileged you are to be doing so,’ said the Colonel. ‘I don’t think there’s ever been a softie… er, I mean a human that’s been afforded that honour in all the years the Calling has taken place.’
‘The… Calling?’
‘That’s our name for it,’ said the Colonel, smiling with evident pride. ‘From midnight, August the second, to midnight, August the third. The Calling is the one night of the year where we all come together to celebrate who we are. Twenty-four hours of total freedom, with not a single softie in sight.’ The Colonel frowned. ‘Until now, that is. Oh dear. I don’t know what Charlie will have to say about this.’
‘Charlie?’
The Colonel ignored the boy’s question. ‘I suppose we’ll have to go and talk to him. Unless of course, you could see your way to just… going back to sleep and letting us get on with things?’
The boy frowned. ‘I don’t really think I could sleep now,’ he said. ‘I’m not tired. And there’s too much going on.’
‘I was afraid you’d say that. What made you choose my particular patch to have your nap?’
‘Umm… well, it was just because there were all these bushes.’
‘Bushes. I see. It wasn’t because of any particular interest in the Royal Scots Greys, then?’
‘The what?’
‘The Royal Scots Greys.’ The Colonel waved a gloved hand at the plinth, where the boy now noticed a large metal plaque. ‘The glorious regiment that I was put here to commemorate. No, of course not. You’ll know nothing of our illustrious history… our famous charge against Napoleon at Waterloo… our noble endeavours in the Boer War!’
‘Umm… no, sorry… is that a problem?’
‘No. Typical is what that is. Softies go past me day after day and how many of them know or even care why I’m here? Oh no, I’m just a photo opportunity. Me, in the foreground, with the castle behind me. Oh, if I only had a guinea for every photograph that’s been taken! The favourite shot, of course, is when there’s a blasted seagull perched on my head.’
‘Oh, is that what all the white stuff is?’ The boy grimaced. ‘Not nice.’
‘You’ve no idea. If I could move on a normal day, I’d twist their ruddy necks for them! Sometimes I swear they do it just for mischief! And you softies are no better. If one more idiot climbs up here and sticks a traffic cone on my bonce, I’ll not be responsible for my actions!’
‘So you… you can see, then? I mean, on normal days.’
‘Of course I can see. We can all see. We just can’t move.’ The Colonel seemed to ponder for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘Well, we can’t stand here chatting all night,’ he said. ‘I’ve got things to organise.’ He leaned forward in his saddle and extended a gloved hand. ‘You’d best climb up behind me,’ he said. ‘And we’ll see what’s to be done about you.’
After a moment’s hesitation, the boy took the Colonel’s hand. It was the strangest feeling. The hand was metal sure enough, but it was somehow soft and yielding, as though it was actually alive. The Colonel was clearly very strong. He pulled hard and lifted the boy clear of the ground and up over the fence, then swung him expertly around and dropped him onto the saddle behind him, making Sultan skitter momentarily. Even the metal saddle beneath the boy felt surprisingly comfortable.
‘Whoah, Sultan, easy now.’ The Colonel clicked his tongue and Sultan moved away from the fence and started walking down the cobbled track to the flat grass beyond.
‘I’m still asleep and dreaming this,’ the boy decided. How else was he to explain it? And yet he had never had a dream so detailed, so utterly convincing as this one. What other explanation was there? Madness? Was he insane?
The Colonel guided Sultan in the direction of the park entrance. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you know nothing about yourself. I think the condition is called amnesia. I knew a chappie once who suffered from the very same thing. He was my batman, actually.’
‘Batman?’ echoed the boy. That seemed to ring a bell somewhere in his head. He had a momentary vision of a cloaked figure in a black mask, but the Colonel ignored his question and carried on talking. ‘He fought alongside me in Pretoria. A shell exploded beside him at the Battle of Diamond Hill and he was never the same again.’
‘I’m… sorry to hear that,’ said the boy. It seemed like the kind of thing he ought to say.
‘Oh, don’t be sorry, he was a bit of an idiot to tell you the truth. Always put sugar in my tea, even though I told him repeatedly I took it without. After his accident, he wasn’t even capable of making tea. Used to just sit there and whistle all the time. A music hall song. The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery. Damned annoying, really.’ The Colonel twisted his head slightly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been close to an explosion?’ he ventured.
‘I… don’t think so.’
‘Well, it’s a mystery sure enough and one that will need to be properly investigated.’
They were approaching the long flight of steps up to the road, but Sultan took them easily in his stride. As they neared the top, the boy saw that another tall metal statue was waiting on the far side of the closed gates. He raised a hand and waved to the Colonel.
‘Hello there!’
‘Ah, good evening, David. Good of you to wait
for me.’
As they drew closer, the boy saw that the statue was of a middle-aged man. He was dressed in a jacket with what looked like a cloak slung over one shoulder. Like the Colonel, he had a thick moustache and a pair of sideburns. He wore stout walking boots and for some reason was holding a book in one hand. On a thick belt around his waist he wore some kind of a purse and a pistol.
‘Everything all right?’ asked David. He was studying the boy with some bemusement. ‘I say,’ he muttered. ‘Isn’t that a… softie riding behind you?’
The Colonel pulled Sultan to a halt.
‘I’m afraid so. I’d introduce you to him but it’s not as simple as you might suppose. He doesn’t seem to know who he is.’
‘That’s odd.’ David smiled up at the boy. ‘I’ve never seen a softie at the Calling before,’ he said.
‘That’s because it’s never happened,’ said the Colonel. ‘Not in my memory, anyway. It’s hard to know what to do for the best. I thought I’d take him along to see Charlie.’
David raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that wise?’ he asked.
‘Well, I can’t think of a better course of action.
Of course, Charlie will love all the attention.’
‘Won’t he just?’ David chuckled. ‘We’ll surely have to call the lad something,’ he said. He studied the boy for a moment. ‘He looks like an Edward to me.’ He smiled. ‘And since he’s turned up in our fair city, why don’t we just call him Ed for short?’
‘Ed Fest?’ suggested the Colonel
and both statues chuckled. Then David smiled at the boy and said, ‘Pleased to meet you, young man. I’m David Livingstone.’ Then he stretched out a huge hand to shake.
Four
David
Ed was delighted to realise that here, finally, was a name he actually recognised. ‘David Livingstone, the explorer?’ he asked.
David smiled with evident pleasure and glanced at the Colonel. ‘Ah, you see, there’s still one or two who remember me!’
‘Lucky you,’ muttered the Colonel ungraciously.
‘I read about you,’ said Ed excitedly. ‘At… school, I think. You… you were the one who spent all those years in Africa.’
‘That’s me,’ agreed David. ‘I was actually searching for the source of the Nile. Never found it though. Discovered a whole bunch of lakes instead. And I also discovered other things – malaria, cholera and dysentery to name but three.’
‘Countries?’ asked Ed.
‘Tropical illnesses,’ said David. ‘I had all three of them at one time or another. I’m afraid that’s why I never made it back to my homeland.’ He opened the book he was holding. Ed saw that it was hollow inside and contained a bunch of keys. David took them out, selected one, slotted it into the lock on the gate and turned it with a loud click. Then he swung the gate open, allowing the Colonel to ride through.
‘I’ll leave it open for now,’ said David. ‘There’s sure to be a few stragglers back there.’ He nodded to an empty podium away to their right. ‘I see Allan has already made his escape. Must have jumped clear over the fence!’
‘Allan?’ murmured Ed.
‘Allan Ramsay,’ elaborated the Colonel. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘Is he a footballer?’ ventured Ed and once again, the two statues laughed.
‘Oh, he’d love to hear that,’ said David. ‘No, he’s a poet. A playwright…’
‘And a wigmaker,’ added the Colonel mysteriously.
The Calling Page 2
