by Magnus Mills
“Nothing is fair in this world,” he said.
Just then the remote clanging of a spoon against a pan indicated that supper was almost ready. Accordingly, Tostig announced that the tribunal would be adjourned until further notice. Nobody spoke as the lamp was dimmed and they made their way towards the camp. Here they found that the supply tent had already been erected, as had Thegn’s pocket tent.
“I thought I’d save you the trouble,” said Snaebjorn.
“Thank you,” Thegn replied.
“It’s in a pleasant, sheltered spot.”
“Yes, so I see.”
Tostig, Guthrum and Thorsson had sat down on some rocks near the cooking area, and they now invited Thegn to join them. A short while later supper was served, direct from the pan.
“You know, it’s really quite extraordinary,” said Tostig, adopting a genial tone. “Every night we have the same meal produced from the same stock of dried food, yet thanks to Snaebjorn it always tastes that little bit different.”
“He has the chefs special touch,” observed Guthrum.
“Quite so.”
“Achieved with the tiniest amount of pepper, maybe, or possibly salt.”
“Yes.”
There followed a period of silence, then Thorsson said, “By the way, I’ll soon need to open another bottle of blue ink.”
“To mark the river?” Tostig enquired.
“Yes,” said Thorsson. “It’s coming to occupy a fairly large area of the map.”
“Well, it can’t be helped. That river is a most important detail.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve had no use for the green ink as yet.”
“No, you won’t have.”
“It’s a shade that’s unknown hereabouts.”
“Indeed.”
During the course of these exchanges Thegn had been sitting quietly amongst his companions, with Thorsson on the one side, and Guthrum on the other. As usual, the meal had consisted of a single helping and, as usual, he had finished first. Now, as he sat with his empty plate before him, Tostig drew him into the conversation.
“Are you fond of greenery, Thegn?” he enquired. “A leafy bower on a sunlit afternoon: that kind of thing?”
“I quite like it, yes,” came the reply.
“Or perhaps you favour a shimmering meadow at midday, or even the lush pastures of early morn?”
“I hold them in equal esteem,” said Thegn.
“A very wise outlook.” Tostig paused for a long moment, then rose to his feet and took a stride towards the edge of the camp. “Ah, greenery,” he murmured, gazing into the dull environs. “To tell the truth, I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like, we’ve been travelling for so many weeks. Nonetheless, we should view it as a deferred pleasure, rather than a lost one. Otherwise we risk losing all hope. Here we are in the midst of a stark and unforgiving land, deprived of light and existing on the most basic necessities. Daily we stumble over shale and flint, toiling onwards in the vague belief that at some distant time and place we’ll see the sun rise again; and that spreading before us will be vast, hospitable ranges where the mules may finally be turned loose. Not until then will this struggle be done with. Odd to think, is it not, that success will only be confirmed when we can at last apply green ink to our map?”
No one answered, and for the next few minutes each man remained alone with his thoughts as the darkness encroached yet further. At some point during the conversation Snaebjorn had come and joined the others, having completed the many duties he undertook daily. Now he sat leaning with his back against a rock, eyes closed, apparently seizing the opportunity for a snatched doze. Ultimately, it was Thegn who ended the silence.
“I think I’ll go and check the mules,” he announced. “To make sure they’ve settled down after their crossing.”
“I’ve already checked them,” said Snaebjorn, without opening his eyes.
“All right, I’ll wash the dishes instead.”
“I’ve done them too.”
“You didn’t do mine,” said Thegn.
“You didn’t ask,” Snaebjorn replied.
Thegn puffed out his cheeks, then stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Well, I’ll just take myself off for a stroll then.”
“Just a moment, Thegn,” said Tostig. “Where are you going exactly?”
“To stretch my legs.”
“No, that won’t do at all. They’ve been stretched enough for one day and, besides, I don’t want you slipping away while we’re in the middle of your hearing. You can retire to your tent until we call you, but don’t go any further than that.”
“I assure you I won’t,” said Thegn. “Good night.”
“Good night,” chorused the others.
Tostig watched as his junior disappeared from view, then motioned towards Guthrum and Thorsson. Leaving Snaebjorn quietly resting against his rock, the three of them returned once more through the blackness to the makeshift court of justice. Here they sat and deliberated for many hours, with the lamp glowing above them at half-setting. Eventually Thorsson was sent to fetch Thegn. It took several attempts to wake him from his slumbers.
“Come on, my lad,” said Thorsson, when Thegn at last responded. “Better get this over with.”
“Do I need my cap?” Thegn enquired.
“Yes, I should wear it if I were you.”
“Thanks, Thorsson.”
There was no sign of Snaebjorn, but a gentle tinkling of bells nearby suggested he had gone amongst the mules. Meanwhile, the tents flapped languidly in the breeze. Thorsson continued to wait as Thegn prepared himself.
“Hurry up,” he urged. “This tribunal has cost us enough time as it is. You’ll only weaken your position by dallying.”
“Sorry,” said Thegn.
A few minutes later he was standing before his three seated colleagues, the lamp shining brightly again. When all was ready, Tostig resumed proceedings.
“Well, Thegn,” he began. “We have considered this matter long and hard; we’ve weighed you in the balance; and you’ll no doubt be pleased to learn that we find you not guilty of conspiracy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It seems there was no case to answer.”
“I am indeed glad to hear it.”
“Instead you are charged with the lesser offence of gross insubordination. You will serve fourteen days in solitary confinement.”
Thegn opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
“However,” said Tostig. “The sentence is suspended.”
§
Without further delay, the expedition continued northward, gradually moving away from the river. Snaebjorn took the lead. The day’s journey was unremarkable, save for a small incident around about noon. During the brief twilight there was a whirr of wings high above them, as in the flight of a passing bird, and a moment later a sprig of foliage fell in their path. Snaebjorn saw it and picked it up. The sprig was withered and dry, but nevertheless its discovery brought encouragement to the entire party. All agreed that somewhere ahead the land must be green and fertile, and on this assumption they pressed forth with renewed vigour.
But, unknown to them, the bird had lost its way.
∨ Explorers of the New Century ∧
Five
“Sorry to interrupt the work, Mr Johns, but I think we may have a problem.”
“Really, Scagg? Well, please come in and tell me about it.”
“Do you want me to make myself scarce?” Chase enquired.
“No, no,” said Scagg. “It doesn’t concern any of the men.”
“What is it then?” asked Johns.
“I thought you should know that one of the mules is dawdling, deliberately it seems, and that this is having a discouraging effect on the others. I’ve had it under observation all day, and several times I’ve noticed it dragging the pace. Moreover, it comes to a complete halt at every opportunity. If we allow it to carry on in this way, our progress will be seriously disrupted.”
“You’re quite right,” said Johns. “Oddly enough, Chase and I were just discussing our position, and we were wondering why we’d hardly got anywhere since yesterday. So it’s the mules to blame, is it?”
“One of them, sir.”
“One is enough.”
“So with your permission I’d like to administer some discipline. A night under the hood should teach it a lesson it won’t forget.”
“Have we brought a hood with us?”
“I took the liberty, yes.”
“Very well, Scagg. See to it, will you? And at the same time I suggest you treat all the other mules to a stick of barley sugar apiece. Then hopefully they’ll see both sides of the coin.”
“Right you are, sir.”
After Scagg had departed, Johns turned to Chase and shook his head. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “The order for punishment is always the hardest to give.”
“So I imagine,” said Chase.
“That’s why we’ve resorted to this so-called ‘modern’ remedy of the hood. I’m told on good authority that it works and, frankly, anything more severe would serve no useful purpose in such a harsh climate: indeed it may even be counter-productive. Still, Chase, only time will tell. Now, where were we?”
“Discussing the wind, Mr Johns.”
“Ah, yes, the interminable wind. What’s your analysis?”
“I’m afraid it bears very little moisture.”
“No likelihood of rain then?”
“Not for a while.”
“That is disappointing news,” said Johns. “The last thing I want to do is impose water rationing; yet there appears little chance of locating any other source while we’re on this scree. I had been assuming it would eventually ease out on to some verdant plain, criss-crossed by streams and rivers, but now I’m beginning to think that was just wishful thinking on my behalf.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s a flat plain ahead,” replied Chase. “The way the wind sweeps unimpeded towards us has convinced me of that fact. Besides, we’re almost down to sea level again.”
“Well, it’s been such a struggle one would hardly believe we’d been descending for six days in a row. Listen to that gale, pounding the very walls of the tent as if it wants to tear them asunder. Will there be no relief?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Chase.
The flame guttered in the lantern as a fierce gust whirled through the encampment, striking one tent after another. Chase gathered up his charts and tables, and waited while Johns completed the latest entry in his journal. Then they buttoned their coats, extinguished the light and went outside. This sequence of events had become a nightly ritual. Next they would find their way through the blackness for a distance of about half a mile, following a northerly direction, carefully examining the ground and taking note of any landmarks or other points of interest. These were few in number. Nonetheless, both men agreed that their regular evening forays gave them a fair idea of the terrain that lay ahead, and thus prepared them for the following morning’s march. Before returning they would always wait until their eyes had grown fully accustomed to the dark. Then they would retrace their steps back to their respective tents, each getting ready for bed without further recourse to lamplight. In this manner they helped conserve the supply of fuel.
♦
“I can offer you a penny,” said Scagg.
“Pardon?” said Medleycott.
“For your thoughts.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, I was miles away.”
“So I observed. Is something troubling you?”
“Not really, no. Or shouldn’t be anyway. It’s just that today happens to be my birthday.”
“And you were flunking about Mrs Medleycott.”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“It’s quite natural,” said Scagg. “Everyone thinks of their mother on their birthday.”
“Do they?”
“Of course they do.”
Medleycott gave a long sigh. “Yes, well, it’s very true; and it’s so unspeakably lonely out here that I can hardly bear it at times. This endless scree, this darkness, this pitiless wind: men have been driven to distraction by lesser torments. It’s an utter wilderness. Do you know, I’ve been standing here for almost an hour gazing at absolutely nothing?”
“Which is why I came looking for you,” Scagg replied. “You’ve been absent a good while.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have wandered far,” said Medleycott. “I just wanted a few moments to myself, that was all.”
“But I thought you said you were lonely.”
“I remarked that this was a lonely place, yes.”
“Well, conducting a solitary vigil won’t help matters, will it?” said Scagg. “If it’s your birthday then surely you should be with the other men, not stuck out here on your own. Now take my advice and get yourself back into camp before Mr Johns notices you’re missing.”
“I’ll go at once,” nodded Medleycott. “Sorry, Scagg, that didn’t even occur to me.”
“And many happy returns of the day.”
“Thank you.”
Scagg watched as Medleycott made his way towards the tents. He waited until he’d disappeared from view, then strolled in a purposeful manner around the margins of the camp, pausing at one point to inspect the mules. These were gathered together in a huddle with their backs to the wind, some sleeping, others eyeing him warily when he drew near. He glanced to his left. Tethered separately a short distance away was the single recalcitrant mule, its head concealed under a heavy linen hood just as it had been all through the night. Scagg stood and contemplated the scene for several minutes before moving on. Presently he came to the kitchen area, where Seddon was busy preparing breakfast. Here he paused again.
“Been in search of our early riser?” ventured Seddon.
“As a matter of fact I have,” Scagg replied.
“I saw him go by an hour ago. Sleepwalking, was he?”
“Yes, something like that.”
Scagg lifted the lid of the cooking pot and peered inside. Steam rose up to engulf him; quickly he replaced the lid. Next he poked around amongst the sundry stocks and provisions, opening boxes and closing them again. Finally he looked at Seddon and said, “You’ve got plenty of flour, haven’t you?”
“Plenty,” answered Seddon.
“Sugar?”
“Yes.”
“Fat?”
“Likewise.”
“I know for certain there’s a bag of raisins somewhere,” Scagg announced. “I loaded them myself. Got a baking tin?”
“Of course I’ve got a baking tin,” returned Seddon with indignation. “What’s all this leading up to anyway?”
“Well, Seddon,” said Scagg. “I want you to pull off one of your culinary miracles.”
“Oh yes?”
“I’d like you to bake me a cake. Nothing special; just a simple cake with icing on the top. Can you do that for me?”
“I suppose so.”
“Much obliged. That’ll be one I owe you.”
“I presume it’s a secret, is it?”
“Correct,” replied Scagg. “And don’t worry about the candles: I’ll see to them.”
“All right, when would you like it for?”
“Tonight.”
“Good grief,” murmured Seddon. “You do want miracles, don’t you?”
Without further discussion, Scagg glanced at his watch, then began his daily round of the tents, waking all those who were still asleep. First to emerge was Summerfield, whose turn it was to feed the mules. He was followed from the same tent by Plover and, lastly, Sargent. All were now clad in the full attire of surcoat and woolly helmet, and all walked with a kind of stoop as they headed out into the wind.
“Any idea when we’re going to see some proper daylight again?” asked Sargent. “All these early nights are taking their toll of me. Wearing me out, they are.”
“Is that why you’re always last up?” Scagg countered.
“
Who is?”
“You are.”
“It was only a civil enquiry.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid the man to ask is Chase. He’s been taking all the readings, not me.”
“Will it be days or weeks, do you think?”
“I expect it’ll be one or the other,” said Scagg.
Sargent looked at him for several seconds through the opening of his helmet, then turned abruptly and walked off in the direction of the field kitchen. “Get more information out of a stone,” he muttered, when he was out of earshot.
There was the usual gathering of breakfasters, all hunched together behind one of Summerfield’s constructions while a gale raged around the camp. Sargent collected his helping of porridge and looked for a place to sit down. Finding nowhere suitable, he then wandered over to where Summerfield was still tending to his charges.
“You’d better hurry up,” he said. “Or you’ll miss your share of the vittles.”
“Not to worry,” Summerfield replied. “Seddon always saves me something.”
Sargent nodded towards the hooded mule. “Is that the one that’s holding us back?”
“Supposedly, yes, although for my part I feel it’s most unfair to blame the wretched creature for our shortcomings. Scagg has ordered me not to feed it until all the others have had their fill. Only then may I remove the hood, so he says.”
“Well, it’s hardly a real punishment anyway,” said Sargent.
“Surely it would have been better to give it a sound beating and put it on half rations for a day or two.”
“I wouldn’t let Mr Johns hear you talking like that if I were you,” rejoined Summerfield. “In his opinion the well-being of the mules is our chief priority. Besides which, Professor Childish disapproved of those sort of methods.”
“Who’s Professor Childish when he’s at home?”
At these words Summerfield peered out of his woolly helmet with an incredulous expression on his face.
“But you must know who he was.”
“Was?”
“He’s been dead for twenty years.”
