by Ian Mortimer
‘This is no will of mine,’ I gasp. ‘Man is a devil to man, that I’ve learned.’
‘And is that all you’ve learned?’
The pain of the burning rips another layer of skin from me. ‘I . . . understand that everything has a dark side and a good. Not even a good man can make the world a better place for everyone. Even if all the men and women in the world were kind to one another, it would not last. It would be merely a moment, and that moment of perfection would pass as surely as the hand on a clock passing the hour, moving onward towards strife and war.’
I feel strangely apart from my body, as it lies there on the floorboards in the smoke and fire. I see the flames on my arms now, I do not feel them. But I cannot move.
‘And what else have you learned?’
‘That men and women have a limited capacity for happiness and suffering. If you were to make their lives more luxurious, and to remove their pain, they would find other ways in which to be discontented. And if you were to make their lives miserable, they would find joy in the slightest delights.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘I know nothing, please.’
‘You know the secret of life. You saw it when the girl gave you something that was yours.’
The girl? Celia? Rose? Then I remember. ‘If all the world were to turn bad and everyone were to be touched by evil, just one good act would restore my hope in mankind.’
‘Your six days are now over,’ says the voice. ‘Is there anything else you wish to say before judgement is passed upon you?’
I look at the burning bodies in the orange-lit room. ‘I . . . I wish I could have helped more. I wanted to help people but I never could. I was weak, ignorant and useless. The only good that touched my life was what other people did for me.’
‘Stand up, John,’ says the voice.
I slowly get to my feet. There is no effort or pain now. I close my eyes.
‘What you have just said to me, say to God.’
‘To God?’
‘Yes, to God.’
‘Lord, Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, I so wanted to help others, but I must be an unworthy beast, as You must know, for I never could. The only good that touched my life was what others did for me – and I am so sorry. For I know that it is not enough not to sin but rather I should have done a truly good act. So cast me out now – do away with my soul forever, but I pray, listen to me as I speak of my brother, William. He was not always chaste. He ate red meat on the fast days and often did not go to church. But he was true to us, and true to himself, and true to all those that he loved. And do not forget the soul of my good wife Catherine, who always loved me, from the day she first danced a cartwheel for me. Without her, I would’ve been a most sad and lonely man.’
‘Open your eyes,’ says the voice.
I do. And I see that the flames around me are not orange and red but blue and green. They are the blue of the sky and the green of the hills.
‘Do you see now?’
‘See what?’ I ask.
‘You are the most blessed of men.’
‘Blessed? In what way? I failed in everything.’
‘John, you did the greatest good a man can do.’
‘Jest not, please, I can suffer no more.’
‘You did the greatest good a man can do – only you do not see it, for you are looking only at yourself. You must see what you mean to others to know your true worth.’
‘But I was nothing. I wore rags, I begged. I killed a man. I failed even to save this boy.’
‘No, John. You saved them all. Without you, none of them would have lived.’
‘I beg you . . .’
‘At the stones on Scorhill, you chose not to return to your home. Had you chosen otherwise, your family would have all perished from the pestilence.’
‘But that is what happened – I saw the ruined house.’
‘No, John, they all lived. Everyone you have met since then has lived because of you. Every one of them is your descendant.’
I cannot speak.
‘Your sons became prosperous and sired children, remembering you in all goodness. And your twelve grandchildren did likewise, and your great-grandchildren. None of the people you have met in other ages would have lived if it had not been for your decision. And if among such people you’ve glimpsed some goodness, then that goodness arises from you. You are right in thinking that people in themselves are not good or bad; it is what they do for others that matters. You gave life to millions. They do not know your name but your good action remains forever, and cannot be undone.
‘A beast could have done as much.’
‘No, John. You gave them strength. Your three sons all remembered how, when they were downhearted, you would take them outside the house and show them the night sky and say, “Look! It is never truly dark, you can always see something, even if it is just the shape of a tree.” And each one of them was so moved by that that in turn he said the same thing to his sons and daughters, and they to theirs, so that comfort passed down the centuries. Some forgot those words; others remembered. But they all understood from you what it was to want to live and to battle with adversity.’
And as I hear those words, with the blue and the green flames all around me, and the burning of the sun itself inside me, I finally understand the beautiful secret of dying. It is that one may, at last, escape the tyranny of time. I do not know, in truth, where my body lies. I do not know if it remained on the top of the cathedral screen all those years ago, or rotted away at the stones on the moor. I do not know if I drowned in the Exe, or burned in the fire in Holloway Street. It doesn’t matter. These blue flames are not just the blue of the sky, they are the blue of the sky above Wrayment on a spring day. The green of those flames is the grass of the hills above the Wray Valley. I know this place. I can see my house – I am walking towards it, taking the old familiar bend in the lane and seeing the thatched roof. As I approach, I see the door open, and Catherine appears. No sculpted memento in the cathedral: she is there in the flesh. She looks towards me, recognises me, and then starts running, holding her skirts up to aid her speed. Our eyes meet, and I hold her again – I hold her. I hold her as if our lives are blessed by our being forever conjoined. And that is what matters. And nothing else. For in that embrace, which is our ending and our beginning, I know that, whatever happened to me, before I died, I did one small but truly great thing.
Acknowledgements How this novel came to be written and published would make a story in itself. Those who helped with the publishing side include my editors, Clare Hey, Jo Dickinson and Carla Josephson, and my agent, Georgina Capel: I owe all of them many thanks for their patience, advice and confidence in the idea. Those who contributed to the writing include my brothers, Robert and David Mortimer; the Revd Simon Franklin (who nobly struggled through the whole script when all the medieval dialogue was in Devon dialect); John Allan; Andy Gardner; Poppy Burgess; Mike Grady; Ian and Pam Mercer; Nicky Hodges; James Kidner; and Stuart Williams – plus a host of people with whom I discussed the narrative over the period of ten or twelve years. Sorry, all of you, if I’ve forgotten exactly what you said, or what I said, or what your names were, or what your order was at the bar. My apologies also if I spoiled it for you by telling you the ending. There have been times when my enthusiasm for this story has got the better of me. But just as the whole process has been one of passion, so too it has been one of gratitude to the people around me, and I am deeply grateful for your support.
I would particularly like to thank my wife Sophie, without whom this book would still be a pub conversation. Just by being here, she gives me the companionship I need to venture away from my own time and imagine being in that most inhospitable place, the distant past.
Ian Mortimer Moretonhampstead, 25 November 2016
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2017
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Copyright © Ian Mortimer, 2017
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Acknowledgements
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Acknowledgements
Copyright
