by Jodi Taylor
Peterson had wandered off to commune with the midden, so I turned to Maxwell and said, ‘Can you translate for me?’
She nodded.
If Alfred was surprised to be addressed by a servant and a woman, he had the manners not to show it.
I said, ‘You shouldn’t give up. You should never give up. There’s a saying: This too will pass. And it will. Everything gets better. Because nothing stays the same. Bad becomes good. Good becomes bad as well – you can’t stop that – but you can be ready for it and deal with it when it happens. But this…’ I gestured around us, ‘all this – will pass. You should remember that. That’s what I did when I was a kid and some things were too bad to think about. I used to tell myself – this will pass. And it always does.’
OK. Surprised myself a bit there. I’ve never actually mentioned my private life to anyone except Hunter, and then only briefly, and no one was more surprised than me when she put her arms around me and cried a little, which nearly set me off as well.
I waited for Maxwell to catch up and then ploughed on.
‘When I was a kid, there were bad times, when nothing went right, and I had to do some things I didn’t want to. Like you do when you buy off the Danes. Anyway, I got caught. Several times, actually.’
I paused again, remembering. The magistrate had been quite a decent old stick. We got to know each other quite well. He always said how grieved he was to see me standing in front of him yet again, and I would point out, quite reasonably, I think, that if the police stopped arresting me then he wouldn’t have to, would he?
Anyway, I was caught once too often and they gave me a choice. Detention or the army. I chose the army and things got better. Because all things pass.
I shifted on my uncomfortable log. ‘What I’m trying to say is that everything passes and you should never give up because bad times always get better. One day, all this will be in your past. There’s a story about a bloke hiding in a cave somewhere, watching a spider struggling to spin a web. It keeps trying. It never gives up. And eventually it succeeds. The man learns from the spider. He doesn’t give up and neither should you.’
I sat back and watched his face while Maxwell repeated all that in Latin.
When she’d finished, there was a bit of a silence and then, without looking at me, she scooted up and she put her hand on mine. Just for a very quick moment. I patted it carefully because she can be a bit unpredictable sometimes and it made me nervous to have her that close.
Anyway, Alfred seemed impressed – although whether by my tale-telling abilities or my prowess with short redheads was hard to say. We sat quietly together watching the flames, and then all hell broke loose and, just for once, none of it was our fault.
A little girl ran past us. She was wearing what I suspected was her mother’s dress, cut down to fit, but still much too big. Her face was alight with excitement.
She ran to a hut, fiddled with the latch, and dragged the door open. Her mother – I assumed – busy tipping slop to the pigs, shouted a warning, but too late.
A dog flew out of the door. Not one of the short-legged, curly-tailed mongrels we’d seen sniffing around the place, but a long-legged, silky-haired aristocrat. Obviously someone’s pride and joy. Probably the best hunting dog in the village and, just at this moment, in what you might call a very … receptive state.
She raced past the little girl, knocking her over into the mud. The little girl began to wail. Her mother dropped the bucket and ran towards her. The pigs were vocal in their disapproval of this action.
For some reason, I tensed. This had all the makings of one of those sort of situations.
The dog ran past us, eyes bright, tongue lolling, and obviously feeling extremely friendly towards other dogs.
The first to notice her was some disreputable rat-thing curled up as close to the fire as he dared to get. Unable to believe his luck, he raced towards her as fast as his stumpy little legs would carry him. He was half her size and I couldn’t help wondering what he thought he was going to do when he got there, but I needn’t have worried. He took a flying leap and hung on for grim death.
Sadly for him, he didn’t enjoy himself for long. I suspected that, rather like me, he was quite some way down in the pecking order, and by this time, others had realised what was happening.
More dogs piled on and it got nasty. Fights broke out. One minute we had a lovely, peaceful rural scene and the next minute we were all embroiled in some sort of massive dog punch-up.
A huge, solid mass of yelping, yapping, baying, growling, snapping, snarling dogs was cartwheeling around the place. Things were knocked over. The pig troughs went flying, distributing their contents in a kind of graceful arc. The pig protests increased in volume. Other things toppled. Shrieking chickens fluttered about, tripping people up in their efforts to fly to safer areas. Women picked up screaming kids. Other dogs raced to join in. Cats yowled and fled for the rooftops. Red-faced men shouted and wildly laid about them with sticks.
Somehow, in all the confusion, we got separated. Peterson was over at the midden anyway, Alfred ended up on the other side of the fire and Maxwell was swept away in the confusion. I don’t think she was in any great danger, but I couldn’t afford to let anything happen to her. Chief Farrell would stare at me reproachfully. Then Dr Bairstow would give it a go, and then Major Guthrie would do a bloody sight more than stare. I had to act with decision and competence.
I stood up and fell over a small child.
You would think, wouldn’t you, that parents would be more careful with their offspring and not just leave them lying around all over the place.
A woman, backed up against the same fence as Maxwell, swung her bucket at the seething mass of dogs, missed and fetched Maxwell a great buffet across the chest. She fell backwards over the fence, showing vast amounts of long crimson and gold rugby socks which were, in the absence of the Sky Sports Channel, probably the most exciting thing they’d seen around here for years.
They would almost certainly have caused a stir if everyone’s attention hadn’t been on the fact that every dog for miles around was desperate to join the fun, convinced he finally had a chance with the snooty bitch who was never allowed out to play.
Maxwell, meanwhile, was on her back in the pig-pen – a phrase I really feel isn’t used anything like often enough. Remembering I’m supposed to prevent this sort of thing, I went to help her up out of the mud, but as I moved to assist, Peterson caught my arm and held me back, saying softly, ‘Why not just give it a moment, eh?’
So we stood and watched and it was bloody funny because every time she managed to pull herself up, an excited dog or two would race past and down she would go again. Only when the language became particularly ripe was I permitted to intervene.
We went to pick her up and strangely, she wasn’t in the happiest mood.
‘Where were you?’
‘I was here,’ I said, injured. Where did she think I would be?
‘And you didn’t intervene because…?’
‘Well, they might have turned on me. Did you see the teeth on that mastiff?’
‘Yes, actually, I did, thanks to you. Did you at any point remember your primary function here?’
‘Of course,’ I said, drawing myself up proudly. ‘Not to interfere. Not to do anything to change the course of history. Not to…’ I paused.
‘Not to allow historians to be damaged.’
‘Yeah. I always forget that one.’
She opened her mouth but, thankfully, before she could utter, the noise of dogs rose to a crescendo. The excited barking and yapping had turned to yelping. Dogs were scattering in all directions, tails between their legs, crying in pain. We turned to see what had happened.
They’d been scalded. Not badly – but, with a sense of self-preservation historians would do well to emulate – they were disappearing as fast as their stumpy little legs could carry them. Two seconds later, apart from the grinning hussy who had caused all the trouble – an
d no, this time I don’t mean Maxwell – the village was completely dog free.
Nobody was paying them the slightest attention. There had been a disaster.
The area around the fire was swimming in water. Empty cauldrons and pots lay on their side. Whether someone had deliberately thrown the water over the dogs to separate them, or whether the dogs had knocked them over in the mêlée, was not clear. One thing, however, was very clear.
The fire was out.
Everything had stopped dead, the place was a shambles. Some of the fences had been knocked down and the pigs were out. The chickens were on the roof. The carefully stacked woodpile was overturned. Washing lay in the mud. Buckets and barrels had been overturned and their contents trampled into the mud.
So this was how the cakes were burned, and we’d missed it.
Maxwell was wiping her face and Peterson was being menaced by a very agitated pack of … geese, I think. Big, nasty-looking birds anyway. But not swans, I was happy to note. Otherwise I’d be up a tree by now. Not that that would help. St Mary’s swans can climb trees as well. Why they would want to, I don’t know, but they can.
Oh no. As you were. This was not the day the cakes were burned. Unbelievably, about the only things not damaged in the entire riot were the lumps of dough still sitting serenely at the edge of the ex-fire. I stared at them in disbelief – you’d have thought they would have been the first casualties, but no, there they were. Intact and unburned. Incredible.
All around us, people were distraught. They were running around like ants, and as if that wasn’t enough, it had started to rain again. Not hugely, just a gentle drizzle that soaked everything without you actually noticing.
We did what we could to help, setting things upright again, picking the washing out of the mud, and draping it over fences, but they couldn’t get the fire going again. Don’t get me wrong – they weren’t unskilful. Half a dozen men were working away with fire steels and pieces of flint, but it just wasn’t working. Anglo-Saxon curses filled the air. People were getting wet. The wood was wet. The fire was out. There would be no warmth tonight. No light. No hot meal. No bread.
Men were restacking the all-important log pile. And still no fire. There were plenty of flames being generated, but nothing would catch. Some people were rubbing two sticks between their hands as well, blowing gently on to a handful of dried grass or what looked like sheep’s wool. There was plenty of smoke, but no flames. Somewhere, a child began to cry.
I know we’re not supposed to interfere. God knows, we’ve had that drummed into us often enough. And most of us learned our lesson at Troy. You don’t interfere. There are consequences.
I stood and watched their increasingly desperate efforts to get the fire going again. I don’t know why all the other people didn’t try to get under some sort of cover, but they didn’t. Those who weren’t desperately trying to get a flame stood in tight groups. Watching. Their fire more than just a tool. It was a symbol of something important to them. And it should never be allowed to go out.
I stepped back and stared at the ground.
We’re only supposed to record and document. To stand back and watch people living their lives. To watch events unfold and record them. And we do. I’ve lost count of the coronations, or assassinations, or battles I’ve witnessed and I don’t know why this was any different. This wasn’t some major historical event. This was a few people whose lives weren’t that great anyway, facing what was, in their world, a disaster. It’s hard to believe, I know. Lighting a fire seems such a small thing. But it was everything to these people. Their only source of light, heat, food and all the rest of it. Their source of life.
The rain began to speed up, coming down faster.
Maxwell and Peterson reappeared, surveying the shambles.
‘Did we do this?’ I said to Maxwell.
She shook her head. ‘Not directly, although I might be responsible for the pigs getting out.’
‘And,’ said Peterson, thoughtfully, ‘Alfred hasn’t burned the cakes.’
We surveyed the lumps of dough sitting innocently amongst the carnage.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Maxwell. ‘We only know he hasn’t burned the cakes today.’
‘Suppose they never get burned. Suppose it should have happened today and now it never will.’
We looked at each other and then at Alfred silently helping to re-stack the woodpile, his face tired and sad. And without hope.
I sighed. It was going to have to be me, wasn’t it?
‘I’ll be back,’ I said, hoping they’d mistake me for Arnie, but I think it went straight over their heads. Not difficult, I suppose. Typical bloody historians – they think they’re so smart and yet they never get the cultural references. They certainly didn’t get this one.
‘OK,’ said Peterson, vaguely, all his attention on the villagers’ attempts to restart the fire. I don’t think Maxwell even noticed I was gone.
It only took me about half an hour to get to the pod and back. You can certainly cover the ground a lot more quickly when there aren’t any historians to slow you down, and I hardly fell into any bogs at all. I knew what I wanted. I banged in the combination, opened the locker door and grabbed what I needed, shoved it all in an old bag, and trotted back again, splashing through watery mud and muddy water, eventually arriving back at the village hot, breathless, and very wet. Well, I’d been wet when I set out. I was soaked to the bloody skin now.
This was going to be difficult. I couldn’t just march into the village and let rip. I circled around, eventually finding a little spot that would do nicely, pulled out a fizzer and shouted, ‘Fire from the sky. Fire from the sky.’
At the same time, I ripped the tab off the fizzer. You’re supposed to fire them into the air, but I shot this one into a damp pine tree where it caught on a branch clearly visible to anyone looking, and legged it out of there.
Away through the trees, Maxwell and Peterson, who aren’t anywhere near as stupid as they’d like us to believe, were shouting, ‘Fyra fram heofon! Fyra fram heofon!’ Fire from the sky. Fire from the sky. At least, I assume that’s what it was. Whatever they were yelling, the cry was taken up and I could hear people crashing through the trees.
It was time to go, so I went.
I circled back around the village. Most of the men had seized some kind of weapon and were charging towards the strange red glow they could see. Well, everyone could see it, actually. It was a distress flare and they’re designed to be seen from a great distance and in all sorts of weather conditions.
I hid behind a lean-to, making sure I had a clear line of sight to the fire. Intentionally or otherwise, Max and Peterson were clearing the area around the fire, pointing at the strange red glow away in the trees.
I switched the blaster to full power and waited for it to stop whining. I had to be quick. They’d all be back in a minute. The second the charged light came on, I brought the gun up and fired. A good long, straight blast of white hot flame, directly at the fire. About seven seconds would probably have done it, but I would only get this one chance and I had to make sure, so I gave it fifteen, which, as I did admit to Dr Bairstow afterwards, might have been a bit of overkill.
All right, so they hadn’t been able to get a flame, but that massive ash bed had been there for weeks. Months, maybe and although the top layers might have been a bit soggy, there must have been a good heat still, right at the very bottom.
For a second, nothing happened and then wood and ash exploded in all directions. Everyone ducked and the whole thing went up like a pillar of flame. As Max said afterwards, it was quite biblical. You looked for a fiery chariot. Well, apparently she did, she said. Pieces of burning wood were scattered all over the village. Several pieces landed on thatched roofs where, given the general sogginess of everything in the area, they spluttered and went out.
The point was, however, that the fire was lit. Well, more than lit, actually. We had a bit of a raging inferno on our hands. Livestock bol
ted. Women screamed. Peterson later admitted he might have screamed himself.
I stowed the blaster up in the lower branches of an old tree, scraped off some moss to leave a fresh scar on the trunk so that I could find it later, and strolled casually into the village with my patented ‘nothing to do with me’ expression.
Men came racing back and there was confusion and consternation and a lot of shouting, but the whole point – as I kept having to say – was that the bloody fire was going again. Everyone would have a hot meal tonight.
Alfred – King Alfred, I suppose I should call him – was one of the few who had failed to run into the woods to check out the big red spitting thing in the tree. He turned and watched me walk towards him, stared at me for a few seconds and then turned back to the fire again. He was quite bright, was Alfred. I gave him the guileless smile. The one that never works on Hunter. Or Dr Bairstow. Or anyone, now I come to think of it. It didn’t work on him, either. He stared thoughtfully at me and opened his mouth to say something.
I could only think, bugger – busted.
I was marshalling explanations when someone behind me screamed with rage and I was shoved suddenly sideways. I staggered and nearly fell into the bloody fire. Peterson grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
Now what?
Whatever Alfred might or might not have been about to say to me will forever remain unknown. He was under attack. Some ancient, crooked goodwife with a face like leather and no teeth was shrieking curses at him. He was backing off, hands held palms outwards in a placatory manner. He might as well not have bothered. She was incandescent with fury. If the fire hadn’t already been lit, then they could certainly have used her as a firelighter. He was trying to say something, but I could have told him he was wasting his breath. The best thing you can do with women is to let them get it off their chests – whatever it is – and then deal with the aftermath, when they eventually wind down.
