Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset

by Cooper, Edmund

  After he had vomited, his head felt more clear. He felt better altogether. Weak, but definitely better. He began to think. The devastation was terrible. Arundel and its castle had been laid waste; but not everyone could have been killed. Some must have fled to the downs; and the downs folk themselves – including his father and mother – should have had ample warning of the attack. With luck, there would be many who had escaped the night of madness. He must find them. He must find his own people, and learn the nature of the catastrophe and what could be done about it.

  Sword in hand, Kieron wandered down long, dark passageways, dully seeking his way out of the castle.

  He heard a sound, a deep groaning. He stopped and listened. The groaning came again. He went towards it.

  The sound led him back to the great hall. Not far from where Alyx lay, a stranger lay also, dressed in outlandish clothes. There was much blood upon his stomach, the evidence of good sword thrusts. Kieron could not understand why he had not noticed him before.

  The stranger had brown skin, and eyes that rolled horribly. He mumbled something in a language that Kieron could not understand. His fingers fluttered, as if in supplication.

  It came to Kieron, as he regarded the man, that he might well have been one of those who had outraged Alyx.

  Kieron was glad of the thought. Here, at last, was someone from whom he could extract vengeance.

  He raised the sword that he held, the sword that had transfixed Alyx.

  ‘May Ludd have mercy upon you,’ said Kieron. ‘I will not.’

  He thrust the sword home, once, twice, three times.

  The brown-faced man grunted with each thrust. Then he uttered a great sigh and died.

  Kieron exalted in his death. One blow for Alyx.

  Then, hardly knowing where he was going or what he was doing, he somehow found his way out of the castle.

  He was amazed to notice that it was a day of bright sunlight. Alyx and her parents lay dead in the castle, towns folk lay butchered in the streets and the remains of houses still smouldered. He gazed up at the blue sky incredulously and shielded his eyes from the glare. The sun was wrong. It should not have been a day for sunlight.

  He tried to think what to do now. He must try to find Gerard and Kristen, anyone at all who remained alive. He must try to discover what had happened.

  Wearily, still clutching the sword, he staggered away from the castle towards the downs. There had to be people left alive among the hills. Not everyone could have been killed.

  He felt dreadfully thirsty. His throat was raw and sore, his lips blistered. Not fifty paces from the castle, he gave a despairing cry and fell on his face.

  There had been sunlight, and now darkness was closing in. He was glad of the darkness. It came as a friend.

  Kieron was near to his eighteenth birthday, the threshold of manhood; but the events of the last few hours had aged him greatly. Already he had seen much. More than a grown man might be expected to witness and yet retain his reason.

  Kieron took refuge in the friendly darkness. It lay over him like a blanket of peace.

  2

  Sholto poured water between his lips. Petrina held his head. Someone was trying to take the sword from his hand but his fingers would not let go.

  ‘Peace, boy,’ said Sholto. ‘You are safe. I have carried you on my back with that sword like to pierce my foot at every step. Let it go now. You are with friends.’

  Kieron sat up, blinked his eyes, licked his lips, trying to comprehend where he was and what was happening. Petrina kissed him, and he let her take the sword from his hand. His fingers ached – how they ached! He must have been gripping the sword very tightly.

  He looked around him. He was in a woodland clearing, presumably in the downs. The sun was still high. There were many people in the clearing: downs folk and towns folk. Strangers and friends. He did not see his parents.

  ‘My father and mother?’ They were his first words. He did not like the sound of his voice. It was rasping, shaky, like that of an old man. The smoke was still in his lungs. It made him cough when he spoke.

  ‘Rest easy, lad,’ said Sholto. ‘There are misfortunes that must be borne.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Ay, dead … Your father gave a good accounting. We found three dead men who would not dispute the claim.’

  ‘My mother?’

  Sholto said gently: ‘My son, forgive me. There are things for which I cannot find the words. I am a simple man. Forgive me. Also, my own wife is dead, and my mind is not too clear … Your mother was a woman of great presence. She is dead. Let us say no more.’

  Kieron digested this information. Sholto was right, he thought dully. Better not to enquire further.

  Petrina said: ‘Kieron, thank Ludd you are alive.’

  ‘Alyx Fitzalan is dead,’ he said. ‘The sword you took from my hand is the one I plucked from her belly.’

  Petrina kissed him once more. ‘Ludd rest her. She was beautiful. I have no quarrel with the spirit of Mistress Fitzalan.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Kieron, his voice rising. ‘Who has destroyed us? What manner of men are they who came to destroy and pillage and ravish in the night?’

  A strange face loomed before him. ‘Sir, they are freebooters, scavengers, parasites. They came from the coast of North Africa. They have worked the Mediterranean coasts dry. Now they venture into Europe.’

  Kieron looked up and saw a gaunt wild-eyed man in ragged clothes. A patch of blood showed through the rags on his shoulder. His weathered face and something about his manner suggested that he was a seaman.

  ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘I have sailed with them.’

  Automatically, Kieron felt for his sword. ‘You have sailed with them!’ He leaped to his feet. ‘Then—’

  ‘Peace, boy,’ said Sholto. ‘I do not wish to knock your head. The stranger comes as a friend.’

  ‘I did not sail willingly. I was taken for a slave.’

  ‘They take slaves?’ Kieron was utterly appalled.

  ‘Both male and female,’ said the man sombrely. ‘When the slave is strong and well, he is given food. When he falls ill or is no longer of use, he is thrown overboard. So, also, is it with women.’

  ‘They cannot be human!’

  The stranger gave a wintry smile. ‘Human they may not be, but they are mortal. I have had little pleasure this past year; but one I savour is that I twisted chains about the necks of two of those who had set chains upon my wrists and ankles. Look, sir. It gave me pleasure to tear the flesh from my wrists so that two might die.’

  He held out his arms. Kieron looked at the bloody mess on his wrists and turned away.

  ‘I struck off the chains myself,’ said Sholto.

  When he had recovered himself, Kieron turned to the stranger. ‘I ask your pardon, sir.’

  ‘No offence was given, sir. May the sword you have taken have some further acquaintance with those who brought it.’

  ‘Ludd be willing,’ said Sholto.

  Kieron gathered his wits and looked round the clearing. There were perhaps a hundred men, women and children gathered there. Some wore their night clothes, some were injured, some sat silently or wept, some carried arms and strolled about nervously, unable to keep still.

  ‘Are these all who have lived through it?’ asked Kieron.

  ‘No, boy, there are many more. Our numbers grow, as you see.’ He pointed to a group of five people who had just arrived. ‘Most of the downs folk were untouched. We have sent messengers, telling them to rally here at the Misery.’

  Suddenly, Kieron recollected where he was. The Misery was a high stretch of woodland about five kilometres from Arundel. As children, he and Petrina had played in the Misery, marvelling at its name, marvelling at its huge beech trees. There was a day, long ago, when they had lain under a beech and listened to the song of the bees, when Petrina had told him of the predictions of the astrologer Marcus, and when he had confessed to her his desire to f
ly.

  But all that was far away in a world of children, a world long dead.

  ‘Why do you send for people to rally here?’

  ‘Why else,’ said Sholto, ‘except that when our numbers are strong we should venture down to the sea at Little Hampton, where the invaders now lie, and give them a taste of their own physic.’

  Kieron left Sholto and Petrina, and sought out the stranger with bloody wrists.

  ‘How many ships have they?’

  ‘Ten, perhaps twelve now. More will be coming.’

  ‘How many men?’

  The stranger shrugged. ‘Eight hundred, a thousand. More will be coming.’

  ‘How many more?’

  ‘Who can say? They are a nation which thrives upon the misfortunes of other nations. They are the people of the sea. They have no home. They settle like locusts. And, like locusts, when the food is gone, they go elsewhere.’

  ‘You say they are a nation. How can they be a nation? I have seen some of their dead. They are of different colours, different races.’

  ‘They have one thing in common. They are all men without a country. Each has forfeited the right to live at peace in the land of his birth. They are all the more dangerous because they have put themselves beyond the acceptance of civilised men. They have little to lose. They call themselves the Brotherhood of Death.’

  Petrina tugged at Kieron’s arm. ‘Come and take some food, Kieron. You must need it. When did you last eat?’

  He tried to remember. Yesterday, he must have eaten. But yesterday was more than a few hours ago. Yesterday was a lost world. He tried to remember when he had eaten and what he had eaten. He could not.

  Petrina led him near to a fire over which a large cauldron bubbled. She gave him a platter filled with stew. He sat down cross-legged, and ate mechanically. His brain told him that the stew contained rabbit and parsnips and carrots and potatoes and herbs. It tasted like wet sand.

  People continued to arrive at the Misery. One of them was Aylwin. He was in a poor condition, half fainting. He had been supported on the journey by his mother, Lilias. When she had seen him safely received, she went away from the Misery and plunged a dagger into her heart. Her husband was dead, and she had received much attention from the Brotherhood of Death. She no longer wished to live.

  ‘Aylwin!’ said Kieron. ‘I am glad to see you alive.’

  Aylwin held out his right arm. ‘Be not too glad, Kieron. The world we knew has gone for ever.’ There was a tight rope round his wrist, where the hand had been severed. ‘I will paint no more.’

  ‘You will paint again,’ said Kieron. ‘This I swear.’

  Brothers Hildebrand and Lemuel came to attend to Aylwin.

  Kieron looked at them scornfully. ‘You seek a hot-air balloon, brothers? I have not had time to construct another. And where is Brother Sebastian, that devout scourge of heretics?’

  ‘Brother Sebastian is dead,’ said Lemuel mildly.

  ‘Aha. The Divine Boy was impatient for his company.’

  Hildebrand held out his hand. ‘Peace, Kieron. What is past is past. Brother Sebastian was, perhaps, over-zealous. There will be no reckoning.’

  ‘Peace, you say! A strange word when the seigneur and his family lie horribly dead, and half the towns folk with them. By the hammer of Ludd, there will be a reckoning, Brother. But it will not be for a hot-air balloon.’

  Petrina scolded him. ‘Speak no more, Kieron. Bitter words are not needed on this day of grief. The brothers have used their skills upon the sick and wounded, also they have hazarded their lives more than once.’ She put her arm round Aylwin who was near to fainting. ‘Would you make speeches while Aylwin bleeds to death?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Kieron. ‘As always, I am a fool. I will not unsay what I have said, but let us wipe the slate.’

  ‘Kieron,’ said Hildebrand, ‘you speak plain. The slate is clean. All of us now need each other. Perhaps that is the divine purpose.’

  The neddies took Aylwin away and made a rough couch for him of grass and bracken. Presently, Kieron heard him moaning; and then the moaning rose to a screaming. Kieron stood up and tried to go to his friend. But there was no strength in his legs, and the world had begun to spin crazily, and Petrina was saying words that he could not hear.

  And then there was nothing but nightmares. And when he woke he could still hear screaming, but the voice was his own.

  3

  For hundreds of years in the island of Britain there had been no monarchy, no parliament, no central authority. The country had been divided into seigneuries, each held and governed feudally. The grand seigneurs, the largest land-owners, occasionally held counsel in London. Their concerns were largely with matters of agriculture and trade. They were not empowered to raise taxes, establish armies, or decide matters of national policy. Each seigneur was responsible for the security of his own domain. He could, and frequently did, seek alliance one way or another with his neighbours; and by means of intermarriage, many seigneuries were enlarged or united with others. It had been the intent of Fitzalan of Arundel to bring his seigneurie and that of Talbot of Chichester together by marriage. Besides, since Talbot was unlikely to last, the seigneuries might have united in a manner most satisfactory to the Fitzalans. But Fate had put paid to that; and the dream of an enlarged and prosperous seigneurie had perished with the deaths of Fitzalan and his daughter.

  Though there was no centre of temporal authority in Britain, there was yet a centre of spiritual authority: the Luddite Church. The First and Second Men having been destroyed, as it were, by their own hands in the manner of their indiscriminate use of machines, Luddism developed from an almost forgotten philosophy of untutored men into a flourishing creed. Ned Ludd, the idiot boy, who took a hammer to destroy weaving machines at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, slowly assumed the mantle of divinity.

  As Christianity declined, so Luddism rose. It was a more appropriate philosophy. Jesus of Nazareth, or Joshua ben David, to give him his proper Hebrew name, had never had to consider the moral problems involved in the use of machines. Chiefly, he had spoken for universal brotherhood, and he had spoken against oppression. His philosophies were outmoded. More important than universal brotherhood and oppression was the question of survival of the human race. Twice the human race had attempted to destroy itself by the use of machines. In retrospect, it was seen that the one person who had opposed machines was the true saviour of mankind. Ned Ludd, the idiot boy of Leicestershire, acquired in retrospect divine power. It was discovered that he had broken small loaves and fed thousands. It was discovered that he had walked upon the river Trent without sinking. It was discovered that he had changed water into beer, on the eve of his crucifixion.

  So, in Britain, the Luddite Church waxed strong; and anti-machinism grew into a religion powerful enough to inhibit all forms of invention. Powerful enough to compel the seigneurs to accept that any unauthorised machinery was evil.

  The Luddite Church was peculiar to Britain; but the revulsion for machines was universal. Throughout the world, as men struggled to emerge from the centuries of barbarism that had followed the destruction of the second machine-based civilisation, there lingered an almost racial dread of the power of machines. In some races and in some countries it was stronger than in others. In Russia and China and Africa and India, where a machine-based way of living had never been fully accepted by the mass of the people, the people had, for the most part, returned to the ways of their long dead ancestors. They ploughed the land with wooden ploughs drawn by oxen, mules, horses. They threshed their corn or rice with flails. They killed game with spears or arrows. They used spinning-wheels and wove cloth laboriously by hand.

  But in Japan, where the dread of machines was accompanied by a fatal fascination, the steam-engine had been developed once more, and men were already experimenting with its use to propel vehicles and small boats. The Japanese, however, had turned once more to their historic philosophy of isolation; and Japanese steam-engi
nes were retained only for the domestic use of the Japanese.

  The steam-engine had also been reintroduced to the continent of North America; but there it was being used primarily in the tremendous task of re-establishing transcontinental communication. It would be many years yet before American ships, powered by steam, proved more efficient in crossing the Atlantic Ocean than the great windjammers.

  Meanwhile, the Luddite Church of Britain, an island which had once been the cradle of a great Industrial Revolution, authoritatively maintained that all unnecessary machines – that is, machines considered by the Church to be unnecessary – were evil. And so Britain was condemned to remain one of the most backward countries of Europe.

  But the coming of the freebooters, who had attacked along the south coast not only near Arundel but in many other places, eventually provided Kieron with the opportunity to weaken the hold that the Luddite Church had over the minds of men, and to demonstrate that machines, which had enabled two civilisations to be destroyed, were also necessary for the survival and advancement of a third.

  4

  Kieron slept throughout the rest of the day and the following night, while downs folk and people from the farther parts of the seigneurie continued to arrive at the Misery, alerted by messengers who rode the downs on horseback. Fortunately, the weather remained mild and dry. The able-bodied men set about building rough huts and tents; some of them hunted for deer, rabbit, pheasant; the women prepared food and attended to the injured.

  Kieron did not return to consciousness when Sholto lifted him bodily and carried him to a small shelter made of spruce branches and bracken. Nor was he aware that Petrina sat with him through the night, soothing him, cooling his hot forehead, murmuring words of tenderness when he cried out.

  In the early morning, he awoke refreshed, his head marvellously clear. He ate pheasant breast and drank goat’s milk at sunrise, and he began to feel a new man. Apart from posted watchmen, hardly anyone in the camp was stirring. They were all tired from shock, or wounds or various exertions. When he had breakfasted, he drew Petrina back into the shelter. She was exhausted from a night of sleeplessness, but Kieron did not know this. He unbuttoned her blouse and fondled her breasts. Petrina moaned with pleasure, her fatigue forgotten. The sound of her voice and the feel of her breasts excited him beyond endurance. He lay with her. It was a necessity. He lay with her. It was the first time he had lain with a woman.