by Ken Webster
The ‘leems’ was not our computer, if he was right, but something rather more. Who had told him that the ‘leems’ must be protected and that the ‘power’ could be accessible to our time? These were our questions. We took for granted that he was mistaken in the substance of what he said.
But we did not pursue the questions with him. The reason for this was that the message came close to the holiday period; it contained difficult words (‘deradynate’, ‘powncett’) and our attention was on soothing Lukas, reassuring him about the immediate future: in particular that holidays in France were not a sign of exile in the year 1985, and that we would all have ‘many a word for our felawe’ before he must leave. Eventually he calmed down and I took ‘carte tyger’ and left for Bristol.
Bristol. Through the spanned gorge at Clifton runs the Avon and past these cliffs the sailing barges of the 16th century may have carried members of Lukas’s family. I wished I could see them now and hear the creak of the ropes and the cry of the gulls following the ships down to the Bristol Channel.
I’d found the tower, the Cabot tower, on a hill in the city. It prompted many thoughts. A kind of irony that Lukas’s family looked towards a new world with Cabot, as this tower commemorates those voyages, and yet Lukas himself could see an even stranger world from a village above the marshes of another west-coast port.
Up among the shading trees and mown grass a woman was feeding cake to a grey squirrel. I photographed it. The heat and the noise drifted upwards from the city. The woman left and the squirrel bounced off into a bush, but I carried something of their passing world in the camera. This moment, like every other, was unique – worlds, universes distinct from all others. But there is movement, seamless change. Nothing abides. Yet if Lukas was who he said he was it would mean that this infinity of moments is never lost. Time is curiously an ‘ever-present’. Somehow the squirrel eating the cake crumbs was always there – but always changing, the moment unfolding into others. There is the paradox. In the hard material world Lukas is a ghost, a joke, or a delusion. ‘That,’ I said aloud, ‘is what everyone is bound to say.’
But it did not stop me entering the mezzanine of the Bristol museum library and finding on the wall a map by Joris Hoefnagle, its title: ‘Brightstowe’ the place-name, the rare version which Lukas used. It was good to see. I withdrew Lukas’s description of his journey through Bristol from the manilla folder I was carrying, swung the camera out of the way and traced his progress with my finger across the glass protecting the map. There was something missing, the left turn at the cross at the centre of town. It was necessary to complete the journey but was not included in the description. I don’t think it mattered, it was an obvious change of direction.
I wandered off to a café and to George’s Bookshop and bought one or two small volumes on Cabot and a reproduction map of Somerset. I felt like an adventurer just being there. Nothing I saw and nothing I bought was unobtainable in a dozen other cities, but I had chosen to go to Bristol and I learned much, mostly about myself.
Next evening, back at the cottage, I gave Lukas a potted version of the life of Cabot, from his Venetian background to his successful voyage of 1497, and then to his ill-starred voyage of 1498. I also told him that some Portuguese sailors found a Milanese sword and Venetian rings among the possessions of a Newfoundland tribe in 1501.
Lukas was very grateful, it seemed to me, for this information – as though his family was connected with the success or failure of the voyage. Perhaps as shipwrights they had been blamed for the failure of Cabot’s last journey.
I asked Deb if she had written much to Lukas. She said she had not, other than to chide him for ignoring her greeting. She had, she said, ‘seen’ him once more. She then showed me a message from him that she was supposed to keep from me. Most of it was a love poem but before that was written:
DEB. MYNE SWETEST O ALLE CREETURES.
PREYE BE NAT WYTH SYCH SORROWE FOR IT DOST FULWHELME MYNE SELVES WYTH TERE. FOR WOE ME CRYE YOW NAT SEYN I HATH NAT WYSH TO SPEKE WYTH YOW MAYDE. FRO THY FYRST TYME ME HENT YOWR SYGHT ME WERT ACHOYKED BY MYNE OWEN BREETHE FOR THO YOWR FACIOUN BEEST UNKYNDE NEEDS MOTE THAT ME WERT ALLE WYTH MALANCOLIE. ME THENKE TWOLDE BE QUHITE WYSE AN ACORDYNG IF ME NATS TO THYNKS O SUCHE CONVERSACIOUN WYTH THEE SELVE AN SHOWE IGNORANCE TO MYNE LOVE. KEN BE A GOODLY MAN WHOME ME DOST ALS LOVE … DOE NAT SHOWE THYS TO KEN AN SEYN NAMO ON THYS MATIRE
MYNE FOOLYSH LOVE TO YOW MAYDE
LUKAS.
Deb, sweetest of all creatures,
… Please do not be so upset for it overwhelms me with sorrow that you think I do not wish to speak with you. From the first time I saw you I was choked by my own breath for although your fashion is unknown I must say I was full of melancholy. I think it would be quite wise not to think of such conversation with you and ignore my feelings of love. Ken is a good man who I also love … Do not show this to Ken and say no more on this matter.
My foolish love to you, maid,
Lukas
This is Deb’s account of her encounter with Lukas:
‘As Ken was away I thought I might wait in to see if a message came. I lay quietly on the couch, it was 4.30 P.M. but I drifted half asleep …
‘I caught Lukas singing to himself in the “barrels room” and I walked in quietly. Amusingly, Lukas was headfirst inside one of the bigger barrels, which was lying down on its side, and all I could see was his feet. I could easily have imagined Lukas to be fixing the underside of a Cortina, one minute he would lie still in some sort of concentration and the next his feet would begin to waggle as he continued to sing again.
“‘Lukas, pray, why are you lying inside a barrel?” I asked mockingly.
‘Lukas’s body jerked and he pulled himself out, emerging with knife in hand and cap on head. He was just about intact, though a little ruffled with surprise. “Maid, you brings yowr troublesome self always when Lukas be-est up-sa-down.”
‘He did not answer my question about the barrel but stood and stared at me for a second or two as though he had misheard me. As was so natural to Lukas, he then turned on his heel and swiftly walked into the kitchen with an unspoken “follow me” demanding attention in the swirling air behind him.
‘Lukas seemed a little awkward this day and he struggled to make sense of what I was saying, perhaps he was just in one of his “not so patient” moods. In Clint Eastwood fashion he put his feet up on the table, as he always did when he was about to make a statement. I think he did it to look in control, it always worked impressively.
‘“Maid, yow stay with Lukas all day.”
‘I thought it was an odd thing to say and reminded him that the choice being mine I would gladly stay all day but the “leems power” governed my stay.
‘“Nay, maid, yow will stay with goodly Lukas, tis yowr will, an’ not that of the leems.”
‘Interestingly enough, several hours passed by and I was still with Lukas. He had kept me occupied with rolling candles, which he had made from soft fat of some kind, they were fairly thin. Things seemed to get less serious as we both worked at the table and talked. I wasn’t doing so badly with the candles, I thought, but I applied too much confidence to my hand and a candle broke in two. I tried quietly to stick it back together but the damn thing wouldn’t hold properly, apart from the fact that the grass, which was its wick, had also crumbled. Lukas, without raising so much as an eyelid, spoke. “M-a-i-d, yow wall nat to breikss a candle of Lukas, p-rahy.”
‘Uh-oh, I thought as I stiffened, he’s not going to have one of his unpredictable fits over a little candle, is he? I felt my face redden. Lukas looked, while his hands continued to work, at my guilty hand then slowly his eyes met mine. Immediately he grabbed the cap from his head and flung it straight at me. For a second I thought that he was going to get violent but instead he picked up the two pieces of candle from the table and held them both at eye level, laughing. “Whhat, maid, with all questi-uns, does breikss candles? – Yower man I am tuh pity!”
‘Lukas pla
ying chauvinist again. I was provoked enough to retaliate. I picked up the cap and was about to throw it back at him when I caught sight of some herbs which were lodged in a small pocket inside his cap. This was my best attack: “And what man, p-r-a-h-y, keeps his brains in a pocket as small as this?” I sang out, pointing to the herbs. This was getting childish and was perhaps low-level humour but, for a change, Lukas actually could relate to this mischief. We were both laughing now.
“‘Pray return Lukas’s cap so that his wits may be restored an yow will nat make fool of my goodly self!” Lukas joked as he went to grab the cap back from me. But as he moved I took a step back away from him – he wasn’t going to be let off that easily!
‘“Nay, methinks to prefer yow with no wits, Lukas!” I said, taking another teasing step back.
‘“Then, alas, ’tis tuh-be, witless Lukas be my name, forsaken by this pretty maid that stands before me.”
‘Lukas fixed me still with his sad look and took the cap from my hand and placed it on my head. I hoped, stupidly, that it wasn’t infested with fleas but did not insult him by removing it from my head. Again Lukas looked at me with some seriousness.
‘“Maid, now tell me, now that yow have taken all Lukas’s wits, what thoughts in mine cap do I have of Debbie?”
‘I wasn’t sure whether we were still playing a game, or for that matter how I would reply to keep up continuity in the atmosphere. I pretended I didn’t understand and tried to break the seriousness by taking on a modelling pose – tilting the cap and saying in an American accent. “Guess the cap suits me, honey.”
‘Lukas smiled gently but obviously did not catch the intended humour. He left the room for a moment then came back in again with a small book in his hand. He handed it to me and continued to work with the candles, saying that it was the only book from his teacher that he had not sold. I flicked through the pages, but it was in Latin and there were no illustrations. On the cover was engraved a staff with two snakes entwining it. The book looked as though it could have been handwritten rather than printed, but it was so uniform that I decided against this. I felt that Lukas was waiting for a reaction.
‘“Lukas, Latin be not in my language.”
‘“Yey, me know,” he replied as he stood up from the table and took the book back from me. “’Tis a special book to Lukas – I wished you to hold it, nothing more.”
‘Oh well, I thought, another conversation bites the dust, but Lukas continued on a different tack: “Maid, will you carry these candles for goodly Lukas?”
‘He took two bunches of candles from the table, one for himself and one he pushed towards me, saying that this would be a good opportunity to show me where he slept at night. He moved awkwardly to what he called the stairs, though these were really a ladder, which didn’t look particularly safe by any means. I tried making excuses but he was not listening and had already climbed up the ladder, taking my bunch of candles from me so that I could climb with both hands free. Near the top he gave me his hand and pulled me up from the ladder and on to my feet; for his size, Lukas was deceptively strong. Through a door and into his bedroom. I was almost crouching, the roof was so low. The whole room was panelled, including the roof and the door, unlike the combination of stone and oak downstairs. Again the room was quite sparse. A low cupboard one side of the bed with candle holders on and a folded spare blanket on top, a wooden bench seat under the window and, by the door, a chest covered with various items of clothing, including the cloak that I had seen Lukas wear on a previous occasion when he had been outside – I thought it had looked good on him.
‘Lukas boasted that he had a new mattress and new blankets on his bed. He sat down, again a little awkwardly, and told me to sit down next to him. I felt very uncomfortable, almost claustrophobic, and instead of sitting down I looked around, spied my bunch of candles on the floor and picked them up. There was no hay on the wooden floor and I remembered that Lukas had said that hay took the heat away in bedrooms. I wondered if he was referring to the heat rising from the kitchen but thought better than to mention it, convection was not an easy topic of conversation. Again Lukas told me to sit down next to him. His seriousness and his strength of voice worried me to the point of nervousness.
‘“No, really, I have to go now, Ken will worry. What shall I do with these candles?”
‘Lukas grabbed my elbow and pulled me down to sit next to him. I was noticeably shaking now, but not too numb to feel the prickly mattress under the blankets and the sharp wooden edging of the bed. I couldn’t understand why my nerves were so on edge – I am just not the nervous type. Lukas made things worse by asking if I was cold, to which I had replied “yes” to cover up my real reason for trembling, and he placed a blanket over both my legs and his. Again I spoke – I forgot to try the “Middle English” idiom.
‘“Lukas, I’ve got to go, Ken’s going to go crackers if I’m not back soon, what shall I do with these ca … ?”
‘“The candles are of na matter, Debbie,” Lukas interrupted. He pulled the candles from my tightening grip with one hand and covered my mouth with the other. My jaw ached with the tension. He removed his hand and we both just sat silently for what felt like half an hour, then he took my hand and held it tightly. He did not look at me and I was glad, but he spoke. “Yowr perfume haunts my house, yowr hand is softer than any fair hand …” He lifted my hand to his face and closed his eyes, then continued. “Be yow nat real, nat only for yowr unnatural beauty but also that yow make me 430 years too old for yow, maid. One day Debbie will know Lukas as na-more than history – am I tuh live knowing nothing else?”
‘I could not speak, he was so serious and so sad. It was a very sensitive situation and I just couldn’t understand – I was so mixed up. My only reaction was to move my arm away and make for the door before I burst into tears with the pressure – it just wasn’t like me to be so weak. Lukas was so swift that he had moved ahead of me and slammed his back against the door with his arms folded, it must have hurt his back. I could feel the tears welling up but I fought them back.
‘“Maid, ’tis lacks of mine cap that makes me foolish …” He took the cap from my head and brushed my face gently with the back of his hand before replacing the cap on his head. “… Forgive me, Debbie. What would I if I were 430 years younger in the space of time? Pray do not leave it so long before yow see foolish Lukas again.”
‘Lukas, still with his back to the door, lifted the latch and opened the door for my exit. I slipped through and caught his eye; he smiled and I forced a smile back.
‘The time I spent with Lukas must have been at least four hours and yet once I had “returned” the fire was still burning brightly and the clock face showed 5.20 P.M.’
I put my hands over my face and rubbed the top of my forehead, trying to ease some sense into my head. ‘Let me see what was in the poem, Deb.’
‘He said it was written for the prison guard – to give to his woman.’
LORDE HOWE MYNE EYEN CAST GAZE TO THY EESTE
MYNE HERTE DOTH CHARGE THY WATCHE. THY MORN RYSE
DOST CYTE EECH MOVYNG SENSE AFROM YDLE RESTE
NAT DARYNG TRUSTE THY OFYCE O MYNE EYES
WHYLE SWETELY SHE DIDST PLAYE HIR FLUTE. ME SYT AN MARKE
AN WYSH HIR LAYES WERT TUNED ALYK A LARKE
FOR SHE DIDST WEL COM DAYES LYTE WYTH HIR DITTY
AN DRYVES AWAYE DARK. DISMALLE. DREEMYNG NYTE
THY NYGHT SOE PAKED. I POST UNTO MYNE PRETTYE
HERTE HATH HYS HOPE. AN EYEN THIR WAYSCHED SYGHTE
SORROWE CHANGED TO SOLACE. AN SOLACE MYXED WYTH SORROWE
FOR WY. SHE DIDST SYGH AN BYD ME COM AGEYNE AMORROWE
WER I WYTH HIR THY NYGHT TWALD POSTE TO SOONE
BOT NOWE ARN MINUTES DIDST ADD TO THY HOURE
TO SPYTES ME NOWE. ECHE MINUTE SEEMTH A MOONE
YET NAT FOR MYNESELVE. SHYNE SUN TO SUCORRE FLOWER
PAK NYGHT. PEEP DAYE. O NYGHT NON BORROWE
SHORTE. NYGHT. TO NYGHT AN LENGTHE
YOWRSELVE T MORROWE
26
24 July
With Lukas willing to answer questions for John Bucknall it was only left to create the right circumstances for the latest atempt. John Bucknall and Debbie sat in the lounge and amused themselves playing ‘guess the next card’, using a special pack of cards with only five kinds of symbols – Zener cards.
The rest of us were at the Red Lion for a time. We met John and Debbie half-way between the pub and the cottage on our way back. No result, I could read it in their faces. John and Deb retraced their steps as we all walked the remaining 100 yards to the house.
Inside, it was no good looking cheerful, pretending that we were not disappointed. Debbie had said that the files had all been checked before they came out and there was nothing new, but to distract myself I began to search them. One file kept running, scrolling through page after page. Thirty-five pages down there was a new message from Lukas.
John read it but was unimpressed by its existence. He said he had seen no new message up to the point when Debbie and he left the house. Since it had occurred in the minute or so that it took to round the street corner and return there was room for fraud. I protested that even to open a file to thirty-pages would take probably eight minutes, never mind the time to write the message. Deb reminded him that none of the files was open that far when they had examined them. He replied that he didn’t note how far exactly they were open. I felt like asking him why he wasn’t sure, as it was his business to be certain. He was, however, certain of one thing: that disks could have been swapped in under a minute. The culprit would only need an identical copy with the added message. I wasn’t taking this in clearly: a disk is swapped while I am walking down the road and in sight of the back door and while Debbie and John are within sight of the front. This disk also has to carry the exact form of the greeting to Lukas which Dave Welch had put on the screen before coming with me to the Red Lion.
