Lost Acre

by Andrew Caldecott

  A single busy note from several voices drifted down from the canopy above. She aligned Ferensen’s telescope; the inner mechanism whirred, drawing her up to the treetops and the finch-sized birds attacking the pine cones. One cone fell at her feet, then another.

  ‘Plum waistcoats for the men, parrot-green for the women,’ Gabriel said, adding, ‘For once in the bird world, both sexes are equally smart.’

  ‘What’s wrong with their beaks? They’re twisted—’

  ‘Nothing is wrong and everything’s right. Crossbills are purpose-built for twisting the scales of the cones to get at the seeds.’

  As they moved into meadowland, Orelia looked across to a bowl of beeches above a tumble of thick undergrowth. They were close to the white tile, which lay on Gabriel’s land, according to Ferensen.

  ‘Superficial familiarity labels the bizarre as commonplace,’ Gabriel said. ‘We give birds and insects names, which makes us think we understand them, when in fact we don’t. Lost Acre’s creatures have no names, so it’s all outlandish, but we’re first cousins, really.’ He led the way across a bridge made of two lopped tree trunks. He gestured at the meadow ahead. ‘Elms flourished here once, but alas, no longer.’ His pointing hand moved. ‘And that’s me.’

  The oak timber frame and the cob walls fashioned from earth and straw conferred a natural camouflage. Only the chimney was brick. In a shaded corner by the front door stood Hayman Salt’s Darkness Rose in its pot, carmine blooms hanging freely, impervious to winter’s grasp. Its twin had opened the way for her escape from the sealed rock chamber beneath the marsh.

  ‘She’s living proof that benign life forms exist in the other place too,’ Gabriel said, the tiny thorns retracting as he ran his finger lightly along a stem.

  ‘You’ve been there, haven’t you?’

  ‘Rarely,’ he replied, without elaborating. He opened the front door. At the far end of a large front room, a stone sink and an iron cooking range provided the kitchen basics. A shelf held old Vlad bottles with new handwritten labels overlaying the printed originals.

  Several fine pieces of furniture caught the eye, including a walnut marquetry writing table. Archaeological finds and carvings adorned the walls. A fire had been laid on a generous hearth.

  ‘Please don’t light it,’ she said on impulse, so strong was the memory of Everthorne lighting the fire in the houseboat, the first step in her seduction.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he replied. A tiled stove stood discreetly opposite the front door. ‘Peat bricks burn slow as a snail with almost no smoke.’ He lifted the metal lid and added more from a wicker basket. ‘Open fires are for high days and holidays.’ He handed her a key. ‘My workshop is out the back. I’ll brew up some coffee.’

  Orelia rebuked herself: he had no barn, livestock or arable crops, so he had to have a skill.

  The outhouse resembled the main building in materials. The oak beams jutting from the roof corners had been carved with motifs from Nature.

  Inside, diagonal lines of sunlight shot through gaps in the heavy shutters. One caught the tube of an astronomical telescope, a high-end South Tower model. Furniture parts hung from ropes slung between the beams: arms, legs, chair-backs, stretchers, both unadorned and ornate. Wood shavings littered the floor.

  ‘I’m disorderly,’ he said. ‘When I feel like carving an arm, that’s what I do, whether it’s needed or not. Still, repair work keeps the wolf from the door.’ He smiled at her puzzled reaction. ‘Oh yes, I have customers in town. I’m cheaper than the Guild.’

  It’s not only that, she thought, you’re as good as their best.

  Gabriel opened the shutters. Mallets and chisels hung in size order above a long work-bench. He described each wood like a personal friend. ‘Yew and ash bend. Beech polishes well – all my tools have beech handles. Box is for inlay. Sweet chestnut stains the fingers. But elm and walnut are best.’

  Orelia warmed to the way he spoke of what he liked or loved; she had not heard him utter an unkind word – a weak trait maybe, but a welcome one. ‘I had a remote ancestor who carved wood. His name was Benedict Roc,’ she said.

  ‘I know – the one and only Benedict Roc. He always signed his pieces. They’re rare and valuable.’

  Suddenly clues cohered: the refilled Vlad bottles, the telescope, the tile’s proximity . . .

  ‘You knew Professor Bolitho,’ she said, a statement, not a question.

  ‘He’d come here to take his telescope to the other place. He brought humour, learning and a new cocktail every time.’ Gabriel’s weatherworn face broke into a smile. The hard near-monosyllabic carapace was splintering. ‘Saint Elmo’s Fire is my favourite.’

  What about the Darkness Rose, the archaeological finds, the interest in Nature – and another visitor to the other place? She sensed the jetsam of another town personality. ‘What about Hayman Salt?’

  The thaw continued. ‘Sometimes they’d come together. I called him The Jolly Grumbler – not a good name for a pub, but that’s what he was.’ The light in his face faded. ‘Now you say they’re both dead.’

  Orelia understood: Gabriel had many acquaintances, but very few friends.

  He shrugged, closed the shutters and led her back to the house. Pouring the coffee, he opened up further. ‘I didn’t drag you here to show off my livelihood. There’s something I’d like you to have.’ He extracted a chart from a desk drawer. ‘I did this for Salt – for this Christmas.’

  The chart mapped the trees within the immediate curtilage of the town, including the Island Field, the banks of the Rother and the first outlying meadows. A numbered key marked species and Gabriel’s estimate of their age.

  ‘Why give it to me?’

  ‘It’s for your shop. You sell furniture and you know your wood, I imagine. With this, you can spin a yarn about where every piece came from.’ He paused. ‘And because Salt was your friend.’

  The chart had striking precision. She had walked those banks many times.

  ‘Do hang it,’ Gabriel said quietly.

  ‘Thank you. I will.’ Outside, the shadows had shortened. ‘I must be getting back,’ she said. ‘Ferensen was right about the benefits of exercise.’

  ‘I’m not very good with children. I’ve no idea what they’re thinking.’ He had an odd circuitous directness, perhaps the hallmark of a solitary life, but she had no doubt what he meant.

  ‘You’re staying, then.’

  This time he replied with an action, equally clear: he took down an empty miniature and filled it from a larger half-full bottle. ‘For the climb,’ he said. ‘A dash of St Elmo’s – and every inch of your rigging will glow.’

  She laughed. ‘I have so many thank-yous,’ she said, ‘for the chart, the pick-me-up and the company.’

  Gabriel hesitated. He felt an urge to explain, but indirectly. ‘My father was Michael; his mother was Uriel and my great-grandfather Remiel.’

  ‘Right,’ said Orelia after a moment’s thought, ‘I get it, you’re all named after archangels.’

  ‘It’s an absurd conceit.’ Gabriel drained his glass. ‘Archangels are messengers, but we were mere guardians of the way to the other place. Going back, we’ve used all seven names. The eldest child always stays here: you get the property, but the duties come with it. Now we’re not even guardians, just observers.’ He put the glass down and sighed. ‘Of course, there is one true archangel left.’

  Now Orelia was lost. ‘And who’s that?’

  ‘The eighth and mightiest: Lucifer – that’s how we saw Wynter then, and it’s how we see him now. We suffered the most. Remember what he did to the Seers, our brilliant children, among many others.’

  Orelia tried to imagine this rural outpost in the late sixteenth century, its forced discovery of the astonishing mystery on its doorstep and the enormity of what Wynter had done. No wonder they had given their appointed protectors mystical names.

  ‘Fortemain stood up to him and ended the First Age and we shall do the same for the Second,’ Orel
ia said firmly.

  ‘We shall certainly try,’ replied Gabriel as Orelia drained her glass.

  Outside, she trailed the carmine flowers of the Darkness Rose with her fingertips before heading off across the meadow. Gabriel stood by his doorway and watched.

  In her contrary mood, she found it a more supportive gesture than if he had waved.

  The following morning, for good or ill, Gabriel discovered a surprising absentee. The Darkness Rose had vanished, roots and all.

  IN TOWN

  1

  Corps de Ballet

  Slickstone had spared no expense in converting the disused stables at the rear of the Manor into a long row of offices. Panelling, floorboards, chairs, tables and dressers were scrupulously in period. Persephone Brown observed the transformation with satisfaction. It had been part of their strategy to have Slickstone’s wealth fund the Manor’s long-overdue restoration before his come-uppance.

  She tracked down Fennel Finch in the last corner room, next to Sly’s office.

  Her reception was frosty. ‘Hands off Mr Wynter,’ said Fennel as soon as her visitor had closed the door.

  Persephone greeted the snarl with a smile. ‘I wish you luck. He’s a fascinating enigma, but too ancient for me.’

  Fennel’s shoulders lowered slightly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m to circulate a report to the Council on party preparations. You’re my first port of call.’

  ‘I’m your only port of call.’ Fennel delivered her summary with a business-like air. ‘Unrecognisable means just that. Guests will be hidden from their front door to their arrival at the Manor – I’ve commissioned every rickshaw in town and they’re being fitted out with canvas sides and ceilings. Circuitous routes will be taken. Voice distortion devices will be issued before arrival. All costumes will be inspected. The numbers are about right: some aren’t coming, but many are.’

  ‘What about countrysiders?’

  ‘It’s the same for everyone. The Gatehouse guards will be blindfolded and voice devices will be fitted at the Gatehouse.’

  Meticulous, yet fanatical beneath. This is a woman to watch, Persephone decided. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s more than enough.’

  But Persephone did not leave.

  ‘Anything else, Miss Brown?’ asked Fennel.

  ‘My sister said Mr Wynter had a programme for the future, but she had no idea what it was.’

  Fennel frowned. ‘Your sister had extensive contact with Mr Wynter in a very short time. And Master Thomes showed me a most unusual instruction from her to him: a hundred syringes! Mr Wynter had no idea when I raised it. Someone is playing games.’

  Persephone feigned amazement at her own communication. ‘Madge does run ahead of herself sometimes, but I’m sure there’s rhyme and reason to it. Protective measures, perhaps?’

  ‘Protection against what?’

  ‘Against whatever the next monster may bring?’ Persephone glanced at the claw hanging from Fennel’s neck.

  Snorkel’s suspicious death had fuelled a wealth of conspiracy theories, and her old social circle, habitués of Snorkel’s soirées, had cold-shouldered her for cosying up to the new Mayor. Persephone Brown’s pleasant manner induced her to voice a growing concern which she had hitherto kept to herself. ‘I find Mr Wynter admirably decisive, but occasionally confused,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what Madge thought – but it’s hardly surprising after a life in the tunnels.’ Persephone shivered theatrically, leaned over the desk and whispered, ‘Tell you what, let’s keep each other informed. Neither of us want Snorkel’s cronies back.’

  Fennel gave Persephone an appraising look. ‘Done,’ she said.

  Back in the long passage, Persephone gritted her teeth. She was Persephone after all, a goddess, and with the month of March, her month, fast approaching, she had found herself mired in dispiritingly menial preparatory tasks.

  Without warning, she underwent an alchemical change. Persephone alias Nona spoke no French, but words in that language tumbled into her head and her body responded.

  She executed two coupes en tournant into a high grand jeté en tournant followed by two posé turns into a temps levé in first arabesque. Quite some enchaînement! If only she had an audience greater than the visored suit of armour lurking in the alcove at the end of the passage. She felt exhilarated as her old self resumed control.

  Nobody knew who she was, yet, except Wynter, for whom she had a question. She found him in the Great Hall, working through Sly’s latest intelligence report.

  She closed the inner door. ‘Why this party?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m hoping to attract some unwelcome guests,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t see Ferensen coming.’

  ‘Probably not,’ he agreed.

  ‘Who then who matters?’ Persephone paused. ‘Oh yes, you want your chronicler back.’ Wynter’s lower lip rose at one corner. She had half an answer. Then an ancient memory returned, a creaturing day when nothing had gone quite right. ‘Not that boy, the one who . . .’

  Wynter’s reserve fractured. He rose to his feet, angry in an instant. ‘He’s arrogant. He aspires to divinity.’

  ‘He’s just a freak who survived the mixing-point, that’s all. He’s the exception who proves the rule. So what?’

  ‘He defied me. He brought Oxenbridge in. He rescued the changelings.’

  ‘He’s still a beautiful boy – is that it?’

  Wynter returned to his chair, calmed down. ‘It’s simply a question of due punishment,’ he said.

  If only, thought Persephone, if only. But she played along.

  2

  Dressings Up and a Dressing Down

  Finch set off for town after an early lunch.

  Jones had declared solidarity. ‘You are a tribune of the people. You have duties. We’re with you in spirit, Finchy.’

  Morval offered a warning as she clasped both his hands, her speech less fractured than usual. ‘In disguise, the enemy may do much.’

  Finch recognised the dangers: Slickstone had murdered Mrs Banter, Orelia’s aunt, for the crime of being related to a member of Wynter’s execution party. Why should Wynter be more merciful to a man whose ancestor had supplanted him? Yet he hurried on, his costume tucked under his arm. Finch, the fastidious keeper of records, had turned devil-may-care.

  After Finch’s departure, Jones sat by the fire with Morval as the afternoon light bled away.

  His route to a cure mixed candour and directness. ‘How did he fight, the spider?’

  She scuffed the floor with her foot and snapped her teeth. Jones nodded.

  ‘Entangle and stab, I understand. There’s a gladiator who fought like that. We called him the retiarius. He wielded a net for a web and a trident for a sting.’ Jones paused. ‘But he couldn’t draw for toffees.’ He smiled at her. Her appearance had barely changed since their first meeting in Wynter’s time. He wondered what her parents had been like. He wondered if she wondered.

  Morval reached for the log basket and placed a strip of bark on the fire. Gregorius the Roman scout noted an oddity: they had been burning ash, whose distinctive diamond pattern bore no resemblance to this furrowed surface. Before he could comment, smoke billowed from the fire like incense. As he inhaled, his eyes closed, and his mind drifted into a distant past. He was walking the hill above his childhood home. His sandalled feet released the fragrance of herbs, oregano and wild thyme. Warmth bathed his face.

  Morval moved away from the fire and rifled through the Ferdys’ costume box. She had already made her choice: a multicoloured shift in autumnal colours with an equally anonymous mask. She packed them in a sack with selected art materials.

  She regretted the heartache her disappearance would cause her friend Gregorius, but she had to be there. She had to record.

  Once outside, she ran at extraordinary speed, mostly upright, occasionally dipping an arm to the ground. A cruel line jangled in her head:

  ‘. . . beauty blemished once f
orever’s lost,

  In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost . . .’

  She ran on regardless.

  *

  No Apothecary went or wished to go to the Unrecognisable Party, save for the Guild’s Master. Curiosity and frustration gripped Thomes in equal measure. The Guild’s exclusion from the Council rankled, despite Wynter’s reassurance that it left them with a freer hand. Snorkel’s body had been cremated with indecent haste and now Strimmer and Scry were boxing for prime position. Last but not least, Wynter had commandeered his cook for the day and he had run out of marshmallows. He could not afford not to go, which left the thorny question of costume.

  He consulted Sister Prudence. ‘Vulgarity will reign!’ he whined. ‘I wish to be a beacon of dignity.’

  ‘Beacons stand out, Master. We don’t want Wynter to know you’re there. It strikes me that disguise should be like recognition: you start with the face.’ Sister Prudence produced a grotesque rubbery mask, a double face like Janus. One half had an aquiline nose and beige hair falling to the shoulders; the other sported a bald high-domed forehead with white hair flying from the sides as if electrocuted. Unworn, the features concertinaed. ‘There’s an ingenious fastening system to hold the two halves together at the neck,’ she added with her usual calm practicality.

  ‘It’s obscene,’ Thomes hissed. ‘It’s like the seven dwarves rolled into one.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Newton at the back and Einstein at the front. Your costume unites the two. You’re a walking unified theory of everything.’

  Bowled over by a surge of vanity, Thomes seized the mask and barked, ‘Mirror! Mirrors!’

  ‘This goes with it.’ The costume maintained the divided theme, with split trousers and shoes which faced both ways. Only the arms belonged exclusively to Einstein, the one who looked forward, naturally.

  Had the costume lacked quality, the result would indeed have been a horrendous muddle, but Sister Prudence had paid the head seamstress at Raganuffin handsomely and it showed.