Lost Acre

by Andrew Caldecott

  Finch played his final card. ‘A few Apothecaries already know this secret and of course they’ll tell their own kind – who wouldn’t? But where will that lead?’

  Jaws dropped. Rule by a coterie of immortal Apothecaries was an even more repulsive prospect than rule by outsiders.

  ‘Let be, my children. Live with what you know and see. Who cares a fig about dates? Dig in your window-boxes, but not in the past. Vote “Forget”!’

  Finch swayed. Wounds from battle and the mantoleon claw had taken their toll. Ember stepped forward and helped him down the steps as Gorhambury called for a show of hands.

  A few Apothecaries abstained, but nobody voted for the hell on earth conjured up by Finch’s oratory.

  Oblong generously shook Finch’s hand. ‘Isn’t light the best disinfectant?’ he asked the Herald.

  ‘In Utopia, yes, but not here,’ Finch responded.

  Backstage, Valourhand and Bill Ferdy accosted each other.

  ‘Nobody’s wiping my bleeding memory,’ she said, hands on hips.

  ‘Which is why I’m giving you this,’ replied Ferdy, presenting her with a small corked phial filled with a golden liquid. ‘Ferensen’s antidote to the Hammer: it inoculates for life.’

  A label in Ferensen’s hand displayed the simplest of instructions:

  FAO Miss Vixen Valourhand – Drink me.

  ‘Ferensen thought of me? That far ahead?’

  ‘People do sometimes,’ replied Ferdy. ‘He knew you were in Lost Acre on Midsummer Day. He takes – took – care of his own.’

  If Ferensen could do it, so could she. Valourhand hurried away.

  Ferdy twisted in his hand one last phial labelled FAO Whomsoever Bill Ferdy may choose – Drink me. He turned to his daughter.

  ‘Gwen, take this to Ember Vine. Tell her the names of the townsfolk who’ve visited our house and ask her to join us.’ He added in her ear, ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

  Ember did not hesitate, once Gwen had disclosed that Finch and Oblong had been among their guests in recent weeks.

  Valourhand found Ambrose prostrate on a grassy bank near the oaks in whose shade the Midsummer flower had fruited. ‘You might want to a sip of this,’ she said.

  He smiled, fishing from his pocket an identical phial, labelled FAO Ambrose Claud the Thirteenth – Drink me.

  Minutes later, masked by the most alluring flavours, the Hammer released its peculiar chemistry. The Myrmidon, the battle, the tile’s existence and location and Persephone’s dance all passed into oblivion, save for the chosen few.

  As everyone else lolled on the Island Field late into the afternoon, the company gathered the bodies of the dead and wheeled them to the catacombs. Valourhand and Claud collected the weapons, Boris and Bert the wrecked coracles.

  When reality returned at dusk, the party line from the company was that an earthquake had struck, releasing dangerous vapours from underground which had intoxicated all survivors.

  11

  A Phoenix Rises

  On the following Monday, Gorhambury was unanimously elected Mayor. His army of paperclips and Post-its moved with lightning alacrity: the bereaved were supported from public funds and the dead mourned in a single open-air service on the Island Field.

  In April, he unveiled a revolutionary programme. The History Regulations were loosened to allow the painting of portraits for posterity. The North and South Towers merged, with a remit to deal only in harmless – if ingenious – entertainments and defensive technologies. Vixen Valourhand, the acknowledged expert in the latter field, was invited to head the Two Towers.

  Gorhambury repealed Wynter’s house-appropriation law. Countrysiders were awarded their own Guild, with a Hall in Rotherweird and representation on committees which affected their interests. The Apothecaries reached out under Sister Prudence’s benign direction, while still avoiding undue flippancy.

  The town’s aesthetic pulse quickened too: the Manor’s outer doors acquired three beautifully painted signs: The School of Dance (Principal: Varia Brown); The School of Art (Principal: Morval Seer); The School of Sculpture (Principal: Ember Vine).

  At Orelia’s suggestion, a small orphanage was built beside The Shambles, its residents-to-be as yet unknown.

  The gates and the portcullis were repaired first. A competition for the design of a new church attracted a record entry, with the chosen theme: Deliverance.

  Two outsiders received the freedom of the town.

  Ambrose Claud’s citation read: In gratitude for his early warning of the catastrophe to come. Thanks to the Hammer, nobody knew the detail.

  Oblong’s citation, by contrast, was accessible to all: For contributing to the gaiety of nations.

  12

  Dead Men’s Shoes

  Oblong’s summons from the Headmaster rested against a glass on his desk. It offered no clue as to its purpose beyond the timing, for the summer term beckoned. Beneath it lay a piece of paper, virgin but for the title: A Secret History of Rotherweird, and four lines of introductory doggerel donated by Portly Bowes: ‘The truth is often knotted

  And in telling may be lost,

  If all the Is are dotted

  And every T is crossed.’

  He put on his jacket and set out for the School. A warm wind swirled through the town. Sunlight danced across the new cobbles where the tower had been.

  ‘Oblong,’ exclaimed Rhombus Smith, rising from a large oak desk overwhelmed by books. ‘Enjoying the lull before the storm, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Oblong.

  ‘I always set an essay on The Seasons to sort the literary wheat from the chaff. Imagine my surprise when last year a boy wrote of five seasons. He called the fifth season Sprinting: that peculiar day or two when Spring hovers on the knife edge of Summer. Brilliant idea – never be a slave to convention.’

  Oblong shuffled. Colourful welcomes from the Headmaster normally heralded an announcement of moment. ‘Today is Sprinting, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Very much so,’ replied Oblong.

  ‘It set me thinking. I’m going to relieve you of the toils of Form IV and restore Mr Fanguin, so you may inherit the former charges of the inimitable Gregorius Jones. He said you’d be best at easing them into the summer of their lives, and I agree.’ Rhombus Smith administered a hearty handshake as if to seal the deal. ‘Excellent – and it comes with a pay rise. As they say between acts at a French circus, le spectacle continue.’

  Oblong bounded down the stairs. Morval was coming to supper. He had been promoted. He was an honorary citizen. For the first time in his life he felt he had a place and people he belonged to.

  13

  Absolution

  Age and battle had chipped away at the Hoverfly’s outer paint. Half visible, like a pointilliste painter’s cloud, it settled in the meadow by the cottage. In the rigging sat Panjan.

  On the roof, Ambrose the Thirteenth was laying new slates like a man dealing cards. He waved. A column of smoke rose from a makeshift kiln where Valourhand was melting down Carcasey Jack’s abandoned traps and implements. Chickens wandered free, ignoring the Mance who equally ignored them.

  Orelia hurried across, leaving Boris, Bert and Gabriel on the vessel, which was laden with bricks for the restoration of Gabriel’s house.

  She took Valourhand aside. ‘I see you’re busy.’

  ‘We both are,’ replied Valourhand. ‘It’s an exorcism.’

  While Valourhand washed her hands in a bowl beside the kiln, Orelia peeped inside. The cottage had acquired a welcoming lived-in look.

  Valourhand wiped her sleeve across her face. ‘Tyke dropped by to say his goodbyes. He looked about eighteen. He said he was both too young and too old for me. It’s awful, but I knew he was right.’

  ‘You’ve not done so badly,’ said Orelia, eyes raised towards Ambrose Claud.

  ‘Time will tell,’ replied Valourhand. ‘Anything’s better than Strimmer,’ she added with a chuckle.

  ‘You’ve not accepted G
orhambury’s offer – head of the Two Towers.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s my penance.’

  ‘That’s what I came to say: there’s nothing to do penance for. Salt was the Green Man, don’t forget – I reckon he knew that without the ice-dragon we would have no chance. But you couldn’t know that. That’s why, before you left, he sent the seed of the Midsummer flower to Aggs to give to Jones. He saved you, he saved the dragon, he saved the valley and he saved Lost Acre. Don’t take that away from him.’

  Valourhand felt a knot ease. She respected a reasoned appeal. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’ll sleep on it.’

  ‘There’s another thing. Cast your mind back to my aunt’s blazing house and Bole’s familiar, the cat-boy. Remember what he said to me? “Have you the book?”’

  Of course Valourhand remembered. ‘It couldn’t be the Recipe Book, because Bole knew Strimmer or Slickstone already had it,’ she replied thoughtfully. ‘Indeed, that was the plan.’ Valourhand’s mind flitted back to Ferensen’s al fresco dinner. ‘You had a theory, didn’t you? That Morval kept a book of the failed experiments.’

  ‘I was wrong. She did keep a book, but only of those experiments which used children. I found it in the spiderwoman’s lair, perfectly preserved between the warm store and the cold store. And thanks to Varia, we have the stones. So, one day soon, if that’s what they want, we’ll have a Restoration Day.’

  Valourhand remembered the owl-like creature which had helped her escape from the Manor. She watched the Mance and thought of Panjan. Would they? Wouldn’t they? ‘Count me in,’ she said.

  Back in the Hoverfly, Gabriel released a flouncy buff-and-white hen and a gaudy cockerel with a brilliant green ruff and scarlet comb.

  ‘They’re a present from Finch. He says their names are written in stone: Gregorius and Clemency.’

  Valourhand looked puzzled. No other name would do justice to the strutting cockerel, but the other? Clemency? She understood the innuendo but begged to differ. ‘You’re storing up trouble with Varia-stroke-Persephone stroke Nona,’ she said.

  ‘When the sin is deep and there is risk but also hope, that’s true clemency.’

  ‘You’ve learned the art of persuasion,’ replied Valourhand.

  ‘You’ve learned the art of being persuaded,’ replied Orelia with a grin. ‘Once in a while.’

  14

  A Final View

  An easel stands in the grass on a gentle slope looking south to Rotherweird, a present from Gabriel, his first work since the destruction of his workshop. A climbing rose entwines the supports, its flowers in shadow beneath the crossbar. A palette sits on a stool, the splashes of colour in chromatic order. Worker bees are busy in the warmth of mid-morning. Fresh leaf flutters like a choir turning music. The fruit trees are blossom-bound.

  This very day, this very month, the wagon descended this very road, carrying the ten brilliant children. She had run with Hieronymus from the orchard to see Fortemain, the most boyish, blinking in the sun. She wipes an eye. Fortemain, who is now buried deep.

  Down that same road Wynter and Bole would canter, hot on the heels of Sir Henry Grassal’s death. And Slickstone would return with his catch from London, including Vibes and Tyke, the beautiful boy. Her new friend and maybe lover-to-be, the gangly historian, must have come this way too.

  Her fingers twitch. She dips the brush.

  You have no right to happiness. Contentment is a dull friend set beside experience. Better to make history than merely learn it.

  Within reason.

  ‘A Final View’

  Acknowledgements

  Without my agent, Ed Wilson, Jo Fletcher and her team at Quercus/JFB this trilogy would not have seen the light of the day or would at least have been a lesser work. Their contributions, as addressed in the Acknowledgments in Rotherweird and Wyntertide, have continued undiminished and need no repetition.

  Milly Reid, my new publicist, deserves special mention for her tireless efforts and for being such cheering company.

  Readers are unlikely to miss the change of style in Sasha’s illustrations. A good artist is a brave one, and they focus more than their predecessors on the darkness at the heart of Wynter’s conspiracy. They are powerful indeed.

  Other support, hitherto unacknowledged, has come from a wide variety of booksellers far and wide, real and virtual. I owe them an enormous debt as I do to the patience of loyal readers who have had to wait over a year for this final chapter.

  Last but not least my long-suffering family should take a bow. But then I do have a fresh idea . . . in a place and time far removed from Rotherweird.

  About the Author

  Andrew Caldecott is a QC specialising in media, defamation and libel law, as well as a novelist and occasional playwright. He represented the BBC in the Hutton Inquiry (into the death of biological warfare expert and UN weapons inspector David Kelly), the Guardian in the Leveson Inquiry (into the British press following the phone hacking scandal), and supermodel Naomi Campbell in her landmark privacy case, amongst many others.

  His first produced play, Higher than Babel, was described as ‘Assured and ambitious . . . deeply impressive debut’ by Nick Curtis in the Evening Standard and ‘Vivid and absorbing and grapples with big ideas without being dry, difficult or patronising’ by Sarah Hemming, in the Financial Times, but informed by his love of history, which he studied at New College, Oxford, he was seized by the notion of a city-state hiding a cataclysmic secret: the result, his first book Rotherweird.

  About the Translator

  Sasha Laika studied figurative art in Moscow, followed by a degree in Graphic Design and Illustration in the UK. A London-based artist for the last ten years, Sasha creates highly intricate works that draw on imagery from mythology, folklore and religious iconography. Her works are inhabited by mystical creatures that morph between human and animal, and exist in transition somewhere between the worlds of fantasy and reality.