Awakening

by William Horwood

  The trellis tables were hauled inside, the imbibers followed them, along with the wenches, the Norseners and the rest of the company.

  But for one, who lingered outside, his monk’s habit turning dark as it grew wet, and shiny. He stood staring at the lights inside and the flares dying in the rain and he watched two figures who hurried away: Mister Pike and Master Brief.

  He followed them, he studied them, he assessed their likely strengths and weaknesses, and that done, and well satisfied, he made his way to his lodgings and, for once, slept in his own bed all the night through.

  27

  PALEY’S CREEK

  ‘No,’ said Katherine, ‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all. It’s too risky and we might lose her in the dark and anyway you don’t even know where Paley’s Creek is, do you?’

  Jack knew she was quite right – and also absolutely wrong.

  Twilight was already falling on the day after his reunion with Stort, and Jack had tried every way he could think of to persuade her. A break from everything was what was needed, a night out, a chance to see the world from outside themselves.

  ‘It’s just an hour or two . . . into the henge, back into the Hyddenworld . . . a way for us to show Judith how—’

  ‘No, Jack, I won’t agree to it.’

  He knew that if she didn’t he couldn’t take Judith. It was both or none.

  He had even tried the threat of saying he would go without them.

  ‘That’s probably for the best anyway,’ she had said, which wasn’t what he wanted.

  He had tried to tell her that Paley’s Creek, as he understood it, was a carnival – liberty, freedom from normal restraint, fun.

  And there was what he couldn’t say, had never said: that Katherine was too serious, too old in the head, too fuddy-duddy in the way she thought, the way she was, even dressed, even did her hair, too lacking in the joy in life he felt so much.

  He looked at her with love and couldn’t say it.

  Your father died, your mother was ill, and you lost your childhood when you became the primary carer . . . that’s what happened and you’ve forgotten how to let go, assuming you ever could . . .

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘trust me.’

  ‘Not over this,’ she said stiffly. ‘We’ll get an early night.’

  ‘But Arthur’s coming and maybe Margaret.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Come on, Judith, we have things to do.’

  As they were leaving a short while later, Judith appeared.

  ‘Are you going out?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Mummy would prefer if you didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she feels it’s unsafe for you.’

  She looked him in the eyes.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  He hesitated.

  Judith said, ‘You’re going to Paley’s Creek and I want to come.’

  Damn Stort and Barklice, they talk too much!

  ‘I know, my love, but—’

  ‘Why doesn’t Mummy want to come? Is she scared?’

  Again he hesitated.

  ‘I am too,’ she said with a bright smile, ‘and I can’t go anyway, even if Mummy wanted.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We never got me any nice clothes.’

  They left at twilight with a sense of carnival in the air.

  Margaret decided to come because, she said, ‘There’ll never be another chance. Arthur had all the fun with the Hyddenworld, I had none. So for once . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure I can remember how to use the henge,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Hold my hand, Margaret, and Arthur you hold her other one . . . It doesn’t hurt.’

  They went between the conifers, made dexter and then sinister and all the deasil ways of the shadows that were there, the moon turning a circle above their heads as, so easily, they slid betwixt and then between and they were there, the trees vast above them and Stort waiting.

  ‘This is Barklice,’ said Stort, introducing him to Margaret. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight. And Judith, Katherine . . . ?’

  ‘Not coming,’ said Jack shortly.

  ‘Is it far, dear?’ wondered Margaret.

  ‘No distance at all and it’s on the flat. Follow Jack.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jack, ‘and I’m following Stort.’

  ‘Who, I believe,’ said Stort dreamily as they wended their way forth from the henge towards the sound of distant music, ‘is following Mister Barklice here who ought to know because he’s been there before.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Barklice, ‘I ought to and I do, which is why I’m following our leader, who is Jack, because that’s the right way to Paley’s Creek, the blind leading the blind and all following the moon . . .’

  So they went and soon they had left Woolstone behind them and were walking in the dark with others near, going the same way, chattering and laughing and enjoying themselves in anticipation of more to come when they got to where they hoped they were going.

  ‘Not far, my dear,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I feel I could walk as far as the stars tonight,’ Margaret replied, taking his arm as she had done the first day they began courting.

  ‘Remember?’ she whispered as they went.

  ‘I do.’

  It was not long before the path, clear now in the moonlight and marked by lights, veered away from the green road, turning away downslope towards the river.

  The air grew cooler and more moist, but not unpleasantly so.

  The music grew ever more noticeable, now loud, now soft, but rising with the wind and ever more insistent.

  ‘It is certainly seductive,’ said Stort, who found himself starting to hum along with it and his two hands dancing about as if conducting an orchestra and chorus comprising large, perfumed silken female bilgesnipe, each one with a song of welcome on her lips.

  ‘Be warned, Stort,’ said Barklice, ‘and you too Jack, especially as you’re spoken for. Before you know it you’ll have lost your soul to them.’

  ‘Never!’ cried Stort happily and unconvincingly.

  ‘Never,’ said Jack.

  The music grew louder and more seductive still, lights danced among the trees, figures, some diaphanous, flitted before them and behind them until, quite suddenly, they found themselves upon the river bank with lights drifting past them on bark and slivers of wood, candles perhaps, oil lamps maybe . . . drifting by, some fast some slow, some across and others towards, entwining, entangling.

  ‘Be careful, Stort,’ warned Barklice again, ‘we’ll be there in a trice and then . . . then what?’

  ‘Then . . . then . . .’ whispered Stort, for anything louder than a whisper seemed a kind of sacrilege, ‘then . . .’

  ‘Welcome.’

  A voice. Laughter.

  ‘Welcome one and all.’

  Stort looked around but could not see anyone near, not even Barklice.

  ‘But where—?’

  The verderer ran straight into him, panting, ‘I thought I’d lost you, I couldn’t see you, you seemed to drift in and out of the trees and I . . . I . . .’

  They saw a great fire ahead, sparks rising with its smoke into the night.

  They heard song.

  They were offered mead, which they took, and food, which they ate.

  ‘Welcome, Mister Barklice.’

  They turned, but in the shadows of the people, and the barges on the river, and the tented humbles all about, it was hard to say who was quite where, and who might have spoken.

  ‘So she bain’t here then natterway, Mister Jack?’ said a voice out of the gloom.

  ‘Who?’

  He turned, unsure who had spoken, shapes of people all about.

  ‘That girl o’ your’n who be a maid worth seein’ this night I’d say, i’ the cups o’ the moon, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You mean Judith, I’m afraid she—’

  ‘Welcome, Bedwy
n Stort . . .’

  Stort stopped still and grabbed Barklice’s arm and Jack’s.

  ‘We have work to do, an appointment to keep and my task is to see you keep it. Now let us explore this . . . this Paley’s Creek and find your son!’

  ‘How?’ said Barklice, not unreasonably, since whichever way they looked a pathway went, picked out by stars, turning through firelight, and faces hard to see.

  ‘Where are Arthur and Margaret?’

  Stort shrugged, as did Barklice, with other things on their minds. Jack shook his head and followed on, or thought he did, until he realized they were following him.

  ‘I thought we’d lost you,’ he said when he saw Arthur.

  ‘You did, you have, but that’s what must happen in Paley’s Creek and Margaret’s having the time of her life. Where’s Stort?’

  Jack turned in the flickering dark but Stort was not there, and when he turned back to Arthur he had gone too.

  So he stood still and let himself be right where he was as present, past and future whirled around in his mind and the music entered his head and he began to smile.

  ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘I’d found the words to persuade Katherine to come here and then Judith would have had to and we’d be here together like everyone else.’

  ‘You did, Jack, you did find the words; you did, my dear . . .’

  Her voice was old, old as darkness itself, and he could feel the touch of her hand on his arm.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘I know you did,’ the crone said, taking his arm.

  ‘Mum? Mum!?’

  They were in bed and Katherine was asleep.

  She woke instantly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Listen!’

  They could hear the music of the night.

  Judith got out of bed, grabbed Katherine’s leg and pulled.

  Katherine’s body actually moved to the edge of the bed.

  ‘Judith, stop it.’

  ‘No. I want to go to Paley’s Creek.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s maybe scary but Bedwyn Stort said they’d cure my pain.’

  ‘Who would?’

  ‘Doctory women with balms and erm . . . erm . . .’

  ‘Embrocations.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dad wanted you to. He was sad that you didn’t. He thinks it would do you good.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That you’ve lost it.’

  Katherine smiled.

  ‘Lost what?’

  ‘Joy, whatever that is.’

  ‘When did he say that? And who to?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Judith, we can’t now.’

  ‘I can take you there.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let me show you. You might enjoy it. Dad would be pleased. Everyone else has gone.’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  She looked at the time but the time seemed strange and not quite itself.

  Judith grabbed her leg and pulled again.

  Katherine half fell out of the bed.

  ‘Judith!’

  ‘Come on, Mum, you’re not that old. Margaret went.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to go because you have no clothes.’

  ‘I don’t, but Dad was sad and you are too. Have you any ribbons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get them.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Please get them, Mum, there’s no time to lose.’

  Katherine turned on the light, went and found her mother’s old sewing box.

  ‘These were your grandmother’s, she bought them for me, but we never had time for that sort of thing . . .’

  ‘You can wear anything at Paley’s Creek, but if you’re a girl you need ribbons.’

  ‘We’re not going, we can’t go; we won’t even try to go.’

  ‘Hold still, Mum, I want to tie ribbons in your hair.’ And Judith did, sitting on the bed. ‘And you can tie some in mine. Red, green, really nice.’

  Their eyes concentrated on each other’s hair, their arms intertwined as they tied the ribbons.

  ‘Mum, you look pretty.’

  ‘Judith, you look beautiful.’

  They looked at each other with happiness.

  ‘Mum . . . let’s go . . . I’ll show you the way.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Paley’s Creek is special. Please . . .’

  ‘We’ll have to hurry.’

  ‘Come on!’

  They dressed and Judith led Katherine downstairs and out into the garden.

  ‘We’ll have to lock up . . .’

  ‘It’s all right tonight.’

  ‘Where do we go?’

  ‘We dance,’ said Judith, showing Katherine how, because no one ever had.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over here,’ she called, ‘this way, dancing to the music you can hear when you listen to the flow of time.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ called out Katherine, as the ribbons in her hair began to stream behind her in the wind and she tried to keep up with her daughter the Shield Maiden.

  ‘Bedwyn Stort. Come on!’

  It turned out, then, that Paley’s Creek was by no means what it at first seemed. There was not one fire, but many; not one river, but several.

  The site was large and confusing and linked by planks and small bridges that seemed never to go in quite the same direction. One way and another it was girthed by water on all sides, interspersed with coppices, making it impossible to get any general sense of things.

  As for the fires, they were the focus of different groups. Around some were singers, others attracted players of bulpipes and the tuble, while still more food was being prepared: brots of many kinds, pasties, graddles and broad scones, and the many-seeded baggot, shot through with moist peppers and pimento.

  Then there were the stews, steaming in great cast-iron cauldrons and fish chops of the pike and the mullion.

  They feasted as they went, unwilling to stop folk offering them food, quite unable to decline.

  Having feasted, they sat on cushions beneath awnings flickering with fire fore and aft.

  Having sat they rose, tottered about, lost their way, joined the dance and began to forget why they had come.

  ‘I am sure,’ said Stort, ‘there was a good reason, but I confess my mind tonight seems a little awry.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Barklice, ‘we did come for a purpose, an important one which . . . if only you would try, I might remember!’

  Until, the moon beginning to wane, the crowds to thin, it dawned on them that the night was drawing to a close and whatever it was they had come for was slipping away.

  ‘Good to see you here, Mister Barklice, goodly and grand!’

  The voice was male, deep, bilgesnipe, warm.

  ‘Who . . . where . . . ?’

  They turned and saw a great bilgesnipe disappearing over a footbridge.

  ‘Sir! Please don’t go!’

  The bilgesnipe turned, fire on his cheerful face, smiling and raising a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘Please . . .’ said Barklice, suddenly sober, suddenly scared, suddenly remembering why he had come . . . ‘please . . .’

  ‘You’m ready now then, Master Verderer, you’m ready to reap what you did sow?’

  It was another voice, a female, closer-to, ancient, a voice from out of time.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ said Barklice, ‘and I’m sorry I ever . . . I didn’t know . . . I don’t know . . . but, yes, I’m ready.’

  ‘You are and you’ll be and you’ll learn,’ she said gently. ‘Now, on you go, Mister Barklice, take up what you’re due . . .’

  He turned, wild-eyed.

  ‘Stort . . . come with me . . . I . . .’

  But the crone took Stort’s arm and he shook his head.

  ‘I got you here,’ said Stort, ‘and now I think it’s you must do the rest . . . but
I’ll not be far behind.’

  Barklice took a path into darkness, which led towards the river and the craft clinking at their moorings there.

  As for Stort he went straight on, across the grass, among the people, towards one of the larger fires, one of the last to still be roaring and young.

  But such were the flickering shadows of the night, and the state of his befuddled mind, that though he looked at the one who held his arm, needing his support perhaps, walking slow with head bent saying no more nor who she was, he knew only that she was old, very old.

  ‘I must help Barklice,’ he said, trying to break away.

  ‘Let Mister Barklice make his own discoveries and mistakes, but watch and learn, Bedwyn Stort, for what you’ll see here this night is what Paley’s Creek was always meant to be, which some might call magic, others . . . well . . . you’re the one with words, not me.’

  Her voice, like her eyes, was distantly familiar, as if he had met her briefly a very long time before. Her hand tightened on his arm and she looked ahead, though with difficulty, for her body was troubled with stiffness.

  ‘Watch,’ she whispered, ‘watch your friend, my dear.’

  They had passed the great fire on their left-hand side and were walking out of its light towards a long landing stage they had seen twice before. First it had been crowded with craft arriving and letting people off but taking few away. Later more folk, mainly young ones as he recalled, had been standing there, boats coming for them one by one.

  Now only one remained, a boy, standing alone at the end of the staging, staring across the water, on which the orange lights floated. There were a few people on the landward side of the stage, huddled together as a family might be, old and young, male and female, quiet, subdued, whispering.

  They were discreetly watching the boy from a distance, their mood sombre. They were watching the water too, for signs of a boat.

  ‘He’ll not move until the sun rises,’ Stort heard one of them say, ‘though middenacht be the witching hour.’

  ‘He’ll never believe and he never did but that his pa would come for him for certain this night, but . . .’tis hard, there’s always one left at Paley’s Creek, one to wish for what never was . . .’

  Stort turned to the crone and whispered, ‘Who are they talking about?’

  ‘The boy.’

  ‘What’s he waiting for?’