Arcadia (25 page)

Then, all of a sudden, the device switched from absorption to production. A vacant universe (so I assumed) began to take form and develop at remarkable speed.

I was immensely excited by this and didn’t worry too much about why it had suddenly got a move on. I assumed initially that the preparation had somehow reached a tipping point, a bit like a kettle coming to the boil after a long period of heating up. It was only when I settled down and reviewed progress properly that I realised something far more dangerous had taken place.

Anterwold had been entered, long before I would have considered it safe to do so, and it had not only remained stable, it had begun to grow magnificently as a consequence. Whereas my entry into Middle Earth had realised its impossibilities, this time the opposite had happened.

When I reviewed the security systems I had installed – not very good ones, admittedly – I spotted a girl coming down into the cellar, pulling aside the curtain that I had thrown over the pergola, staring for a while, then stepping through and, a fraction of a second later, stumbling back and running up the stairs in panic.

Over the next few days, I had some hard thinking and working to do. It had never occurred to me until then that such a powerful reaction could take place, and I needed to know how it had happened. I had an acute moral dilemma as well. Either I could guard against any risk of harm coming to the girl – for if she went through again there was no certainty she would be so lucky second time round – and shut down the machinery for a while, or I could permit her to go through, and monitor very much more carefully what happened when she did.

I decided to be responsible. Believe me when I say I had to overcome a powerful temptation; it showed how the non-utilitarian
moralism of the twentieth century had affected me. Back home, the potential sacrifice of one girl for the sake of so much knowledge would not even have been worth worrying about. I went to Henry’s house and closed down the machine, took a more thorough output of readings and returned home to go through them. Even the few seconds the girl had been in Anterwold had generated a rich stream of data, and I was eager to begin analysing it. It was the better part of a day before I spotted the anomaly that made me realise, with a shock, that I was too late. She had already gone back through. And I had locked her in.

*

Naturally, the first thing I thought of was restarting the machine so that the girl could come back, but that wasn’t so easy; it would reset itself, as it had done last time. According to my calculations, after I briefly closed it down in order to take the readings it had reopened some eighty kilometres to the south-east, and five years and two months later. This was mainly because I hadn’t been paying any attention; I wasn’t trying to get it close to its previous location. I could do better, although only with a lot of work. Even then, it still wouldn’t be precise, so how could the girl possibly find it?

Although I didn’t mind in theory someone going into a universe created from Henry’s head, there were obvious issues. I didn’t know the effect of forging such a strong link between the two universes, but it was most certainly too early to find out. This was meant to be an informal experiment, just to see what happened, little more than calibrating the machinery. The trouble was, when I closed down the machine and opened it up again later, Anterwold was still there. I suspected that as long as that girl was inside it, I would not be able to shut it down. Because she was observing it as an external figure, it would continue to exist. I would have to wait until she came back, and if she didn’t come back on her own, then someone would have to go and get her.

At no stage, I must be clear, did I ever even hint to Henry what I was up to. Quite apart from the clichéd responses I would get – derived no doubt from the trashy novels and films that he liked to consume while no one was looking – there wasn’t much chance he would understand. Equally, there was the slight possibility that he might be offended that I had helped myself to the contents of his head without asking.

Even worse, he might believe me and demand to go and see for himself. Not many people, I suppose, have even the remotest chance of seeing their literary creation in the flesh. Henry is convinced that Shakespeare knew his Rosalind personally in some guise, but that is quite rare. I am sure Dickens would have jumped at the chance of some time in the pub with Mr Pickwick. No doubt Jane Austen would have got on like a house on fire with Mr Darcy, and what about Bram Stoker spending an evening chatting away to Count Dracula over a cup of cocoa? The dangers of Henry’s imagination ending up inside itself are so evident they hardly need to be stated. Henry would know everything about the world he was in; his thoughts and Anterwold would be the same. He would be, in effect, a god. No; better he did not know.

*

The first thing I had to do was to head to Henry’s house and get all the information I could – check on the stability of the whole thing, see how big it had become, do basic tests for growth and resilience. Once that was done, I could perhaps start thinking about who I might persuade to go through and search for Rosie if she didn’t return. For the longer she stayed there, the stronger Anterwold would become. To anthropomorphise again, it would start getting ideas above its station; it would start sending out feelers to try and connect with its past and future, adjusting each to justify and confirm its existence.

I apologise; that’s not what it would do. That suggests a degree
of eventfulness, of discrete existence which is not real. It is just that I do not know how to express it in any more accurate a fashion. To put it as crudely as possible, the longer it continued, the more it would try to shunt my future (or past, or wherever it was) out of the way and take its place. I was fairly confident this would not happen but it worried me, because then everything would be down to probability. As I had no idea what Henry’s universe was, then I could not calculate whether it was more or less likely than my reality.

The one thing I hoped was that his house would be empty when I arrived, as I was anxious to have an uninterrupted hour in his cellar. It was about lunchtime, and the middle of the week, so I didn’t think Henry would be there. I parked in a side street nearby, walked round and, unfortunately, spotted his bike outside the front door. What a nuisance. Lovely man. But not at the moment.

23

Rosie was led through the final door – she was convinced they had gone round in circles, they had passed through so many rooms – and into a huge hall. There was a large fireplace; the windows were not merely open, they seemed to have been actually removed so that it was light and airy, with what could only be described as a throne on a plinth at the far end. The servants halted at a little wooden balustrade that ran across the room with only a small gap. Rosie stopped as well, but one inclined his head to show that she was meant to go through. She did so – feeling nervous, as if she was being ushered into some form of court room – and the servants began stamping their feet on the broad wooden planks of the floor.

She was clearly meant to continue, so she started walking again. They started clapping, adding to the noise. She kept going, and they started shouting, ululating like African tribesmen she had seen once on television. From outside, she could hear others as well, joining in the noise, all shouting and stamping as loudly as they could.

Then – silence. Rosie was now confused and alarmed. A door opened and a woman walked – glided really – through it, and placed her hands together against her mouth, and bowed to her.

‘Greetings to you, and peace be with you through all your days, traveller,’ she said in a melodious voice which was so quiet Rosie could hardly make it out. ‘You are welcome to the hospitality of my house, as welcome as if it were your own. May you be comfortable and happy here.’

Rosie realised that this was a very formal, polite sort of greeting which presumably required an equally formal and polite reply.
She didn’t know what it was, but ‘Hello’ didn’t seem right.

‘I thank you for your great kindness,’ she said, hoping this would do for a start, ‘and for the hospitality of your great house. May it know peace and happiness all the days it stands.’

Not bad. Not bad at all. It was evidently not what she ought to have said – the slightly perplexed look on the woman’s face showed that very clearly – but it seemed to be acceptable, if unorthodox.

The woman clapped her hands and immediately the others in the room began filing out. The last one closed the great doors, leaving them alone.

‘Good,’ she said in a warm voice. ‘Now come with me. You need some care and attention before the Festivity begins.’

She came close to Rosie and studied her carefully with her deep blue eyes. Rosie did the same in return. She was a beautiful woman, with a delicate face and a way of standing that – to Rosie – made her seem like a queen with her long fair hair under a tiara of glittering stones. She was dressed all in white with a blue sash around her waist. She wore no shoes, but had a ring of gold on every toe. Rosie thought that looked rather good.

‘Forgive me for asking,’ she said, ‘but who are you?’

‘I am called Catherine, widow of Thenald, Lord and Lady both of the domain of Willdon,’ she replied. ‘Although the conventions of etiquette insist that I am never introduced to anyone.’

‘Why not?’

She thought. ‘Probably because I should not need to be.’

‘You’re the one Jay is so frightened of?’

‘I very much hope so,’ she said with a light laugh.

‘I don’t see what he has done which is so terrible.’

‘Ah, but you seem to know very little. Young Jay has disobeyed the direct command of his master. He has trespassed on my lands and ventured unbidden into the Shrine of the Leader. For the first he could be dismissed from his calling, for the second he could become my property, and his children and his children’s children, for seventy and seven harvests. For the last, he could be
cast out of human society for ever.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘It is. His master will scold him, then forgive him. As for the second, it is a law which has not been enforced in my time and I do not intend to revive it for Master Jay. Nonetheless, he has not covered himself in glory.’

‘He’ll be all right, then?’

‘Oh, certainly. Apart from burning ears, he will be returned to you in almost perfect condition. Now, through this door here …’

Lady Catherine led Rosie through a door into a much smaller room which was lined with the most curious shelves the girl had ever seen: lots of square wooden boxes filled with rolls of paper. It smelt of wax and dust and flowers. It was a bit like an office, like her father’s little study, except that it had big windows that opened directly onto the courtyard beyond and was bathed in light, while her father’s was always dark and smelled of stale pipe smoke. ‘What a nice room,’ she said.

‘Thank you. It is where the story of Willdon is kept.’

She said this in a way which weighed the words down with meaning, although Rosie didn’t see what the meaning was. It didn’t seem that serious a business, after all, to have stories. But she nodded as though she understood, and tried to look impressed.

*

While the mysterious visitor was becoming acquainted with Lady Catherine, Jay was being reminded how fearsome his master could be when in a bad mood. He had caused offence in so many different ways it was difficult to know which was going to be the most serious. Making a mess of the introduction was merely the last straw, but what could he do? The girl said her name was Rosie Wilson, and if he had said that, everyone would have burst out laughing. But to introduce her merely as Rosie made her seem like a servant, someone who had only one name. So he had stumbled and invented. So be it. He’d done his best; it was not as
if he had time to prepare and besides, the welcome given them had been so unexpected he felt quite proud he had managed to say anything. He’d expected to be thrown into jail; instead they had been progressed through so many levels of greeting – six for himself, the number a scholar might expect, and Rosie was getting even more. Actually to go into the house – that was the sort of thing that only the greatest might expect.

Henary led him into a small room with a chair and a desk and closed the door.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Where should I begin?’

Jay shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but Henary held up his hand to silence him.

‘Just for once, Jay …’ he said.

Henary rested his head in his hands. ‘You really seem quite incapable of doing anything you are told. I cannot tell you how distressed I am that I am unable to punish you over the matter.’

Jay peered at him carefully.

‘The Lady of Willdon has prepared a great festival to mark the fifth anniversary of her accession, part of which will now also be to honour the guest you discovered. As the first person to encounter her, you will continue as her escort for the occasion. Please do not smile, speak or show any sign of pleasure, or you will provoke me beyond endurance.’

Jay sat completely immobile.

‘When we get back to Ossenfud I will have dreamed up a punishment which will be time-consuming, difficult and acutely unpleasant for you. Until then, I propose to say no more on the matter, although I trust you will do me the honour of not thinking that I am so addled that I will forget something which will be as satisfying to me as it will be miserable for you.’

Jay, who could not believe his good fortune and could not understand it either, nodded mutely.

‘Now, you have a few hours to prepare yourself, so you will go, bathe and dress in clothes which do not bring disgrace either on East College or on me.’

‘But Master …’

‘Well done. Well done indeed. I believe you have kept quiet for nearly two minutes. That must be a record. If you wish to speak, you can answer questions instead, not ask them. This girl. Her name is Rosalind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does she come from? Who is she?’

‘I don’t know. She talked a little about herself, but I couldn’t make sense of it. We didn’t have much time. She said she wanted to go home, and kept talking about a light which wasn’t there any more.’