Arcadia

10

As the years passed, Jay worked, learned and grew. By the time he was nearly seventeen, he had become a young man who was more self-confident and somewhat better at hiding his natural tendency to doubt authority, query orders and try to do things in the way he thought best. He had his friends, although he was not known as one of the wild and sociable students. He was still difficult to manage but, on the whole, this was confined to his work and only rarely affected his behaviour, which was polite and considerate. It was true that he was often chastised for missing lectures, but the talks he missed tended to be judiciously chosen. Only the most tedious had reason to complain that he had not turned up again. Jay considered an afternoon sitting by the river staring at the sky with a dreamy look on his face to be more valuable and instructive and often enough Henary found it difficult to disagree.

He progressed through the levels of studentship well and without major incident; his knowledge grew, his understanding grew much faster. Only the indiscipline remained; sooner or later the frustration at the unasked question would burst forth. Some of his contemporaries nicknamed him ‘Master Yesbut’.

‘You know,’ Henary had said after one lesson, ‘that part of your training is to write your own thesis?’

Jay nodded. He also knew that soon enough he would have to appear before a committee and say what his subject would be. Most chose some old scholar, their work unread for generations, who was disinterred from the shelves and analysed. Then put back and forgotten again.

‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘I’ve thought of many. But they are all so...’

‘Boring?’ Henary said lightly. Jay blushed. ‘You are quite right. Many of the commentaries are entirely useless, except to lull you to sleep late at night. Besides, all the really good ones have been gone over again and again.’

‘Laszlo and the weather,’ Jay said despondently.

‘A fine body of work, and very useful for sailors. What is there to say apart from that?’

‘Fered on theft?’

‘Then you would end up as a lawyer. A worthy trade, no doubt, but not what you are ideally suited to do with your life. You are not nearly precise enough.’

‘What I would like to do is something on the Shrine of Esilio. You know, collect writings on the subject and compare them. I’ve read a lot about it.’

‘A bit sophisticated for one of your age.’

‘Then what? Who?’

‘I have an idea. You do not have to take it, but if you do, it will mean a little travel for you. You might also care to render me a small service and go and meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘A man called Jaqui. A hermit.’

Two days after their conversation, and armed with a letter of introduction for the elders of Hooke, Jay took leave of absence from his lessons and walked out of Ossenfud on the Great West Road. It led, so he knew, to the towns and settlements that were scattered throughout Anterwold, curling down to the sea in the south, and west into the mountains. It was itself a tributary, so to speak, of other roads: Garlden had mapped them many generations back and tried to explain why they were as they were, although his account was so amateurish that no one ever read it. But the maps — annotated and corrected as travellers found errors — were the best available.

According to Garlden, he had a twenty-mile walk on the road, then had to branch off to the north for about twenty-five miles to the village of Hooke.

When Henary had made the suggestion, Jay had looked almost scornful. ‘A hermit?’

‘Yes. A very strange man. I assume he’s still alive. He is an intriguing character. I think you might consider writing your dissertation on the subject of painting. It is an interesting topic, in my opinion. We always think of the Story in terms of words, but there are countless times when a drawing or illustration has been added. A map, or a plan, or a scribble in the margin. No one has ever looked at how they contribute to the Story as a whole. You will find a fascinating example of storytelling through pictures at Hooke.’

‘What’s that got to do with hermits?’

‘Nothing. That’s a job for me. Before you go, you should read Lardley on hermits. An obscure and little-read text, but rather good. He tackled the problem of knowledge. Hermits are often known for their wisdom; yet all wisdom is contained in the Story, of which they know nothing. A conundrum, you see. Unfortunately, Lardley never bothered actually to talk to a hermit.’

‘So it is not much use.’

Henary peered at him. ‘Ah... no. I suppose not. But it might help when you meet Jaqui.’

‘Why do you want me to do that?’

‘Well, you see,’ said the older man, ‘Jaqui is a curious fellow. He is uneducated, but he can write. I want to know what he writes, and how he writes. I want you to bring back some of his scripts.’

‘Will he give them to me?’

‘I have no idea. I won’t blame you if you fail. It’ll give you something to do, and may win favours from your tutor. That’s me, by the way, and I’m sure you realise keeping me happy is of the utmost importance.’

It wasn’t a hugely successful trip, in the sense that the meeting with the hermit never happened. When Jay arrived at Hooke, he knocked at the gate of the village, stated his business and was led to the collection of buildings that comprised the communal section. There he was told to wait while the gatekeeper went to fetch someone for him to talk to. Eventually a woman appeared, who introduced herself as a member of the village council and the keeper of the settlement’s stories.

‘Your name, young man?’ she asked; she seemed quite intrigued by the arrival of a student in their midst. Jay introduced himself and explained his interest in painting. ‘I wish also to see a man called Jaqui, a hermit who lives near you.’

‘I’m afraid you are too late. Jaqui left us a little while ago. We do not know why. He had everything he needed and wanted.’

‘That is a great shame.’

‘He often disappeared for short periods, but this time he said he would not return.’

‘My master met him some years ago. He wanted me to question him.’

‘That will be Scholar Henary? I remember his visit well. He was a man who brought credit to himself and our village.’

‘I trust I will also. If not, then I hope you will tell me, that I might amend what I say and do.’

‘Well said, young man. Alas, I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey. But at least we can show you our hall.’

‘Thank you,’ Jay said gloomily. He knew he would have to stand in a dark chilly building while listening to a long lecture about village history, full of names he had never heard of and events he cared nothing for. Important for the village, of course, but the few nuggets of importance would inevitably be left out in favour of long tales of families and fields.

He followed dutifully as the woman led him around the wooden buildings to the Story Hall. Jay said the right things when he glimpsed it. ‘A fine building, made with love,’ he said. ‘I congratulate your village on its devotion.’

‘Thank you. We are proud of it. It took many years to build, and the tales say we used no outside hands. It was all from our own labour and sweat and ingenuity.’

Jay had seen worse by this stage, but he had also seen better. It was nowhere near as grand as the great halls of Ossenfud, for example, but nor was it a mean hut of painted wood such as he had seen in some places. It was of dark brown stone, roughly put together and circular in shape, some forty feet in diameter and rising up two storeys in height to a conical roof covered in tiles. It resembled a huge dovecote, except that there were only four small openings at the very top to allow air to circulate and light to enter. Set apart was another small structure which contained the everlasting fire.

Inside, however, was a revelation, and Jay exclaimed in surprise when he walked in and his eyes adjusted. The keeper smiled broadly at him.

‘It is... charming. Delightful,’ he said.

Indeed it was. The floor was of multi-coloured stones laid out in a pattern that matched the timbering of the roof, so that one echoed the other. The walls were whitewashed and a thick band was left uncovered by story boxes at about eye height. This was covered in paintings of the life of the village, a joyful and extraordinary depiction of men and women and fields and birds.

‘Good heavens! Isn’t that remarkable? So that’s what Henary wanted me to look at.’

‘It is old,’ she replied with pride. ‘We repair it when we have to.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. It must be unique in the world. At least, I have never heard of such a thing before. Many halls have floors, often elaborate ones, and I know that some have paintings. But I have never heard of anything so lovely. I’m glad I came now. Can you tell me what the pictures are?’

She was now in an exceptionally good mood, delighted with Jay’s delight, and proud to have impressed a student of Ossenfud. ‘It begins here, with the foundation of the village. You see these figures? They are the first families, from whom all descend. Then here we have the division of the land, and the building of the first Story Hall — it burned down, so the earliest stories were lost, except for those that were remembered and could be written down again. The second Story Hall, here...’

Jay stared, entranced. ‘Who painted it?’

‘We do not know,’ she said. ‘A traveller who wanted food. He listened to us talking round the fire and sketched out a picture of a tale, so it is said. He painted one small picture in exchange for lodging, and then the council offered to let him stay if he painted some more. It is said he stayed for a year, then moved on.’

‘When was this?’

‘Generations back. I do not know.’

‘So is he in the stories from that period?’

‘There may be mention of him.’

‘What was his name?’

‘I do not know. He was known as Fortune, as people thought he brought good luck.’

‘I would like to know more about him. If I got permission and came back...?’

‘We would have to put it to the council, but with my recommendation I am sure you would be received as an honoured guest.’

Then Jay remembered the task of keeping Henary happy. ‘First I will have to go back to Ossenfud and report my failure to find Jaqui.’

‘Some time ago,’ she began quietly, looking at him to see his reaction, ‘Jaqui came to me and asked a favour. He asked to leave something in the Story Hall.’

Clearly he had just passed some sort of test. ‘Really? He wrote his story? Was he ill?’

‘No, but he thought it of importance and was afraid that it might become damaged or lost. It was unusual, but he had recently assisted my eldest daughter through a difficult childbirth. I owed him a favour in return, and this was what he asked for.

‘It was a packet, wrapped up in strong paper and tied firmly. He said it would belong to the person who could make use of it. I doubt it is of any real value or importance. Jaqui was touched, you know. We learned to ignore these periods, but he would rave and talk in voices, fall on the floor and weep. He did not become violent, but he suffered badly and made no sense. I believe that he wrote at these times.’

‘In which case the writings would make no sense either.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘May I see, at least?’

‘Please sit at the desk, and I will prepare the package for you.’

So Jay sat and composed himself until the woman returned and put the package on the desk in front of him, then backed away. Jay ignored her, for it was wrong to speak in the presence of another’s memories.

Slowly he undid the rough string that held the package together and opened it. Inside was a book, covered in leather, of beautiful design and manufacture.

On top was a piece of paper, written in a script that was perfectly legible, and all the more shocking for being so.

‘Read if you can, and a curse on him who will not understand. May he have my misfortune.’

Jay let out a cry of terror that echoed around the beautiful hall.

‘Do not approach,’ he said to the woman as she came running over. ‘The package is cursed.’

She retreated swiftly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘So far.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

He read the curse again and considered its wording. ‘Read if you can...’ Well, he could read, although a curse which could not be understood was of little power. A curse if you will not understand. Did that mean a curse if you do not understand, or a curse if you refuse to understand? What if he simply could not understand, because the script was meaningless? He would not understand, but not because he refused to do so. Besides, the curse might apply to the text he had just read, not to the content of the book. That he had read and understood, he thought, in all its possible meanings.

Jay thought, weighed the options, then reached for the book. ‘It is all right,’ he called out. ‘I have disarmed the curse. It can do me no harm.’

‘I think,’ he added in an undertone as he opened it.

The book was some forty pages long, written on both sides of the paper with a fine black ink which had not faded in any way, although it was difficult to tell the age. He peered at it carefully; evidently it was made up of letters, but few made any sense to him. He flipped through the pages one after the other, hoping that somewhere it would turn into something recognisable, but the manuscript refused to cooperate. Nor was there any explanation which would allow him to unravel the meaning. He needed to take it to Henary. He might understand it.