Three to See the King

13

All at once I felt as if someone had pulled a hidden lever and caused a trapdoor to open beneath me. Only Mary Petrie knew of my abandoned desire to live in a canyon, and I trusted her with the secret. Yet here was this upstart, this Michael Hawkins, taunting me from beyond the horizon by means of his three messengers. What, I asked myself, was so special about him that they flocked to be at his side? After all, he only dwelt in a house of tin, same as I did. Just because he’d learnt a trick or two about predicting the weather, and knew how to assemble a few composite parts, they spoke of him in hushed tones as if he held some great gift for them. Now, I gathered, his boundless abilities even encompassed the creation of a canyon!

‘What, on his own?’ I asked.

‘Oh, no,’ replied Steve. ‘It’s going to need many hands to undertake such a work.’

‘That’s what I’d have thought.’

‘So you’ll come will you?’ he asked.

‘Well, I—’

‘Michael can achieve great things with friends like us to help him!’ declared Simon, before I could even speak. There’s a space already set aside for your house, if you’re interested, and many people are looking forward to meeting you.’

While all this talk was going on, Mary Petrie had remained silent. Even so, I knew from the occasional looks she cast in my direction that she was listening to every word. Now, as Simon, Steve and Philip sat and waited like supplicants for an answer, she spoke directly to me.

‘Won’t it be a bit of a palaver moving everything?’ she asked.

That was all she said, but I sensed instantly that the verdict had already been reached.

As I looked at her pictures on the walls, her china in the kitchen, and her carefully arranged vases of dried grass, I realized I would never get her to move an inch, let alone to some vague destination in an incomplete canyon.

She then offered refreshments to our guests, while I explained that we had to decline their invitation for reasons they would surely understand. Steve answered that he spoke for all in saying how disappointed he was that we wouldn’t be coming. Nonetheless, he said, it was our decision, and if we ever changed our minds we only had to head west and we would easily find the way.

They left some time later, each of them calling their goodbyes to Mary Petrie, who had by now retired upstairs for the evening.

I watched as they set off into the darkness, and pondered whether I should have offered beds for the night instead of just allowing them to leave. In truth, however, I knew it was quite unnecessary. All they wanted to do was hurry back into the presence of Michael Hawkins, even though they were returning empty-handed. They clearly believed he was central to their existence.

Well, they were welcome to him as far as I was concerned! I had no intention of living in thrall to someone else, even if he was building a canyon! And, indeed, the more I thought about that, the more absurd it sounded. Who did he think he was, exactly, setting himself such a task?

Clearly, it couldn’t be done.

‘He would need hundreds, maybe thousands, of people,’ I explained to Mary Petrie a few days later. ‘All properly directed, and sharing the same sense of purpose. How’s he going to do that? It’s impossible.’

‘Really?’ she said.

‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘There’s a limit to what any one man can achieve, and I’m afraid our friend Michael Hawkins has overreached himself.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Certain.’

To my surprise, Mary Petrie rose to her feet and walked to the door.

‘Well,’ she announced. ‘I’ve decided I was wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ I asked. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I was wrong to discourage you,’ she answered. ‘You’ll have to go to this canyon after all.’

‘But I thought you didn’t want to move,’ I said. ‘That was why I sent Steve and the others away.’

‘No, I don’t want to move, I’m quite settled here. That doesn’t mean you can’t go and have a look, though.’

‘Oh, it’s alright. I’m not really interested.’

‘So how come you keep going on about it day and night?’

‘I didn’t know I did.’

‘Well you do!’ she snapped. ‘As a matter of fact, you’ve spoken of nothing else since those three left! You even talk about it in your sleep, and if you don’t know the reason I’ll tell you! It’s because you once had great aspirations! Remember? You were going to search the world for an immense red canyon, remote and empty, where you’d live in a house built entirely from tin. You told me this in all its detail. No other life would do, you said, yet somehow you wound up stuck on a flat and featureless plain! Now you’ve heard about a man creating the very place you were talking about, and as long as you know it’s there you’ll never be satisfied!’

Suddenly Mary Petrie threw open the door. ‘Go on!’ she ordered. ‘Go and see it for yourself!’

As I departed she seized the hammer and began using it to beat a saucepan flat. I could still hear the metallic blows when I was half a mile away. At this distance they reminded me of the chimes from Simon Painter’s bell, but they had none of the forlorn tones that had been so familiar a year ago. Instead they clanged out a simple, strident message: ‘I am going to fix the chimney whether you like it or not!’

I thought about Mary Petrie while I headed west, and remembered how helpless she’d seemed when she first arrived. She’d brought with her a world that revolved around a trunk, a mirror and a vanity case, and knew nothing about living in a tin house. The sound of that hammer, fading away behind me, was evidence that she had since become fully conversant with the subject.

The wind was blowing hard that day, and sent ripples of sand scurrying across the plain. It was not enough, though, to disturb the many trails of footprints I encountered. Throughout my journey I came upon them, all heading resolutely west. I passed the places where Simon, Steve and Philip had once lived, and then continued into the hinterland, not knowing quite what to expect.

By now some of the trails had merged to form more obvious routes, and I noticed that once they’d joined together like this they never separated again. After I’d been going for some while I began to yearn for the sight of a stray set of footprints wandering off to the left or to the right, choosing their own direction rather than merely following the crowd. None appeared.

All the same, I had to admit I found the excursion fairly interesting. Several times I stopped to examine the points where various trails converged, and on each occasion tried to work out if people were travelling alone or in groups, and even whether they were carrying loads.

Those who were, I guessed, were the ones with the heavier tread.

It was now approaching early evening. I remembered something about Simon taking five hours to get to Michael Hawkins’s place. That being so, I reckoned I should be in the vicinity by now, and therefore I stopped and peered around me. The day had been wild and blustery, with a grey sky that was already beginning to darken in the north. To the west, however, some light persisted, and as I stood looking I saw the dull and unmistakeable glint of a house of tin.

At the same instant my eye was caught by a similar glint slightly to the left of the first. Suspecting that maybe my sight was playing tricks on me in the failing conditions, I blinked once or twice. When I tried again I saw yet another glimmer, somewhat further away. Now I was certain. There, about a mile distant, stood at least three houses, maybe more, all built from tin. In the acute and final rays of daylight I attempted to count them. This time I made it five, but then an additional gleam emerged from the dimness, so that was six.

‘I will if you will,’ said a voice behind me.

Startled, I turned quickly to see a man advancing from the way I’d just come. He was carrying a bag and had addressed me in a very familiar tone, even though I’d never seen him before.

‘Pardon?’ I asked.

‘I will if you will,’ he repeated.

‘Will what?’

‘You know,’ he said. ‘Complete the journey. Take the final step, as it were. I’m about to do the same thing.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Savouring the moment, were you?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Thought so. The name’s Patrick Pybus, by the way. I’ve been following you for the last hour and I noticed you’ve been moving very slowly. You kept stopping all the time and studying footprints. That’s how I caught you up so easily. Then you stood here for another five minutes without moving at all.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, I was just looking at all this lot.’

I pointed in the direction of the tin houses and realized there was now nothing to see, the dusk having enveloped the plain. Even so, Patrick Pybus seemed to understand perfectly what I was talking about.

‘Marvellous, isn’t it?!’ he exclaimed. The years I’ve wanted to do this, and now I’m finally here! What a life! I can’t wait to sit by the stove late at night, listening to the wind as it plays under the eaves, the four walls creaking and groaning! Here, I’ve got something to show you.’

He reached into his bag and produced a large piece of paper, folded, which he carefully opened out for me. I peered at it in the gloom and saw a drawing of a house of tin. This had been done in a very correct manner, with proper measurements and so forth, and bore a strong resemblance to my own house. On closer examination, however, I decided it was more like Simon Painter’s.

‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘Is this where you’re going to live?’

‘When it’s built, yes,’ he replied.

‘Well, shouldn’t you be carrying some tin along with you?’

‘I’ve got some friends coming along behind,’ he said. They’re bringing the tin with them.’

‘Then they’ll be going back, will they?’

‘No, they’ll be staying.’

‘But what about their own tin?’ I asked.

‘Their own tin?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘If they’re bringing the tin for your house, they won’t be able to bring their own as well, will they?’

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘It’s not like that. We’re going to be sharing.’

‘Sharing? What, all in one house?’

‘Yes, of course. Why not?’

‘Well…’ I began, but then trailed off. One look at Patrick Pybus told me it would be futile trying to explain the finer points of living in a house of tin. He was simply too enthusiastic to understand that primarily you needed to be alone, and miles from the next person. Maybe in time he would learn this, and certainly there was enough room on this vast and empty plain for any amount of tin houses. Meanwhile, I just couldn’t bring myself to blunt his fervour.

‘Well, good luck,’ I said.

‘Same to you,’ he replied. ‘Shall we press on then?’

‘No, you go ahead if you like. I think I’ll stay here a bit longer.’

‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘See you.’

I watched Patrick Pybus disappear along the trail, then followed behind at a more leisurely pace, not being in quite such a hurry as him. To tell the truth, I’d been somewhat alarmed by the sight of all those tin houses. I had a feeling that the ones I’d counted were only the first of many, judging by the amount of footprints coming in this direction. True, there was a possibility that the numerous travellers we’d observed over the past year had been heading for a wide and varied set of destinations. In reality, though, I suspected they were all gravitating towards the same place. This made me wonder how I was going to cope when I got there. I was used to living in isolation with only Mary Petrie for company. The prospect of all those people, waiting less than a mile away, was frankly quite daunting, and as a result I took my time.

Another question was where I was going to spend the night. I had no doubt that Simon, Steve and Philip would all make me quite welcome, but first I had to find one of their houses. I was now drawing near to the half dozen or so I’d seen earlier, but I had no idea whether any of them belonged to my friends. In former days I’d always known whose place I was approaching simply because of its location. Simon lived to the west of me, for example, while Steve lived west-north-west of him. Here, where the houses all stood together, it was difficult to tell them apart. Admittedly they varied slightly, some being higher than others, or having different gable ends. Essentially, however, they were all the same. Each was built entirely from tin.

The moon had now begun to make fitful appearances amongst the clouds, and as my eyes grew accustomed to its pale light I saw many rooftops ahead. Shortly afterwards I was passing between the first of the houses, and I noticed that the shutters were all firmly closed, as were the doors. I found it pleasing to think that this tradition was being maintained in what was basically a new settlement. Up until now I’d assumed that these newcomers would be the types who’d want to keep their shutters thrown open whatever the weather. Instead, it seemed, they had more sense. Already this evening, accumulations of sand had begun to drift against the tin walls, but it looked unlikely that any was going to enter these dwellings. I paused next to one of them and listened. Inside, I could hear the sound of muffled conversation. Also, somebody singing. I moved on.

There was no fixed distance between the houses, nor did they appear to have been laid out in any uniform pattern. Instead there were rows heading off in all directions, higgledy-piggledy, as if each had been added one after another. I recalled Steve’s remark about Michael Hawkins having shown them where to build their houses, and I tried to work out the logic of the arrangement. The only thing I could see for sure was that they were all sited very close together, but for the moment I had no idea why.

The trouble with wandering along in the dark like this was that it was easy to forget which way I’d come. I knew I’d turned right at a house with four front shutters and two at the sides, and had then walked past one with a markedly angled roof. Yet when I returned a short distance to check my bearings, I couldn’t find either of them. Continuing back a little further, I discovered a side-junction I hadn’t noticed before. I followed it round.

Then, somewhere away to my left, I heard the faint clanging of a bell. It was a sound I’d recognize anywhere, and soon I was standing outside Simon Painter’s house. There was no captive balloon hoisted in the air above it, nor was there a flagpole on the roof. Nevertheless, I knew I had the right place. The bell hung on a bracket beside the door, swaying gently in the breeze and chiming from time to time. I was about to make myself known when I heard a peal of laughter within. It came from several voices, one of which I knew to be Simon’s. The rest belonged to women. I waited and heard Simon say something else, then more laughter followed.

It certainly sounded as if they were having a good time in there, and I was reluctant to interrupt. Just then, however, the door opened and a smiling young woman emerged. When she noticed me standing there, partially hidden by shadows, she appeared not at all surprised. ‘Simon!’ she called into the house. ‘We’ve got a visitor!’ ‘Come in!’ I heard him cry. ‘Come in! Whoever it is!’ Apparently the young woman was just heading off somewhere. She smiled and held the door for me. ‘Thanks,’ I managed.

‘That’s OK,’ she replied, slipping away through the darkness. I hesitated for a few more seconds, then stepped over the threshold.