Three to See the King

18

That night, for the first time in my life, I slept beneath a tarpaulin. It was most pleasant. The fabric provided adequate protection in the mild conditions of the canyon, and life under cloth made an interesting change from the rigours of a tin house. There was none of the creaking and groaning to which I’d become accustomed over the years, nor were there shutters and doors to be opened and closed at certain intervals. Instead there were only flaps, which could be lowered for additional privacy, or rolled up to allow the circulation of air. As I said, it made an interesting change, but it was nothing more than that.

I soon gathered from the conversations of those around me, however, that they regarded their stay here as a sort of duty, an unavoidable preface to the day when the city of tin would be rebuilt on this very spot.

As a matter of fact, this was all they ever talked about. As I drifted off to sleep, the last thing I heard was my neighbours discussing their plans for tin walls, tin roofs and tin chimneys. Next morning, when I awoke to pale light filtering through canvas, the same voices were still deep in conversation. Oh, what hopes they had! It seemed they liked nothing more, after three or four days’ work, than to return to their homes and dream, safe in the knowledge that for the time being their service was done.

This work, of course, was carried out at Michael Hawkins’s behest, and I had to admit that his accomplishments were astounding. Even when I joined one of the squads and took part in operations myself, I just couldn’t see how we managed to move so much earth. If one man filled a barrow, and led it off along the planks and footpaths, then by the time he returned his comrades would have filled ten more. These tens soon became hundreds, and so on, until the excavation was complete, and we could move on. Every now and then Michael would pay a visit to see that all was going well, and then they would bombard him with questions such as those I’d heard on the first evening. Quite often, though, he would be away surveying some other part of the canyon, and it was on these occasions that they turned to me instead. Apparently, word had got round about the incident involving the planks, and it was now generally assumed that I could speak for Michael. So it was that my opinion began to be sought on all kinds of matters, from the settlement of disputes over who should be working where, to the correct method for handling a shovel. The majority of enquiries, however, concerned the proposed city, and I soon discovered there was something Michael hadn’t told them.

Thanks to him, they now knew how to dig a canyon, deep and wide enough to house as many people as wanted to live there. They had also learned the techniques of building from tin, the ideal lengths for chimneys, and the importance of shutters and doors. But what they still didn’t know was when they could move from the old site to the new. It seemed that whenever they asked Michael, he would evade the question, or answer it in a circuitous way that left them no wiser.

Once I’d been among them for a few days I started to sense that they were becoming impatient over this. After all, they said, hadn’t they done as he’d instructed? Hadn’t they worked hard every day, only to sleep at night under tarpaulins? When, they wanted to know, could they build their promised city?

These particular queries, I noticed, were never put directly to Michael himself. None of them wished to appear ungrateful for what he’d done for them, and not for one minute would they think of complaining. All the same, it was clear they’d like to know more.

Even Alison Hopewell, who had always struck me as being the most level-headed of people, showed signs of restlessness. It was she who helped me find nightly accommodation under the tarpaulins, and after that we tended to spend a lot of time together. We even worked on the same excavation. Alison wasn’t quite as overawed by Michael as the rest of them, and one day, while we were walking back to the camp, she told me she’d been to see him.

‘What about?’ I enquired.

‘I asked him when we could start building the new city, and you know what he said?’

‘No.’

‘He said, “There’s a great step ahead of us”. What do you think he meant by that?’

‘Not sure, really.’

‘He talks in riddles sometimes.’

‘Yes.’

Alison glanced at me. ‘You don’t think he’s just playing games with us?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘Cos if he is I’ll…’ She trailed off. ‘What’s Simon up to?’

We were now approaching the area where I’d noticed the eight wooden pegs in the ground. Just to one side of them was Simon Painter, busily engaged in measuring out a section of land. He walked about ten paces, stopped, and hammered in a new peg. Then he turned sharp right, marched another few steps, and paused again.

‘Come on,’ said Alison, veering off the footpath in Simon’s direction. I followed, and we joined him just as he finished putting in the next peg.

‘Simon, what do you think you’re doing?’ she asked.

‘Oh hello,’ he said. ‘I’m just marking out the site for my house.’

Anyone who’d been in the canyon more than a day was usually caked with grime. Simon, however, looked comparatively fresh, as though he’d only just arrived. This should have set him at some advantage over Alison, who was tired and work-stained after a day in the excavations. Unfortunately for him, it went the other way. I could tell by his expression that he saw absolutely nothing wrong with hammering pegs into the ground. He was therefore ill-prepared for the onslaught that followed.

The site for your house?’ she repeated.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This is the first spot to catch the sun in the morning. It’s just perfect.’

‘So you’ve taken it for yourself, have you?’

‘Along with Steve and Philip, yes. Those other pegs are for their houses.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Alison. ‘I mean, what if I’d come and put a lot of pegs in. What then?’

‘You’d have had to take them out again,’ replied Simon.

‘Why?’

‘Because we were here before you.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Well—’ he began, but that was all he managed.

‘Don’t you dare!’ cried Alison. ‘You can’t just go grabbing land for yourselves when there are so many of us working! Who do you think you are, exactly?!’

‘We’re Michael’s closest friends.’

I looked at Simon and realized that he believed what he said was true. He really thought that he, Steve and Philip occupied some privileged position. A glance around the canyon told a different story. From all directions came workers heading back to camp, each of whom were convinced they had a special affinity with Michael Hawkins. Several dozen had already left the footpath and wandered over to find out what the fuss was about. Now they stood watching as Simon made his preposterous claim.

‘We’re all his friends!’ announced Alison. ‘You and your cronies are just trying to steal a march on the rest of us.’

‘No, we’re not!’ protested Simon. ‘We’re preparing the ground, that’s all.’

This sounded rather lame to me, and I wasn’t surprised when it brought a jeer from the onlookers.

‘Nonsense,’ said a voice behind me. It belonged to Patrick Pybus. I turned and saw him coming forward with six or seven other people in tow. These I recognized as some of the fresh-faced volunteers from the city. They didn’t seem quite so friendly now, and all at once Simon’s situation appeared less than secure.

‘Hello, Patrick,’ I said, attempting to lighten matters. ‘How are you settling in?’

‘How can anyone settle in?’ he demanded. ‘When none of us is ever told what’s happening. Day after day we’ve been waiting for the word to come, and still we hear nothing. All we get is these so-called friends of Michael telling us what we can and cannot do!’

Everyone now looked at Simon, who had suddenly raised his hand for silence.

‘Michael says we should be patient,’ he announced.

This provoked another jeer, and I realized that if he kept on coming out with such unwise remarks he was going to be in serious trouble. Quickly, I stepped towards him and removed the hammer and pegs from his grasp. Then, watched by many eyes, I went round the other pegs and pulled them out of the ground. A murmur of approval came from the crowd as I did this, and I hoped it would be enough to get them to disperse. Next instant, however, there was a flurry and someone said, ‘Here’s Michael.’

It was extraordinary the way they parted to let him through. The confrontation with Simon had caused their number to swell to more than a hundred, yet Michael passed between them with ease, pursued by a question coming as from one voice: ‘When shall we build our city of tin?’

Walking behind him were Steve Treacle and Philip Sibling, who looked most put out when the jostling mob surged around them. Only Michael himself was given room to move, and it was with some difficulty that these two managed to keep up. Steve had a bustling manner about him, and I almost expected to hear a shout of ‘Make way!’ as he followed after Michael. Philip, meanwhile, pushed along as best he could. Both of them were apparently oblivious to the one question being repeated all around them, and seemed only interested in maintaining their role as Michael’s guard of honour. It was a role that came to an end when they saw me holding the hammer and pegs.

Without a second thought, they made a rush towards where the rectangles had been. This, of course, separated them from Michael, and within seconds they were lost, powerless to move, in the midst of the seething crowd. For a moment I feared for their safety, but, luckily for them, everyone’s attention was on Michael. He, too, had noticed the hammer and pegs in my hand. He approached and took them from me.

‘When shall we build our city of tin?!’ went up the cry.

Michael held the implements aloft. His audience fell silent.

‘The next time we use this hammer and these pegs,’ he declared, ‘it will be for all your houses!’

A great cheer ensued, and from my place in the crowd I could feel anticipation stirring.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long while!’ he continued. ‘But it had to wait until I felt you were ready! Now, at last, the day has come, and the question can be answered! You ask me when shall we build our city of tin, and I say to you: Never!’

During the few moments it took for his words to sink in, most of the people around me just stood there gaping. Then a groan of disappointment such as I had never heard arose and threatened to drown him out.

‘Never?!’ said Alison. ‘What do you mean, never?’

‘This is the great step I told you about,’ replied Michael. ‘We have no more need for tin! Why? Because there’s clay here! Now we can make bricks and tiles! We can build proper houses, with foundations, and walls that won’t creak and groan at every breath of wind!’

‘We don’t know how to build from clay,’ said Patrick Pybus. ‘We only know about tin.’

‘You can learn,’ Michael answered. ‘And as you learn, you can build. Build a great city of clay in this canyon you’ve created!’

‘But we already have a city of tin!’ someone called from the back, to noisy acclaim.

‘Abandon it!’ he commanded. ‘Let it stand as a monument to your folly and your lost aspirations! From this day on, we build only from clay!’

There followed a brief lull, during which one or two individuals near the front repeated what they’d just heard. ‘We build only from clay,’ they said, as if testing the sound of it for themselves. ‘From this day on, we build only from clay.’ These words were taken up by a few other people, then more, and then more still, and gradually the doctrine spread. In small groups and in pairs they began to discuss Michael’s latest pronouncement. It had been a shock, for they’d assumed they only had to dig a canyon and their city could be founded overnight. Now, it seemed, a further step remained.

As I watched them drift back to the encampment, I realized he had won their obedience yet again. From now on they would build only from clay.

It was an outcome I found most gratifying.