The Arrival of Missives (8 page)

'Taunton College for Women has replied to my letter enquiring about the possibility of training there,' I say, and my voice is strong, and clear. 'They wish to meet with me.'

I can see from the way he decides to start tidying the papers on his desk that he had forgotten all about my dream. My disappointment intensifies. It makes my voice and my determination harden. 'I mean to be a teacher one day. Here, with you.'

'You are certainly capable,' he agrees, and then says, 'What does your father say?'

'He forbids it.'

And my father thinks the matter is closed, because my demeanour is calculated to give him that impression. But I do not want to show a closed, humble face to the entire world! I must have someone who understands me.

'Ah, that is a shame. Attitudes can take so long to change in such places. Do not give up, I would say, but bear in mind that the time may not be right for such a bold move. If you were to defy him now it would draw unpleasant attention to this school and my teachings, and we have such important work to do before we can be free to follow our own hearts.'

'We must save mankind,' I say.

'Exactly so.'

'How do you see this future?' I ask him. 'I wonder if you could describe it to me.'

He hesitates, his fingers pushing at the wood of his desk. 'I – It is a vision, and not easily communicated…'

'What is it that speaks to you, sir? Light, or colours? What form does the future take?'

Finally, he looks at me. 'You must trust me.'

'I do, sir. And you must trust me. This is, as you say, a delicate time. Please help me to avoid a misstep simply because I do not fully comprehend the situation. Explain it to me as only you can.'

'Very well,' he says. 'But not here. I will consider how best to relate it to you. And, in return, you will accept Daniel Redmore's request, and you will continue to act as my proxy and undertake no action that might threaten our secrecy.'

'Let us shake hands on it,' I say, and hold out mine. I have a strong urge to touch his skin, as if that could help me to know him better. Is he mad? Can madness be felt through the skin, palm to palm? All I know is that his grip is soft and his skin cool, unlike my own warm, damp handshake into which my own foreboding can be read. But still, I feel better for this contact between us. Every time we speak I draw a little closer to understanding him, and reminding him that I am a woman as well as an assistant. Well, perhaps not a grown woman yet, but certainly on the way.

'Good afternoon, then,' I say, as he breaks the contact.

'Yes, hurry on home now, Miss Fearn,' he says.

So I do. I will obey the commands, for now. Everything I do will be for Mr Tiller's good, whether he understands that or not.

*

I will make a list, in my head.

Here is what has happened: I told Daniel Redmore that I would step out with him on May Day; I vacillated upon the subject of my upcoming interview, changing my mind first one way and then the other at least 20 times a day; and Reverend Mountcastle informed the congregation this Sunday morning that I am to be the May Queen.

Here is what hasn't happened: Mr Tiller has not attempted to explain his vision to me. I am supposing it is a very difficult thing to elucidate, but that does not excuse him in my eyes. He asks much of me, and I only ask for this illumination in return.

I sit by the stream, in the shade of the horse-chestnut tree so that I will not take on too much colour before May Day, and consider.

Perhaps, if I am very honest, I should admit to myself that Mr Tiller is not asking so very much of me. I liked the way Daniel's eyes widened when I met him on the walk to school and told him I would be his girl. I liked the looks I got from the others, young and old, as the news spread around the church that I am to be the May Queen. It is as if I have been made a hundred times prettier, and that is powerful magic. The men stand back as I leave the pew, and I feel them scanning my walk, my small smile. They define me anew. The May Queen for a day. A Queen may give orders, and expects to be obeyed.

But I will make a good and kind Queen. I will do my duty well. I will sit on the throne (a wooden chair bedecked with flowers) with aplomb and reign over the festivities, a smile on my lips and a floral crown upon my brow.

I wonder if Phyllis Clemens is very upset over this turn of events?

Father is out visiting this Sunday afternoon, enjoying himself in conversation with the other men no doubt, saying the things he will not say directly to me. And I am enjoying my afternoon, alone. It's good to be in solitude, particularly with so much to consider.

The daisies grow thick here, in the lowest part of the bottom fields where the stream flows through, and there are wild flowers springing up too, stretching for their place in the sun, finding footholds between the rocks. Are they at war, then, with each other? Do they vie for survival, much as humans do? If that is so then I cannot understand why they give me such a feeling of peace when I am amongst them. But, of course, I am not one of them. I am only an observer of their silent struggle, and could never truly understand it. For there is a great distance between us, a distance of intellect. Do flowers have their own strange thoughts? I would like to think that they do, and if they do then what other creations upon this planet also have their own intelligence?

Rocks.

I came down here not for the flowers, but for the rocks. There is a collection of large ones here, smooth and grey, placed deliberately by my grandfather to shape the journey of the stream on its way to becoming a river. Mr Tiller has a rock within him that he says speaks to him. Could this be so? I must conduct my own experiment. I edge down from the grassy bank to the place where the stones, flowers and waters meet, and I place my hands upon the largest of the rocks.

It is warm in the sun, and so very solid. It is a rock; how could it be anything but?

'Hello?' I say, experimentally.

The rock does not respond.

This is foolish, I know it, but it came to me that maybe the reason rocks have not communicated with humans before is because humans never really tried, not properly. But now a rock is embedded in Mr Tiller. Perhaps it tells him things because he is the first person to take a real interest.

Of course, there are different kinds of rock in the world, I know that. And also, now I think of it, rocks that are not of this world at all. Did Mr Tiller not say the rock fell upon him from a great height? I thought it must have been thrown into the air by a bomb blast, but perhaps it did not go up at all before it fell down.

The planets are also giant rocks. And meteors, too, and comets, I think. Rocks that travel through space, and one of them happens to fall to the Earth at the very spot where a war is being fought, at the moment where one soldier waits, wrapped in wire, to die…

'Rock,' I say, on an impulse. 'Wake up. Tell me the future.' I press hard on its surface. I can feel striations, lines, edges: how incredible an object a rock is, now I look closely at it. How multi-hued, how interesting under my fingertips. But this rock lacks the silver strands that glittered in Mr Tiller's chest. Yes, there are many types of rock and this one does not match the one I saw that night.

I cannot find my answers here. I must rely on my love, and the answers he has promised me. It is a good thing that it is such a lovely day, and I am to be May Queen. I take off my shoes and stockings, dangle my feet into the cold, clear water of the stream, and daydream of making my appearance at the festival, with Daniel Redmore leading me to my festooned and scented throne.

*

I cannot wait until after school; I take the letter Mr Tiller has given me, passed inside a book on the Silk Route, and scurry along to the hut. There I sit, with my back against the door, and start to read.

The letter begins in a ridiculously formal capacity. It is as if Mr Tiller is attempting to create a separation between us, and it annoys me somewhat, but not enough to break my concentration upon his words.

Dear Miss Fearn,

Allow me to express, as your schoolmaster, my very great admiration and my respect for your efforts in regards to our discussed plans for the May Day celebrations. You have been of invaluable aid to me; and yet there is still more to be done.

You asked me to make known to you certain information, and I will attempt to set out some form of explanation here, on the understanding that we do not speak directly upon such matters, and you destroy this letter, like my last, after reading.

It is, in point of fact, an impossible task that you give me. One can describe thoughts and feelings; one can document conversations or even inner revelations. My visions, however – the things that I see in my mind's eye when I place my hands upon the material that has become an integral part of myself – are none of these happenings, and thus elude me when I reach for language that might elucidate them. How does one do justice to the sunrise? And yet that is the form that my visions take: light where there was the perpetual darkness that characterises the human condition; glaring truth where once shadows (so comforting, so able to obfuscate the painful lines of reality!) fell; the pain of living in knowledge where once the sleep of the ignorant emulated death itself.

Forgive me. I shall do my best. Even when facts cannot be laid out clearly, efforts must be made for my most able pupil.

A room – that is the first thing I see. Or perhaps it is better described as a space, for I cannot tell if there are walls, or a door. White as goose feathers, shapeless, echoing and yet close and soft, giving the sense of intimacy for those who share it. Because I am not alone. There are three venerable figures standing before me, their eyes kind and welcoming, and they do not speak. They do not need to, for they simply will their thoughts into my head. They are undoubtedly human, even though they possess this strange gift of wordless communication; I feel a kinship with them that cannot be denied. They smile upon me. They are very wise. They send me the thought of welcome, and then the thought of now. This moment.

Then there are layers to the thoughts they implant, as if they have peeled an onion to reveal more inside than out, layers upon layers, going down, deeper, through time itself, reaching back from the now and also forward to the future. The perspective alters, turns on its side, and I no longer see layers but veins. Each family history is a vein in the body of the human race that will one day exist, and some veins are so very important amongst the others. Not the brightest, or richest, not even the best of us in any discernible way. It is, in part, chance; but at this level of consideration it seems chance and destiny are entwined, inextricable.

The wise ones guide me, pointing out things, showing me each vein in turn, every family being a separate journey that is only the stroke of a paintbrush upon a giant canvas, the millions of which form a perfect image of wholeness, togetherness. Then I realise that there is one tiny error within the part of the image that I am being shown – an error that contains the possibility to become a disease within time, spreading darkness over the picture until it is spoiled and dead. That error is a family line.

After that realisation I mourned. I mourned for both the world and for my lost mind; for either I was mad, or the future was already lost simply by the existence of this family. But it came to me that I had not been given this gift of foresight to torment me. I had a choice. I could decide that madness had claimed me, or I could find a purpose within it. So I searched for a purpose. I became well versed in that image of the completion of mankind in all its glory, and at the place where it all went wrong. And I began to see how I could change that place, and save the world.

So you see, Shirley, I have no great answers for you that will make sense of what you already know.

I would wish this responsibility away in a moment if I had remained a whole man, but I am now more rock than flesh, and I feel the rock consuming more and more of me. I am hardened inside in ways you cannot begin to imagine. You will not understand this, I think, until you are much older. Then you will look back on this, on my next request, and see it in an entirely different light, and not a good one. Time changes everything, does it not?

But I must ask it of you. And you will do it, if you do it, because you are good and true, and you should remember that, always.

Does it matter if we save the world if we have lost our souls? Mine is already lost, and so I have no fear on that score. Your soul is an infinitely more precious commodity, but even so I am prepared to risk it. You see, I feel the stone in my heart; more so every day.

I have heard in the village that you have agreed to go with Daniel Redmore to the May Day celebrations. That is good. And now I must ask you to be a good friend to him, and more besides. Allow him to find peace, and contentment, and love in you. If he gazes at you with all the ardent admiration that a young man can feel, then let him. Cleave to him, and do not remonstrate or resist.

I stop reading. I look around the corner of the school hut, where the children are engaged in skipping and clapping and so forth. As I gaze upon them as if through the wrong end of a telescope, I realise how very little they all mean to me.