Ross Lawhead (29 page)

Freya rubbed her eyes and tried to remember what the text was referring to. She had gotten so involved in decoding and recoding all the nominations that she had lost perspective on the context of the words. Or maybe it was best to keep going through the text mechanically and focus on the meaning of the uncoded text.

“How's it coming?”

Freya jumped. The reverend was standing behind her, looking at her work.

“Oh, Peter—I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were there.”

He smiled. “Perfectly alright. At least I know I'm not being a nuisance if you forget I'm even here. How is it coming?”

“Fine,” said Freya. “I've just finished breaking down and gridding the third chapter. Now I just have to look for patterns—that is the easiest part for me—and then retranslate. I should have the whole book done by the end of the month.”

“Good, good,” the reverend said, smiling. She could never tell how much he took in; he was always so sweet-natured.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“No, no. I was just thinking that I should leave. You carry on.

I'll see myself out.”

Freya went back to her work. She glanced over the different papers but found it difficult to see where she had left off. Why, exactly, was she doing this?

She looked at the clock. When was he getting back? It was starting to get dark. She knew she shouldn't worry, but she couldn't help it.

There was the sound of a key turning in the door. It opened and closed.

“Felix?”

“Hello, darling.”

She got up from the desk and went into the hallway. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Not bad, all things considered. Yours?”

“I think I'm losing my mind. I was breaking down the Secret Book of John—”

“Beautiful book.”

“Yes. Well, I was breaking it down and it all just suddenly became page upon page of meaningless numbers . . .”

“Those numbers aren't meaningless,” Stowe stressed.

“I know. I just mean, it all became so abstract—like I lost perspective.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps it's time to finish for the night. Why don't you have a seat and I'll cook something.”

“No, don't,” Freya said, putting her arms around Professor Stowe's middle. “You've had just as long a day as I've had.”

“Perhaps, but my work is far less important than yours. Go into the lounge and I'll bring some wine in to you.”

“Okay.” Freya gave him a peck on the cheek and went into the sitting room. On the way, she passed her office and, without even looking into the room, snaked her hand through the doorway and flicked the light off. Then she settled into the sofa and closed her eyes, just for a moment . . .

“Sweetie?”

Freya opened her eyes. Felix was standing over her, gently patting her shoulder.

“Hello,” he said, grinning.

She sat up and looked around her. “Where am—? Oh.” She was on the sofa, coffee table in front of her, with several used plates, glasses, and an empty bottle of wine on it.

“You just drifted off, you silly goose.”

“'M still hungry,” she said sleepily.

“No, you're not—you're just exhausted. Here, lie still, I'll carry you to bed.”

“What? Don't be ridiculous. I can—”

“No, I insist!”

“I'm far too heavy.”

“Not yet, you aren't. There—see?”

Freya clung to his neck as he straightened up and then carried her through to the bedroom.

“My gallant knight,” she said as he lowered her down and arranged the covers over her. “Are you going to join me?”

“My darling wife. I have an appointment with the lieutenant, remember?”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“But I've got a few minutes. Shall I tell you a story? Something that happened to me today?”

Freya smiled and snuggled closer. “M'kay, that'd be nice.”

“I was walking along the river when I ran into a friend of mine who I thought had seen me but proceeded to walk right past me. I turned around and caught up with him and asked if anything was wrong. He said no, he was fine, but he'd just been told the most puzzling and confusing story in his life. I asked him if it would help if he shared it with me, and he said it might. As we stood there in the street, this is what he said:

“I was with a group of friends in a pub when one of our lecturers wandered in and walked directly to the bar. We waved to him, but he seemed wrapped in his own thoughts, which was odd since he wasn't one of those absentminded academics, but a young and witty man who we all loved. He ordered a whiskey and stood staring at it, not even taking a sniff of it. I left my friends and went up to him to ask him what was the matter. This was what he said:

“I've just come from the hospital bed of a friend of mine. We've known each other since university, where he studied law. He was a very diligent soul who eventually became a high court judge, and was known for his clear-minded, evenhanded judgments. I had lost touch with him in the last ten years or so, but a week ago I heard from his wife, who informed me that he had fallen ill and that he had been troubled of late with a moral quandary that was doing him no favours due to his illness and would I mind paying him a visit to help thrash it out? I agreed, of course. When I saw my friend in his hospital bed, I knew that there was no real cause for alarm; he was still as strong and as vital as ever, but his mind seemed to be absent—he was not the sharp, incisive man I had known. At length, I managed to tease out of him the cause for his distraction. Clearing his throat and casting his eyes around the room, he replied:

“Three years ago I sat a case, which, at the time, was no more interesting than any other I'd heard during my career. The specifics of it are hazy to me, but the case itself isn't important. Suffice to say, my judgment effected a fine and eight months in prison for a young woman with no dependents. I thought no more about the matter. It was a year later that a letter—just one sheet of paper—was delivered to my office, written by the defendant. This is what it said, verbatim:

“Dear sir—you may remember me from a case twelve months ago. It was a charge of driving under the influence—my third offence—made more serious by a possession of class B drugs—my first offence. My impression was that you were lenient with me, dismissing the drugs charge, and instead sentenced me with the full weight of the driving charge. This struck me as generous, even kind, and that made me think that a man like you would be good in a difficult situation. I hope you won't mind, therefore, if I impose upon you to relate a story that I heard while I was detained ‘at Her Majesty's pleasure' that was told to me by one of the guards. Usually alert and on the ball, I one day noticed her to be confused and somewhat distant. I asked her what was he matter and this was her answer:

“I have four children, two sons and two daughters, all healthy and happy, except for the last one, my son, and that only during the last ten days. He's a priest, by trade, in a Catholic church in a village in Norwich. We, that is, my husband and I, were visiting him last Thursday, and we were aware that he was totally distracted. It took us a solid hour of coaxing and cajoling for us to get the reason out of him. At length, he told us:

“Five days ago I was in the confessional and a person entered with the most queer story. I'm not breaking any vows or confidences— for he confessed no sins—to relate it. I will not tell you his name, all I will say is that he is a local businessman of great success. This is what he said:

“Every Thursday I volunteer at a shelter that serves meals to the homeless. We take turns at different tasks, and this day it was my turn to socialise with the guests. Just before we shut up—as we were clearing away and clearing out—an old man who was a regular there, grabbed my sleeve and pulled me into the seat next to him. He told me that he had something to tell me . . .”

Freya began to doze, slipping in and out of consciousness, trying as hard as she could to concentrate.

“I was sitting on a street corner,” Felix was saying, “when I saw a man reading a book. He had the strangest expression on his face. I went over and asked him what he was reading, and he said it was the weirdest story he'd ever come across. I asked him what it was, and this is what he said . . .”

4

Daniel found the routine of charcoal-making satisfying and an easy style of living to fall into. It was a twenty-four-hour-a-day job—or however many hours there were in this new place, Daniel still wasn't sure. At first he found it hot and sweaty work, then he found it strenuous and exhausting work.

When he had met the collier—the name, Daniel found, for charcoal-makers—he had been entering the final stages of the process, intently studying the smoke issuing from the top of the mound, waiting for the right moment, when the smoke was thin and started to turn blue. As soon as this happened, he went around the mound and closed the ventilation holes. Then he climbed up the side of the mound and told Daniel to hand him some more thick sections of turf, which he piled onto the top. The air supply completely cut off, they waited for the furnace to cool.

He welcomed Daniel into his hut, which was spare but comfortable— no more than a wooden room dug partway into the ground with earth piled on top of it. But it was good shelter. It contained no bed or bedding material, only a ring of stones in the centre, creating a fire pit, and a hole in the ceiling to let the smoke out. There was a wooden box pantry of stores adjoined to a small stable that contained one massive horse that stood patiently, thoughtfully chewing oats.

The collier drew a pan of water from a small wooden cistern and washed, splashing water on his face and forearms, and then allowed Daniel to do the same. Then he opened the store cupboard. Peering around him, Daniel saw that it was filled with stoppered bottles and jars, all of different sizes. He pulled out a tall beaker-shaped jar and pulled out a wooden cork. He took a drink, paused, and then took another. He handed it to Daniel. “Drink,” he instructed.

Daniel paused. “I was told not to take anything that I didn't ask to be given to me.”

The collier gave him a nod. “Good advice. Though while you work for me, you won't need to ask, for you act under my authority.”

“What authority is that?” he asked, curious.

“My own authority,” the collier said simply.

Daniel took a sip from the flask and tasted a rich, spicy, cinnamony drink that was thick and sweet. “It is very good,” he said.

“It is nourishing, that is all.”

Daniel handed the drink back to the collier. “Do you have anything to eat?”

“Food?” the other returned. “Like animal flesh?”

“That, or bread or fruit or something.”

The collier shook his head. “I am not used to entertaining those of the heavy races here.”

“You don't eat?” Daniel asked.

“Not eat very often—only during festivals and feast days. Try to live on this—if it pains you, I will try to procure other fare.”

Daniel nodded, as if that made sense. “What world is this, exactly?”

“This world is
our
world, we don't give it a name. But you stand on a continent that we call Elfland.”

“And so you're an elf?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And everyone who lives here is an elf?”

The collier nodded.

“I met an elf once, a long time ago. Do you have a king?”

“As you are here, you should learn to speak our language,” replied the collier after a pause. “What was your question again?”

“Do you have a king?”

“Our word for ‘king' is
reesh
. In our language, names come first, so you would ask me
reesh y'ka?”

He looked at Daniel expectantly.
“Reesh y'ka?”
Daniel said to him.

“Filliu sa ennym oo reesh
.
”
The collier answered. “That means:

Filliu
is the name of our king.”

Propped up against the side of the collier's hut as its owner sat on a stool, Daniel received his first lesson in the elf language.

Then they rose and went to the wood furnace. Under the collier's direction, Daniel helped to peel back the layers of baked dirt to reveal the rich, black charcoal underneath. Once done, they started to sift the charcoal, removing bits of wood that hadn't burned entirely and putting the rest of the black, sooty material into some of a dozen large barrels that the collier wheeled out one by one from behind his hut. The charcoal lumps were sorted, roughly according to size, by the collier himself.

“Filliu,” the collier said abruptly, tossing a double handful of burnt coal into a barrel, “is our king in name only. His father was Ghrian, and he was the last good Elfin king of our land.”

“What happened to him?”