The Kind Folk (15 page)

He gazes at the meadow and then up at the trees, but they're just as empty of life. The path has brought him to a gap in the hedge, an opening not even as wide as the track. He has to assume that nobody has been in the field for a long time—at least, nobody of much bulk. He's tempted to decide that the gap is too narrow to fight his way through, but how can he justify that? It would reduce the detour to a joke he has played on himself. He can't retreat without learning whether there is anything to discover. He only needs a little courage, a ridiculous amount under the circumstances. He just needs to hear someone's voice—Sophie's voice. He fumbles the mobile out of his pocket and cradles it in his hand while he calls her number.

"Hi," she says, and he's about to respond when she goes on. "This is Sophie Drew and I wish we were speaking. I must be switched off or somewhere you can't reach me just now. Be sure to say who you are and where I can call you, and leave me a message if you like."

Surely she can't still be on the road. She has a gig in Manchester tonight, but that shouldn't be for hours. Her answering message leaves Luke feeling unrecognised and anxious for her. "It's only me," he says and almost adds his name. 'Just calling to see how you are, both of you. I'm, I've come off the road for a while. No trouble, just a side trip while I have the chance. I oughtn't to be driving for I don't know, maybe half an hour, so call me if you pick this up before then. In fact, call me whenever you do."

By now he's talking for the sake of it, or rather to convince himself he can be heard. He could imagine that his words are being absorbed by the restless meadow. He has been trying not to raise his voice, although this makes him feels wary of being overheard. "I'll say goodbye for now, then," he says but keeps the phone in his hand. He might almost be holding it as a protective charm as he edges through the spiky gap in the hedge.

Darkness wells up from the grass to embrace him with its outstretched limbs. They're the shadows of the trees, released by a glare of sunlight through the clouds, and they're immediately engulfed by an enormous silhouette that spreads across the meadow. It's cast by a cloud that is racing onwards to leave the sky clear. Luke thinks he would rather be in the sunlight, and he strides through the clinging clammy grass, beyond the reach of the trees. He's well in the open by the time the sunlight catches up with him. As it does so he feels as if the meadow has abandoned some kind of pretence, because he's seized by a wintry chill that seems to rise out of the ankle-length grass.

It's an atmospheric condition, he tells himself. Perhaps there's water under the meadow. Certainly the ground feels as if it could grow unstable beneath his feet, and he moves forward before it can begin to yield. The atmosphere may have affected his phone as well; there's no longer a signal. He slips it into his pocket—it wasn't much of a talisman after all—and marches across the field as though he's challenging it to reveal its secret, if it has any. The wind has fallen, and the only sound is the brushing of grass against his wet ankles. He's about to glance back to see how far he has progressed when a thought halts him, and the chill that the sunlight can't defeat seems to close around him. When Lassiter called out that he shouldn't look back Luke assumed the old man meant at him, but suppose he was warning Luke how to behave in Compass Meadow?

Luke has no reason to believe it was more than a senile fancy or indeed to look back now. Doing so will only delay him when he's eager to be finished with the place. He'll cross the meadow to prove that he can—to show that it contains nothing to be nervous of. He won't achieve a thing by standing here, and he forges ahead, kicking at the sweaty grass. Perspective makes the far hedge seem more distant than it looked from the end of the path, and he appears to be no closer when he hears a wind behind him.

It must be caught in the trees, since the grass around him doesn't stir. Their foliage lends it a voice, a sibilant murmur that grows louder as he tramps away from it. Perhaps the pulse in his ears is giving it a rhythm, since it seems increasingly repetitive. He could even fancy that it contains syllables, as though a chorus is taking shape. If he were to think he's hearing words, what would they be? He might imagine they're "See us," except that the blurred chant is repeating more than two syllables; perhaps the insidious sounds are more like "You see us." Luke does nothing of the kind, but he can't outdistance the hypnotic whisper by taking longer strides. The wind must be easing, because the sounds are slowing down, although shouldn't they also have begun to fade rather than increasing in volume? The syllables gain more definition as they throb in Luke's ears along with his pulse, and all at once they're clear. They form the name Terence wanted him to have Lucius.

It feels like the threat of a breath on the back of his neck—a concerted breath—and he's overtaken by a thought that has followed him from his encounter with Lassiter: they aren't supposed to know anyone's name. They don't, it's the wind, he thinks fiercely as he twists around, and then he gasps as though the ground has collapsed beneath him. He can't have been hearing a wind in the trees, because the trees are nowhere to be seen.

He has walked further than he realised, that's all. How far has he gone to have lost sight of the trees? He oughtn't to be surprised, given the pace he has kept up—but his attempts to understand can't distract him from an impression that's closing in on him. Something is wrong at both edges of his vision. There isn't much to see, and that's the trouble. He swings around, and before he can suck in a breath he's so dizzy that he almost sprawls on the treacherous ground. The inside of his skull is continuing to spin because he has no idea how far he's turned. The hedge has vanished. On every side the expanse of sunlit grass and weeds stretches to the horizon.

It feels as though his childhood problem has returned as though that mental state is about to define itself at last. His mind seems close to swelling uncontrollably, drawn out by the boundless field. Which is worse—that his mind has revealed its true nature or that the meadow has? He can't even distinguish between them. All he can do is stare about in the desperate hope of finding a landmark, but there's none.

He shuts his eyes so hard that they throb with light and then opens them, willing the vision of the meadow to have left him. He still can't see any boundary, and he has the dismaying idea that if he looks closer he'll find that the apparently haphazard distribution of grass and wild flowers is far more regular than it ought to be—that the field repeats some kind of pattern over and over. He doesn't want to see that, but where can he look for any kind of reassurance? Not at the ground, not at the horizon, and he's beginning to suspect that if he heads in the wrong direction he'll never find his way out of the meadow. Perhaps he can call for help; perhaps he could, except that the phone still has no signal. The whispering has fallen silent as though it has achieved its purpose, and the meadow has grown so torpid that it might be feigning lifelessness. Luke is shoving the useless mobile into his pocket when he catches sight of an imitation of the movement. It's his shadow on the grass.

The sun is behind him. The shadow has to indicate the direction he was following. Might this be why the place is called Compass Meadow? Surely if he keeps on the way he was heading he'll eventually reach the far side, and this seems to be the only thought he can risk having. He strives to hold it in his mind and let nothing else in as he starts after his shadow. He hasn't dared to look away from it, to determine whether any kind of border is visible ahead, when the shadow dims and grows blurred and then is wiped out. The sky has clouded over.

He doesn't need the shadow to guide him. He has enough sense of where he was going—except that when he yields to the temptation to raise his eyes, nothing but the endless meadow is visible ahead. He falters to a standstill, battling to prevent the sight from taking hold of his mind. It has to be some kind of illusion, and he mustn't let it delay him—and then he wonders if his haste is outdistancing his ability to think. Surely his shadow wasn't his only means of orienting himself. He lowers his eyes and turns around, willing the indication not to have disappeared. It's still there: the track he has made through the grass.

It's only just evident. The trampled vegetation is already rising up to obscure where he has been. He's afraid the traces may not remain much longer, and sprints along the fading path. He keeps his gaze on the ground not merely to avoid seeing the extent of the meadow but to urge the trail to stay distinguishable. It is—it still is—it barely is—it's gone, and he's confronted by an expanse of grass and weeds identical to the sections of meadow around him. He can only dash across it while he clings to the notion that he hasn't lost his way. He's staring so hard at the ground that he can scarcely make it out; his eyes feel as though he's straining to waken from a nightmare. He has no idea how far he's run by the time he seems to glimpse a shape at the upper limit of his vision, and he doesn't trust the impression enough to risk glancing at it. There's more than one shape, and they're growing more definite. Once they start to tower above him he has to look. They're trees, and between the pair directly ahead of them is the gap in the hedge.

Or is this the illusion? Suppose it begins to recede as he struggles through the increasingly obstructive grass? He's afraid to let himself believe he is making his escape until thorns on either side of the gap pluck at him. He sidles along the constricted track as fast as he's able without snagging himself on any of the multitude of thorns, and then he hears movements behind him.

They're running down the trees. They could be squirrels; Luke can hear claws scrabbling at the bark. Whatever kind of creature they are, he doesn't have to look back; he needs to see where he's going. They aren't coming after him, however many of them there may be; they're scurrying into the meadow. The moist rustle of grass fades into the distance, though not before another noise makes him start nervously. His mobile has emitted the tone that means he missed a call.

He has just seen Sophie's name displayed when the phone begins insisting that it's June. Luke almost catches his arm on the thorns as he lifts the mobile. "Are you there now?" Sophie says. "I did try to call you back. Where did you get to?"

The question feels capable of sending his mind back to the meadow. "Just somewhere there wasn't a signal," he blurts. "Where were you?"

"Sorry, little Maurice must be making me forgetful. I switched off the phone while I was tuning up and I forgot to turn it back on."

"I'm glad that's all." Luke can hardly think for trying to determine whether the way back to the main path is longer than he recalls or just harder to negotiate in this direction. He's anxious to keep talking to Sophie, and hears himself ask "Are you on soon?"

"I've a few minutes yet. What are you up to right now?"

Luke avoids a bunch of thorns and then another, an effort that appears to bring him no closer to the main path. "Just walking," he says and hopes His desperation can't be heard.

"So long as you walk back to me. Have you found anything else on your travels?"

"No." His mind feels too close to the meadow again—too eager to betray him. "Nothing," he insists.

"Never mind, Luke. Maybe you will soon. I have."

He's dismayed to be nervous of asking "What?"

"The song I was looking for, the one about the Kind Folk. Shall I sing you some of it?"

"Not right now." He mustn't let her think he wants to end the call. "Save it till I'm back," he says harshly. "Sing me something else if you like. Sing me one you sing to little Maurice."

"I've been singing that one."

Luke can't say why the notion unnerves him. "Don't any more, all right?"

"Why?" Sophie says and laughs. "Do you think it might bring them?"

"We wouldn't want that, would we?" Luke blunders along the track, snapping twigs that scratch his forearms. He's too concerned to leave the meadow far behind to take care any more. "No point in playing with things like that," he says, "when there's no need."

"All right, if it bothers you." She sounds puzzled even before adding "Are you sure nothing's happened, Luke? You don't seem like you."

"I'm the same as I've always been." He's panicky enough to demand "What's going to change me?"

"Nothing if it's up to me." Just as gently she says "Tell me what to sing, then."

He can't think, not least because he has almost reached the end of the track. Shoving his way through the last thorny gap, he staggers onto the main path. When he glances back he can hardly believe he succeeded in making his way between the hedges; it doesn't even look like a route. Beyond it the trees and the meadow are as still as a painting of a landscape. "Never mind," he says. "You save your voice for the audience. I'm back at the car and I'd better be on my way." The last words are true, at any rate, and not too far from panic. He promises to see her soon and says goodbye, and heads for the road so fast that he could imagine he's leaving his breath in Compass Meadow.

THE GIFT

Couldn't it have been some kind of optical problem caused by stress? Luke tries to convince himself as he lies in bed, nagged by an intermittent wakeful clanking that rises from the railway the hotel overlooks. At first he was afraid to drive in case he grew unable to distinguish boundaries again, but he was just as nervous of staying anywhere near Compass Meadow. Once he set off he felt as if he was leaving his condition behind along with the place that had caused it somehow, and shouldn't this be all that matters? Perhaps he ought to stay away from the sites Terence visited if they simply trigger some version of the state he had to overcome in his childhood, but in that case he may as well give up his search and never learn where he came from. He might be more than content to do so if he were searching only on his own behalf.

He isn't helped by an impression that he has overlooked or misunderstood some detail during the search. When at last he manages to doze it offers very little relief. There are dancers in the meadow, figures so thin he can't even be sure of their shape. They seem hungry for a kind of sustenance he would rather not define, and yet as they prance in a ring he could think they're celebrating some event. As the margins of the field recede out of sight while the moon swells in the starless dark, the circle of dancers expands. Their arms are growing longer and thinner, but their faces have taken on more substance. Their utterly black eyes glitter and their beaky lips part as all the heads swivel on scrawny necks towards Luke, and stay turned to him despite the frenzied round of the dance. They're whispering the name he never used and reaching out their arms to him. They're inviting him with the ancient sign, and however far he retreats he won't escape them, because their arms can stretch as far as the meadow is wide. A cry struggles out of his mouth, and he's awake.