Iain Pears - Arcadia

All fell onto their knees in reverence; a collective groan went up; some screamed and began sobbing in shock. Many covered their eyes, and those who did not looked in awe at the way that Rosalind, now revealed as a woman of great spiritual power, perhaps even the Herald of Doom itself, approached the spirit without fear. They had all seen it, they had witnessed with their own eyes something they would have dismissed as madness otherwise.

The spirit, meanwhile, appeared sombre, frightening in his authority and wrath. He held up his hands when he saw the crowd that was kneeling in fear of him, and made a gesture that seemed to be an order to step back from his presence. They obeyed without question, scarcely daring to look. Only Rosalind stood her ground, taking her eyes off him briefly as the light behind him flickered and then vanished.

Gontal was trembling, Pamarchon terrified, Catherine stood stock still. Henary looked as though he was about to be violently sick.

‘Master,’ Jay whispered, for fear that the spirit would hear. ‘What is happening?’

‘It is the end, Jay. The day spoken of, when the god judges us. He returns, and either sets us free or destroys us utterly.’

‘That’s a myth, an allegory. You said so yourself.’

‘I was wrong. This is my fault. I meddled with things I should have never ever touched. That manuscript foretold it all. You on the hilltop, the coming of the Herald, the return of Esilio. And next, the judgement.’

‘Rosalind? She is the Herald?’

‘The messenger who prepares the way for the return of the god.’

‘You knew this?’

‘No. I wanted to prove it was nonsense.’

‘It’s not possible,’ Pamarchon said.

‘Why not?’

‘Well... she agreed to marry me. If all went well.’

‘If what went well?’

‘The trial.’

‘Which trial? Your trial, or the trial of Anterwold? Did she say?’

‘This is not in the Story,’ Gontal objected. ‘These are just superstitions. There is not a single text which states anything like this. You know this, Henary. You have studied them as well as I have.’

‘This may be older than the Story,’ Henary replied. ‘Far, far older.’

‘Well? What do you think?’ Rosalind asked enthusiastically as she examined Lytten’s bemused expression.

For a long time, Lytten could think of nothing to say. The smells were real, the warmth was real. The sunlight through the tall trees was real. ‘This is... very peculiar,’ he said lamely.

‘You sort of get used to it after a while. Professor, could you do me a favour? I think it’s normal to go into the am-I-dreaming routine. I did. But you aren’t. So please just concentrate on what is important. You may be here for some time, as the light has gone out, so you might as well make yourself useful.’

Lytten looked. True enough, the light he had just walked through wasn’t there any more. ‘Angela said something about opening it up at dusk, I think. Where am I?’

‘You are in Anterwold. To be precise, at Willdon, in the stone circle of Esilio. Do you remember that?’

‘Of course. I thought it up as a sort of sacred spot. I never figured out its precise importance, though. I didn’t get round to that bit.’

‘It acts as a sanctuary. People are safe from the law here. They throw themselves on the judgement of Esilio, the all-wise. That’s you.’

‘Me?’

‘Who else is going to pop up out of nowhere in the middle of his own shrine? Apparently your coming has been foretold for generations.’

‘But I’m not.’

‘Are you sure? As you’re here, you might as well play the part. We have two people accused of murder, and they are appealing for judgement on which one is guilty. They will naturally expect you to take charge of things. So, tell me now. Who did kill Thenald?’

‘How should I know?’ Lytten said, still looking around him at the scene he had somehow entered.

‘You must. You wrote it.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I never wrote that bit. I sketched it out years ago, but I can scarcely remember it.’

‘You’ve got to remember, Professor,’ Rosalind said desperately. ‘You’ve got to. If this goes wrong, all sorts of horrible things are going to happen. There may be a war. We have soldiers here, and outlaws around us. It’s all your fault.’

‘Why is it my fault?’

‘It is your fault because you never finished it. You’ve been writing that book of yours for years, and now it’s fed up waiting and is trying to finish itself. You should tidy up loose ends. Agatha Christie does.’

‘But I’m not Agatha... Listen. I’ve had enough of this. This is simply absurd. I don’t believe any of it.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you believe. It’s what they believe that counts at the moment. You have now appeared out of thin air. You can guess how that seems. Your word is law. As long as you don’t make a mess of it. Who is Esilio, anyway?’

‘No idea. He’s just a sort of foundation figure. Like Solon the lawgiver for Athens. A mythical character who gets everything going.’

‘According to Henary, the Story says he reappears, and when he does all sorts of things start to happen. Like the end of the world. You judge your creation and destroy it if you find it wanting. You can see why you’ve scared the life out of them.’

Lytten snorted. ‘Just because people believe things it doesn’t mean they happen. Esilio’s not meant to be a god, anyway. I try to avoid gods. Tricky characters.’

‘You’d better tell them that. But please will you help now you’re here? Listen to what they have to say? It might jog your memory. You can see for yourself they are all real people. Prick them and they bleed, you know.’

For the first time, Lytten smiled. ‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Yes. You have a choice between seeming like a god and seeming like a right idiot.’

His face fixed in an impenetrable mask, Lytten walked around the stone circle, out to the edge where ever greater numbers of people were gathering. They stiffened with fear as he approached. They had seen his appearance with their own eyes. They were terrified that, if they said or did anything wrong, he would raise his arms and bring the vengeance of the heavens down upon them. This was the day of judgement. Everybody now knew it was true.

He studied their faces carefully. Good solid faces, he thought; well fed and healthy. Their clothes were simple but comfortable and practical. They were not so very poor, these people. Anterwold could support itself well; he’d done a decent job there. He caught himself. He was even beginning to believe this nonsense.

‘Stand up, man,’ he said to one kneeling figure. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

Slowly, eyes cast still down, the man he had picked out stood.

‘Look at me,’ Lytten said. ‘What is your name?’

‘Beltan, Majesty,’ he said, choking in fear.

‘Are you afraid of me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then stop, please. If I remember correctly I made you a tailor. Is that right?’

‘Yes, Majesty. A good one, I hope.’

‘A rather lovely wife as well. Jolly and kind. Renata, no? I hope you are good to each other.’

‘We are very happy, and always have been, Majesty.’

‘Excellent. Give her my best wishes. You live well, without cheating anyone?’

‘I do.’

‘Where do you get your cloth?’

‘Mostly from the towns and villages nearby. Sometimes a trader comes through with foreign stuffs.’

‘I see. Where do those foreign stuffs come from?’

A puzzled look passed over the rubicund, simple face. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Then I command you to find out.’

Lytten walked on thoughtfully, stopping and questioning the occasional person whose face struck him as interesting.