Iain Pears - Arcadia

He stood up, stretched and walked from his hiding place into the street. Rubbish of all sorts was thrown onto the ground in this place, or into bins with little thought of the health considerations. Paper was used in vast quantities. He scuffled through one of the bins, unaware of the few passers-by who glanced disapprovingly at him as they passed. He found something of use. A large piece of paper with what he decided was a greasy piece of fried potato stuck to it, and a heavy smell of what he analysed as vinegar. There was writing on it. Daily Herald, it said. Below it a date. October 18th, 1960.

Instantly, another memory arrived, like some sort of reward. Evidently his memory was working by association. When a new stimulus matched some preordained trigger, the appropriate bit of memory was pulled into his awareness to fill in another gap. ‘If all has gone according to plan,’ came the voice in his head, ‘you are now in Oxford, some time in 1960.’

So it seems, he thought.

There was a flippant tone to it which he found annoying. He wished whoever it was would stick to the facts and cut out the commentary. He wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter.

‘Apart from paranoia and a great deal of fear, it is a time with little to complain about; even the poor are cared for, more or less. In this part of the world, at least, no one has starved to death for some time. The same cannot be said for other parts of the world, but the local population is able to show a remarkable lack of interest in anyone but themselves. They pay for it eventually, but you may be able to avoid the worst...’

Very interesting, he thought. How does that help me get something to eat? I’m starving.

‘Glad you asked. Try a café. But you need some money first.’

The domain of Willdon lay some three days’ travel to the south and west of Ossenfud, in a series of river valleys noted for their fertility and lushness. A domain was a particular thing; entirely independent, but containing no town or main settlement. Rather, it was a whole series of farms big and small, of villages and hamlets and one great house which gave the entire area its name. All were the possession of the domain, and the domain was the possession of one person.

This was Catherine, the widow who had come to her role on the death of her husband, Thenald. Such a thing was unusual; the desire for strict family rights would ordinarily have meant that it would have passed to a member of the family by blood. But one was disqualified by his character, the other by his position. For Thenald had been brutally murdered by his heir, Pamarchon, who had fled and left the scholar Gontal as the next in line.

Nobody, except Gontal, regarded this prospect as anything but a disaster. Joining the wealth of Willdon to the authority of Ossenfud would have unsettled the whole land, creating a power which could not be resisted. Henary had been the one who had deflected the threat.

He had been at Willdon when the catastrophe happened, so naturally his advice had been sought. The death of Thenald, he said, was a monstrosity without parallel. Perhaps it was merely the start. Perhaps at this moment outlaws were gathered in the forest, planning their attack on a leaderless, confused domain. Willdon needed a leader quickly. It had to choose now.

And Gontal? Henary had said what the man should have thought. Gontal was a scholar, he pointed out. Would he give up such honour for mere wealth and power? The people of Willdon had considered his remarks, and an hour later had elected Catherine, who knew the domain, who had run it already and who was, in any case, already more popular than her husband had ever been. They chose well.

Only Gontal was displeased when he arrived, too late, the next day.

‘My dear friend,’ Henary had said, ‘I naturally assumed... Did I do wrong?’

‘Of course not,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Just what I would have said myself.’

As she was one of the most powerful people in the land, and both unmarried and childless, it was important to know the state of Lady Catherine’s mind and so scholars were constantly finding reasons to pay her a visit, beyond the usual ones that their duties prescribed. All were after the same information: what would happen to Willdon should she die?

Catherine found this both amusing and exasperating. She once remarked to a visiting scholar of particular dullness that it might be easier for everyone if she merely wrote a weekly letter detailing her health and marital status. That would spare them the trouble of having to travel so far. She intended to hold on to her lands until her death, and she was in no hurry to discover whether or not the narratives of the Afterlife were true or should properly be interpreted as allegories. As for marriage... there were stories about her affections, but anyone who became close to her was much too discreet to talk of it.

Under her rule, the domain had prospered greatly. It had always been wealthy, but now it was, in addition, content. It needed nothing from the outside world; the land provided everything in abundance, fruit and flowers, crops of all sorts. There was fresh water in a multitude of brooks and rivers; good grazing land for cows and sheep; clay for tiles, stone for buildings. Great woods were as well stocked with deer as the lakes and rivers were filled with fish, and the skies with pheasant, doves and partridge. So Henary — waxing a little poetical — explained to Jay when they were about two hours away.

For Jay, this was an immense adventure. Henary had extracted him suddenly from his lessons without explanation and told him to pack a bag. Jay was delighted; very few students ever left Ossenfud except at harvest time, and fewer still were taken on official visits like this. He could scarcely contain his excitement and had been pestering Henary with questions throughout the journey.

‘It is a delightful place, although mainly because of the character of the Lady Catherine herself. “She is the sun which keeps the land fertile and content. Her smile makes the flowers bloom, her frown brings the rain.”’

Jay racked his memory. ‘Level 1, 17?’

‘Close. Level 2, 14. The same theme, though. She is an exceptionally able woman, far more so than her dolt of a husband, who would have brought the domain to ruin had she not restrained him — and had he not so conveniently died. Don’t look so shocked, boy. I speak only the truth. A pity you will not meet her. Or even see the Shrine of Esilio, which is certainly the most remarkable thing in the domain.’

‘What? I thought...’

‘She dislikes uninvited guests. Well, she tolerates scholars, of course. As you are only a student, I fear you will have to stay outside.’

‘Why did you bring me then?’ Jay cried.

‘I hate travelling on my own. It is so tiring.’

‘That’s very unfair.’

Henary looked almost puzzled, although he was more occupied with not showing his amusement. ‘Unfair? Why? I give the orders, you obey them. Where is there room for unfairness in that?’

‘It is unfair because you made me look forward to something you knew I was not to get.’

‘I gave you information and my company. What more could you want?’

Jay wanted to snort with derision, but could not, so fell into a sulky silence instead.

When they arrived, Henary left him just outside the borders. On either side of the little track was a stone pillar, each about three feet high, with a bird carved into every side. This, Henary explained, was the sign of her lands, and had been for longer than anyone could remember. Once crossed all but scholars were subject to her laws, and anyone who crossed uninvited — here he looked severely at Jay — could be declared a trespasser.