Magnus Mills - The Field of the Cloth of Gold

As it happened, he didn’t return for several days. During this period life went on much as before: the sun shone, the grass burgeoned and I was soon accustomed to the sight of the shimmering white tent. Only one aspect bothered me: undoubtedly the tent looked resplendent in its solitude, but I couldn’t help feeling that the owner was acting selfishly. Essentially, the choicest part of the field was being squandered on an empty dwelling, which struck me as unfair. Reserving a place was one thing; prolonged neglect was quite another.

At last, though, he came back. Early one morning I emerged from my tent and saw him strolling around in the south-east. Again he was wearing flowing white robes, and again he failed to acknowledge me. I tried a friendly nod, but it was no use: his self-absorption was patent. Indeed, his entire demeanour suggested his presence in the field had been bestowed by divine gift.

I watched as he approached his tent and began making some adjustment or other. The way he went about it was fascinating to observe: his movements were both unhurried and purposeful in equal measure, as though he had all the time in the world; seemingly every action had to be contemplated in depth beforehand; and he was endlessly pausing for further deliberation. All this I found irritating in the extreme. Why, I wanted to know, couldn’t he simply get on with it? He didn’t even keep to his own corner: later the same day he came roaming across the field and passed fairly close to my tent, yet he never deigned to look in my direction. Instead, he just walked straight on by as if I didn’t exist. Well, I thought, two can play at that game. I decided to have nothing to do with him until he made suitable amends. This, of course, meant my own movements would be severely limited: in effect, I was excluding myself from the whole of the south-east, but it was a cost I was ready to bear.

Over subsequent days the newcomer continued to wander around as though he owned the place. I also observed that he frequently crossed the river and headed southwards into the lands beyond. Sometimes he returned within a few hours; sometimes he didn’t. Meanwhile his tent remained unattended. I soon got the impression that he regarded it as a kind of summer retreat, and that his main interests actually lay elsewhere.

I imagined Hen would take a dim view of these relentless comings and goings. He was, after all, a stalwart of the field who set great store by the fact that he’d been the first to settle. I expected him to be distrustful of the newcomer, but if he was he kept his misgivings very much to himself. One morning I saw the pair of them talking down by the river. To judge by the time they spent together, the subject under discussion must have been highly important; then finally they shook hands and went their separate ways.

Far off in the north-east, beyond the outermost turn of the river, a flock of birds was wheeling in the sky. They were no larger than specks in the deep blue haze but, nevertheless, there appeared to be a purpose in their behaviour. They looked as if they were following the progress of some object moving slowly through the broad expanse beneath them. I studied the horizon but saw nothing. After a while one of the birds detached itself from its companions and flew due east. The others maintained their whirling vigil, and I wondered what could have enthralled them so much.

Later, during the afternoon, Hen came across to see me.

‘What do you make of those birds?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve been watching their antics all day and they’re slowly getting closer.’

‘Really?’ he said. ‘All day?’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t notice them.’

We stood in silence for a long time, gazing at the birds. I sensed, however, that Hen’s mind was on other matters.

‘By the way,’ he said at length, ‘Thomas agrees I was the first to settle in the west.’

‘Nice of him,’ I remarked. ‘Is that his name then? Thomas?’

‘Of course,’ said Hen. ‘I told you before.’

‘You mentioned him, yes,’ I said, ‘but he’s never come and introduced himself in person.’

Even as I spoke it struck me that I must have sounded very churlish. Here was Hen giving me some news which plainly meant a great deal to him, but my only response was to quibble about some detail. It seemed my resentment of the newcomer was yet to subside, and poor old Hen was on the receiving end. At the same time, I couldn’t help noting that his claim had been somewhat diluted from its original form: ‘first in the west’ was rather different from ‘first in the field’, and to my ears it was more of a concession than a victory.

I glanced quickly at Hen, realizing I’d probably offended him on several counts, but by now his attention was distracted.

‘Look!’ he cried, pointing to the north-east.

The birds we’d seen approaching had now reached the far corner of the field where the river made its turn. They’d worked themselves into a frenzy of squawking and flapping of wings, and a few seconds later we saw the cause of their ferment. Below them, drifting on the current, came a boat with a high, curved prow. Reclining in the stern was a lightly clad woman. She had no obvious means of propulsion, and was relying solely on the river to carry her along. When she saw the tents she steered towards the shallows; then she leapt out and dragged the boat into a stand of bulrushes; finally, she carried a number of bundles to the bank before stepping ashore.

Overhead, the birds continued whirling. She waved her arms and shouted at them to go away, but they ignored her. While all this went on, Hen and I had been watching transfixed. Now we debated going over to help.

‘I’m not sure she’ll need it,’ said Hen. ‘She looks very independent.’

‘We ought to offer,’ I said. ‘It’s the least we can do.’

The woman must have heard us talking because suddenly she peered in our direction. Next moment she was marching towards us, and as she drew near I heard Hen take a deep breath.

‘Where is everyone?’ she demanded. ‘I arrived especially early to reserve a place, but there’s nobody here!’

‘Apart from us,’ I said.

‘Obviously apart from you,’ she sighed, ‘but it’s not what I expected at all. I envisaged a vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, flags flying, pennants fluttering and so forth.’

‘Must be a disappointment,’ I said.

‘Well, it is and it isn’t,’ she replied. ‘To be honest a bit of peace and quiet wouldn’t go amiss.’

She looked across at my tent, then at Hen’s, then lastly at Thomas’s. Its smooth white canopy was glimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

‘Whose is that?’ she asked.

‘It belongs to Thomas,’ said Hen. ‘He’s not here at present.’

‘Ah, yes, Thomas,’ she said, as though the name stirred some remote memory.

Her eyes lingered on the octagonal tent.

‘And you are?’ Hen enquired.

‘Isabella,’ said the woman.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I am called Hen.’

She looked at him with interest. ‘That’s an unusual name.’

‘It’s colloquial,’ he said. ‘It means “someone who lives in the west”.’

‘How enchanting.’

She cast him an engaging smile, then turned to me inquisitively. At the same instant a flurry of movement caught my attention.

‘Watch out!’ I said. ‘Your boat’s getting away!’

We ran to the river bank. During Isabella’s brief absence the birds had descended on the boat and begun pecking at it ferociously. I could now see that it was fabricated entirely from reeds, which must have attracted them. In their excitement they’d managed to dislodge the vessel from its makeshift harbour, and it was drifting rapidly out of reach. All three of us plunged into the water, but it was too late: a swirling eddy seized hold of the boat and whisked it beyond our grasp. Very soon it was floating round the south-east bend of the river, pursued by a frantic whirr of wings.