Elysium. Part One. (11 page)
On the wind they were beginning to hear muted shouting and laughter, the same as Eryn had left some hours before.
They made for the sound; it came from a building set behind a cluster of barns and disused stables. They slowed their advance as they entered the old farmstead, making their way across a marshy courtyard to the farmhouse. The Marisco Tavern was scrawled on the wall in fading chalk. They remained at the front door for some time before Eryn elected Boen to step inside.
They were greeted by a surge of laughter as the door groaned open, though the merriment dwindled as quickly as doused flame.
Boen entered the stone building first, a faltering smile on his nervous face. Eryn stood behind him, a hand resting on his back and the other to her breast.
‘Hi,’ Boen blurted, his pitiful smile wobbling.
Eryn looked meekly over his shoulder, and pushed him forward. Once they had cleared the threshold she stood beside him and grasped his hand tightly.
They looked idly around the room, hoping to diffuse the tension by a show of nonchalance. Boen nodded at décor and pointed at ornaments, making pleasant comments that trailed off mid-sentence; Eryn picked up a walking staff beside the door and complimented the craftsmanship of the carved pommel.
At the end of their good-natured remarks, they turned once again to the gathered villagers, hoping to see any sign of friendliness – they found none.
‘Who the shite are you?’ A bow-backed man said gruffly, his fingers trembling under the weight of old age. Others turned to him, muttered agreement, and then returned to scrutinising the two, who nervously glanced at one another. Was this how they had come across to Selina and Priya? They both considered Semilion reaching for the shotgun under the bar, and looked up at the bar lady, a middle-aged woman with weathered features and hair almost brindle. She was looking sternly at them, though didn’t wear an expression of concern, only curiosity.
Eryn cleared her throat and smiled at the woman. ‘My name’s Eryn Waeshenbach, this is Boen, my husband – we got married yesterday... in Mortehoe. We wondered if it would be Ok to spend the night in a room for our honeymoon?’
The woman at the bar deflated with a smile and waved them over, baring her yellow teeth as she did so.
They stepped across the room, nodding greetings at the rapidly thawing faces.
Boen received a few slaps on the back, and the bow-backed man coughed heavily into his hands before smearing, intentionally or not, Boen couldn't decide, a streak of mucus across his shoulders. Young women kissed Eryn on the cheek and congratulated her. She felt strange, she had grown up to believe these people were backward and hostile, yet they were as pleasant - even more so - than those of Mortehoe.
The woman poured them each a tankard of a light brown wine. It smelt sharp, like fetid apples, though its taste was sweet and refreshing. ‘Eryn…’ The woman said, one eye half closed as she conjured a distant memory. ‘Your maiden name’s Tupper?’
Eryn smiled and coughed a laugh in surprise. ‘Well, yes… how did you know?’
‘I used to know your pa.’ She replied. ‘But that was a long time ago.’
Boen was whisked away by a group of young men who were taking a long flute-shaped glass from the wall. ‘This here’s your wedlock challenge!’ one of them laughed, the others grabbed him and pinned him to the floor. Boen looked too shocked to resist.
‘What are they doing?’ Eryn asked, trying her best to sound indifferent.
‘Ah! A tradition for all newly married men,’ as she said this she hoisted a small demijohn to the bar and one of the young men took it to fill the long glass.
‘That there’s a yard-glass, it’s an old game.’
‘He’s got to drink a yard of ale?’ Eryn put her hands to her lips, appalled.
Boen’s eyes widened as he saw the glass being filled, and was then warned that if he spilled any the glass would be refilled until he could consume it all.
The four boys holding his limbs guffawed and jeered, encouraging Boen to open his mouth wider. Then the lip of the glass was put to his lips and gently tilted so that he had time to gulp down two mouthfuls before it was tipped so quickly that he didn’t stand a chance. Ale rushed over his face and up his nostrils – and the pub roared with laughter.
‘Oh no!’ The boy holding the glass exclaimed. He stood and began to fill it again. ‘You know, a marriage is doomed if you don’t drink a whole yard!’
Boen coughed, and someone was kind enough to rub his face with a cloth. He opened his stinging eyes. ‘What the bloody hell was that for? I almost had it there!’
‘Dear me,’ the boy said loudly, so the whole pub could hear. ‘He’s getting rowdy, we might have to keep him restrained all night! Then he’ll have no fun with his lovely new wife.’
For a second time the long thin glass was placed at his lips, and three more draughts were consumed before the glass was upended.
Eryn had found it comical the first time, but she made to stand forward and protect Boen. If this carried on for much longer he'd be of no use later. The woman at the bar grasped her arm gently. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, dear.'
Eryn smiled, and a grim looking man beside her got from his stool and offered it to her. ‘Many happy years.’ He doffed his cap, and she felt a sudden surge of guilt for coming to trick them all.
‘I’m surprised your father conceded to your marriage,' the woman said, 'Guliven comes by here every now and again. He gives the impression that neither of your parents get along.’
‘Love conquers all,’ Eryn said, shrugging.
‘Well, good luck to the both of you.’
‘Thanks, er…’
‘Joan.’
‘So, you know Guliven?’
‘Yes, he’s a good man – got a bit of a temper on him when he’s drunk – but then again, what man doesn’t?’
‘Have you ever been to Mortehoe?’
‘Once… when I was a little girl, but after all the troubles, well,'
‘Troubles?’ Eryn frowned. She had never considered that the animosity between the two communities had occurred during her grandfather’s tenure
‘Just a difference of opinion is all.’ She poured another tankard for Eryn. ‘Your grandfather, if you don't mind me saying, was a megalomaniacal tyrant bastard.’
‘I didn’t know he affected Lundy at all.’
‘They don’t talk about it much, I suppose? Well, he wanted to oversee both communities with an iron fist. We weren’t used to it and people were…
hurt
. Maybe after his death we should have tried again, but some thought the damage had been too complete.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Joan shrugged, ‘It was for the best… Lundy feeds us well, we're mostly happy here. We want for nothing.’
‘I’ve never met a Lundian before. We were told all kinds of things when we were younger – like monsters live here and everyone drinks pig’s blood.’
Joan smiled. ‘Well, we do eat pigs’ blood – Pig’s Pudding.’
‘Never had it.’
‘Never had Pig’s Pudding!’ Joan shook her head in dismay. ‘We’ll sort that in the morning. A certain cure for any hangover!’
Eryn looked over her shoulder and saw that the yard glass was being refilled. Boen was laughing now, and spluttering ale all over the place. Around him people were shouting his name as though he were some tribal deity: ‘Boen! Boen! Boen!’ She knew already it had been a wasted journey and resigned herself to the fact she must try to probe without him. Maybe he could be of use as a distraction.
‘Do many people come over our way? Any elicit liaisons, so to speak? There was a rumour a while back that a man from Lundy came to visit one of the millers on moonless nights.’
Again Joan smiled. She had an amicability about her that made Eryn feel as though she had known her for years. ‘People come and go sometimes… for the odd supply of tobacco or cloth. I said we want for nothing, but we sometimes treat ourselves – and it’s possible someone might come past your way, but they rarely say so if they do.’ She stared into the middle-distance for a moment, frowning, then said, ‘Old Mickey Dean and Graham Weston went away a month or so ago, and Red Sawbone made a dash for Iceland with his boys a couple of weeks ago… Mickey!
A large man turned to Joan from the far side of the room. ‘Do you ever stop off at Mortehoe?’
He wiped a froth of ale from his thick beard. ‘Not for some years now, why you askin’?’
‘Mrs. Waeshenbach here was wondering?’
‘Sorry, ma’am…' he pulled a glum face at Eryn, 'I don’t know of anyone who’s been your way for quite some time.’
‘No, it’s Ok… I was only curious whether anyone would like to visit?’ She cursed herself for saying it, her questions were more blatant than they sounded internally. Inquiring about people’s toing and froing was going to get her nowhere.
‘Ah, well now… I don’t think we’d be overly welcome,’ Mickey said in a low voice before turning back to his drink. 'Not after all the trouble,'
‘People don’t forget easily,' Joan said, 'your parents probably feel the same. '
Eryn nod and sipped her wine, wishing she could grab Boen and make for home.
Semilion checked his watch and lit a cigarette. It was time.
He left Selina and Priya in the care of Mark Rolinger, hastened to the ground floor, unlocked the door beneath the stairs, and stepped carefully down into the library. Above his head he held a solar lamp, its crisp white light illuminating the brick walls to excess.
The library was nothing but a single bookcase, though it was crammed to the rafters with stuffed binders and aged papers. In the middle of the room were a sturdy wooden table, a battered leather chair, and a large square radio set, lined with large bulbs and a single dial.
He took a sheaf of paper and pen from a drawer before sitting in the chair. He leant over and switched on the radio before slipping the headphones on, tapping ash from his cigarette on the tiled floor.
One of the bulbs flickered, its orange filament crackling, though he leant toward it and gently turned it until it burned as brightly as its partners. Dense bursts of static squealed in his ears as he turned the dial. Broadcasts flickered and tuned in before he moved on. A sermon, a brass band, military pips and indecipherable code, then the tone of John Camberwell.
‘... Ballycotton Shipping Report, transmitted from Belfast. This is the Ballycotton Shipping Report, transmitted from Belfast...’
The statement repeated for a full five minutes before a minute of tones sounded. A half-hour of meteorological forecasts followed, describing the conditions of the entire globe. Semilion took notes, frowning and shaking his head in despair, scribbling erratically as though he were concluding some ground-breaking mathematical calculation.
At the end of the half-hour there followed another minute of periodic tones before static filled the headphones. He flicked the radio off, the bulbs slowly waned.
His ears were raw, and he unburdened them gently, laying the headphones on the table and leaning back in the chair.
‘How's it looking?’ His wife was standing at the foot of the stairs. Semilion continued to stare at the page gravely, hoping he could forecast the future in the numbers.
‘Not very good, dear,’ he sighed, flapping the page and throwing it on the table.
Sarah stepped lightly over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘Tell me,’
He pulled the page back and cast a hand over it. ‘Look. Variable three or four, visibility good…’
‘European governments are doing well,’ Sarah said, disappointed.
‘Right down to Malaga... And Germany: ‘Variable three or four, becoming westerly five for a time later in the north.’ So, there’s a lot of woodland out of bounds still... Egypt, ‘Visibility: Good,’ has a long way to go but, well, all that's an aside...’
‘And Britain?’
‘Britain!’ Semilion circled a line of text. ‘Wales is fully claimed: ‘Rough or very rough, occasionally high’. The Isle of Wight, Jersey, Guernsey.... All reclaimed and under quarantine.’
‘And Wessex?’
‘It's unclear, he said from Exmouth there's a south-easterly wind. Fifteen knots...’
‘I don't remember any mention of Exmouth last month.’
Semilion exhaled. ‘There wasn’t.’
Sarah crouched beside him. ‘Fifteen miles in one month?’ She took the page from him and scoured it. Her brows knitted with concern, she took in the page and laid it back on the table.
‘Do you think there might be something wrong with the information?’
‘I don't know, dear.’
‘Speak to Guliven before he leaves in the morning. He has to get word to the Camberwells. He has to get more detailed information.’
‘I know, dear.’
She took the page again. ‘And what's this about a storm-front moving in over Exmoor?’
He had hoped she wouldn't notice the detail. She looked at him probingly, though his hesitation was answer enough. She almost laughed, ‘It's not even a wind? It's a storm-front?’
‘Sarah, it might be something else entirely.’
‘Nothing good, though! He wouldn't have said 'storm-front' if it were an enchanting flourish of buttercups spreading our way, would he!’
She stepped into the corner of the room, thinking deeply. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What is there to do? Kelly might have helped us but he's gone.’
‘And Guliven? You're sure he won’t do it?’
Semilion looked at her through his brow. ‘Don't be ridiculous. He has a family. Would you do it?’
Sarah snorted. ‘Well, you better think of something fast. You and your precious procedures are running out of time.’
She paced across the tiles to the foot of the stairs. ‘Maybe it's time the Lundians' took control of things. If you're going to be the end of us, maybe they should take up the reigns.’ she left the statement hanging in the air like an odious threat, before she left Semilion to his own thoughts.