Lies, Damned Lies, and History(29)

Just as dusk began to fall and I was thinking about chivvying them all back to the pod, a man walked quietly to stand by the fire. At once, everyone fell silent.

He wore a simple white robe, spotlessly clean. A stool was brought for him, which he politely declined. He carried a hand-harp, which he strummed gently.

Lifting his head, he sang. I have no idea of the subject, I didn’t understand the words, but the tune carried a strange, halting rhythm. Sometimes a note was held just for a fraction too long, or an unexpected pause broke up the expected sequence of notes. And at the end of every phrase, a long, sliding note dragged at the heartstrings, and tailed into nothing. People stopped drinking. The dogs even stopped barking. I felt the tears on my cheeks. This was grief made tangible. A song to those no longer in this world. The last note died away. There was no applause.

He began again and this time there was a different rhythm. A dancing, skipping, insistent beat. I felt my feet tap in response. This tune could raise the dead and make them dance. For no reason at all, I thought of giant stones, dancing their way across the country, defying the laws of physics. I saw them slotting smoothly into place, as meek and obedient as sheep. To stand forever, black against the sky. I remembered the old name for Stonehenge was the Giant’s Dance; remembered that according to legend, the wizard Merlin spoke the words and the stones danced to his bidding.

Believe it or not, I’ve never visited Stonehenge. Not in any time. But I could. My last jump was coming up. I could visit Stonehenge. I could touch the stones. Walk among them. I could see them when they were young.

He started another song. It was very dark by now. The juggling and other activities had halted. I looked around. Everyone was standing or sitting in a large circle, listening. His voice was liquid gold. We swayed gently in time to the mesmerising rhythm of the music. He sang softly but clearly, and the words mingled with the smoke and sparks from the fire, and rose slowly towards the stars.

I don’t know for how long we sat there, just listening. Eventually, the words dwindled into silence. Now the people applauded. The musician stood, slim and tall, head bowed, accepting his due. I wiped my eyes and when I looked again, he had disappeared.

People sighed, shook themselves, and refilled their mugs. Now things grew rowdy. Songs grew bawdy and suggestive. All around, people were disappearing into the darkness. I could hear a lot of laughter and shrieking.

Eventually, Arthur stood up, seized two laughing girls, and disappeared into the hut set aside for him.

Markham, Sands and Roberts, their arms around each other – although whether as a demonstration of affection or much needed support I had no idea – set off in search of more jugs. Tim and I sat quietly. He drained his cup.

I grinned. ‘Now we know what puts the pee in Peterson.’

He snorted.

To fill the silence and with some trepidation, I asked, ‘How did the arm hold up?’ My fears were groundless; he answered quite normally.

‘Quite well. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wield a sword as well as I used to, but I was able to use a spear as a quarterstaff. If I can use both arms, then I’m not too bad. I’m going to get some practice in when I get back. Quarterstaffs are pretty lethal, you know. And their reach is much greater than that of a sword.’

I waited.

He turned to me and in the light of someone’s fire, I caught a glimpse of his crooked grin. ‘I’m not so useless after all.’

‘That’ll come as a surprise to the rest of us.’

He put his hand on my arm and I covered it briefly with my own, searching for the words to ask him. He’d once told me he wanted to ask Helen a Special Question. He’d never mentioned it since and I didn’t like to ask. Now, I wondered if he’d put off asking her until he’d regained his faith in himself. I opened my mouth to frame a tentative question, but then the others came back with more jugs and the moment passed.

Roberts retracted his undercarriage and collapsed beside me, grinning all over his face. He waved an arm to embrace the socially disintegrating scene around us. ‘Bloody hell, Max, we really are the dog’s bollocks, aren’t we?’

I grinned and nodded.

He waved his arm again. ‘We saved them. Well, Arthur did a bit, of course. All these people. Max, I keep thinking, somewhere here tonight there might be some of my ancestors.’ He waved his arm yet again.

‘What – in amongst the sheep? That would account for a lot.’

‘No, sorry – my arm went the wrong way.’ He giggled. ‘Gotta say though, the one on the end looks pretty good to me.’

Markham watched him in tolerant amusement. ‘That’s an actual girl.’