And the noise! People talking, different sorts of vehicle in chaotic movement. The wind in the trees, the birds singing. The smells too, floating everywhere, some sweet, most foul, alarming. There was no control to anything, no order, just random movements.
Two people walked past him, talking. Could he understand them? He followed closely, until one turned round and looked at him suspiciously. He had heard enough, though; he had understood. Could he speak? He had not been impressed by his one attempt with the girl. The idea made him feel nervous, but it seemed necessary to find out. He stood to one side, summoned his courage, and prepared. Choose your target, walk up, stop, smile. Wait for eye contact but don’t stare. Polite expressions at both beginning and end of sentence. Keep your distance.
‘Excuse me, dearest Madam. Would you kindly do me the great honour of informing me of the time, please?’
Then he stopped. Time. The word jogged something deep in his memory. He was short of time. Why? Again, almost like the answer to his question, thoughts began to pour back into his head, so many that he had to sit on a wall, oblivious to the passers-by, who stared nervously at the strangely dressed man rocking to and fro, head in hands.
He had wanted to show off, maybe win himself a little praise and added job security. It had been a bad mistake. He’d contacted the security man about his ideas to show he was more important than was the case, and because More had brought up his record. More had then passed the message on to Hanslip because he also needed to show he was on top of things. He should have kept quiet.
5
The ceremony proper began at dusk; all day the senior villagers presented their dues to the Visitor, handing over wooden tablets with markings which tallied what they had produced and what they owed. Each figure was written down meticulously, and if there were any discrepancies, the elders would be called across to account for the problem. The Visitor had arrived that afternoon; the space around the great oak tree where the ceremony always took place had been carefully prepared, and the senior men of the village had dressed in their best before walking to the limits of the village territory, marked by a great stone at the side of the road.
There they had waited to greet the Visitors. It was not a grand procession — although as grand as anything the village ever witnessed. One man was on a horse, which tossed its head and neighed as its rider came to a halt. He was in his forties at least, with fair, thin hair and bright eyes; a little fat as well, and dressed in a light brown cloak of wool. On his feet were sandals of leather, another luxury. There were rules, and there were laws, which could be applied severely or gently. He did not look particularly gentle, and the villagers worried when they cast eyes on him.
Curiously, it was not he who replied to the words of welcome. Rather a much younger man on a donkey behind him dismounted and came forward. He was hesitant, almost nervous, as though he was not used to the task. This did not reassure them either; they did not want someone too inexperienced to bend the rules. Still, he had an open face, with darting eyes and a faint smile that played around his mouth; he did not appear over-impressed by himself, but everyone knew that he was as aware of the older man as they were.
‘I thank you for your welcome,’ he said, speaking each word with care, ‘and I declare that I am the Visitor you expect. Does anybody here dispute this statement?’
No one replied. ‘Then let it be accepted.’ He took a step forward, over the boundary between the village and the great world outside.
That step cast the law into motion. He had been recognised as the Visitor, he had been welcomed, he had entered the village. Until he left again he was now the master of them all. Everything and everybody, every man and child, every animal, every tool and every sheaf of wheat, belonged to him. He could take what he wanted, leave them as much or as little as he pleased, guided only by custom. When he heard the complaints and arguments that had built up over the year waiting for resolution, he could punish any wrong-doing as he saw fit. His decisions were final.
For people who respected age and saw it as being little different from wisdom and authority, there was puzzlement that this man had come forward, not the older one on the horse. There was something unseemly about it. It had got the ceremony off to a bad start, and what started badly ended badly.
If the young man understood this, he did not seek to allay their fears. He did not introduce the other man, nor even give his own name. He was the Visitor; that was all they needed to know. But he jumped to attention when the older man came down off his horse, stretched himself and rubbed his sore back.
‘I would like a drink, Visitor,’ he said in a pleasant voice. ‘I am dusty and tired. Could that be arranged, do you think?’
‘Certainly, Storyteller,’ came the reply, which sent a wave of shock through the villagers. ‘At once.’
Once the arrangements had been made, and the villagers assembled in the dip by the oak trees where the meetings were always held, then the young man, the Visitor, stood up, peered at the audience severely and began to speak in a dry, monotonous voice. The older one, the Storyteller whose presence had so alarmed everyone, stood behind him, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. Still no one knew why he was there.
‘The counting took place on the fifth day of autumn, and these are the results. The settlement has in the last four seasons raised forty-two goats, sixty-seven sheep, 120 bushels of wheat and sixty-two of barley. In addition there were twenty-four pigs, 122 chickens, fifteen geese and eight oxen.’
He looked around. ‘A very much better result than last year; you are all to be congratulated. It is a blessing. The tithe is therefore four goats, six sheep, twelve bushels of wheat and six of barley. In addition, during the drought of the past few years a portion of the tithe was waived. This amounts to twelve goats...’
A quiet groan went up from the assembled villagers. They knew this was coming, of course. It was the law, and it was fair. The Visitors had been gentle during the drought; they could easily have insisted on their rights and left them to starve. But for three years they had taken less than their due and the debt had mounted up. Now there had been a bumper harvest, and there was no reason why they should not take what was owed.
The village could have taken their surplus — once enough had been put aside for the winter — loaded it onto wagons and traded it at the market. Bought cloth and pans and tools with the result. A few luxuries. It was not to be this year. A gloom descended and they all looked up at the Visitor, who was waiting for the murmuring to subside.
He didn’t look annoyed, as he had a right to be. The Visitor was not to be interrupted. Then they noticed that, if he was not actually smiling, he was at least looking faintly amused.
‘It is decided, to give proper thanks to the seasons and our common good fortune, to collect this by adding a quarter of the tenth to the next four years. This will amount, this year and the following three years, to three goats, nine sheep...’
Another murmur, but not from despair this time. Broad grins spread over all those listening. It was better than they could possibly have hoped. Yes, they’d have to pay their debt, but they’d have something to take to market as well. The Visitor had been generous; not for the first time, there were many who counted their blessings. They’d often heard tales of what life was like elsewhere, where the Visitors were not so flexible.