May said, ‘Splendid,’ and tied the fastening. Then she lay back again, her dark eyes closed, and started to breathe deeply, pushing the magnificent cupolas beneath her shift up into the stratosphere. Arno gave a stifled moan of enchantment and was glad when the Master said ‘Lights’ and, hurrying to the switch, he was temporarily distracted.
‘Shall I stay here, May?’ asked Christopher, squatting by her left shoulder. ‘Then I can hold your hand if things get sticky.’
‘If you wish but I’ll be quite all right. One always returns safely you know.’
Once the light was out everything looked different. In the greyness the unmoving figures became drained of their humanity. They looked mysterious, their edges ill-defined, like statues in the garden at dusk. May’s breathing became more audible; deep regular sighs with a longer and longer pause between each exhalation.
When the Master wanted to know if she was ready, May replied on a sonorous note: ‘I Am Ready.’ Next she was asked to locate the very centre of her being and, after several more slow and even deeper breaths, laid the flat of her hand on her tummy.
‘How do you see that centre?’
‘A ball ... a golden ball.’
‘Can you propel that ball down? Down ... and out through the soles of your feet ... that’s right - push it away ...’ May gave a small grunt. ‘Now bring it back and push upwards ...’
May propelled the very centre of her being up and down, further and further away each time until it had expanded from a little ball to a great shimmering golden skin pressing against the walls like a giant helium balloon. Then, released, it suddenly floated free. Briefly May glanced down, seeing the twisty chimney pots and mossy slates of the Manor House roof and then she was off. Over the hills, over the clouds and far far away.
‘Where are you now, May?’
Where indeed? Below her things were changing fast. The terrain was now rough and wild. Forests and large areas of scrubland. Then some circles of tents within a high stone wall.
‘Tell us what you see?’
Descending, the tents became larger. One was rather grand. Bigger than all the others and flying a pennant, purple and gold. An eagle rising.
‘What is inside the tent?’
A pair of wooden pattens materialised, tied with strips of rag on to filthy masculine feet and raising them from the earth. In the right hand of the owner of the feet was a lump of dripping meat.
The place stank of sizzling fat, spilt wine and burning pitch from the torches. There was the most tremendous row going on. Men were yelling at each other, laughing, shouting. Dogs snarled, fighting over bones. Somewhere in the middle of it all a singer, accompanying himself on a small drum, struggled to make his lyrics heard.
The reeking air made the General’s taster sick. He put the bear flesh into his mouth, chewed on the sinews, forced it down then placed the remains on a metal dish. A new skin of wine had just been uncorked and he swallowed some of that. The General’s slave, a very young blackamoor, took the plate and goblet and placed them at the end of a line of similar dishes all rapidly congealing on a stone slab. The General never had hot food (not all poisons being quick to take effect, time must be allowed). On the other hand he was still alive.
The General was finishing sheep’s kidneys now. Belching, farting, wiping his greasy fingers on the negro boy’s woolly hair, tossing back some wine. Aping his betters he rested on his right elbow. His rough tunic was in disarray and everyone could see his knickers made from the hide of his favourite stallion and gleaming like wood chestnuts.
Mushrooms came next. The taster hated all forms of fungus. It was well known that some varieties were deadly and although these had mostly been isolated (thanks to various self-sacrificing predecessors), the odd one could still slip through. In which case the lives of both the cook and the taster would be forfeit. But the General loved them, believing that they made him potent in love and invincible in battle.
The mushrooms were stewing in a small four-legged bronze skillet, their juice a vivid unpleasant colour. The taster put a single stalk and a spoonful of the violet liquid in his mouth. Immediately he choked. The muscles of his throat became numb, his stiff coal-black tongue stuck out. Eyes bolting, he fell and upset the skillet, scalding his arms on a steaming mass of food.
He briefly comprehended startled faces and the slave running, then paralysis spread downwards to his chest and life closed up inside him like a fan.
‘May ... May ...’ The words were knotted with terror as Arno heard the strangled choking. He was first from the dais, flinging himself on his knees at her side. Other people followed, crowding round. Even Felicity, looking dreamily puzzled rather than alarmed, drifted over to glance down at the figure wrenching itself into such terrible loops and arches on the appliquéd quilt.
‘Do something!’ cried Arno. ‘Someone ... do something ...’ He snatched May’s hand from Christopher’s grasp and started to chafe and rub it between his own.
‘Give her the kiss of life.’
‘She’s not drowning.’
‘How do you know she’s not drowning?’
‘Shouldn’t we loosen her belt?’
‘Look at her face!’
‘Take the pillow away. Lay her flat.’
‘She can’t breathe as it is.’
‘Ken’s right. That’ll just make things worse.’
‘We need some agrimony.’
‘I’d have thought there was more than enough agrimony here already.’
‘Remarks like that are not particularly helpful, Mr Gamelin.’
‘Sorry.’
‘This is actually an emergency in case you haven’t noticed.’
‘I’m sorry - all right?’
May drew back her lips and gargled horribly.
‘What would she say if she could speak?’
‘Think colour according to the cosmic law.’
‘That’s right she would. What day is it?’
‘Friday.’
‘That’s violet.’ Heather leaned closer and shouted, ‘May - can you hear me? Think violet ...’
May shook her head with great force and, struggling to form the words, finally cried out: ‘Mush ... mush ...’
‘What does she mean - mush, mush?’
A puzzled silence then Arno cried, ‘Dogs. She’s calling a dog team. May is in Antarctica.’ He pulled off his jumper. ‘That’s why she’s shaking. She’s freezing to death. Quick everyone ...’
They all removed an item of clothing. Felicity offered her shiny mussel-effect scarf. Everything was piled up on May and finally, it seemed, to good effect. The gargle became a ripple then a mere bubbling sigh. The rasp of her breathing softened almost into inaudibility, her chest rose and fell in a calm, even motion. The hem of her shift stopped vibrating.
‘It’s worked.’ Arno turned a radiant face to them all. ‘She’s better.’
As he spoke, May opened her eyes, gave a great yawn and sat up. ‘My goodness! The most exciting adventure yet, I do believe. What on earth are all these things?’
‘We thought you were cold.’
‘You were shivering.’
‘Nonsense. Sweltering in that tent. Someone put the lights on and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Christopher went to do so. As light flooded the room, people started to pick up their bits and pieces and don them again. May called across to her mentor: ‘Well, Master that was quite -’ She broke off and gave a loud exclamation. Attracted by this the others, too, turned and stared.
The Master was standing just in front of his chair. Slowly and seemingly with great effort he lifted his right arm. A finger pointed. Then he fell, very gracefully with a slow turning movement so that he came to rest face upwards with his milk-white hair spreading over the oatmeal carpet. He lay cruciform, arms flung wide and in his breast a knife was buried. Right up to the hilt.