‘Really?’ The messenger thought for a moment. ‘No doubt Aldebaran will want a word with you.’
He indicated some nearby trestle tables, then left me to enjoy my pudding. I found a place and sat down. The other diners were friendly enough, although they didn’t make conversation; not in my presence anyway. The tent creaked and shuddered as the breeze freshened.
After a while I became aware of somebody standing over me. I looked up. It was one of the men I’d seen giving orders when the camp was being established. He didn’t announce himself, but I guessed this was Aldebaran.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘finish your pudding.’
I nodded obediently, and he took the seat opposite mine. A few minutes passed in silence: not until my dish was empty did he speak again. ‘I understand your comrades won’t be joining us?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s alright,’ he said. ‘All the more for you. You can come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that if you wish. We want to use up all the pudding before we make any more.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It’s very nice. Very nourishing.’
Aldebaran inclined his head as if my words of gratitude were completely unnecessary. There was, however, another question.
‘The woman who swims in the river,’ he said. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Her name’s Isabella.’
‘Ah, yes, Isabella. We’ve heard about her.’
‘She owns the crimson tent,’ I added, ‘over in the east.’
‘She swims every day, does she?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Usually in the morning.’
‘I see.’
Aldebaran glanced at the cooks. They were still standing behind their counter, serving milk pudding to latecomers.
‘Isabella,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I wonder if she’s the reason?’
He drummed his fingers on the table. I happened to look down, and in the same instant I realized that my spoon and dish were gone. They must have been tidied away during our conversation. When I mentioned this to Aldebaran he told me not to worry.
‘Let the cooks take care of them,’ he said. ‘It’ll help keep their minds on the job: they’ve had too many distractions lately.’
He rose from his seat, gave me a polite nod, and prepared to leave.
‘Come back tomorrow at noon,’ he said, ‘if you wish.’
Once he’d departed I thanked the cooks again, then went outside. The idea had occurred to me that I didn’t necessarily have to return the same route I’d come. I decided instead to stroll down the ‘high street’, between the rows of tents, until I reached the river. Nobody objected, apparently, so I continued on my way. The breeze was still rising and all the flags were at full stretch: it was a pronounced change from the sultry conditions we’d become accustomed to of late. Actually, when I thought about it, life over the recent weeks had been extraordinarily sedate. A succession of warm and languorous days had drifted by, one after another, while we lounged in idle contentment. We’d done nothing of any use, really, except watch the summer go rolling slowly past. We were a handful of tents scattered far and wide across the immensity of the field. All around us was spaciousness, peace and tranquillity.
Now, suddenly, everything was different. We’d been roused from our indolence by the newcomers with their orderly regime, their functional tents and their tireless trumpet blasts.
2
The person least affected by these developments was Hen. He occupied the extreme western margins, and remained somewhat isolated from the field in general. The incursion in the south-east was of scant interest to him; indeed, when the new tents started appearing he pretended not to even notice. He just carried on attending to his daily affairs as if nothing had altered. Similarly, when the message came round about the milk pudding he kept a markedly low profile. This was typical of Hen. It didn’t mean he was being unsociable; merely that his prime concerns were directed elsewhere.
The Great Field, as it was properly known, lay in the bend of a broad, meandering river. Irregular in shape, it was bounded in the east, south and west by water, and in the north it dwindled gradually into wilderness. As far as I knew it had never been cultivated: it was grassland, pure and simple. To many eyes the field probably looked insignificant; after all, there was nothing to distinguish it from the countless neighbouring fields. For a select few, however, it was the chosen field: the place where momentous events would unfold and come to fruition. I wasn’t there by chance, and I presumed neither was Hen.
I originally met him in early spring. By then he’d already been alone in the west for a long, long time. He’d withstood wind, hail and rain with nobody to share his hardship; he’d witnessed indescribable sunsets which could never be repeated; and he’d seen threatening skies which would seldom be outmatched. Yet he regarded these happenings as little more than sideshows. The only thing that mattered to Hen was that he’d reached the field before the rest of us. He told me as much on the day I arrived. I was resting after an arduous journey when he came over and introduced himself.
‘I am called Hen,’ he said. ‘I have a tent in the west, and I was here first.’
‘Seen anyone else?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘There’s only me.’
Obviously, I had no reason to doubt him. One glance across the field assured me it was entirely unpopulated, and I was fully prepared to accept Hen’s word that he was the first and only resident. Yet, seemingly, he felt obliged to qualify his statement further.
‘Oh,’ he added, ‘there may be others who claim priority on the basis of some fleeting visit in the dim and distant past. Perhaps they’ll return one of these days, perhaps not, but the fact remains that I was the first to settle, which means I have precedence, not them.’
Having made his case, Hen fell silent and stood gazing into the encroaching gloom. I had no idea who he was referring to exactly, but I didn’t bother pursuing the subject. I was in a hurry to get my tent pitched before dark. Spring had barely begun and the days were comparatively short, so I needed to get moving quickly. On the face of it, this didn’t present any difficulty. The field was truly vast, and my choice of ground was unlimited. Without hesitation I aimed for the lush pastures of the south-east, which in those days lay completely untouched. When I drew nearer, however, I realized why the grass grew so thick and luxuriant: the land in this quarter was soaking wet underfoot. Plainly the south-east was unsuitable, at least for the time being. I’d been wondering why Hen had planted himself so far over in the west. Now I had a partial explanation.
Eventually I selected a temporary plot about halfway across the field. It would suffice until the weather dried up a little, although change was unlikely in the immediate future. Rain continued to fall for nearly a week. Hen and I maintained a polite distance from one another, enduring sporadic downpours privately in the shelter of our separate tents; then, at last, the sun appeared, and the prospects started to improve. The river sparkled under a clear, blue sky; along its banks, the reeds and bulrushes waved in a balmy breeze. The field was flourishing, and I eagerly awaited the halcyon days which I was certain lay just ahead.
Hen’s outlook was rather more restrained.
‘Halcyon days only occur in the past,’ he said. ‘They can’t be prophesied.’
Despite his sombre manner, Hen could be perfectly agreeable company, and I liked to think he saw me in a similar light. It was clear from the beginning that he preferred to stay mostly in the west. He rarely ventured into the other parts of the field, but his knowledge of our surroundings was second to none. It was Hen, for example, who pointed out that the field had a slope.