as we knew, that given electricity men would be drawn to the atom. That given fission,' they would come to fusion. Because once, beyond our Time, beyond all the memories of men, there was a great civilization. There was a Coming, a Death, and Resurrection; a Conquest, a Reformation, an Armada. And a burning, an Armageddon. There too in that old world we were known; as the Old Ones, the Fairies, the People of the Hills. But our knowledge was not lost.
The Church knew there was no halting Progress; but slowing it, slowing it even by half a century, giving man time to reach a little higher towards true Reason; that was the gift she gave this world. And it was priceless. Did she oppress? Did she hang and burn? A little, yes. But there was no Belsen. No Buchenwald. No Passchendaele.
Ask yourself, John, from where came the scientists? And the doctors, thinkers, philosophers? How could men have climbed from feudalism to democracy in a generation, if Rome had not flooded the world with her proscribed wealth of knowledge? When she saw her empire crumbling, when she knew dominion had ended, she gave back what all thought she had stolen; the knowledge she was keeping in trust. Against the time when men could once more use it well. That was her great secret. It was hers, and it was ours; now it is yours. Use it well.
It was your mother’s wish that you return one day to your own place, this isle where you were born. For this I took you from the heath, from the soldiers of Charles the Good; for this I took you to a new country, and gave you wealth and knowledge. Now I give you understanding; the understanding of yourself, without which no man may be complete. And I lay down my charge. May all Gods, both of your people and of ours, be with you….
He set the letter down slowly on the grass. Sat seeming hardly to breathe, the medallion still between his fingers. Above him, over the crest of the hill, the castle watched, aloof and huge now in the growing night. There was no help for him there. He felt freshly born; a stranger in a very strange land.
She had come quietly across the slope, squatted waiting so long it seemed he must be aware of her. She waited still, a dark-haired girl in bright frock and sandals, frowning, toying with a grass stem she held between her teeth.
‘You shouldn’t be up here,’ she said. ‘Not to rights. Shouldn’t be on the castle after dark. There’s notices.’
He turned, too suddenly; she saw the quick sheen on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean… Are you all right?’ Hands on the grass tensing, half ready to push her back and away.
He was still startled. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Didn’t… see you, is all. Bug got in my eye…’ And she caught her breath at the great burr in his voice.
‘Can I see?’ Quickly. ‘Here, let me…’ A handkerchief magicking itself from her dress.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘ He got washed away…’ Rubbing at his cheek with his palm.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m OK. You put a scare in me. Didn’t see you there…’
She was talking to a silhouette, unable to see his face.
‘I’m sorry…’ She dropped the grass, pulled another stem. Sitting back on her heels. ‘You’re Newworld,’ she said. ‘Are you staying here?’
‘No, guess not…’ He shrugged. ‘No room at the inn, I asked all over. Reckon I’ll be moving on.’
‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘Have you got a car?’
‘No. No, I haven’t…’
She sat pushing one heel in and out of her sandal strap, staring down at the path. ‘I’m always like this,’ she said. ‘Sort of impulsive. Do you mind?’
‘No, ma’am…’
He felt an urgent need to keep her with him. Sit and talk and watch the moon rise over the silent hill.
‘I come up here a lot,’ she said. ‘It’s best when the visitors have gone. There’s a secret way into the castle. I found it when I was small. I used to sit up there and imagine it was all mine. And there were people again and soldiers, like there used to be. You’ve been up here a terrible time, I saw you hours ago. What were you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Sitting. Just thinking I guess.’
‘What about?’
‘The people,’ he said simply. ‘And the soldiers.’
‘You’re funny,’ she said. ‘Are you shy?’
‘No, ma’am. Well, maybe a little. Haven’t been here too long. Don’t know my way around.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never met a Newworlder,’ she said. ‘Not properly, to talk to. Does that sound funny too?’
‘No, ma’am…’
She pulled at her lip with her teeth. ‘I know where you can stop,’ she said, ‘if you haven’t anywhere to go. Would you like to stay?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I would. Very much.’
‘My father runs the pub just down the street,’ she said. ‘We’ve got loads of room really.’ She stood up and flicked at her hair. ‘I’ll go and see,’ she said. ‘I think it will be all right. Then I’ll come back. Will you be ready then?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ready.’
She moved away lightly, surefooted on the grass. He saw the flash of her legs in the shadows, heard the little scuff as she jumped down to the path.
She called up to him softly. ‘When I come-back,’ she said, ‘you’ll have gone away.’ He had to strain to make out the last words of the letter.
As all things, in all Times, have their place and season, so we are gone for now. But if you are my son, then you are the son of this place too; of its rocks and soil, its sunlight and wind and trees. These people, in whatever garb or guise, are yours.
I know you, John, so well. I know your heart, its sorrows and its joys. You have seen death in this old place, and an anger that perhaps will not die. Accept it. Feel sorrow for the passing of old things, but cleave to and build for the new. Do not fall into heresy; do not grieve, for the deaths of stones.
He stood up. Slowly rolled the papers together, stowed them in the pack and fastened it. Swung the strap onto his shoulder, brushed at the grass that clung to his knees. It was nearly full now on the mound; the shadows of the trees were velvet black. Above him the ruins showed ragged against a turquoise afterglow.
He saw something he hadn’t noticed before. Everywhere round him, on the grass, in the bushes and trees, the glow-worms were alight, pulsing like cool green lamps. He took one in his hand. It shone there steadily, distant and mysterious as a star. The stones were still and huge on the slope, and the Normans had been dead a long time. A little wind rose, stirring the grass. He started to climb down, feet skidding on the roughness.
She was waiting for him by the brook, a scented shadow in the night. As she moved forward he saw her cupped palm gleam. She’d collected glow-worms on the walk back down the path, carried them ‘along of her’ as the locals would have said.
About the Author
Keith John Kingston Roberts (20 September 1935 — 5 October 2000), was a British science fiction author. He began publishing with two stories in the September 1964 issue of Science Fantasy magazine, “Anita” (the first of a series of stories featuring a teenage modern witch and her eccentric granny) and “Escapism”.
Several of his early stories were written using the pseudonym Alistair Bevan. His second novel, Pavane, which is really a collection of linked stories, may be his most famous work: an alternate history novel in which the Roman
