“Arboretum?”
“Got it in one. How d'you know?” I ask.
Laughing, Kate explains, “I went down there during my first month at Oxford. There’s a kiln in the park, and we were hosting a visiting artist. I had to double-check that none of his creations were coming to life. I remember the peacocks all too well.”
“Good to know that it isn’t only me and H that the peacocks hate. Anyway, I’m here, I have the most spectacular new pair of wellies on and I’d rather not walk 130 acres in them if I don’t have to. You wouldn’t know whether the magical perimeter covers the whole park?”
“Hold on, let me check.” The rattle of fingers tapping on keys echoes through the line. “I’ve got a map saved somewhere on my computer. Now what did I call the file?”
“Arboretum Map?” I ask helpfully.
“I wish,” Kate laughs. “But we can’t leave any information on the magic within easy reach. I had to bury it somewhere no one would think to look and name it something bland and uninteresting. Oh yes, here it is. Visitor statistics 20 May 2007. It’s opening up.”
How did she remember that file name? It definitely hit the mark she was aiming for.
After a few mouse clicks, Kate comes back with a response. “You’re in luck. It looks like the magical perimeter only extends over the main research areas. If you follow the yellow path around, that should give you a good idea of where to check. Anything well outside the yellow path shouldn’t show any signs of magic.”
I look over the map and say a silent thanks when I see that the yellow path is only a mile long.
“Thanks, Kate, you’re a star. I’d better run, still got a mile to walk here and the peacocks are getting antsy.”
I stow my phone back in my bag and make my way towards the trail indicators. The foliage really is incredible here, so much so I regret putting my phone away. I could get a cool new headshot for my Facebook profile.
The trees eventually open up to reveal a wide meadow. I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary, and I’m thinking our great idea might not have been as genius as it seemed last night. That’s the problem with fuelling your planning with alcohol.
I’ve only walked about half the route when I hit the southern edge. “Might as well get that photo as proof of my efforts.”
I put my phone into selfie mode and spin around, trying to find the perfect angle for the light. I was hoping to get the trees in, but my face is hidden in a deep shadow. Looks like it will have to be the meadow. Not very autumnal, but the grazing fluffy white sheep should save the photo from complete boredom.
I line up with the light and abandon trying to get my feet into the shot. My arms aren’t that long, and I haven’t reached the point of carrying a selfie-stick in my bag. Bright natural light, check. Chin up, check. Fluffy sheep in the distance, triple check.
“Think she will pay us for being in the photo, Vern?” asks a gruff male voice.
I take my finger off the button and look around in confusion. Other than the couple I passed in the picnic area, I haven’t seen a human being in the last 10 minutes. If there’s one here, I’m asking them to take the photo for me. Left, right, nope, no one? No one at all. “Hmm, I must have been imagining things.”
I adopt my pose again and reach my thumb over towards the button.
Another male voice pipes up, this one slightly higher pitched. “C’mon Steve, you know they never pay. Chase us all over the bloody meadow trying to get the perfect shot and never say so much as a thank you before they go.”
Meadow? Can it be? But the perimeter is behind me.
I abandon my selfie efforts and turn around to face the sheep.
“Excuse me, but your names wouldn’t be Vern and Steve, would they?”
The two sheep open their mouth and I’m sure a loud bleat is about to come out.
“Who’s asking?” says the sheep on the right in a familiar high-pitched male voice.
The other sheep tilts his head, rapping his horns against the other one. “She’s asking, Steve. What are you talking about? You can see her right there, talking in our direction.”
Oh god, it is the sheep.
“Hello Vern, Steve. I’m Nat. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
The two sheep dip into a bow. Definitely something magical afoot.
Tucking my phone in my pocket, I brave the mud to get closer to the fence separating me from the meadow. “Have you two been talking for very long? Talking to humans, I mean.”
Vern is quick with a reply, “It’s the darnedest thing. We were gardeners over there at the Arboretum for most of our lives. We died together, a falling tree catching us unawares. Freak accident. We woke up in the Arboretum, it was as though we’d never left, except people couldn’t see or hear us.”
I dig in my purse for my pen and notepad. “Ok, so you two are Eternals? That makes more sense. But then, if you were ghosts, how did you end up inside the sheep?”
Steve picks up the story, “One minute we were Eternals, gardening same as always, the next minute we were staring at the Arboretum from the other side of the fence. Only we weren’t ghosts anymore. We were sheep.”
Uh oh, that’s not good news. I massage a hand cramp as I ponder over my next question. “Is it just the two of you who can chat?” I mentally cross my fingers and hope for something positive.
“Oh no, it’s right bunch of us. Several other sheep here, plus three or four in the next meadow south. The one beyond it, too, if the gossip is right. As far as I can tell, it’s several hundred years’
