Aria Remains

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William had walked to the highest point of land around Easthope and now sat upon the grassy hilltop, leaning against the trunk of the enormous sequoia he had planted almost ninety years earlier and which now stood three hundred feet high. From his position he could see the entire village, how far it had grown and unfurled its strands and tendrils into the surrounding countryside, the many more houses and buildings, the developing roads and pathways to and from its borders. Still catching his breath, finding the climb more difficult each decennial, he looked to his right and, nipped by sorrow as always, contemplated the site that had once been the docks, where he had made the grisly discovery of the villagers whose lives had been taken on the night of the Great Storm.

He reflected, as he always did on his pilgrimage to this vantage point, how different the village had been in those early days. The storm had brought with it, then left behind in its wake, a huge amount of flood water, forcing them to not only relocate the docks but, as time passed and the water that had sunk into the chalky earth below made the land unsafe, they had to rebuild and relocate many buildings and other structures. It had changed the layout of the village considerably but, looking down upon it now, William could not help but allow a small smile to settle upon his lips. He had barely even considered then what a risk he was taking, and had encouraged those who first settled Easthope to take alongside him. Such precariousness, such jeopardy. So foolhardy had he been, he thought, shaking his head with incredulity. So young and insouciant.

One hundred years.

It was one hundred years to the day that he had completed the village’s construction, and those who resided there now were preparing a grand celebration, a glorious birthday party they all hoped would be worthy of such an occasion. There was to be a market, a fete, a play written and performed by some of the villagers, games and acrobats and music and dancing. They were also to try something new, something William had termed an afternoon tea party, having been one of the first villages in the entire country to have imported large quantities of the fashionable new drink. It would be held in the middle of the afternoon, and all would be invited for a mug of tea and some of Penhallick the baker’s latest creations. It was to be, William felt assured, a most memorable and enjoyable day.

Although it had flourished throughout the second half of the previous century, as the 1600s advanced the village had found its existence more troublesome. In constant communication with travellers and merchants, those who had seen not only the majority of the country but, in some cases, a good deal of the world, William was aware of the changes creeping throughout. He had been able to increase their production of wool to sustain an increasingly popular trade, but as a consequence they had needed to allocate more land to the raising of sheep, finding fields further inland less fertile than those that had previously proved so propagative. So as not to allow the ground to fall into utter futility, William decided that they should plant thousands more trees and now, as he looked at the forest those saplings had become, at the further protection it offered from the potential spoliation of the world beyond and the new canopy of life it provided, he felt assured that they had, once again, done the right thing. That he had, as always, tried to do his best for the village and for those who lived there.

He also discovered that the population of other villages had begun to diminish, many residents lured away to other quickly-growing towns and cities in search of employment and opportunity. Businesses and industries were developing, giving rise to a middle class of successful merchants and craftsmen. Several members of Easthope’s own community, primarily from its second and third generations, departed in pursuit of different lives, leaving behind them a deficit of farmers and new cohorts who would otherwise have followed their mothers and fathers, assisting them with their own work.

These were not the only exterior encroachments that the insulated Easthope was forced to face. They had also felt the insidious effects of the plague, prowling the countryside, taking its victims as though apples in a barrel, indiscriminate and vicious.

Despite the village’s boundaries only being perceivable to those whom William had specifically invited, the seamen, merchants and vendors compelled to secrecy upon their first admission and, by consequence, bringing Easthope a protective barrier to disease, still the plague had an impact on the village. Throughout the years a great number of those invitees were lost to the contagion and so successors needed to be found, new deals needed to be forged. It was something that did not always prove to be either expeditious nor straightforward, leading to periods that saw stocks of their produce often going to waste. But, as William often told the villagers during their recurrent gatherings and meetings, they may find themselves facing hiccups and quandaries from time to time, would need to deal with things of an unpleasant or concerning nature, but they would overcome and Easthope would persevere, because its strength lay in its citizens.

And then there was Alice.

She had, as far as William was aware, kept her distance from the village, had left them in peace. There had been no occurrence he felt might be attributed to her maliciousness, no sightings of her, not even a mention of the strange old woman who lived in the hovel to the north. Occasionally he would inspect the trap they had built and, apart from it sometimes being in need of small repair, there had never been any indication that she had attempted to dismantle it. Once a year he would be joined by Cordell and Froste, monitoring the protective carvings they had made, working at them if time had lost any of their crispness, their definition. Otherwise, it appeared she had forgotten about them, would be leaving them to their own devices and, despite William’s mind always being perplexed with a small element of doubt, a feeling that he never could allow himself to completely relax when it came to her, he could find no real cause for concern.

‘I must admit,’ a cheerful and slightly tipsy Thorne told William several hours later, sitting on a bench close to the Tavern, ‘I never would have imagined an afternoon of tea would be such a delight.’ He belched and spilt some of his drink, causing those seated around him to laugh and call out.

‘I be most happy thee hath found it so,’ William said, also laughing. ‘Perchance we make it an annual event?’

‘Annual?’, Thorne spluttered. ‘Nay, it must be a great deal more common that that. Each weekend, I should say. This beverage, these cakes - how canst we deprive ourselves of such a bounty for so long as a whole year?’

William nodded his agreement, casting his eyes around at the celebratory flags and banners that had been placed all around the village. Had he looked behind he would have seen the arrival of a group of travelling gitanos who had alighted from a vessel that appeared far too small to have been able to accommodate them all, and he would have seen them setting up their stalls and tents from which they would sell fanciful items, the likes of which no one in the village had ever seen before, the Dobladura de Carnero and Fabada Asturiana. In one of the tents, William would later learn, the travellers presented to those villagers inquisitive or brave enough to venture within the proposition of a woman who had been born with three feet and four legs, who was able to use her toes with such dexterity that she had agreed, before she was even twenty years old, to an aged and half-blind pauper - who had long forfeited his occupation of digging for the last remaining nuggets of gold that once laid upon the country’s shores with the proportions of sand - removing her hands so that he might sell them for food. It was only when William went to find them, many hours later, that he found they had already packed away their belongings and had sailed their tiny boat back to the continent, since they could see no reason to visit anywhere else.

Still laughing at the delight Thorne had found in the idea of afternoon tea, he then noticed Penhallick approaching, handing him some bread.

‘Ah, now what have we?’ William asked, taking the bread and then, having noticed something unusual, he looked again to the miller.

‘’Twas a happy accident,’ Penhallick said. ’Slicing the loaf thus, as thin as it be here, at the same time I attempted to accept a piece of pork from old Aiken over yonder. Of course, the pork fell ‘twixt my fingers, landing upon the bread. Struck by an idea I placed another slice atop it and, well, try it for thyself.’

William examined the sandwich for a moment, took a small bite and then smiled broadly at Penhallick.

‘This be a most delicious conception,’ he said, quickly taking a larger mouthful.

’And I see no reason why such an arrangement could not be employed with ‘most any other filling. Imagine, slices of bread covered with butter or jam, filled with other meats, even…’ He paused to think, then added, ‘Why, one could even eat it if its fillings were nought but sallet, fruits and vegetables and such.’

‘Thou, my friend,’ William said, finishing the sandwich, ‘be indeed blessed with a most brilliant, inquisitive and inventive mind. The very next time we undertake such a tea afternoon, I propose we do all we can to provide a grand selection of this magnificent new concoction.’

‘The weekend coming?’ Thorne asked hopefully.

‘The weekend to come,’ William agreed, laughing again, then called for Bridgette to join him, urging her to sample this marvellous new culinary creation.

Later, as the sun began preparations to take its leave, a group of villagers presented their play. Having cleared a large space in the middle of the green, the benches were rearranged, torches were lit and everyone gathered round to enjoy the spectacle. Gasping at the extravagant costumes, furtively created by the players over the course of many months, the audience remained transfixed throughout. The performers set forth their interpretation of the history of Easthope, beginning with a scene in which the character of William rushed about the clearing frantically, talking to himself, urging himself on so that he could complete his work as quickly as possible.

‘I must bring salvation,’ the young actor proclaimed, pausing briefly to address the crowd in a comically aggrandising manner, ‘to those whose suffering at the hands of the wicked landowner can stand no longer. Verily, I shall work until my own hands come close to dropping away.’

The audience laughed and cheered, many of them looking to William, delighting in his grinning face. Throughout the course of the next hour and a half the actors mirrored all the major happenings and achievements of the village, discharged with a great sense of celebration and fun, drawing appreciative whistles and applause from everyone in attendance, not one of whom departed during the entire production.

As the evening drew on, the celebrations continuing without the merest hint of abatement, William noticed something aglow in the trees across from the Traveller’s Tavern. Walking in its direction, being careful no one noticed his relocation, he reached the line of trees and found a gathering of those who had been lost in the storm, Travet at its head. They had all, at one time or other, been seen many times around the village throughout the seventy-three years that had passed since their loss. The villagers had come to accept their circumstance and had not been afraid, since they had been loved and missed, and seeing them again had always been considered a gift. Travet, in particular, had returned on dozens of occasions, usually visiting William just before the first light of dawn. It seemed that, over the years, the spirits had learned to harness their abilities so that they were able to stay for longer each time, to communicate more clearly.

‘So, it has been one hundred years,’ Travet had said, as William reached them.

‘So it has,’ William replied. ‘And on this day I see thou hast brought others who hath been most sorely missed.’

He nodded to them, standing at both sides of Travet, their faint golden glow almost opaque.

‘’Tis good to see thee once again,’ William said. ‘Be thee here in order to oversee the celebrations?’

‘Thou knowest fine and well,’ Travet said, his voice almost mocking in its reprimand, ‘that always here we be. It is just not always that we wish our presence to be known.’

‘Yes, of course,’ William replied, raising his hand in acknowledgement. ‘I must admit, even after all this time, it still be peculiar to feel at ease with thee. Or, shouldst I say, with this unusual situation.’

‘We come,’ Travet said, nodding his understanding, ‘as I came to thee that very first time, when it was we met out in the fields, if thee can recall?’

‘I do,’ William said.

He did remember it clearly, even now. It was the night he had been to see Alice, when he had wanted to reason with her, to bring an end to their agreement and, in response, she had propelled him far into the countryside.

‘It be so that we gather here before thee now,’ Travet continued, ‘not only on account of us wanting to be here upon this most momentous day, needing to be here, I should say…’ He paused and looked to his friends who, as one, nodded seriously. ‘But there be a message we bring to thee, a thing knownst amongst us but that, we agreed, should not be shared without undue consideration.’

William, although still smiling, felt the grip of nervous anticipation clamp around his heart.

‘What be it?’ he asked, his voice tight. ‘What be the predicament?’

His visitors glanced at one another, then Travet said, ‘We wish not to undermine such historic a day as this but, and trust in me when I say this is far from an easy thing I hath to report, but learnest we of an understanding that the time granted to our most beloved home hath surely now began to dwindle.’

‘What sayeth thee?’ William asked. ‘What be it that threatens us?’

‘It be not one thing,’ Travet said, his light only now beginning to tremble, ‘but the simple fact that, as we hath come to discover, the agreement thou made one hundred years hence hath now aligned to entwine not only the future and outlook of thy family, but of the very fabric of Easthope itself.’

‘How doth thee know…?’

‘That be not important,’ Travet interrupted, raising his hand. ‘We knowest of said bargain, and that be enough. The crux of the matter be that in four hundred years, four hundred years from this very day, there shall no longer remain an Easthope. No longer shall the land be fertile, the water unalloyed, the scene so calm as it be today. It shall all be gone, shall be lost, drained and eroded following a most slow and insidious decline, a deterioration that hath already begun.’

‘Be thee certain of such?’ William asked, becoming afraid, his mind suddenly frantic. Travet nodded. ’So, pray indicate to me now, what it might be I must do in order to reverse such a decline.’

‘Though it pains me to say,’ Travet said with a sigh, his luminescence now waning yet further, ‘there be nothing thee canst do, no way for the fates to be assuaged. What be written shall, forgive me, come to pass.’

‘There be nothing?’

The spirits looked at one another again, then most looked down to the ground. It was as though there was something they were afraid to say, a solution they dare not reveal. William, noticing this behaviour, cleared his throat pointedly then posed his question again, this time more forcefully. Travet looked awkward, speaking haltingly without glancing in William’s direction.

‘There may be… well, it be said there is something…’

‘Then out with it, man,’ William urged him. ‘For the sake of all those gathered yonder, disclose thy clandestine alternative.’

’Well, if it must be said, then I shall tell thee. Thou be already well versed that there hath never been a passing in our village - not since, of course, the agonising and premature transience of we collected here. As we have not aged, as would be expected with consideration of our… our location, it will have been lost upon thee not that no other that hath been here for the one hundred years be, similarly, aged not one day more. Verily there hath been some dwindling in health on occasion, and the people here be not quite so robust as they hath been in the past, and perhaps there hath been some decline in vigour, but by and large it is as if ’t’were but a week since the great migration from depravity to triumph.’

William nodded, listening intently. The others around Travet shifted uncomfortably where they stood, knowing what it was he were about to say.

‘This be, whether thou hath prior knowledge or otherwise, a part of thy agreement which initially went unstated, a part that hath always been included as a clause, a provision in dealings such as this, amongst the good and the diabolical. It be only of late we hath learned of such an insertion, else we would hath made it apparent to thee with more haste.’

‘And what be this clause?’ William asked, his temperature rising with his discomfit that, again, it seemed he had been tricked by the old woman.

Travet, after another apprehensive pause, said, ’’Tis written that there must be a payment for such longevity enjoyed by the citizens of Easthope, that their ongoing lives cannot simply continue without some remittance. After all, ’tis a most unnatural thing, the exiguity of death, the artificial extension of life. And, of course, the fact that those who live beyond the shadow of expiration do so as though it be a natural thing, that they pay it no mind, that it seems to them a thing not even worthy of mention or consideration which, too, be part of this… understanding.’

‘And the clause?’ William asked again. ‘Tell me of the clause.’

’’Tis a choice that must be made, which can only be made by thee. The dolorous picking between the survival of those who hath danced beyond the reach of the reaper and the perpetuation of this village, this haven. Thou must decide upon one or ’t’other; sacrifice those who live now, who first came with thee upon this journey, for the benefit of those to come, those that shall then live their lives as one might expect, facing age and the inevitability of death, as nature would have it, or witness those around thee now, those to come and, indeed, Easthope itself become, four hundred years from now, nothing more than a shadow, an uncultivable, uninhabitable wasteland.’

‘Those who first came to the village?’ William asked. ‘Be it only those who wouldst be plagued by such a decision? Those still young, those who came into this world whilst already here, who have yet to lead their lives - those shall be left, shall be allowed to live as nature would have it?’

‘Thou meanst, of course, thy daughter?’ Travet asked.

‘Not just she but, yes, I cannot deny she be my main concern, and it is of course most plain and clear that the passing of time has taken its natural and expected toll upon her, as would ordinarily be expected. Wouldst she continue, would she live as one would suppose, just as others born within this domain?’

‘Although she be something of an…. anomaly,’ Travet said, a tone of uncertainty in his weakening voice, ‘yes, she and all others would live their lives to their common entirety while present within the bounds of our beloved village.’

William began to speak again but, raising his hand, Travet shook his head sadly, his lustre now almost faded to nothing, then added, ’It be an impossible choice, yet ’tis a choice that must be made, nonetheless, should thee wish for the preservation of thy village.’

William stared at Travet, absorbing what he had heard, musing the unthinkable decision he must face.

‘There be no other way?’ he said at last, the spirits before him now nothing more than dim outlines.

‘No other way,’ came Travet’s reply, as though he were already a great distance away.