Table of Contents

- Dedication

- Map of the known world

- 1. Through the garden gate

- 2. The bequest

- 3. A bump in the night

- 4. Do it yourself

- 5. A chance discovery

- 6. How it all began

- 7. The lost treasure of Roth Nagor

- 8. Heartbreak

- 9. A timely intervention

- 10. The trail to the East

- 11. The diaries

- 12. First steps

- 13. Dar Bethel

- 14. Eastward

- 15. Gothgoria

- 16. The land of lost content

- 17. A change of heart

- 18. Katie Smiles

- 19. The Freelands

- Map of the Freelands

- 20. Sher Point

- 21. Weathering the storm

- 22. On their last legs

- 23. The journey home

The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor

By Etienne de L'Amour

A historical prequel, book 1 in the Shadowlands series.

Copyright © 2012 by Etienne de L'Amour

The right of Etienne de L'Amour as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First edition for Kindle: 9 February 2012

Minor typographical fixes: 19 November 2012

Sher Point Publications, UK

Front cover image: An etching by Jan Luyken illustrating Matthew 13:44 (The Parable of the Hidden Treasure) in the Bowyer Bible, Bolton, England. Many of the footnotes are taken or adapted from entries in the WordNet database, copyright 2006 by Princeton University.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all who've been touched and moved by, or felt a deep resonance with the truly inspirational and tear jerking film, Magic Beyond Words: The JK Rowling Story. At a particularly low ebb whilst writing this book, indeed on the point of abandoning the work, the airing of this film could not been more perfectly timed, nor more appropriate.

And this book is also dedicated to those who, like that author, have struggled through life and at some point found themselves back at square one. Like her, may you pick yourself up yet again, dust yourself off, find someone who believes in you, and finally achieve your heart's true desire.

Map of the known world

A rough sketch map of the known world, made by David Seymour.

Nota bene: Seymour's map is highly stylized. It is not to scale and contains numerous errors and omissions. In reality the lands to the east of the Freelands, for example, dwarf those to the west, the latter being given a ludicrous and undue degree of prominence.

1. Through the garden gate

David Seymour wrenched open the rotten gate and gingerly walked up the hopelessly overgrown garden to the ramshackle house, being careful not to snag his trousers on the razor-sharp thorns of the wayward ramblers, and scattering withered white, yellow and red rose petals in his wake. A warm spring had arrived exceptionally early that year and a great many plants had naively sprouted and blossomed. And then a sudden cold snap had hit them hard, and this was the bloody, frostbitten and neglected aftermath of that abortive uprising.

The native birds; the bees; the butterflies, and all but the more experienced farmers: they'd all been caught out that spring. Mother had been quite right, though, reminding them of the wise old proverb to ne'er cast a clout 'til May be out, which meant not to discard one's warm winter clothing prematurely. She'd explained that though many took May to mean the month, her own mother had believed that the saying meant until the hawthorn hedgerows or may trees came into blossom. But if that were the case, then even the wise hawthorn had been fooled that year.

David paused for a moment on the threshold to hurriedly run a comb through his straggly brown hair, and popped another extra strong mint in his mouth so that Uncle wouldn't smell the stale tobacco on his breath. Then, knocking loudly on the old, sun-bleached oak door, he went straight in, rather than waiting and waiting like a silly sausage,[1] to use Uncle Harry's own vernacular terminology.

Great Uncle Harry was getting hard of hearing these days and in spite of the family's many and repeated suggestions, they had failed to persuade the eccentric old man to finally rid himself of his ancient ear trumpet[2] and buy a newfangled, electric hearing aid. They were too poor to have bought him one themselves, and in any case, being of a fiercely independent disposition, the man did not take kindly to charity. More often than not, Uncle Harry failed to hear if anyone came to the door and David had an open invitation to simply come straight in whenever he felt the urge. When he was growing up, David had spent more time in his uncle's company than with friends of his own age. As for his own house, his father was always at work and his mother forever too busy with the housekeeping to have much time for him, so he'd grown quite accustomed to the old man's peculiar way of life.

Out and about town, Professor Harold Seymour might easily have been mistaken for a vagrant, but he was in fact a world renowned though self-effacing archaeologist; anthropologist, and a prodigious, if amateur, explorer to boot.[3] This was a particularly clear and apt reminder of the folly of judging a book by its cover. Uncle's work was all-consuming and he wasn't the sort of chap who would keep his hair short and tidy: he would go to the barber's when it finally dawned on him that it had become a long and unkempt mop, or when someone else – usually one of his elderly and more staid relatives – took it upon themselves to remark on the fact. Uncle Harry was fiercely independent. “It's my hair and there's no law against it. What's it to them, the interfering old busybodies?” he would privately point out to David, though in the end he would quietly relent and comply with their wishes, and actually be quite pleased for a time with the well groomed result.

Kronstein, where they lived, was a small kingdom which lay to the west of the much more familiar country of Gothgoria. It was a pleasant enough place to live in, of course, but whilst the south had long been a seat of great learning, folk here in the north did tend to be, shall we say, rather small minded, and they weren't particularly impressed by science, technology or other high-falutin[4] talk. Sorry, and no offence intended, but there was no polite way to put it. Uncle Harry referred to this as inverted snobbery.[5] One thing that they did still share with the south, however, was a long and distinguished tradition of oral storytelling. And that was something that all could benefit from, be they rich, poor, educated or illiterate.

Uncle may have neglected himself and his surroundings, such was the fiery dedication – or obsession – with which he pursued his many time-consuming projects, but the old man always had time to nurture and encourage his young nephew, when not out on some field expedition. Perhaps the single most important contributions Uncle had made were to encourage David to immerse himself in books on a diverse variety of subjects, and to develop a thoroughly enquiring mind. Fortunately Uncle was a patient man. David might come out with some old saying or cliché and Uncle Harry would ask “Is that so?” or “Great minds think alike? Do they really?” and he'd pull the words apart or turn them on their head and show quite clearly that with the application of a little thought and common sense, rather than blind acceptance, the supposed wisdom and actual folly of these parroted words, and the unexamined assumptions at their root, might be revealed. Groups of people and even whole cultures and civilizations could be mistaken or have their blind spots or be misguided, the old man had pointed out; and he'd reminded David of the old folk tale of the emperor who wore no clothes and of the innocent and unblinkered little child who had finally pointed this out, in spite of what all the others thought and had to say to the contrary.

There was a great deal of wisdom to be found in such tales, providing you didn't dismiss this knowing “child” and you read them right. One invaluable pointer or key that Uncle Harry had given David was to consider the characters and their antics in many of these tales to represent facets of one's own mind and its often flawed psychology. That opened up a whole new layer of meaning. Uncle Harry reliably informed him that, like the layers of an onion, in the better tales, rather than there being one facile moral, there might actually be several deeper, hidden meanings. Some of these meanings might be revealed in a flash, whilst others might lay apparently dormant in the dark for years, being reliant on certain progress and life experiences, before emerging into the light, like vegetation; blossoming and eventually yielding fresh seed. There was one collection of mystical poetry, for example, that Uncle Harry said he'd been studying for over two decades, and he had yet to fully scale its awesome heights or plumb its wondrous depths.

Sometimes, of course, there were things that we might find threatening, perhaps threatening to our sense of self, that we didn't want to know, yet needed to know; but through the use of jokes and stories, we could accept these things, or let their hidden message slip past our ever vigilant censors and guards, to bring relief or medicine or means of escape to the “fairytale princess” falsely imprisoned in some high tower or dark dungeon in our psyche.

According to Uncle Harry, who was something of a heretic,[6] this invaluable knowledge should have formed a central part of a school's curriculum; but in fact the subject was marginalized and sadly neglected. If anything, the educational process – coupled with pressure from adults and peers to conform to the all-levelling norms of mediocrity – instead served to eradicate such fanciful notions at an early age, and further compound society's ills. Uncle Harry was full of such heartfelt laments, and he cared deeply and passionately about such things; though thankfully, unlike some, he was a man on a mission and not a tortured soul.

Once inside the front door, David snapped out of his reverie. He strode across the once exotic and now threadbare rug of the hallway and, knocking again and announcing his presence, he took the second door on the left and entered Uncle's study.

“Hello, Uncle. It's only me – David,” he lilted, looking around. Not that anything ever changed in Uncle's den: it was like a set piece in a museum of antiquities, and yet somehow timeless. There was an old marble faced ornamental clock on the mantelpiece that resembled a miniature replica of a classical building with an arched roof and stone pillars. That hadn't worked for years and, apparently having no need of the device, Uncle hadn't ever bothered to wind the thing up or set the hands to the correct time; nor been sufficiently fussed to get rid of it.

“Just as nature intended, when my stomach gurgles I eat. When I grow tired, I sleep,” the old man had replied by way of explanation one day, with a shrug of his shoulders, as David had happened to make a remark about the clock. “I only use my pocket watch when a caller expects me to be in, or when I'm travelling and need to obey someone else's timetable. Please don't mistake this for laziness on my part, David. Rather, it is a honing down to essentials, driven not by whim but by necessity. It is by this means that I can churn out five thousand words a day, whilst others might only manage that in a week, and this gives me time to do other things, such as sharing time with you.” Uncle Harry did nothing without rhyme or good reason.

All four walls of the spacious room were lined with bookcases and on the floor and the rosewood writing desk yet more dusty volumes were heaped. At the far end of the study there was an open fireplace and drawn up close by, facing toward the fire was Uncle's favourite tattered old armchair, where he'd spend hours with his head buried in books, and a similar but mismatched chair optimistically reserved for the very few guests the old man ever received, such as David.

David had once asked his uncle why he'd never married and the old man had given him such a queer look and replied: “But I am, David, don't you see? A faithful lover, if a polygamist, I have long been married to archaeology, anthropology and adventure. Indeed, this year we celebrate our Golden Anniversary.”[7]

It was quite cold that day and the first thing that David noticed was that the fire was out, though there were sufficient logs stacked outside in the hallway to easily last the winter.

“Good heavens, Uncle Harry, let me light your fire,” he offered, striding across the room. “You'll catch your death of cold.”

Uncle Harry was indeed in his favourite chair. He had a book clutched in his hands and his head had fallen back, apparently asleep, so David tiptoed closer and took up a heavy brass poker and an old dustpan and brush to quietly clear the hearth and prepare a fire.

David turned, on the point of taking away the ashes, and only then did he notice that Uncle's eyes were wide open and staring vacantly up toward the ceiling. His heart leapt, fearing the worst, and he hastily put down the iron dustpan and went across to prise the open book from the man's hands and to vainly feel his pulse. A wave of adrenaline swept over him as his suspicions were confirmed, and he staggered back, slumping in the chair and – overcome by a sudden and dreadful panic attack – he fought to catch his breath and to quieten his thumping heart.

Feeling the tears pressing hard behind his eyes, David took a deep breath and leapt to his feet, tossing the book on the desk as he left the room, and made a dash for the door. He didn't know what to do – other than to try to remain strong – but Mother would. They'd lost a close friend and two other relatives in the last couple of years and Mother had been the one doing all the organizing whilst those about her had crumpled under the emotional strain. They'd gladly left her to make the necessary arrangements, and to painstakingly dot all the i's and cross the t's, which was very much her métier.

David managed to get half way down the street before his emotions welled up inexorably and the proverbial flood gates opened. Spotting someone heading in the other direction, he hastily turned away and crossed the road, too embarrassed to be seen in such a distressed state. All manner of images were flashing in front of his eyes, mostly of the good times he and his uncle had spent together, both in the study and also on their days out to the beach, hunting pond life and fossils; to the zoo; the art gallery; the museum of natural history and antiquities, and the old town. There was a serious and studious reason for these day trips or “missions”, of course, but they still found time to relax, simply enjoy themselves and round off the day with good food. And now, reliving the jaw-dropping sight of his uncle staring vacantly up toward the ceiling, his face deathly blue, David could see that a glorious era had just come to an abrupt and utterly unexpected end. What made it all the worse was that there would be no final curtain call. Not even a solitary moment to say goodbye to one-another. That was it, period.

Thankfully, by the time he arrived back home, the worst was over and he wiped away the remaining tears on his shirt sleeve and cleared his nose, before hurrying inside to find his mother.

Finding her, he opened his mouth to speak and instead of a sensible and rational sequence of words coming out, there was just an emotionally high-pitched, quavering and incoherent babble; and again the tears were streaming down his face.

His mother strode across the kitchen and clutched him in her arms. “I know, I know,” she nodded soothingly, apparently having caught the gist of what he'd been trying to say and filling in the blanks. “That's it, let it all out, son.”

She stayed there comforting him for a time, then she gently broke away and held him with loving firmness by his arms. “First things first, David, I think a nice hot and sugary cup of tea is called for. And when you're more settled – there being no immediate rush – I'll get my hat and coat ….”

~~~O~~~

The funeral was a sombre affair, and though David disliked such things, nevertheless he felt it important to be there to pay his respects and to finally get to say goodbye, if by way of proxy. Uncle Harry had been a second father to him, and a good mentor and friend at that, and David greatly valued the good times they'd spent together. Neither he nor uncle had been chapel-goers, but David could see that this was an important rite of passage and it called for an appropriate degree of pomp and ceremony. He hadn't got a suit to wear, but he had a pair of dark trousers and a white shirt, and Mother had been rooting around in the attic and found an old black tie. She'd even brought out a pudding basin and a pair of sharp dress making shears to make his hair look a little more respectable.

Father had decided not to place a notice in the obituaries column of the local newspaper, being adamant that the funeral be a private, family affair. However, having found the address amongst Uncle's papers, David had taken it upon himself to notify the Anthropological Society. The society's honorary secretary had kindly written a sparkling obituary on their behalf, and had this published in the Echo, one of the national daily newspapers; and he and two of Uncle's close colleagues had made the long journey north from the capital to attend and pay their respects.

There were two or three other strangers there that day, dressed like undertakers in black tie and tails; but shortly after the ceremony these dour faced men left, without even bothering to introduce themselves, let alone stay behind and make the effort to mingle. At the time, David thought little of this, though as events unfolded in later days and took a turn for the worse, their uninvited presence that day would give him much pause for thought.

As for the sombre atmosphere, David was more than a little disappointed by that, indeed he was positively disgruntled. He and Uncle Harry had spoken about this once, and Uncle had made it quite clear that when his time came – not that he was expecting to leave so soon – the wake in particular should be a gay and celebratory affair. Since Uncle Harry had not left details about the arrangements, David had had a word with Mother on his uncle's behalf, making his wishes quite clear, but alas – at Father's behest – she had chosen to ignore this last request. She confided in him that from an early age, Uncle Harry had been peculiar and not of a particularly sound or responsible mind, and insisted that Father knew better. Well, if Father knew better, then it didn't much show. He'd left school at fourteen and found work as a kitchen porter in a seedy downtown hotel frequented by working girls and their clientèle. And now, at the grand and wise old age of forty six, he was still in their employ and had yet to rise above that lowly position.

For all this, Father was a highly opinionated man who took himself and life altogether too seriously. But then, as some wag[8] had so rightly once remarked, placing this in a greater context: “‎Opinions are like assholes: everybody's got one.”

Whatever. David realized that the funeral was not an occasion to make a scene, so he kept his displeasure to himself and tried his best not to glower, or at least not to be seen to glower.

2. The bequest

The day after the funeral, Mother and Father and a couple of other, elderly relatives were due to attend the reading of Uncle Harry's last will and testament, and Father had reluctantly agreed that David might accompany them, though Father saw little point in this and told him as much.

They drew up their hard-backed chairs in front of the solicitor's mahogany desk and, with his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, so that he could read the document and also peer over the top to address them, the solicitor went through a few formalities.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to details of the disbursement of Professor Seymour's property and possessions.”

As the grey suited man uttered these words, David noticed the others abruptly stop fidgeting, shift in their seats and sit up to pay particular attention to what he had to reveal. That pretty much said it all, really. Heck, if the old man had simply left him a framed photogene[9] of the two of them, happy and smiling together, that would have suited him fine.

“Firstly, to the Dunstable branch of the Children's Literacy Initiative, of which I am – was – President,” the solicitor began, “I leave the sum of five hundred punta.”

The mere mention of such a princely sum was sufficient to provoke an involuntary drawing in of breath – and later a gnashing of teeth. As for David, what struck him was that clearly there were things about his uncle's life that he still didn't know, close as they had become. But then Uncle had always maintained that the only true giving – that which did not inflate one's reputation or pander to one's ego – was anonymous charity.

The solicitor now turned to the two elderly relatives. “To my niece Gladys Trotter and my nephew Morgan Smith, I leave the sum of one hundred punta.” Aunt Gladys began to clap her hands at this welcome news, but one disapproving glance from Father quite silenced her.

He turned now to Mother and Father. “To my long-suffering niece Helen Seymour, in view of the many years ahead of her and her family commitments, I leave the sum of five hundred punta.”

At this point, Mother's eyes began to fill up and she reached inside the sleeve of her cardigan to retrieve her tiny lace-edged handkerchief. “Oh, thank you, thank you so much, Harold,” she wept joyously. For once in her married life, thought David, they might finally be free of the shackles of debt and the ominous knock of the debt collectors and the bailiffs on the front door.

The solicitor coughed politely and looked apologetically toward Father. “Please forgive me, but the law requires that I read the contents of the will verbatim, Mister Seymour….”

Father frowned.

“To her ill-mannered and insufferable husband Septimus, I leave only one thing: the advice that he take a more kindly and charitable interest in his family.”

Father was half out of his seat, as if on the point of walking out. “Why, I've never been so insulted in all my life. And what about the house?”

The solicitor gently raised his hand and signalled that Father should return to his seat.

“The remainder of my property – being my house at 31 Cedar Grove, Dunstable; full contents and whatever is left in my bank account after funeral, legal and sundry expenses – I bequeath to my grand nephew and lifelong friend, David Seymour, knowing that he will take good care of my extensive library and so that he might have a better start in life.”

David's jaw dropped. Oh – my – God.

Father was seething by now and his face had gone so red that David feared he might burst a blood vessel. “Don't sit there gawking, lad.”

David closed his mouth and clutched his hands together so that nobody would see that he was actually physically trembling with the shock of hearing this news. It was all so unexpected, even if it did make sense – or even poetic justice – if you thought about it.

“There is one condition, however, and that is that neither the house nor the contents are to be sold before David has reached the age of majority, that being twenty one.” And the man went on to detail what was to happen if this agreement was broken.

The solicitor put down the document and took off his glasses, leaving them dangling against his chest on the fine gold chain attached to the legs.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes the last will and testament of Professor Harold Seymour.”

This was all too much for Father, who was fair frothing at the mouth and already heading for the door. However, the solicitor went to the safe behind his desk and retrieved the three bundles of bank notes that had been promised to the nieces, carefully re-counting the money, and handing it over to them.

Then he turned to David, who stood there looking hesitant. “David, here is a document to take along to your great uncle's bank on Chester Street. It authorizes them to either release the contents of the account to you or else to allow you to transfer the account into your name. I'll send you a bill to cover the legal fees in the next few days and you'll be responsible for paying that, and also for paying the undertaker for his services.”

“And last but by no means least ….” The solicitor reached in his desk drawer. “Here are the keys to your great uncle's house.|”

“You're a very lucky chap,” the man added. “And if I might say so, when your great uncle originally came in to make the will, he spoke of you with the highest regard and his fond hopes that you might have a bright life ahead of you.”

David dropped his head. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “But I'd gladly swap it all just to have my uncle back with us again.”

The solicitor smiled and patted him gently on his shoulder. “Yes, I'm sure you would, young man. I'm sure you would. But, alas, this time comes to us all one day.”

“Bloody ridiculous,” Father huffed as he stormed down the stone steps outside the solicitor's. “Leaving all his wealth to a young whippersnapper.[10] It should have been left in my safekeeping, at least until the lad comes of age.”

What Father meant, of course, was that the estate should have been left to him to carve up, being the head of the household, but he was just about bright enough to realize that putting this into words would not show him in a good light, and “appearances” meant such a lot to the man. However, David was in little doubt that the conditions Uncle Harry had placed upon his will were not meant to be binding on him, but rather binding on his father.

Just then, not watching where he was going as he crossed the road, David stubbed his toe on the kerb and nearly went flying, and it didn't require Father to tell him that he had that coming to him, for his insolence. Tempting providence, his mother would have called it. Sorry, he muttered belatedly under his breath.

It was only then that it struck David that he was actually quite like his father; that grumbling, even about others grumbling, was grumbling nonetheless. That was a habit he'd fallen into unwittingly, and one that he'd have to set his mind to break. He could almost imagine Uncle Harry watching over him at that moment and reminding him that “the cobbler always wears the worst shoes”, since he's always too busy attending to the needs of others and not to his own. No, really, I do mean it. I'm sorry.

“Pride comes before a fall, young 'un. Pride comes before a fall. There ain't no such thing as an accident under God's blue sky. You mark my words an' you'll see that I'm right. No good will come of all this.”

Father really was a barrel of laughs when things weren't going his way, when a subordinate overstepped the mark in his estimation, or when he was not the narcissistic centre of attention. In Father's eyes, the entire cosmos revolved around him; or if it didn't, then it damn well should. Perhaps rather than having an ignorant or flawed character, he was actually suffering from some as yet undocumented illness, because the man appeared quite incapable of putting himself in other people's shoes and appreciating things from their point of view. And really that would be no more “sinful” than suffering from short sight or tunnel vision. Uncle Harry was – that is, had been – equally charitable, suggesting that far more people simply missed the mark, rather than truly sinned. And we all miss the mark on frequent occasions. If it were any other way, then we wouldn't be here in what he called “this abode of disease and degeneration.”

3. A bump in the night

School broke up for the summer holidays the next week, not a moment too soon for David's liking, and he had a thousand and one questions on his mind. School, he could handle on its own, as he could questions on their own, but put the two together and it drove him to distraction, so that he ended up being unable to handle either very well … unlike Mother who actually seemed to be in her element juggling several balls simultaneously. Of course the word simultaneously was redundant. I mean, it wouldn't be juggling otherwise, would it (?), he laughed to himself.

Sometimes David felt excited, though the scale of what he'd been bequeathed hadn't as yet sunk in; and at other times, he actually felt quite daunted and fearful, since there were so many unresolved elements and imponderables. David didn't like loose ends; he much preferred his life to come in neatly wrapped discrete packages, if this were possible without life becoming boring and predictable? But life wasn't like that, and perhaps thankfully so, and he guessed he'd better grow used to life the way it came: full of thrills and spills.

Had he not had this stroke of good fortune – if you could see the bequest in this way – then, being sixteen, almost certainly Father would have had him leave school and find a job, perhaps as an apprentice to one of the local tradesmen or shopkeepers.

But the bequest had changed all that, and made life altogether more complicated. That was a simple statement of fact, of course, not something to grumble about. There was more than enough money in the bequest to allow him to leave school and look for work at his leisure; even to take a year out before settling down. Or sufficient to pay for him to attend school until the age of eighteen and perhaps even go to college after that, to learn a real profession, so that he could have a career, not just some downbeat, dead-end job. This was indeed what Uncle Harry had intended for him from the very outset and had been patiently grooming him for, ever since. David could see this now, in hindsight. He owed Uncle Harry such a great deal.

So his fortune, and perhaps even his destiny, had radically changed. And there wasn't a damn thing that Father could do about that.

In the end, when it became clear that further internal debate was no longer fruitful, David put the decision about his future on the back burner to gently simmer like a stew, as Uncle had on several occasions advised concerning other matters. Trust in your inner tuition, Uncle Harry would advise sagely. And at times the old man would remind him of the words of another great sage: “Physician, heal thyself.” As well as perhaps meaning that we should put our own house in order before criticizing others, Uncle was convinced that in some ways – and blind spots notwithstanding – providing that we were honest with ourselves, we were the world's leading experts on ourselves and on our own ailments. Again, this was linked with the development of what Uncle termed an infallible intuition, a quiet voice to which we could become attuned, if we could only learn to quieten the ever-chattering and nagging, parasitic demons of our own minds. Sometimes when he'd visited, Uncle Harry would have them sit for a whole hour in relaxed silence, something that the man had picked up on his travels in the east, and only now was David beginning to appreciate a little of what this might have been about. Paradise is still here, the man once told him, except that the garden has become rather choked with weeds and invasive species and latterly buried beneath all the concrete and steel. David had to chortle to himself when he remembered those words and recalled the woeful state of Uncle's front garden. Leaving that matter aside, the world was full of people who could talk the talk – they were ten a penny – but those like Uncle Harry, who could actually walk the walk, were few and far between.

Be that as it may, or on a more mundane topic, as Uncle would say from time to time – changing the subject or reverting to the original subject after digressing – he would think about the matter again toward the end of the long holidays, unless some fresh insight emerged of its own accord and in its own sweet time from the depths of his psyche. The first and most responsible thing to do was to have a good look round the house and see what repairs or restoration might need carrying out. Perhaps the first task would be to set-to in the garden and cut the ramblers right back to the border where they belonged and to make the garden more presentable. He'd replace the rotten, old garden gate and give the faded oak front door a good lick of oil or varnish. And then he'd have a look inside and see what needed fresh paint and wallpaper.

So, with this in mind, David packed his bag, including some old clothes he could work in, and – after having a word with Mother – he moved into Uncle's house for the summer, promising Mother faithfully that yes, he would come home to eat Sunday roast at dinner time with the family – on the condition that she allow him to buy the beef joint. Mother was reluctant to accept such charity, but he eventually managed to gently twist her arm and seal their secret deal.

On the way to his uncle's house, David decided to take a short cut through a nearby cemetery; only realizing his folly when it was too late to turn back. The sun had already gone down and it was so gloomy in the cemetery. Every time he heard a rustle in the leaves, he'd stop and his eyes would dart around and discover, much to his relief, that it had only been a red squirrel and that he had most likely disturbed it and not the other way around. The long shadows cast by the rising orb of the moon, too, looked so menacing; and as he walked on, he tensed up and beads of cold sweat formed on his furrowed brow. He was ready for any spectre or bogeyman or vampire that might jump out and pounce on him, thinking that he'd make a tasty supper. Well, if not ready for a fight, then he was certainly ready to make a run for it. Had he known the truth of what lay in store for him, then he really would have had cause for grave concern.

It was late by the time David arrived at Cedar Grove and coming in quite dark outside, and as he approached the old house – knowing that, for the first time, he was on his own – he felt an uncharacteristic and unusual apprehension. Had David been a little more observant, and seen the three men watching the house from the shadows across the road, he might have taken fright, turned tail and run off toward home.

All fingers and thumbs through trepidation, David felt a whole lot better once he'd finally found the right key and the matching keyhole. He hurried inside, turned on the hall light and, breathing a deep sigh of relief, locked the front door behind him. It was too late to cook any supper, but at least the summer nights were warm and he could brew himself a cup of tea before settling down. He had brought a sleeping bag with him and rather than head off upstairs to sort out fresh bedding – if indeed there was any to be had – he decided instead to bed down for the night in the study. It had been years since he'd had a night light, let alone a comfort blanket or teddy bear, but still feeling a little apprehensive, David decided to leave one of the side lights on, so that he wasn't left in total darkness. Not knowing the house as intimately as he knew his old bedroom, David wouldn't know where he might safely tread in the study if he had to get up in the middle of the night to answer the call of nature.

Before he knew it, after putting up the fire guard, curling up in his sleeping bag near but not too close to the hearth, and making a start on a randomly selected book from the shelves, David had fallen asleep. At least he must have fallen asleep because he was suddenly awakened by the distinctive sound of breaking glass. In an instant, he was wide eyed and struggling to free himself from the cocoon. The thick curtains were closed but he could tell that it must still be dark outside and, turning and peering at the old carriage clock on the mantelshelf above the hearth, he confirmed that it was just gone three o'clock in the very dead of night.

David hurriedly got half dressed, pulling on his patched blue denim jeans, zip up fleece jacket and shoes, then he fished around in his haversack and found the flash lamp. He was relieved that he'd had the good sense to pack that, in case the electricity went off, plunging him into complete darkness and disarray.

His hand went to the study door and he opened it slowly and gingerly. The hinges were dry and required oiling, and he was intensely aware of just how loud the squeak of hinges must have been in that empty house, with so little noise outside, other than the occasional hoot of an owl on a nearby rooftop.

He opened the door just wide enough to peer out into the dark hallway; then, seeing that the way was clear, he tentatively ventured out of the study. Since the front door was closest, he checked that first. The glass was intact and the door firmly locked and bolted. So he turned and crept slowly down the hallway toward the kitchen at the far end, and the back door. If he were breaking into a house, then given the secluded nature of the walled back yard, that's the route he'd take.

As David was about to enter the kitchen, he thought he heard a sound from beyond the closed door, the sort of scrunching sound you might make if you were wearing shoes or boots and trod on broken glass. Instantly he stiffened. Then – suddenly aware of just how vulnerable he was – he turned on his heel and dashed back to the study to snatch up the stout brass poker from the hanger beside the hearth. He was in two minds: whether to creep through the house as quiet and furtive as a mouse, or to deliberately turn on lights and make as much noise as he could, hoping that the intruders might turn tail and run.

Shaking like a leaf in the breeze by now, and heart thumping heavily in his chest, David drew a deep breath and summoned up what little courage he still could. Then he strode across the study with renewed purpose and quickly stepped out into the hallway, ready for anything.

David was ready for anything that might come at him from the direction of the kitchen, of course. Hearing the creak of a floorboard behind him, he instantly stiffened when instead he should have ducked or leapt out of the way. He felt an awful crushing blow on the back of his head and his vision lit up with fireworks. The floor was rushing up to meet him now, but before he hit the ground, the lights abruptly went out and he lost consciousness.

It was getting light by the time David fully awoke. He must have been dreaming for an hour or so after he'd regained consciousness, utterly oblivious to what had gone before. And then – in an instant – he remembered that it hadn't been a nightmare, but was so very real. His eyes shot wide open and, finding himself laying in his clothes on the carpet, he pushed himself up and looked blearily around. Seeing himself on the floor of the hallway, the events of the night before – the break-in – suddenly came back to him in a nauseating, dizzying wave of adrenaline.

David staggered to his feet. His head was throbbing, and carefully feeling around in his hair, he could feel a bump and traces of congealed blood. Whoever had broken into the house must have given him a good whack on the back of the head with some blunt object.

The next thing that David saw through the wide open door leading into the study were the reams of paper strewn across the floor. Staggering into the study, he could see that every drawer in the room had been pulled out and its contents tipped onto the floor; and the contents of Uncle's desk, though always unkempt, had clearly been messed with, too. Someone had been frantically searching for something important. Thankfully, however, Uncle's precious books looked like they were untouched, not only because their contents were so valuable and often irreplaceable, but also because since Uncle had such a complicated system, David wouldn't have had a hope in hell of ever being able to put the books back in order again.

Now that it was light, it was almost certain that the perpetrators would be long gone, so David went through the house room by room, checking for any loss or damage. As he had thought, they'd broken in through the kitchen. Smashing a pane in one of the windows, they'd simply reached in, undone the catch and swung the window wide open. As David went through the rest of the house, however, in one way he was relieved to find that nothing else had been taken or damaged; and equally puzzled that only the study had been targeted. Had the intruders been looking for money or valuables, then they'd surely have ransacked the whole house. The fact that they'd made a beeline for the study suggested something else – who knows? – perhaps this was connected in some way with his uncle's work? And, if so, that was perhaps rather ominous?

He contacted the police, of course. The next day a uniformed officer came and took down particulars and filed a report, and a couple of days after that, a shabby looking detective turned up, dusted the area around the window for fingerprints and offered David some basic advice about household security.

Nothing more came of the investigation, so David put it down to experience. He fitted locks to all the ground floor windows and hinge bolts to the kitchen door. The detective had reliably informed him that faced with strong locks on the edge of the door that opened, burglars would often simply go for the weak spot and jemmy a door off its hinges. Like his father, that man was a bundle of laughs.

4. Do it yourself

Trying to put this trouble behind him, at least during the daylight hours when he felt safe, David thought that he'd dive in the deep end and tackle the front garden. This is the first thing that met the eye of passers-by, and though he wasn't as obsessed with keeping up appearances as his father was, nevertheless some of that outlook had rubbed off on him. David knew that even just tidying it up would take a while, but he hadn't calculated on the initial “short back and sides” taking up three whole days alone. Nor had he anticipated the effect that this would have on him, most noticeably on his thigh and back muscles; and also his right hand, which had been badly blistered by the stiff secateurs with all the pruning he'd had to do. By the end of the third day, he was aching all over and – cliché or not – he really was feeling as stiff as a board.

There was one wonderful dwarf tree in the garden that David was particularly careful to save, since Uncle Harry had been so fond of it, and this was the fragrant Night-flowering Jasmine. The prolific flowers were a delight to behold, looking like toy windmills with eight white painted sails revolving around a vivid orange axis. Uncle had brought a sample back from his travels in the east during one of his botanical phases (this interest waxing and waning); successfully grown the shrub from seed, after much experimentation; and gradually, with careful pruning, the shrub had become a small tree. The plant apparently had many medicinal properties, such as the treatment of a dry cough, dandruff, fever, gout, lice, piles and worms – to name but a few uses – and Uncle Harry swore by these remedies. It was also believed by some that this ancient and divine tree was capable of fulfilling one's most heartfelt wishes.

Weeding the flower beds, which were more stray grass and weed than soil, took another back breaking day, though feeling the way he did, he took a day out, instead measuring up and buying a new wooden gate, fitting it; and, after rubbing down the front door, giving it plenty of oil. He figured that would require less maintenance and look more natural than varnish. Fortunately, Uncle Harry had never got round to painting the door, or he'd probably have spent another whole day painstakingly sanding down to bare wood.

By the end of the week, he'd filled six large sacks with cuttings from ramblers and huge bundles of bindweed, and the front of the house was looking a whole lot more “respectable”, though no doubt the highly invasive bindweed would come back again and again, since he hadn't managed to dig up all the roots. This grand tidy up was something that hadn't escaped the attention of a couple of passing neighbours, who made a special point of remarking on the fact, which was of course rather a backhanded compliment to pay poor old Uncle; just as when folk signed off letters with “Be well”, it inferred that one might be in ill health. Anyway, with that out of the way, David could take a bit of time out to recover, before making a start on the insides.

There was one room in the house that was in pretty good repair, and that was Uncle's study, the walls being covered as they were from floor to ceiling with heavily laden bookcases, and so David decided to make that his base for the time being: living, eating and sleeping in there. He had mixed feelings about this, of course, because here was where Uncle Harry had breathed his last, and it still pained him; but then again, this was also where they'd shared so many happy hours together.

Uncle Harry never had bought himself a television, or “goggle box” as he referred to this newfangled contraption. However, he did have an old valve wireless set in the study and it still worked, when it had eventually warmed up. Uncle was, at his own confession, an old-fashioned man and so this suited his humble needs.

As for David, all this in the house was new to him, and since he could watch television or listen to the radio at any time at his parents' home, it made more sense to him to partake in what his Uncle had left him: and most notably, of course, that meant the vast and diverse treasury of books that Uncle had collected in his many travels. It would take him a lifetime to read through every one of the books, one by one and shelf by shelf, and to be honest, there were many topics such as A Structural Analysis of the Language of the Native Tribes of the Halamadi Region of Yuntar – to pick a dusty old tome at random – in which David had no interest whatsoever. Nonetheless, perhaps by reading a selection of the books in the quiet hours, he might yet come to know Uncle a little better; for, other than fond memories, this was all that remained of the poor man's life.

Father didn't once set foot in David's new house. Presumably the sting of being excluded from Uncle's will was by now long gone and only the grudge remained. Mother did pay a visit, however, bringing a small gift and a pair of strong and willing arms. Whilst David worked on the wallpaper and paintwork in the hallway, she set-to in the kitchen, the bathroom and the toilet, and brought a fresh sparkle to these rooms. Throughout the summer, Mother spent two whole days a week mucking in with him, even though she always had so many things to take care of back home, and David was extremely grateful not only for her help, but also for her unconditional acceptance, company, warm friendship and – above all – her boundless love. David was almost sixteen now, and perhaps this was the first time that he was really getting to know, and much better appreciate, his dear, self-sacrificing[11] mother.

~~~O~~~

Lethik was in two minds, and torn between them; and he paced the room in a state of extreme agitation, gesticulating wildly with his arms as he mulled things over in his mind.

On the one hand, he was growing increasingly impatient, and did think that he should go back to the house and tear it apart – brick by brick if necessary – to find Wildacre's Chronicles and Professor Seymour's diaries. They must surely hold the keys to this great mystery.

On the other hand, he could see the sense in merely biding his time and trusting that, sooner or later, the youth would do his work for him, and that the stolen treasure would come back to him, sparing him a great deal of unnecessary effort and grief.

And if it didn't? Well, again he'd simply have to take the matter into his own hands. They'd waited nigh on two hundred years now to avenge Willum and retrieve the stolen treasure, so this delay was really no more than small change when compared to that far greater prize.

5. A chance discovery

David had set up an old baize[12] covered folding card table near the hearth in the study and after an abortive game of solitaire whilst he waited for the potatoes to finish cooking, he was sitting there eating his evening meal. Having become altogether too much of a regular at the local chip shop[13], he'd decided that it was high time he learnt how to cook something a little more healthy.

He had a book open in his left hand and was reading it, whilst absent mindedly feeding himself with a fork in his right hand, something he never would have done at his parents' house nor, for that matter, in Uncle Harry's presence. To these older generations, it was considered an immutable law to eat with a fork in one's left hand and a knife in one's right; to ease food gracefully onto the prongs and back of the fork; and never, ever to use one's fork as a shovel. A similar law applied to the use of a spoon. One should not shovel the contents of the spoon into one's mouth by moving the spoon towards one, and especially not by lifting a bowl to one’s face, but rather by gracefully moving the spoon away before lifting it. And should these laws be broken, then the culprit would be made to stand at the table in shame and embarrassment for the remainder of the meal. His uncle had once advised him that there was a practical reason for such etiquette and decorum: if David wished to be accepted by society and rise through its ranks, then – like it or not – since these alleged “elders and betters” were calling the shots, he had to learn how to conceal his humble, working class origins and to play by their rules.

Stabbing at a sprout which was rather undercooked, David missed, and the small, round, billiard ball sized vegetable flew off his plate, fell to the floor and rolled across the room.

Putting his book down, David got up from the chair and looked around. As is the way with stray vegetables, the sprout had made a getaway and was nowhere to be seen, so he had to get down on his knees and search around the floor. Eventually, he located the absconder, which had rolled half way across the room and was now peeking out at him from underneath Uncle's rosewood desk.

“Ha ha! So, you thought you'd escaped, did you?” David joked. “Well, you can't fool a veteran like me.”

Crawling across the room, he ducked under desk and reached out to snatch up the sprout. As he did so, however, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he looked up to see what it was. There, hanging by a tiny hook just under the front lip of the desk, out of sight, was a small silver key, and he crawled further under the desk, being careful not to bang his head, and retrieved the key, before returning the wayward sprout to the edge of his plate and sitting back down at the table to finish his meal.

He was intrigued to find the key, of course. It must have been hidden there with good reason, but he had no idea what lock it might fit. Oh well, no doubt he'd come across the matching lock at some point as he worked his way through the house, so much of which as yet lay – just like his uncle's life itself – largely unexplored.

It was Mother who solved that minor mystery, which was to prove the first of many, though David didn't at the time realize this. She'd made a passing comment about the rug on the floor of the study, which had been gradually accumulating stray crumbs and dust, so David had searched the hallway and found an old carpet cleaner in a broom cupboard under the stairs, the kind that has a brush which mechanically rotates as you push it backwards and forwards across the floor. He'd made a start on the rug, though not much of a start, when Mother poked her head around the study door and firmly shook her head.

“You won't get far with that antique contraption,” she advised him, shaking her head in dismay. “Here, help me with the rug and we'll take it out into the back yard.”

So he pushed back the chairs and they took one end each, picked up the rug and carefully negotiated their way through to the kitchen and out into the yard.

“Right,” Mother requested, taking charge. “Let's hang it over the washing line. It looks strong enough. Then I'll give the rug a good old-fashioned beating while you go and sweep the floorboards. I'll call you when I'm done. And close the door behind you, or the dust will get into the kitchen, which I've freshly cleaned – yet again. You're really going to have to buck up your ideas if you intend staying here, my lad. Treat the place like a home, not a pig sty. Three steps forward and two steps back is not the way for us to proceed, at least not in my book.”

Oops. David flushed bright red and hurriedly turned away. He went back inside and retrieved a dustpan and brush from the broom cupboard, to set about the bare floorboards. Judging by the layer of dust on the study floor, Uncle Harry probably hadn't lifted the rug since it was first laid down.

It was then that David made a second discovery, and he was eager to find out more, but he diligently continued his work until the floor had been swept clean and the dustpan had been emptied and returned to the broom cupboard.

At that point, Mother came back inside to let him know that she was done and, without letting on what he'd found, he helped her bring the rug back inside and lay it back down on the floor.

Mother looked at her wristwatch. “Well, that's another job well done – not that there's any other way to do a job, by my book – and I think I'm about done here for the day,” she observed, heading back out into the hallway to retrieve her coat. “I'd best get back home and put some dinner on, or else his Lordship will be complaining.” As someone had once perceptively remarked, we all have to serve someone.

David gave Mother a hug, thanked her for the help and showed her to the door, then he excitedly trotted back to the study to examine his new discovery. He went across to the hearth, pushed back his uncle's favourite armchair and rolled back the rug. There was something set into the floor directly beneath where the old chair had stood and he was eager to find out what it was. It was rectangular in shape, perhaps nine inches long and six inches wide, made of metal and hinged on one side. But what excited David more than ever was the tiny key hole close to one edge. Fishing in his pocket, he retrieved the small silver key that he'd found earlier, and tried it in the lock; and he was delighted, though not surprised, to find that the key did indeed fit. He turned the key in the lock and pulled on it to open the lid of the metal box, and peered in.

Reaching inside, David pulled out a bundle of papers and half a dozen small, leather bound books. Glancing at the covers, he could see that these were diaries, and flicking through the pages at random, he recognized the spidery handwriting and realized that these must be his uncle's daily diaries.

David closed the lid of the floor safe, returned the rug and the chair to their former positions and took the documents and the diaries across to Uncle's desk to examine them in detail.

The bundle of notes were all handwritten, since Uncle had never invested in a mechanical typewriter. “Heaven forbid!”, as the old man would have said. Each page had been hand punched and the notes were held together by a length of twisted copper wire.

There was something tucked under the title page of the documents and David turned the page over to see what it might be. It was a small blank, manilla envelope. And when David opened it, he found a short letter inside, and was delighted that the contents were actually addressed to him.

31st April 1456 Professor Harold Seymour,

31 Cedar Grove,

Dunstable.

My dearest David,

If you've found my diaries and notes and you are reading this, firstly my congratulations on finding the first clue, as it were. I know how much we both enjoyed our treasure hunts as a small child, and I hope that you haven't lost that playful and inquiring spirit.

If you're reading this, then we can safely assume that I have gone to join the choir invisible. I have gone either by fair means or else been dispatched by foul. Please don't worry about me, I'm sure to have gone to a better place. Above all, take care of yourself and your dear mother.

Your reading this short letter also means that my last cherished project has, alas, been left incomplete. I can only hope and pray that when you read my notes you are fired with the same enthusiasm to pursue this great and wonderful mystery as I was when I first came upon it, many years ago, and that perhaps – just perhaps – you might find it in your heart to continue and bring to fruition this great work? But if you do accept this challenge, and embark upon this wonderful treasure hunt, please keep these notes safe. Hold your cards to your chest and tell no-one that you cannot fully trust. There are people and agencies abroad who would give their eye teeth to be in on the action, as they say, and some who would go to any lengths – and I do mean any lengths – to steal the prize from you and have the prize and the glory all to themselves. I cannot emphasise this strongly enough.

If you are interested, then I would suggest that you set aside my notes for now and begin your quest where I began many years ago, by reading the most wonderful account laid out in “The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre”. Once you've read his account, it will become clear to you what this quest is all about and why it is so very important.

Keep your nose clean[14] and have a safe journey.

Your loving Uncle Harry.

As David read the letter, with tears welling up in his eyes, it suddenly dawned on him that these notes and diaries were perhaps what the burglars had been looking for when they broke in and ransacked the study. So he'd best keep them hidden away, just as his uncle had, and tell nobody about this affair.

Of course, when he'd read his uncle's letter and safely returned the documents and diaries to the floor safe, David searched the library shelves one row at a time, looking for the book that his uncle had mentioned. He checked the title of every single book in the library, without success, and by the time he'd finished it was getting dark, so he turned in for the night. Bright and early tomorrow morning, he'd resume his search at the town library. The book had to be somewhere, and if it were that hard to locate, then surely Uncle would have left him a clue as to its whereabouts?

After the visit to the library and getting in some much-needed shopping, David returned to the house, feeling deeply dejected. As he had half-expected, they didn't have any book remotely like The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre in their card filing system, but he had hoped that the librarian might be able to locate the title on the microfiche[15] system and that he'd be able to order it under the inter-library loan scheme. But no, the lady had not heard of this title, nor could not locate it. However, she did reveal something rather interesting and also a little disturbing:

“Strangely enough, a few days ago one of my colleagues was dealing with a lender who was enquiring about this self-same title.”

The lady laughed, looked furtively about, and came closer to confide in him. “Just between the two of us,” she began, tapping the side of her upturned nose, “I distinctly remember because the gentleman in question was wearing a black tie and tails, and my colleague happened to remark that he looked like he was going to a funeral.”

At this point, her moment of frivolity having quickly passed, the lady straightened herself up and wiped the smile from her face. “Anyhow, I can enquire with my colleague, if you like?”

David shook his head. He was feeling strangely anxious now and wanted to be away from the place. “No, no. I can see that you've searched thoroughly. If the book were there, I'm sure you'd have found it. Thanks all the same. I'm grateful for your help.”

As David was sitting there in the study belatedly eating a sandwich for lunch, he suddenly had a thought. He'd checked the book shelves and the piles of books surrounding Uncle's desk, but there was one book that he hadn't checked, and that was the one that Uncle had in his hands when David had found him dead. He seemed to recall taking it from his uncle and leaving it on the desk on his way out to tell Mother. It should still be there – unless, of course, the burglars had found and taken it ….

David got up from the armchair and trotted across to the desk, eating the remainder of his fried egg sandwich as he went, though not being a complete philistine,[16] he was mindful to wipe his greasy hands thoroughly on the back of his jeans before touching paper. He breathed a sigh of relief to find the book still there, and groaned aloud when he noted the title of the book – Murder Mystery at Langton Hall – which, judging by its lurid cover was some racy thriller. David wouldn't have thought that quite Uncle's cup of tea, but then he was very widely read. Still, it might make a change for David after all the dull academic treatises he'd been wading through these last few weeks. Rather than read those books, he'd perhaps be far better served reading Uncle's diaries and notes, but – damn and blast it! – Uncle Harry had advised that he read The Chronicles first. Perhaps this was another of Uncle's little treasure hunts, except with clues for grown ups this time round?

Of course, the reason that he couldn't locate The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre might be because the burglars had actually found the book, stolen it and left. That might account for the fact that the other books had apparently been left untouched?

After another day's hard graft decorating the kitchen and bathroom, David decided to turn in for the night. By now he'd got one of the bedrooms sorted out and, the smell of fresh gloss paint having diminished, he'd decided he really ought to sleep in there rather than doss down[17] in his sleeping bag in the study. With nothing better to do, he picked up the murder mystery and a fresh mug of cocoa and took them upstairs with him to while away a few minutes before settling down.

David propped himself up on two thick pillows and made himself comfortable. Sniffing the air and detecting the musty odour, he realized now that he should perhaps have washed the bedclothes after taking them out of storage No matter, that would have to wait until wash day.

He opened the book and flicked through the fly pages to find the first chapter. As soon as he opened the book, his heart skipped a beat. The first of the fly pages was blank, or at least it had been. There, in Uncle Harry's familiar spidery scrawl were written the words:

To David,

With all my love,

Uncle Harry.

Now that was strange and unexpected enough, but what brought a thrill to David's heart was what was printed on the title page of the book.

He had to check under the book's glossy dust cover just to be sure his eyes weren't playing a trick on him. There was the proof. Though the dust cover clearly read Murder Mystery at Langton Hall, the rather older book inside that cover was none other than The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre.

So crafty old Uncle Harry had simply hidden his precious book in plain sight, inside the dust cover of another, innocuous-looking book. This was a wonderfully graphic illustration of that old adage, not to judge a book by its cover. Yes indeed. And seeing the personal dedication on the fly page,[18] Uncle had clearly expected that he'd find the thing sooner or later. Well, since Uncle had intended the book for him, then the least he could do would be to read it.

6. How it all began

“Herein lay the chronicles, indeed the sworn testament, of one Jeremiah Wildacre,” David read, “detailing a long, arduous and oft-beguiling journey through the lands of the known world and beyond, in search of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.”

I hesitate to use an adjective such as “fabulous” or “legendary” to describe said treasure, for such secrecy surrounds this vast hoard that it has never become such public knowledge as to to be made the subject of fable or legend, except amongst a select few. Yet still these words do conjure up something of the nature and inestimable worth of such a hoard, and of the most peculiar and adept folk involved in its hiding and subsequent protection. These people are surely mystics and magians – and yet more besides, they represent and are custodians of an ancient and most secret tradition, more of which we shall hear about in due course, though still more of which must go unsaid and be, at most, merely hinted at to those capable of unravelling and understanding such mysteries as these.

“It all began,” the narrative read, “in the summer of 1415.” It being by now 1465, that was fifty years ago, thought David. So if this Wildacre chap mentioned any names in his chronicles, then they would surely either be old folk, or else have passed over into the next world, by now. He certainly hoped that the trail had not gone cold, not that Uncle Harry had intimated that this was the case, though surely every year that passed must make that possibility more and more likely.

One fine summer's day, a travelling circus and side shows arrived in town, comprised of performers gathered from the four corners of the world. I thought little of it at the time, though being a youth, I was excited to see their unannounced appearance and determined that I should take my sweetheart, Elzabeth Raine, to see and partake in the show on its opening night, and hang the cost.[19] I was very much smitten by this dear young lady and no price was too great to pay to bring a little joy into her life. Her dear mother and father had both been struck down by the plague some time ago, leaving her to fend for herself and her elder but less able brother, and she was in need of all the charity and loving affection that friends and good neighbours could muster.

Elzabeth and I sat through the circus performance in the marquee, or rather we excitedly joggled and bobbed up and down in our seats throughout. Laughing at the tomfoolery of the painted clowns, admiring the skill of the jugglers, the fire eaters and the acrobats. And marvelling at the exotic animals, such as the lions and an enormous and powerful, yet apparently tame, creature with a snout like a long hose which it could use just like we use our arms and hands. A neighbour in the crowd informed us that this was what was known as a hellifant and that you could dry the dung and use it to light a fire, just as we use sticks of wood or coal. If I had one of those for a pet, I'd imagine I'd never have to go out and chop wood for the fire no more. But then again, I imagine I'd be spending all my time instead foraging for food for the huge beast to eat, judging by the size of its big barrel belly.

After the circus, we went to tour the many sideshows; the proprietors eager to divest us of any remaining loose change before we went on our way. It was fun watching Elzabeth trying to hook a duck, throw a hoop over a square wooden block, or knock over a coconut in the shy. Of course, it was all fixed in favour of the showmen. The goldfish you won by hooking a duck were worth less than the cost of the go; the wooden blocks were impossibly large unless the hoop landed with extreme precision; and the coconuts were so very hard to hit, let alone dislodge, they might have been filled with lead. But on occasions such as this, you had to suspend such judgement and simply enjoy having a good time.

But what really had me gob-smacked[20] and which started me off on my madcap[21] quest – which is the reason for telling you all this, if you will patiently bear with me, dear reader – was a show featuring a strange, tall, thin and olive skinned fellah in a long, flowing green robe and sporting a goatee beard, by the name of “Mystic Magus”.

'Course, everyone started out thinking this was just some traveller painted and dressed to look like he was from some exotic place far away, and that he was using trickery; in short, that he was just a showman or a charlatan. Indeed I thought the same thing myself, until he turns and addresses me and Elzabeth, that is. I tell you, that changed my mind about this fellah right smartish.

“Madam,” the man began, nodding his head in Elzabeth's direction when he spotted her in the crowd. “I feel that there is something I should tell you. It's important to your well-being, but of a personal nature, you understand? So by your leave, please stay behind when this audience concludes, so that I might have a word in private.”

Elzabeth looked at me with an uncertain expression on her face.

“Please bring your gentleman friend, Jeremiah, if you would feel more comfortable.”

“Well ....” Again she turned to me, looking unsure herself and trying to gauge my response or to seek my advice.

I nodded vigorously, quite startled that he should have plucked my name out of thin air, unless he had particularly acute hearing, that is.

“Thank you, yes I'll do that, sir,” she replied, turning back to the man. “Thank you.”

Once the others had gone, the Mystic Magus approached us. I half expected him to drop the pretence, but if it was an act he kept it up.

“Lark this, y'mean?” the man replied in a broad local accent, as if snatching the notion out of my head. I felt myself going bright red with embarrassment, but he merely laughed and patted me on the shoulder.

“Elzabeth,” the Mystic Magus began, turning to her and again he took me quite aback. “May I call you Elzabeth?”

Elzabeth gulped and nodded.

“You have a distinctive mole ....” he offered.

Again she nodded earnestly.

“Would you prefer that we spoke alone?”

Elzabeth thought for a moment, then replied. “No, no. Jeremy is a dear friend and we hold back no secrets from one-another.”

The Mystic Magus smiled. “You have a mole on your right thigh.”

I raised my eyebrows. Not that I'm proud of our intimate acquaintance and knowing such a thing, being unmarried and all that, you understand, Elzabeth did indeed bear such a distinctive feature.

“Now, please don't worry yourself unnecessarily, my friend,” the man continued, though of course that was the kind of remark that was actually guaranteed to raise concern. “But what I am being told is that this mole has changed colour and grown a little of late. Is that so?”

“Yes, it is,” she concurred, nervously clutching her hands to her face. “I noticed it myself just the other day, and I did wonder.”

“Then please take my advice, my friend. You should visit a doctor within the next few days and have him surgically remove the mole. Roots and all, mind.”

Now my beloved Elzabeth was looking deeply worried.

“Don't worry,” the man reassured her, though rather too late, I feared. “Once the mole is removed, its disease cannot spread.”

“Well, that's good to hear,” I nodded encouragingly, more for Elzabeth's sake than anything.

Elzabeth waved her hands in the air. “Thank you indeed for your advice, sir, but we're poor folk around here. I don't have the money to go and see a leech[22], let alone a proper doctor.”

I stood up straight and puffed out my chest. “Elzabeth, my love: if it's a doctor you need, then a doctor you shall have. Please don't worry yourself: I'll pay the fees.”

Elzabeth shook her head vigorously. “Oh no, no, Jeremy. You have little enough money as it is, without falling into debt on my account.”

The man drew in his breath and laid his hand on Elzabeth's shoulder. “My friend, you really must see a doctor and have the mole removed ....”

The Mystic Magus' voice trailed off, as if leaving us to fill in the missing words.

“Or?” I prompted, intent on finding out more, though not wishing to appear rude.

He sighed, perhaps at having to spell this out. “Or I fear that the disease will spread. And, almost certainly, it will lead to a premature death. So the question is: how highly do you value your human life? A unique, blessèd and precious thing, is it not?”

Elzabeth was so shocked by this revelation that you could see the colour drain from her face, and she had to hold onto me for fear of falling down. The Mystic Magus offered her a hardbacked chair and she sat bolt upright in silence for a time.

“Are you sure?” I enquired, thinking that perhaps the man was mistaken. Perhaps he actually could read minds and made up the rest as he went along. On reflection that was a rather clumsy and rude question to have asked and I apologized; realizing, however, that the arrow had already flown.

“My dear Jeremiah,” smiled the Mystic Magus, deftly dodging the speeding arrow. “You have two choices: you can either trust me and save your friend's life; or you can think that perhaps I'm just an itinerant charlatan and – alas and alack! – learn from your mistake when it is all too late.”

“Then I shall pay,” I nodded resolutely, feeling suitably but not unkindly chastened, and certainly not chastised.

“Don't be silly, Jeremy,” Elzabeth protested.

“That really is not a problem,” the man replied gently. He reached out his hand behind my head, as conjurers sometimes do, then he brought his hand back, took hold of my own hand and pressed something cold and hard into my upturned palm. It was a strange looking gold coin, something few folks like me had seen, let alone touched.

“Where I come from, it's what we call a Noble, my friend, since gold is valued highly and remains untarnished when it comes into contact with base substances,” the man explained, as I stood there looking slightly flummoxed. “But don't worry about that: gold is gold, wherever it was minted, and any reputable goldsmith will fairly exchange it. It should amply cover the doctor's fee, and leave you well in pocket.”

“Oh,” gasped Elzabeth as I in turn pressed the coin into her palm. “Thanking you kindly, sir, but we can't accept your charity.”

The Mystic Magus merely smiled and peered deeply into Elzabeth's eyes and she said no more. Elzabeth told me later that at this moment, she felt a deep connection with the man, which rendered words redundant.

“Thank you so much,” I said, reaching out my arm and pumping the man's hand in earnest. “I do hope we'll meet again, sir.”

“Please don't thank me. Rather thank the One who provides.”

The Mystic Magus nodded his head slowly as he spoke, and I felt myself compelled to agree with what he said. I was mesmerized, like a snake might be charmed from its wicker basket by a magic flute.

Then another thought appeared to cross the man's mind. It was as if an unseen being with some higher purpose were whispering directions in the man's ear and he was merely complying with these requests. “Jeremiah. I'm told that there are things we might profitably discuss. It's Wednesday now and the circus will be here until early on Sunday morning. If you can spare the time, perhaps we might first meet sometime tomorrow? There'll be an audience after the show at four o'clock and again at nine, but any other time would be convenient for me. And I promise to make it worth your while.”

I readily agreed, having heard this much from the man and eager to learn more. “Thank you indeed, sir. Well, it's my half day tomorrow, so I could see you after work at around one o'clock, if that would suit you?”

The man beamed and clapped me on the shoulder. “Excellent, my good man. One o'clock it is, then. I look forward to it. Good to meet you both.”

And with that, and a skip in his step, the Mystic Magus left the small marquee and strode off into the night.

The very next day, I met with the Mystic Magus again, little knowing to what wondrous heights this might eventually and inexorably lead; nor the joys – and the many obstacles and pitfalls alike – that I would encounter on the way.

It was only later – after many years of study and experience – that I began to truly grok[23] the essence of the ancient proverb, that “Safety is on the shore, but the pearl is in the sea.” Prior to that I only thought, or was of the inflated opinion, or felt, that I understood. Verily it is said that “He who tastes, knows”, to which an adept has wisely added the rider, “And he who only thinks he knows will not leave anyone alone.”

David glanced at the bedside clock at this point and, realizing that it was getting late and that he had slowly begun to drift off, he reluctantly placed an old printed cardboard beer mat in the page to act as a marker and closed the book. Then, turning off the oak stemmed bedside lamp, he settled down and fell fast sleep.

Suddenly aware that he was no longer tucked up in bed at home, and finding himself still in his pyjamas and walking barefoot through a carpet of long, damp grass, David rubbed his sleepy eyes and peered around him. Some deep and ever-present part of him knew that he must be dreaming, and yet it all seemed so very real, and he was happy to simply go along wherever this dream might lead.

He was standing in a wide, wild flower speckled meadow, quite close to a large marquee, the staked out fly sheet rippling in the gentle breeze, though quite where he was, he had no idea. However, at that very moment, someone was in the process of unfurling a large and brightly coloured banner over the entrance to the marquee, and it read “Scrumpton's Circus”, answering that question before it had even fully formed in his mind.

There were many sweaty and excited people jostling around him now and they were heading into the circus tent. These people appeared quite oblivious to his presence; and yet somehow, or some place deep down, they must have sensed that he was there, because as they walked toward him, they always managed to avoid bumping into him, and that was not something that could be explained away as mere chance.

David was just about to enter the circus tent with the others when, somehow sensing that he was being watched, he spun round on his heel and looked around. There were three people some distance away who appeared detached from the throng, just standing there and watching the others jostle and shuffle their way into the tent.

As soon as David saw the long, flowing green robe and the gold sash that one of this group was wearing, he realized that this must be the Mystic Magus of whom Jeremy Wildacre had written; and the couple who stood beside him, hand in hand, must be Jeremy and Elzabeth. He left the crowd and walked toward them, though he had no clue how he might introduce himself after he'd said “Hello.”

“Hello to you, too, my friend,” the mystic greeted him as he approached, touching the tips of his fingers to his right temple in casual salute.

“Hello,” he smiled, and he momentarily lowered his eyes in deference before coming to stand before them. David didn't cast his eyes down due to nervousness, but rather on instantly and intuitively recognizing the man's elevated status.

The mystic cocked his head to one side and peered at him, then cocked his head to the other and looked again, as if he were trying to weigh David up. It was a peculiar experience to be studied in this way, and yet it was not unpleasant or unduly intrusive. The man appeared to be peering inside him and drinking him in, but not ferreting around in his brain.

Then the mystic spoke again and cast his arms around, expansively. “I expect that you believe all this to be but wild fantasy, don't you, David? That I am a mere conjurer. And that once you awaken, this world will evaporate and be quickly forgotten?” It was more of a statement than a question.

He shuffled uncomfortably, not quite sure how to reply.

“Let me tell you something, my friend. Though you might find it hard to swallow, the world that you live in: that is the dream world. And all those familiar, everyday, cherished concrete objects in the land of lost content, and especially your sense of individuality and separation: that is all illusion.”

Again the man cast his arms around him. “And this, my friend, this is the closest that you can as yet come to the Real. A transient co-mingling of illusion and of a greater reality in which everything is connected and alive, awake and aware, and vibrant with purpose and true meaning.

“Gaining access to this reality will involve a lot of spade work on your part, however,” the man added. “Anyhow, we'll be in touch again, my friend. See you soon.”

Just then, as his hand reached to check the gold pocket watch that his uncle had left him, and remembering that he was not dressed, the alarm clock went off and David awoke with a start. And the dream evaporated and was quickly brushed aside and forgotten as reason re-emerged in the light of day.

That next morning, David was impatient to get back to The Chronicles, and he had a devil of a time persuading himself that he should instead concentrate on finishing off the ground floor of the house. It was getting on toward the end of the summer holidays and he knew that it was going to take him the best part of the autumn and winter to get the house shipshape and to his satisfaction and, if he decided to go back to school or get a job, it would probably take him another year, even setting aside the yellowing, flaking, peeling state of the exterior paintwork. And God knows what state the woodwork would be in, under that.

Fortunately, Mother arrived again early that morning and he had no option, really, but to get on with the work. She'd come prepared for a full day's work stripping the old wallpaper in the living room and preparing the flaky plaster ready for fresh decorations. There could be no cutting corners or skiving whilst Mother was around: she wouldn't allow that, but in any case, David himself could not rightly do so, as Mother gave her time and energy so freely, in spite of her own heavy workload at home.

There was one wonderful and unforgettable moment in the morning as David peeled a strip of wallpaper from the chimney breast. There on the wall, along with some numbers that appeared to have been used in calculating the length of paper to use, had been pencilled the words:

That's the spirit, David. Keep up the good work.

Clearly, Uncle Harry had thought things through in their minutiae and must have been planning for years on David eventually taking over the reins. Even the state of the garden and the interior decoration, or rather the lack thereof, might have been all part of the plan. As he'd noted before, Uncle Harry did nothing without rhyme or good reason.

At this point, David recalled an old bedtime story that Mother had once told him one evening, as a child, as he lay snuggled up beneath the blankets, and the story really did seem quite fitting:

Once upon a time, there lived a wealthy and generous farmer who had two idle and greedy teenage sons. Realizing that he was going to die and eager to leave his sons a fitting legacy, he told the about the fortune in gold buried in his fields. When the old man died, not having revealed to them where the gold lay buried, the sons dug and dug and dug, and yet they failed to locate the treasure.

However, now more accustomed to labour, the sons thought that since they'd turned over one of the fields, they might as well sow seeds and at least make a profit from the crop, to tide them over the winter. Thanks to the hard work they'd put in preparing the ground, they raised a fine crop and sold the grain for a high price at market. Then when spring arrived once more, and the ground grew soft enough to dig, they moved onto the next field and resumed their search for the treasure.

This went on for several years, until finally they gave up the search, by which time they had in any case become successful and wealthy farmers themselves. And only then did the sons realize that this is what their father had intended for them all along, and that if there ever had been any gold, being a generous man, he'd probably given it away to the needy whilst he was still alive.

It was only then that David recalled the dream he'd had, or at least the gist of it, for most of the detail was long gone. Perhaps this, too, explained the mystic's reference to the necessity for spade work on his part? If not spade work, then scraper and trowel work: it pretty much amounted to the same thing.

By the end of the day, after the slow and laborious task of stripping the walls, filling in the many holes and replacing loose areas of plaster, David was feeling pretty bushed and had he allowed himself, he could have quite merrily fallen asleep in his chair near the hearth, in the study. Nevertheless, he was grimly determined to stay awake and read at least a few more pages of The Chronicles that day.

The very next day, I met the Mystic Magus, as we had agreed. I was not sure quite what to expect from this encounter, other than to be astounded by whatever might emerge and be noted by this strange and intriguing, otherworldly man. Of course, one cannot prepare to be astounded: these two things are mutually exclusive and I expect that even had I prepared myself, then the man would simply have outflanked me and still managed to catch me by surprise. I did not at this time have a name for such behaviour, but looking back over the years, I can now see that he was the quintessential Trickster, and I do not mean that in any kind of pejorative sense. If the man tricked me – and he did on many an occasion – then it was always with my best interests at heart, or for the greater good, without a hint of my being patronized. However, it often did not feel like this at the time and, again looking back, I can see now that this was caused as often as not by a mismatch between what I desired, in my ignorance, and what he saw as my true needs. This now-obvious distinction was all but lost on me in those early days. And, of course, there were times when the needs of others, or of the majority, were more important than the needs of the one: that was a simple and inescapable fact of life, at least it was to a neophyte such as me who was as yet so out of kilter with what the Mystic Magus termed the Grand Design.

Ah, but here I am, getting ahead of myself and digressing, so perhaps it would be best to return to the inaugural meeting we had on that first Thursday afternoon?

When I arrived at the circus, the Mystic Magus was nowhere to be seen. There were plenty of the other performers out and about practising their art, feeding the animals or else preparing for the afternoon performance, so I enquired of them, and they pointed me in the direction of the caravans, and sure enough there he was, sitting on the wooden steps, puffing away at an old briar pipe. As I approached, the man knocked out his pipe, put it in his pocket and rose to his feet to greet me.

“Delighted to see you again, Jeremiah,” he lilted, walking toward me and shaking my hand. He was a fit man and he had an iron like grip.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet again, Mystic Magus,” I smiled back.

“The name is Artor,” the man informed me. “Mystic Magus is simply my stage name.”

“I'm glad to meet you, Artor. And please call me Jeremy. Jeremiah is altogether too formal.”

“Good, good. Jeremy it is, then. Anyhow, let us take a stroll through town and you can point out any interesting sights along the way. Have you eaten?”

“Not as yet, Artor,” I replied, rubbing a hand expressively over my stomach and noting, all of a sudden, how empty it felt, and that it was actually gurgling. Until that moment, I'd been quite oblivious to this fact.

“In my line of work, Jeremy, it is important to pay as much attention to the body as one does to the heart, the mind or the soul. In this way, you can get a complete and true 'feeling' for a person when they come to you for help.”

“I see,” I replied, though of course I did not.

“Then perhaps you might suggest a venue and we can eat our fill as well as talk? And I hasten to add that I shall pay.”

“No, no, I won't hear of it. You've helped me and Elzabeth enough already. The young lady is still tickled pink.”

“Nonsense, it will be my pleasure, and I insist,” the man retorted, though not in an unkindly or vexed fashion, and so that was that. I was not of a mind to argue with this generous soul.

Artor appeared to be a sane enough fellah when you got to know him, and yet there was something queer and otherworldly about him at times. Every now and again, he'd stop whatever he was doing and peer into the distance, as if into some other realm; or as if he had one foot in each of two worlds. Artor would come out with the strangest things, as if the folk out there spoke some kind of gibberish[24] for a language, and then a moment later, he'd be back again in the land of the living and acting for all the world as if nothing had happened.

“Oh seeker,” the man would abruptly declare, raising his voice as if he were some theatrical actor on a stage, publicly reciting some aethereal[25] poetry that made little sense to me:

“Oh seeker,

do not dally with

Hyacinth's cousin

or the painted woman,

enticing as they may be.

Rather than that,

dare to turn aside.

And in their stead,

like those rightly guided

souls who went before you,

seek those who

expelled the outcasts.”

I could only assume that this kind of thing was addressed to individuals and meant something to someone in the audience, though the meaning must have been lost on the majority. However, Artor explained one day that you could sense and pick up on a subtlety that was floating around in the air in the presence of a gathering. When you responded from this place and in this knowledge, the self same words might simultaneously mean something to several of those who were gathered and these meanings would vary from one person to the next. Artor went on to say that things often worked with such “economy”, which might be crudely explained by the commonplace phrase “To kill two birds with one stone” or, in this case, to kill several.

There was not at lot to see in the town itself, except perhaps some of the wonderful, misshapen houses and traditional shops down in the old town, and the park, so that is where I guided Artor. “I'm afraid that most of the sights worth seeing are some way out of town,” I apologized as we neared the end of our brief tour.

“Not at all, my friend,” Artor smiled back at me. “This is all most interesting and your company is a delight.”

The man looked at his watch. “Now, shall we adjourn for lunch? No, don't tell me, you were going to suggest the tea house that we passed just a few moments ago.”

“You do not cease to amaze,” I laughed. “That is indeed what I had in mind.”

“I felt my stomach gurgling in sympathy,” Artor explained. “And I bet you're hoping that I might teach you the art,” he added, courteously opening the door for me as we arrived.

Again I nodded. “Yes, that had indeed crossed my mind, sir.”

As we took a seat in one of the bay windows and had a look at what was on the menu, my stomach gurgling all the more at the wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread, Artor sighed deeply. “Alas, I'll be leaving this town early on Sunday morning, and you really should know that this is not as simple as – shall we say? – teaching a fellow a new card trick. What comes quite naturally and easily to me now, took two whole decades of study and practise.”

I tried not to look too disappointed, but nothing appeared to slip past that man's eagle-eyed attention.

“It will soon be time for me to leave this circus,” Artor continued after the dainty and efficient waitress had taken our order. “The experience has served its purpose and when the season's through and the circus lays up for winter, I am told it will be time to move on.”

“You sound like you are under marching orders, Artor,” I observed, hearing him say “I am told” on at least three occasions since we'd met the night before.

Artor nodded. “Yes I am, in a way. People like us are always in touch with one-another and unlike most folk we are not driven by desire or whim or accident, but through love and by what we call necessity. So, for example, I go where necessity beckons; I go where I am most needed. I still have my own thoughts and feelings on such matters, of course, but I sometimes have to lay these things aside and answer the call.

Artor pulled his chair closer and leant over the table toward me, perhaps a little too close for comfort. Without so much as blinking, perhaps sensing my discomfort, the man backed off a little, even before the thought had fully formed in my mind.

“I shan't attempt to pull the wool over your eyes, Jeremy, and pretend that this is an easy life. It's a good and loving life, true enough, but not always an easy one. In return for personal sacrifice, one gains true freedom, not least the freedom of not having to make foolhardy personal and partial choices and having to suffer the consequences that so often arise from that.”

Again, I felt uncomfortable twinges of disappointment. All too soon, Artor would be on his way and Elzabeth and I would be left behind. Yet, for the life of me, I couldn't really think of what I need be disappointed about. I'd only just met the man and knew little about him or about his work, and it was not as if he owed me anything. And if he did leave now, then I wouldn't be any the worse off. My beloved Elzabeth and I would still have one-another and life would go on. So, I wondered, what was it that was tugging at my sleeve? Was it just some selfish interest in sharing in the secrets of his arcane arts?

“You've had a tiny taste of Reality, my friend,” the man explained, again plucking the thoughts from my head. “A part of you – deep down inside – recognizes this, realizing that this is the real thing. No longer satisfied with your regular, bland diet and the illusory nature of your life thus far, this more essential part of you understandably wishes for change and yearns for more.”

“Please forgive me for being forthright, sir,” I replied, all out of kilter[26] and plucking up the courage to express my feelings on the matter, “but why, oh why would you give a man a taste of such reality, if you knew that this would cause a craving, and that you had to be moving on and would not be in a position to provide more? Isn't this like showing a man a glimpse of paradise and then shutting the door in his face? Is it not simply cruelty by another name?”

“Let's look at this from a different perspective, Jeremy. Would it be cruelty to waft an item of clothing under a dog's nose, so that it might recognize and follow the scent, if – let's say – the scent ultimately led it along a trail back to the safety of its home, and without which it might remain hopelessly lost or even die of neglect?”

“I'm sorry, sir, I hadn't thought of it quite that way,” I apologized to the man. Then a thought arose and I objected: “But Artor, I don't have the sensitive nose of a trained bloodhound. Simple folk like me need much guidance in such matters, from someone who does possess such sensitivities and experience; from a man such as your good self, I would wager. And again that takes us back to the inescapable fact that you will soon be on your way.”

“I understand, Jeremy. Please leave the matter with me and perhaps we might meet again, tomorrow?”

“Thank you. I have work tomorrow, Artor, but I'll be free by seven, after dinner.”

“Excellent. Seven it is, then.” The man signalled to the waitress and generously paid the bill, whilst I left a small tip in my saucer; then we got up and left, bade each other cheerio and went our separate ways. I don't know quite what had happened, but as I stepped outside the café that day and set off up the road, I felt distinctly more wide awake than I recalled ever feeling before, at least in adulthood, though I was perhaps more fresh and immediate and alive as a small child. I would learn later that this effect was produced by simply spending time in the presence of a completed man such as Artor, just as dough might rise through the presence of warmth and a natural leaven such as yeast.

That night, as I lay asleep in bed, I had the strangest dream, though of course I didn't know that I was dreaming at the time: it all seemed so very real.

“Snap!”[27] David had to laugh when he heard those familiar words. Only then did he again remember himself meeting the mystic in his dreams. And only then did David realize just how forgetful he had become, maybe in part due to the pressure of unnaturally selected priorities in life, just as a weed might stifle and even choke the growth and normal functioning of a plant? Perhaps though apparently parted from such a man, one could still be taught through such means, but in a different realm – like attending “night school” – even without being consciously aware of such a thing?

There I was, standing in the field where the circus had pitched camp, hoping to see Artor once more, but as I looked around, all I could see were the flattened areas of grass where the great circus tent and sideshows had been. They'd broken camp and moved on, I know not where. And that left me feeling all alone and quite desolate.

I heard a sound behind me and turned, expecting that Artor might have been there after all, to find that it was just some travelling woman, carrying a wicker basket, most likely full of wooden pegs and other trinkets that she was hoping to sell.

As the woman approached, smiling through broken teeth to attract my attention, I shook my head firmly, saying “Not today, thank you”, not that I'd have given her any other reply tomorrow or the day after that.

“Surely your Missus could do with some new pegs?”

“No thank you.”

“Or a lucky charm?”

“No thank you, Madam, I'm really not interested.”

“Cross my palm with silver and I'll tell your fortune.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Madam, do I look like the sort of fellow who would have any silver in their pocket?”

“You look like a lost soul to me, Mister.”

Finally she managed to get my attention. “I came here to see Artor, the Mystic Magus,” I explained, though what business it might be of hers, I didn't know. “He said that he'd meet me here today before he went on his way, but there's no sign of him.”

The woman came closer and peered at me. She had the most beguiling big, green cat's eyes and had probably been a bewitching beauty in her younger days. “Oh, don't fret young Mister. If Artor said that he'd see you again, then that he'll do. He's a man of his word, the likes of which are few and far between, these days. Now, if you haven't got silver, then at least let me have a copper, and I'll give you a piece of advice.”

“Madam, if you won't let me be, then I shall I'll give you a piece of sound advice for nothing ....”

“Now, now, Mister, there's no call for that,” the woman scolded me.

Unable to shake the woman off, I sighed and, fishing in my trousers, brought out a copper penny. Of course, had I realized that this was only a dream, then I would gladly have given her silver; but at the time I was blissfully unaware. Anyhow, she took the coin from me and popped it in the purse she had strung around her hips, like the market traders.

“Here's my advice to you, then, young Mister. When you see Artor, ask him to tell you the story of the lost treasure of Roth Nagor.”

“Of whom?”

“Roth Nagor,” she repeated and I fumbled in my jacket to find a pad of paper and a pencil to jot down the name, since I probably wouldn't remember it.

“Don't ask me how you spell it,” she requested. “Only I can't read nor write. Artor will know what I mean, though. If he asks, say Agnes Heep told you, and give him my best regards.” And with that, the old woman was on her way, leaving me alone once more.

At this point, I was awakened by the strident sound of a cock crowing in a nearby smallholding[28] and hurriedly got out of bed to find a real pen and paper to jot down the name before it slipped away with my dream into the night.

True to his word, Artor was there to meet me the next day. He was waiting by the gate leading into the field where the circus tents were pitched. The entrance to the field had become quite muddy following recent rain and so the travellers had laid down some wide planks of wood for folk to walk on. Artor suggested that we might find a local hostelry for a glass of mead or whatever took my fancy.

“As long as you allow me to buy the first round,” I insisted and Artor readily agreed, so I led him off to the old town and off the beaten track down a narrow alleyway to a favourite haunt of mine, The Golden Clover, a real old-fashioned and homely hostelry with blackened oak beams that had aged naturally, rather than having been artificially distressed with blows from hammers, mallets or socks full of stones. What's more, they sold real ale there, not the watered down muck they served to visitors and tourists in some of the trendier establishments on the high street and where the slops and the leftovers went back in the keg.

When we'd been served and found ourselves a place by the gently flickering log fire in the lounge, I broached the subject that was foremost in my mind.

“I had a queer dream the other night,” I began. “I tell you, whilst I was there, it all seemed as real as you and me sitting here drinking right now.”

“Go on ....” Artor prompted, pulling himself up in his cushioned chair and all ears to hear more.

“I met a travelling lady. She told me her name – Agnes Somebody-or-other, says she – and asked me to send you her best regards.”

“That would be Agnes Heep,” the man informed me reliably, stroking his goatee beard thoughtfully. “She's a Natural[29], if ever there was. Natural with a capital 'N'.”

“Yes, that's the one, sir.”

“My word,” Artor replied, a broad grin crossing his face. “I haven't seen dear old Agnes in many a moon. Pray, do continue.”

“Well, the dream was short and sweet, though I regret that I can't remember all the details. But the one thing I do recall is that she wanted me to ask you about the lost treasure of Roth Nagor … if that means anything to you, sir.”

Artor nodded smartly. “Oh yes, indeed it does,” says he, and I wasn't entirely surprised by this, if you catch my drift.

“You'll find that increasingly,” Artor explained. “As time goes by, what will at first seem extraordinary will increasingly become the norm, rather than the exception.”

“So, will you tell me the story?” I asked Artor, eager to hear more.

“Indeed I shall, Jeremy. Just allow me a moment while I compose myself and search my memory. It's been a while since I've heard the tale, and I don't want to make a dog's dinner[30] of any details.”

7. The lost treasure of Roth Nagor

“If you are sitting quietly and comfortably, then I shall begin,” Artor grinned mischievously at me, having just returned from the bar with fresh drinks and some tempting savoury nibbles.

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in the land beyond beyond[31], there lived a poor charcoal burner by the name of Angus Middleditch. A widower, he lived a humble existence in the forest with his son Leith and his little daughter Lucy.

The father would go out each day to chop wood while Leith carefully tended one earthen kiln whilst building the next, ready to take the wood that his father brought back. When the kiln was full, they'd drop glowing embers of charcoal into the flue at the top, then seal up the kiln.

It might take three days and two nights for the wood to turn to charcoal, and Angus and his son would take turns in the “long watch” to supervise the kiln, working night and day. They'd make small holes in the sides to let in a little air, and repair any damage that might occur during the burning as the wood shifted about and slipped inside.

When the charcoal was ready, it was extinguished and allowed to cool. Then the kiln would be broken up to retrieve the charcoal, the charcoal would be left to dry, and finally the man would take the charcoal to sell at market in a nearby town.

On the toil went, day after day and night after night – with just the occasional break from the long watch whilst the last of the charcoal was drying, prior to being taken to market – and yet for all their hard work, the family never seemed to prosper from their trade. The life they led was mere subsistence and the money they earned merely provided for their humble needs and no more. They were too poor to even set a little aside to provide for their retirement. The charcoal burner's father, his grandfather before him, and finally his dear wife – they'd all died still working in the forest, and the man feared that the same thing would happen to him one day.

One day, as Angus Middleditch's little daughter Lucy was serving their lunchtime sandwiches, she happened to breath a deep sigh.

“What's the matter, little one?” he enquired, concerned that the girl did not appear very happy.

His daughter forced a smile. “Oh, nothing really,” she replied, shrugging it off.

“Now, now,” he said gently, running his hand affectionately through her hair. “If anything's troubling you, Lucy – and I mean anything – you know that you can tell your dear old dad.”

“Well, Papa, it's just that sometimes I wish we could have nicer things to eat.”

The charcoal burner nodded solemnly. “I'm sorry. Leave it with me, dear Lucy, and I'll see what I can do to rectify matters.”

Of course, thought he, looking after the charcoal already took up most of their days and each half of the night, and he could not bring himself to ask more of his son, Leith. So they couldn't simply make more charcoal to sell at the market. And competition was fierce, what with the newfangled iron kilns some were now using, so they couldn't charge more for the coals.

However, there was some spare time left over during the day, after he'd fetched wood for the kiln, and whilst they waited for one lot of charcoal to burn.

And then the charcoal burner had a thought. The next day, he got up even earlier than usual, and he walked further into the forest where there was more of the right kind of wood. He collected more than usual, chopped the wood into manageable lengths, bound it together and carried it back to his little hut. Any wood that they didn't need for the charcoal kilns, he'd take to market and sell it as firewood, and with the proceeds, he'd buy them some different and nicer food.

Then, taking some sandwiches to eat on the way, though he could have done with a sit down, the charcoal burner trudged back through the forest to collect still more wood.

When the old man had found a good spot in the forest, however, he was feeling quite weak and tired, so he sat down with his back propped against an old oak tree and, thinking that it wouldn't hurt to take twenty winks, he fell sound asleep.

Awakening with a start and realizing that he must have slept for far too long, the charcoal burner quickly got back to work chopping wood; then, hastily collecting it together, he hurried back toward home.

It was already quite late in the day, and he'd gone further into the forest than usual, so by the time he eventually got back it was getting quite dark. He put the wood down behind the hut and went to try the door, to find it locked. He knocked and knocked, and called out: “Lucy, Leith. Please let me in, for I am tired and hungry and I must eat and sleep before setting off to market. But there was no reply.

Lucy had mistakenly thought he must still be out chopping wood, so she and Leith had eaten alone; and when night time came they had both presumed, incorrectly, that their father must have decided to stay the night in town after going to the market. So thankfully with no kiln lit and in need of attention that night, they'd locked the door, gone to bed and were both now sound asleep.

Unable to keep his eyes open for much longer, the charcoal burner went round to the back of the hut and settled himself down to sleep. But the ground was too hard and uncomfortable, and the man was too cold to sleep.

And then he thought that he heard a voice calling to him from the forest, and the voice was saying: “Hurry, leave your wood and follow me. If you need enough and want little enough, you shall have delicious food.”

So the charcoal burner got up and followed the voice, until he was quite lost amongst the trees.

Feeling tired beyond measure, the charcoal burner gathered some fallen leaves together to make a pillow for his head and settled down to snatch some sleep. But again the ground was too uncomfortable and he was too cold and hungry to sleep. And again, he thought that he heard a voice calling him through the trees.

“Charcoal burner, what are you doing here in the forest?” the voice seemed to ask him, and he thought that he saw a vague and shimmering apparition sitting on a log close-by, so he told his story, from the time when his little daughter had unhappily told him that she wished that they might have some nicer food to eat, right up to ending up sleeping alone in the forest.

“Very well. Get to your feet and close your eyes and I will help you.”

The request sounded strange to the charcoal burner, but nevertheless, too tired to do anything else, he complied.

“Now, raise you right foot, as if climbing a step,” the apparition requested. “And do not open your eyes again until I tell you to do so.”

Angus Middleditch had the strangest sensation that he was moving, which unnerved him slightly, but nonetheless he kept his eyes shut and complied; and after a time, he felt himself come to a gentle stop and the voice told him that he could now open his eyes.

What the charcoal burner saw quite astounded him. Where he stood, all around him on the ground and for as far as the eye could see, were brightly coloured and gleaming stones of all colours: red, green, yellow, white and blue. It was as if he were standing in a desert of gems, with the hot sun flooding the scene with bright light and beating down on him.

“Now,” the voice requested. “Take up as many of the stones are you are able and when you are ready, close your eyes once more.

So that's what he did. Casting thoughts of greed aside, he took off his woollen jersey, knotted the ends of the sleeves and filled that with as many of the gleaming stones as he felt he could carry. Then he filled his jacket and trouser pockets until they were bulging. And finally, he stood back, clutching tight hold of his jersey, and closed his eyes.

Again it felt as if he were moving, and the nearest he could come to describe the sensation was that it was like descending a staircase that moved all by itself.

Finally, there was a gentle bump. He had stopped moving and the voice now told him that he could open his eyes once more. Looking around, he could see that he was standing outside the door of his own hut. He turned back to the shimmering apparition standing before him and it spoke to him again:

“Although you may not know it yet, you have been saved by Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties. Remember that Mushkil Gusha is always here. Make sure that every Thursday night you eat some dates and give some to any needy person, and tell the story of Mushkil Gusha. Or give a gift in the name of Mushkil Gusha to someone who will help the needy. Make sure that the story of Mushkil Gusha is never, never forgotten. If you do this, and if this is done by those to whom you tell the story, the people who are in real need will always find their way.”[32]

Angus Middleditch was relieved to find himself safely back home and even more relieved to find the door unlocked and Leith and Lucy waiting there for him. Of course they were concerned that he should have gone missing and, apologizing profusely, he promised them that he would tell the whole story once he'd washed and changed and eaten, for he was still very hungry.

Fishing a few of the stones out of his pockets, he was surprised to see that they had lost their sparkle and looked so ordinary and common place, and he wasn't sure quite what to do with them. Deciding that this could wait until the next day, he went over to a corner of the hut, emptied out his pockets and the contents of his jersey onto the floor, and covered the pile with a old spare blanket.

Leith and Lucy had prepared stew the day before, so it was just a matter of reheating the meal, and the charcoal burner didn't have to wait long before dinner was ready. Lucy couldn't wait to hear his story, but he reminded them of the old custom, to eat first and then talk, if it involved such weighty matters.

And when they'd finally eaten, he told them the whole story, which began when Lucy had first wished for nicer food, right up to the moment when the apparition told him he could open his eyes and he found himself back home. Lucy was certainly impressed by the tale, though having seen the heap of ordinary looking stones that her father had brought back with him, she was also rather perplexed.

“Not to worry,” he consoled the girl. “Let's bed down for the night and we'll worry about the stones tomorrow, when I get back from market.”

The next day, the man took the charcoal and firewood to market and was pleasantly surprised that it fetched such a high price. So, thankful for this good fortune and true to his word, he bought them different and nicer food to eat before returning home once more.

Of course Lucy was pleased to see and taste the new food, but what excited her most of all were the stones that her father had brought back with him.

“Please look, Papa,” she cajoled him until he had to give in to her. She caught hold of his hand and dragged him across the hut to stand before the pile.

“Now, close your eyes,” she requested and he playfully complied. With a flourish, Lucy whipped the old blanket away. “All right, you can open them now.”

“Da-da!” she sang, superfluously waving her arms at the pile of stones.

“Oh my ....” Angus Middleditch gasped. “Oh my goodness, oh my, oh my!”

As for Leith, he just stood there with his mouth open, momentarily at a loss for words.

What had been a heap of ordinary looking stones had utterly changed, and what he was looking at now was a treasury of brightly sparkling, multi-faceted rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds.

He hugged Lucy tightly. “Oh lordie. Lucy my darling child, I do believe that we're rich, beyond our wildest dreams.”

“Thanks be to Mushkil Gusha,” she reminded him.

“Oh, yes indeed: thanks be to Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties.”

Then a thought occurred to the man. “Heavens, we can't just leave these gems here in plain sight. If anyone saw them and word got around, we'd be inundated. There'd be folk queuing at the door begging by day and every burglar in the district trying to rob us by night. We need to hide them somewhere.”

Lucy had an idea. She went across to the linen chest and carefully pulled out the bedding.

“Here,” she advised. Put the jewels in and then we can put the bedding on top, and nobody will be any the wiser.”

Another thought occurred to the charcoal burner at this point and he shared it with Leith and Lucy. “I said that we were rich beyond our wildest dreams, but we first need to exchange them for money that we can spend. But we can't take a whole heap of gems to a jeweller, even in a nearby town. Folk would start gossiping and asking questions. What we must do is get them valued and exchanged one or two at a time and at different jewellers each time. We'll begin with the nearby towns, and then when we can afford the expense, we'll travel to the city and visit all the jewellers we can find.”

The mere fact that the family were no longer selling charcoal at the market and were seen more and more about town in a shiny horse-drawn carriage and sporting fashionable new clothes, was enough to set local tongues wagging. So, since the city was to be their next port of call, rather than merely visit the capital, after consulting with his children, Angus Middleditch decided that the best thing they could do would be to up sticks, move to the city and live there. In a city, nobody would be gossiping about their having come into money, or wondering how, and also he'd be able to find schools for the children to go to. They'd benefit from a good education and hopefully not end up in a dead-end job like him and his father and grandfather before him.

Angus Middleditch knew that he had a large pot of money, but he was also sensible enough to realize that it wasn't a bottomless pot and that living in the city would be expensive. So when he deposited his money at the local bank, he also enquired about how it might be wisely invested.

That rather depends on how much risk he was prepared to take, he was reliably informed.

“Well, I don't want to lose my fortune if a ship goes down in a storm, no matter how much money I might have stood to make,” he emphasised. “I was looking for something a little safer than that. Above all else, I have my children's welfare to consider.”

The adviser suggested that Angus spread his investments and place no more in risky ventures than he could afford to lose. He was pleasantly surprised to find that it would be possible to live off the interest and the dividends, and still have some left over for the wealth to accumulate, without having to dip into the capital itself. And this, of course, meant that when his time came, or when his children came of age and perhaps married, the fortune would still be there and his children and their families would be also be well cared for. The adviser was clearly knowledgeable about such matters and looked like he could be depended on; so Angus whispered a prayer, placed his trust in the man and it was agreed.

Leith and Lucy found it quite easy to settle into life in the city, as they were still at an age where they simply soaked up the culture like a sponge and could easily adapt and grow. However, being older and not having known anything other than the forest life in all those years, Angus found the transition more difficult. He realized how rough around the edges he was, and so he was reluctant to join any of the local social circles for fear of being mistaken for one of the servants, or making a spectacle of himself.

One thing that Angus did discover, apart from how much Leith and Lucy could teach him, was what a wonderful social lubricant children could be. Had he been on his own, he would not have met, let alone got to know the other parents, but having them as a sort of intermediary allowed contact between parents.

Indeed, by a stroke of the most wonderful good fortune, this is how Angus Middleditch came to meet Princess Esmerelda, or Esmie as the young lady preferred to be known to her friends. Esmie was a widow herself, her husband having been killed in combat. Her son Victor was in the same class as Lucy and the two had struck up their own friendship. Angus would take Lucy to play with Victor at the palace, and Esmie would bring her daughter to play at Angus' house. Of course, the princess could have sent a maid or a nanny, but she was an independent woman and she wanted to do these things herself, so that her son should grow up close to her, rather than there being a gulf between them as there was between her and her own parents, the king and queen.

As time went on, Angus and Esmie become good friends themselves and they would often visit the theatre, walk, or dine together.

Now, what neither of them realized was that Willum Foster, one of the king's courtly advisers, had had his eye on Esmie for some time. He was of noble lineage and would have made an admirable suitor in the king's eye. Were he to marry the Princess Esmerelda, then this would bring to an end the sporadic border clashes they had with their belligerent neighbour, King Tutt, to whom Willum was closely related: skirmishes that had left Esmerelda herself a widow.

One fine summer's evening, having just been to the cinema together, Esmie and Angus were strolling back toward the palace, arm in arm, when Esmie stopped and turned to face Angus. She looked so elegant in her long silk evening gown, her long auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and with a delightful twinkle in her big hazel eyes.

“Angus, we've known each other for some time now and we've become the best of friends,” she began, peering into his eyes to gauge his reaction.

“Indeed, Esmie,” he smiled back, gently stroking her arm.

“I don't want to ever be parted from you,” she began again, as if she were skirting around something even more important on her mind, but not sure how to broach the subject.

“You can speak directly with me, Esmie. You should know by now that I do not bite.”

The princess drew in a deep breath. “Angus Middleditch ....”

“Yes, Princess Esmerelda,” he replied, his heart missing a beat. If she used his full Sunday name, then it really must be something important.

Esmie looked quite bashful.

“Angus Middleditch, will you marry me?” she blurted out at length.

Angus could feel his legs turn to jelly beneath him and he had to draw several deep breaths before he'd quite recovered. “As I've already said, dear heart: 'Yes, Princess Esmerelda.' I can think of nothing more that I'd rather do.”

Esmie reached up, flung her arms around his neck and gave him a sloppy kiss on the lips, then hugged him tight.

“Oh, thank you; thank you so much, Angus. Truly, I would be lost without you,” she said, looking up at him. Angus could see that there were tears of joy pooling in her eyes, and he brought out his handkerchief and gently dabbed them, before wiping his own eyes.

“No, no. Thank you, dear heart. Thank you.”

“Then I shall tell my father as soon as I get back,” Esmie beamed, taking his arm and leading him on down the tree-lined avenue to toward the palace.

“We'll need your father's permission, of course, Esmie.”

“Oh, I can't see why he should object,” Esmie replied. “And in any case, if he doesn't, then I shall simply elope with you, and hang the consequences.”[33]

The very next day, Angus headed off toward the palace to meet the princess as they'd arranged, with a spring in his step; and, no doubt, he would be called to meet privately with her father, the king. What he didn't know was that when Willum Foster got wind of what Princess Esmerelda was planning, he went to see the king, determined to put an end to the affair.

“Sire,” the man began, bowing low in deference to the king. “I appeal to you to allow me to put a stop to this matter before it goes any further. I shan't deny that I have my own romantic – and wholly honourable – feelings toward your daughter; indeed, had it not been for this upstart sticking his nose in and coming between us, I have no doubt that the Princess Esmerelda would have accepted my hand in marriage. And that would have helped forge a new and powerful alliance with King Tutt.

“But what grieves me most is this. I have been watching this upstart Angus Middleditch for some time now and I have made my enquiries. You do realize, of course, that far from being of noble blood, before he came to the city he was merely a humble charcoal burner, the last in a long line of them. Furthermore, the man's father was a drunkard and a swindler; and these characteristics seem to run in the family.

“I don't know how Middleditch came into money, but he did, and he's used that money to get his greedy little claws into your daughter's heart, Sire. The man is a menace and such a lowly oaf as he is, he simply cannot be allowed to marry your daughter. Can you imagine that wretch being crowned, when your time comes?

“Sire, I appeal to you to allow me to put an end to this charade. You only have to say 'Yea' and it shall be done.”

The king stroked his chin and thought for a moment, then he slowly nodded his head.

“Very well, Foster,” the king spoke at length. “Do what you have to do.”

Then: “But there is to be no bloodshed, you understand. I shall tell my daughter that I spoke to this Middleditch fellow; that I told him that his roguery had been discovered; that I would never consent to him marrying my daughter; and that, his odorous plans having been discovered and thwarted, he hastily left the city.”

“And what of the man's children, Sire? He has a son of sixteen years and a daughter the same age as the Princess Esmerelda's son, Victor.”

Again the King pondered this for a moment. “As I said, there is to be no bloodshed, Foster.”

“Sire, I thought to take Middleditch to the southern border and send him into exile, and perhaps you might allow me to take possession of his estate? If you will permit me, should you consent to me marrying the Princess Esmerelda, then Middleditch's fortune would make an ample dowry, to set us up in marriage.”

“Very well, let that be done. But what of the children?”

“Sire, I did think perhaps that they might be taken into care.”

The king shook his head firmly. “Sent to the poorhouse, you mean? No, no, I cannot countenance that. And in any case, it would make it all the more likely that Middleditch would return to secure their release.

“No, let the children go with their father, and perhaps the scoundrel will count his blessings and leave the matter at that. Now off with you, Foster.”

Willum bowed once more. “Your wish is my command, Sire,” he replied, backing slowly away until he was close to the door, before turning about and leaving the room to go about his dastardly business.

Angus Middleditch was just turning onto the long, wide cherry tree lined avenue leading up to the palace when he heard the clatter of hooves and found himself surrounded by riders in the familiar uniform of the palace guard. For a brief moment he thought that perhaps they were there to escort him into the king's presence, but then one of the soldiers leapt from his mount, grabbed him and held him tight so that he could not break free. Then a second reached up and pulled a dark hood over his head, obscuring his vision, and began to lay into him in the face and then the stomach, with his heavy chain mail gloves. With the breath knocked out of him and almost knocked senseless by the heavy blows, Angus collapsed in a heap on the ground. He could feel the blood pouring from his mouth and his ribs ached so much, he feared the brute must have fractured them.

They left him there for a few moments, then dragged him to his feet.

Of course as he began to recover, he demanded to know what was going on, but all he received by was of reply was a firm clout on the back of his head, so he spoke no more.

The soldiers bound Angus' hands tightly in front of him, then roughly manhandled him onto the back of one of the horses and rode away from the palace.

Where the soldiers were taking him, Angus had no idea, but one thing he did know was that they had left the city, for he could tell by the abrupt change in the sound of the horses' hooves, that they had left the smooth metalled streets of the city and were now riding at a slow but steady gallop over dirt roads. They rode on for hours, then stopped for a short time to rest their horses, freeing Angus' hands just long enough for him to answer the call of nature, before riding on again.

The hood over Angus' head was made of a thick and tightly woven material, so he could not see anything around him, not even faint shapes, but he knew that a long time had passed and he could just about make out that it was coming in dark.

Finally they stopped again. Angus was roughly manhandled, brought down from the saddle and thrown to the ground; and one of the brutes gave him a good kicking, adding to his agonies.

Feeling something sharp against his throat, and immediately sensing that it must be a blade of some kind, he lay there quite still.

“Angus Middleditch, you have been banished from Roth Nagor by order of the king.”

As soon as the man spoke, Angus recognized the voice. It was one of the king's advisers, Willum Foster. Esmie had introduced the man to Angus one day and she and Foster conversed from time to time, but Angus could tell that Esmie was not particularly fond of the man.

Angus could feel the sharp point dig a little deeper into his skin, and he hardly dare breath, for fear the blade might cut him.

“The king has been far more generous than I would have been, Middleditch. I was greatly vexed by the way you wormed your way into Princess Esmerelda's life and came between us, and I would have rather seen you thrown into a dungeon or hanged.

“However, should you ever again dare to set foot in this realm, rest assured that you will end up swinging from a gibbet at the city gates with your guts pulled out, and your children will be sent away to a cruel life in the the poorhouse.”

“My children, where are they?” Angus dared to ask, in a hoarse whisper.

“They're here already, waiting for you,” Foster replied, and Angus breathed a sigh of relief as the sharp blade was withdrawn. “Fetch the children,” he called.

“Papa!” Angus heard an anguished cry from somewhere off to his left.

“It's alright, Lucy dear. I'm here,” he panted. “We're safe now.”

“Wait!” Foster commanded. “Stand where you are, and wait. When we have departed and are out of sight, then you may untie your father.”

And with that, the man climbed back into the saddle and the soldiers rode away into the night, leaving Angus, Leith and Lucy all alone.

When the men had gone, Leith and Lucy ran to their father and Lucy yanked the hood off his head while Leith freed him from the rope binding his hands, and for a time they just stood there, hugging one-another, shedding tears and him licking his wounds.[34]

They'd been left on the open road, just beyond the border, though quite where they were they had little idea, except that judging by what little remained of the setting sun, they had probably ridden south, and that the city must be many hours away on horseback and probably days away on foot.

“So what do we do now, Papa?” little Lucy begged to know.

Her father looked around him and in the distance, to the south, he could see wisps of smoke rising from what looked like a cluster of houses.

“We'll see if there's an inn, yonder,” Angus decided, pointing it out to them. He reached under his jersey and to his dismay he discovered that his money belt was gone, and all he had in his pocket were three tiny coppers.

“This is all I have,” he told them, holding the pitiful coins in his outstretched palm.

“They stole my money, too,” Leith groaned, shaking his head.

Angus looked around and swept his arms in a wide circle. “Then we shall simply have to go back to life in the forest, and we'll rebuild our lives from scratch,” he told them. And then he faltered. “But of course, we have no tools. We need an axe or a saw to make a hut and cut wood; a strong spade to dig earth to build a kiln ....”

Little Lucy tapped him gently on the shoulder, a beaming smile etched across her face. “Close your eyes and make a wish,” she suggested.

Angus wasn't quite sure what good that would do, though of course it did pointedly remind him that of late, they'd forgotten to remember Mushkil Gusha for all his help.

Lucy knelt down and fished around inside her white cotton socks, then stood up again. Taking her father's hand, she turned it over and placed something in his open palm.

“Alright, you can open your eyes now,” she lilted.

When her father looked, his eyes lit up. There in his hand were two gleaming gold coins.

“I kept one hidden in each sock, in case of emergencies, you see, remembering that Granddad once told me never to trust the banks,” Lucy reliably informed him, and he reached down and gave her a kiss on her cheek.

“And how right the old man was,” he beamed, “Lucy Middleditch, you're a life saver. An absolute ruddy marvel. Now, let's go and see if we can find an inn before they shut shop for the night. And tomorrow, we'll see about those tools and other necessities.”

He turned over the two gold coins in his hand. “You know, Lucy, this is more than your Great Granddad had when he first started out. And if he could build a new life for himself, living off the land, then so can we. So let's count our blessings, and never again forget the help we received from Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties. 'If you do this, and if this is done by those to whom you tell the story, the people who are in real need will always find their way.'”

At this point, Artor broke off telling the tale of the lost treasure and glanced at his pocket watch.

“Well, my friend, it will soon be time for my next audience, and I need to prepare myself. Are you free tomorrow at the same time, Jeremy?”

“Indeed,” I nodded, eager to hear more.

“Excellent. Then let's wander back and we'll meet again to continue the tale of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.”

8. Heartbreak

“When Angus failed to turn up that day,” Artor continued the next day, “Esmie was mildly shocked and greatly disappointed, and she was on the point of putting on her coat to go and see Angus herself, when the king sent word that he wanted to see her. She knew better than to keep her father waiting, and besides, he probably wanted to talk to her about her intended marriage.”

She swept past the servant who opened the door for her and entered her father's study, surprised to Willum Foster there, hovering like a scavenging bird by the king's shoulder.

“Thank you, Foster, that will be all,” she told the unctuous little man, “I'd rather speak alone with my father, if you don't mind.”

Foster made no move to leave, instead turning to the king for guidance, his shoulders hunched, hands clasped before him in feigned piety, and a beseeching expression on his weaselly features. Father might have been deceived by the man, but she wasn't fooled for one moment.

“No, no. This matter concerns us all, so I'd rather he stayed, Esmerelda. Please, do take a seat and I'll have refreshments brought in, then we can have a little chin wag.”[35]

Just then, one of the servants entered the study and set a silver tray before them, so they waited until she'd left before continuing. Rather than knock, announce themselves and wait for approval to proceed, the king much preferred the servants to enter quietly like little mice, not draw any attention to themselves and leave just as quietly. Certainly, he seldom spoke with his servants, and heaven forbid that he should be on friendly terms with them, as she was with most of her own staff.

While Willum Foster stirred and poured the tea, much to Esmerelda's distaste, her father turned to her. “You told me yesterday evening of your desire to marry this Middleditch fellow, and asked that I meet with the man so that he could seek my approval,” her father began, by way of broaching the subject.

“Yes, Father. I would like nothing better.”

“Well, I'm afraid to say that this is totally out of the question, my dear.”

The colour drained from Esmie's face when she heard this and she had to put her cup down, for fear that she'd spill her tea, her hand had begun to tremble so much.

“Why ever not, Father?”

“I've made enquiries, you understand.”

Esmie shot a glance in Foster's direction and he cast his eyes down. “No Father, I do not understand,” she retorted quite severely. Then an awful thought occurred to her: “You mean that Foster here has made enquiries, Father. That explains rather a lot.”

“Be that as it may,” her father replied, not denying that she was correct. “I'm told that this man was, until only recently, a common charcoal burner, living a squalid life in the forest.”

“And what of it?” she asked, surprised by this news, but not in the least put off. “If anything, that only serves to make me more proud of Angus' achievements.”

“If you'll excuse my interruption, Sire,” Foster broke in. “Your Highness, dear Princess Esmerelda, the man certainly has come into a considerable amount of money recently, and heaven knows what dastardly deeds he carried out in order to accomplish this. I am reliably informed that the man is a most practised confidence trickster and comes from a long line of scoundrels. I would have been failing in my duty to you, your Highness, if I failed to warn you of this, or failed to take action ....”

“Take action?” Esmie shot the man a fiery glance. “What have you done, Foster? I demand to know what you've done.”

Foster raised his arms beseechingly.

“I told Foster to have Middleditch brought before me for questioning,” her father replied. “However, the rogue somehow got wind of this and much as it grieves me to have to tell you this, Esmerelda, by the time officials arrived at his residence to have him brought here, he and his children had already absconded. In short, my dear, realizing that his devious and repugnant game was up, the scoundrel has absconded, and I doubt any of us will ever see him again, thanks be to God.”

“But what about his estate?” she wondered. “Surely he wouldn't leave that behind.”

Foster shook his head sadly. “I'm afraid that most of what Middleditch claimed to own was actually borrowed from creditors. And by the time all his creditors are reimbursed, there will probably be nothing left. As I said, the man's an out-and-out confidence trickster, your Highness. He's fooled a great many other folk, too, by all accounts.”

This was devastating news. What could she say, except “Oh, Father, but this is awful. I feel utterly betrayed and crushed.”

And then, without asking to be excused, Esmie fled the room in tears.

Foster wiped the smirk off his face before turning to the king. “Shall I go after the Princess, Sire?” he enquired, feigning innocence.

“No, no, leave Esmerelda be for now. She's clearly been thoroughly besotted with this Middleditch fellow and needs time to grieve. Once she's got over this dreadful episode, then perhaps we might approach her again. I must say, on reflection, I am rather taken by your proposal to marry the girl. It really would make life a whole lot easier when dealing with that wretched King Tutt, and it would sort out Esmerelda once and for all.”[36]

And on that unhappy note, Artor checked his watch and wrapped up the proceedings for the day, promising to resume the tale the next day.

9. A timely intervention

“Life was almost unbearably tough for Angus Middleditch and his children,” Artor began again, as he continued to recite the long and sorry tale of the lost treasure. “The high life had spoilt them a little, and it was hard to settle down to a primitive existence in the forest once more. Fortunately or otherwise, after a time they began to forget their former life, though Angus was still so very much in love with the Princess Esmerelda, and little Lucy often thought about her little play mate, Victor.”

The charcoal burner had been to market one day and for one reason or another, he'd had a devil of a time getting a decent price for the coals. He'd made just enough to get them through the following week, but there certainly wasn't enough to buy any of the nicer food his daughter Lucy still craved, let alone any luxuries like a pretty new dress for her.

They'd had a horse before, but now all they had was an old donkey to pull the cart, and he soon got tired, so instead of riding in the cart, Angus had to walk alongside and gently lead and coax the old lad and frequently he had to bribe his donkey with carrots.

There he was, trudging along the road back to their hut in the forest, so deep in thought that he didn't notice the stranger coming up behind him, until the man had fallen into step beside him.

“Going far?” the man asked, breaking his reverie.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I was miles away,” he replied, forcing a smile and seeing the man beside him, dressed from head to toe in dark green, with a patch over one eye and a full day's stubble on his strong jawline. The stranger had a powerful, muscular physique and Angus was only too glad to find that he appeared to be of an amiable disposition and was not out to rob him of what little he had.

“I've just been to market to sell a load of charcoal and now I'm off back to the forest where I live with my children,” he explained.

“You said you were miles away,” the stranger prompted. “What were you thinking about, if I might enquire?”

This was a rather forward question to ask, Angus mused, but no matter. It was no state secret. Oh, I was just telling myself my own story,” he replied, deciding that simple honesty was probably the best policy.

“What's that?” the stranger asked, in a kindly manner, and when he did so, Angus remembered his encounter with Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties, those many moons ago; and again he realized that they had forgotten to commemorate that occasion and to give thanks for the help they'd received.

And so he told the man his story, which all started when his little daughter Lucy had asked for some nicer, different food to eat, and this time ended with their being kidnapped, cast into exile and again having to live off the land in the forest.

But as Angus concluded the tale, with those familiar words, “If you do this, and if this is done by those to whom you tell the story, the people who are in real need will always find their way”, he noticed that the man had disappeared and that he was walking along the road all alone once more.

Angus thought this mighty strange, of course, and he did think that perhaps he'd just been daydreaming and had imagined it all; but soon enough, as he neared the forest clearing, he forgot all about the encounter.

The weeks passed and the daily toil went on and on without remorse or even a mere reprieve. And then one day, as the charcoal burner was at market and just getting set up for the day, he was startled to see a familiar face gazing at him from close-by.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Angus cried, going quite weak at the knees and clutching onto the back of his cart. “Esmie? Esmie, is that really you, or am I dreaming?”

The lady came closer and gently pinched his hand.

“Ouch,” he flinched.

“Is that proof enough that you are awake, Angus Middleditch?” the princess enquired.

“But what are you doing here, so far from home?” he wanted to know.

“Forget the market,” Esmie requested. “Bring your cart and take me to your home in the forest, and I'll explain on the way.”

As they walked back down the heavily rutted and muddy road, which was fortunately only three or so miles from town, Esmie told him that she'd been leaving the palace one day when a stranger came up and asked if he might speak to her.

“He told me that he had news of a charcoal burner he'd met on the road and, hearing this, I suggested that we went to sit in a teahouse while he told his story.”

“Do you mind if I stop you there for a moment, Esmie?” Angus enquired. “Tell me: was this man dressed in green?”

“Dark green, yes, from head to foot.”

“And did he wear an eye patch?”

Esmie beamed at the charcoal burner. “Indeed he did. He was a strong, well-built chap.”

“Then yes, I did speak with this stranger, and I told him my whole story. Anyhow, I'm sorry to interrupt you, Esmie. Please, do go on.”

“When I heard the man's account, Angus – I mean, the real story of your exile – I realized that everything that my father and that wretched man Willum Foster had told me about you had been a pack of lies. All along, that unctuous little man had wanted me for himself, and clearly when you got in his way and proposed marriage, he had fabricated these lies so that Father would have you exiled.”

Esmie cast her eyes down. “And I'm sorry to say that I doubted you and fell for it. Worse still, my darling, after I'd done grieving, I allowed my father to persuade me to marry the unconscionable[37] wretch ....”

Esmie clutched tight hold of Angus as they led the cart down the lane. “Oh, Angus, I am truly so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

“What's to forgive, Esmie?” the charcoal burner answered rhetorically, and he stopped for a few moments to give the princess a warm hug.

“So what now, Esmie?” he wanted to know, so happy to see his beloved once more, yet beside himself with worry over the fate that had befallen her.

“Tonight, I'll sleep with you in the forest.”

Angus looked askance. “Heavens, you can't do that, Esmie. Our humble hut is more fit for swine than for a princess.”

“The stranger told me exactly what to do, Angus. So, please trust me. And in any case, I would be greatly honoured to share your humble dwelling.”

A troubled frown furrowed Angus' brow, as fairytale notions bumped up against grim reality. “But won't your husband miss you?”

Esmie shook her head resolutely. “No, not all all. This is no sudden whim, Angus, it has been carefully thought through. I persuaded him to go visit King Tutt. He'll be away for at least two weeks, most likely three – and by the time he gets back, we'll be long gone.

“Anyway, let's get back home, I'm just dying to see Lucy and Leith again. And when we've eaten, I'll explain the plan in detail.”

“Oh, if I'd only known, I'd have bought in some decent food, Esmie ....”

Esmie patted the wicker basket she was carrying and lifted one corner of the cloth that covered it. “You worry too much, Angus Middleditch: I've already thought of that.”

“So you have, Esmie. How could I ever doubt your resourcefulness?”

After they'd feasted that day, and Esmie had spent some time talking with Lucy and Leith, Esmie drew Angus back into the conversation.

“Right, now here's the plan that our friend proposed. As I told your father earlier, my erstwhile husband Willum Foster will be away visiting King Tutt for the next two or three weeks. Now, as soon as the sun rises tomorrow morning, we must be off, so tonight you must pack the cart with all the possessions you want to take with you.

“And sharp on nine o'clock tomorrow morning, we must be in town to meet the others.”

“The others?” Angus queried.

Esmie nodded. “Oh yes. Several of my servants, one or two trusted members of the court, my personal guard and my son Victor, of course.”

“Oh, wow-wie!” little Lucy whooped for joy, dashing across and giving the princess a hug. “I can't wait.”

“Then you're leaving the city?” Angus wanted to know.

“As I said all those months ago, Angus: if the king won't allow me to marry you, then I will simply elope. Our friend was quite clear about it: we're to ride east and keep on riding east until the city of Roth Nagor is just a tiny dot on the map.”

“But so much of the land to the east is uncharted,” Angus pointed out.

“Our friend will be going along with us. He's familiar with the east and he will be guiding us. Having heard what he had to say, I place the utmost trust in him.”

Again there were practicalities.“But what about all the riches you'll be leaving behind, Esmie?”

“That will be coming with us: and a mighty haul it will be. I have my own wealth, of course, and then there is the dowry which my father gave me to pay to Willum Foster – which I gather actually came from your misappropriated fortune, Angus. And we also have Willum's own fortune. After our marriage, King Tutt and Father showered him with gold.

“Please trust me, Angus. We will have a fortune to keep us in the coming years.”

She reached across and clasped Angus' hand. “But believe me, Angus. Even if we were destitute, I would still have come to find you and to be with you, just as I promised.”

Angus squeezed her hand. “Thank you, that's touching, Esmie. And Willum?”

“As for that thief Willum Foster,” Esmie grinned mischievously, “he will return home from his travels to find the larder and the coffers utterly bare and my wedding ring at the bottom of the toilet basin where it belongs. Now, given the value of the gem, that really will rub Willum up the wrong way. And by that time, a letter which I have written to my father will arrive in the post, detailing the man's treachery. If he's lucky, my father will send him to the scaffold; and if not, then he can look forward to a suitably bleak existence – cast out, just as you were, with but a few coppers to his name. And, not being as enterprising as you, Angus, this will hit him hard and where it most hurts.

“And as for us, my love, we and what may come to be known as the 'Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor' will simply and mysteriously vanish from the map.” Esmerelda laughed out loud: “I can see them talking about this for generations to come.”

~~~O~~~

At this point, Artor shrugged his shoulders. “Well, there you have it, my friend,” he said, concluding the saga. “... Or at least a taste of what lay ahead for the Princess Esmerelda.”

“Thank you Artor, it's certainly a wonderful story,” I replied. “Though it's a rather tall and metaphysical tale, if you ask me.”

Artor smiled and stood up to stretch his legs. “This disbelief, too, will pass,” he remarked, then he fished in his pocket and, leaning forward, he pressed something into the palm of my hand.

“What's this?” I asked, though I could see by now that it was a gold coin. “I surely don't deserve this. You've done enough for us already.”

“A parting gift, my friend,” the man smiled.

“Then you're leaving?” I queried.

“Yes, tomorrow just before noon,” he nodded.

I reached across the table and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. It's been an honour meeting you and getting to know you.”

“And you, too, my friend. Take care,” Artor replied, heading for the door. “Until we meet again.”

On the way back home, I was idly turning the gold coin in my hand, marvelling at my good fortune, when I stopped dead in my tracks. I held the coin in my trembling hand and carefully re-read the inscription on the back of the coin.

There were some words written in a foreign tongue that I couldn't understand, but there, as plain and true as day, were inscribed two simple words:

“Roth Nagor”.

And the gold coin that Artor had given Elzabeth earlier. Chances were that was the same, and we hadn't even noticed before we'd exchanged it for silver at the jeweller's.

Golly gee willikins. Now that certainly did set me thinking – make no mistake.

Again, it was late in the evening, and David reluctantly marked his page, put Jeremy Wildacre's Chronicles down and went back downstairs to make himself a fresh cup of cocoa. Golly gee willikins, indeed. All these years later, this has set him thinking, too.

Having second thoughts, David fetched the book, took it back downstairs and went into the study to lock it in the floor safe, for safe keeping. He was growing impatient, and he did wonder whether he might start reading Uncle's notes, to see what further light they might shed on the lost treasure.

Just as he was about to place the book in the safe, he happened to notice what looked like a small, flat black velvet pouch down in the bottom of the safe, and he pulled out the documents and diaries and reached down to retrieve the pouch.

He could tell by the feel that there was something in the tiny drawstring purse, and when he slackened the neck and felt inside, sure enough he found a small object. He knew what it would be even before he'd brought it into the light beside the hearth.

It was a small gold coin, and – yes, oh yes! – on the back was written that self-same inscription:

Roth Nagor.

As David was about to pop the coin back in the little purse, he noticed something else, too. There was a piece of thin paper inside and he carefully unfolded it. Written in pencil on the paper was a short message:

My dear David, if you've found this and you understand the significance of the inscription, you may continue reading The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre, if you find them of sufficient interest. However, time is of the essence, so please turn your attention more fully to the accompanying documents and diaries. You'll find that one helps explain the other, and versi vica. P.T.O.

On no account should you show the gold coin to anyone, attempt to exchange it, or even enquire if there are others like it. Alas, there are some ne’er-do-wells[38] who share a very unhealthy interest in this quest.

So that was what all the trouble had been about, nodded David, by now a little wiser. He hastily replaced the contents and securely locked the safe, returning the small key to the safety of the hook hidden under Uncle's desk.

Now that really was an unexpected turn-up for the books. He was so excited by this latest find, that the chance of getting to sleep that night was looking exceedingly scant; not only due to this excitement, but also because even all this time after the break in, he'd become conditioned to sleep with one eye open, as it were, or at least one ear. Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying rightly observed. And, by the sound of it, this paranoia that he'd developed of late was not entirely without due cause.

~~~O~~~

That night, David had a dreadful dream, and he used the root word dread advisedly. He'd left the house and started to walk off down the street when, not watching where he was going, he almost bumped into someone who was walking the other way.

Quick as a flash, the man reached out his arms and stopped him dead in his tracks, just as they were about to collide.

“Sorry,” he gasped, then he recognized the familiar face.

“Oh, it's you.” Then: “Sorry, got the wrong set of teeth in today. I didn't mean 'Oh, it's just you', I meant 'Oh, it's you!'”

It was Artor, the mystic.

“Well, well, fancy bumping into you here,” Artor beamed at him. Then the man reached for the rucksack that David had slung over his shoulder. He didn't snatch it away, but weighed it in his hand and poked at it with his fingers.

“Haven't we forgotten something, young man?”[39] Artor enquired, adding that “a stitch in time saves nine.”

When David turned to face him, he found the mystic gone. He unslung his rucksack and examined it, but all the seams looked intact. And then he kicked himself, realizing that Artor had been speaking figuratively, not literally.

Thinking that he must have left something important behind, but being a little confused and sleepy, since this was a dream, David turned on his heel and walked back to the house. Fiddling for the keys, he went inside.

His heart lurched, seeing the door to the study wide open.

In spite of his nerves, he slowly crept toward the open door, fully expecting someone to come bursting out and put the fear of God in him.

When he got to the study and saw the mess on the floor, he groaned. The burglars had struck again.

Casting his haversack aside, David scrambled under the desk to retrieve the key, then roughly and anxiously pushed his uncle's armchair out of the way and flung back the rug.

Yanking the door of the floor safe open, he gasped and staggered to his feet. The diaries and notes and the purse containing the gold coin had vanished and the safe was empty, with the exception of an empty, bright red sweet wrapper, whatever that was meant to symbolize, if anything.

He heard the creak of a loose floorboard behind him and spun round too late, as again he was hit over the back of the head with some force.

This time, he didn't lose consciousness. Instead, he abruptly awoke – and such was his fright that he involuntarily leapt clean out of the bed, ready to take on the world and his dog.[40] His heart was thumping heavily in his chest and he was glistening with sweat from the great tension he felt. Such was his fear, David wouldn't have been at all surprised if he'd jumped clean out of his skin.

~~~O~~~

The following morning, whether he liked it or not, David simply had to go out to the high street to buy in some food. He'd been putting this off for far too long and the previous day all he'd been able to rustle up was some dried pasta and a small tin of baked beans in place of the meat and sauce.

As he was leaving the house, David remembered the premonition and, fetching the key from under the desk, he took out the contents of the floor safe and stowed them away in the bottom of his rucksack, before locking up and leaving the house.

As soon as David returned, heavily laden with provisions, and tried his key in the door, he knew that something was wrong. He'd double locked the door but the small door latch at the top was somehow jammed open and, judging by the marks on the lock, someone had used a screwdriver on it, to force the lock open. He was greatly relieved to find the door secure, however, and when he turned the key in the dead lock – which must have defeated the intruders – he was pleased to see that the door opened easily, though the latch was broken.

There was an old painted chimney pot in the hallway, which was maybe twelve inches in diameter and over three feet tall,[41] and Uncle had used it as a plinth on which to place a potted plant.

Before going anywhere, David gently lifted off the potted plant, dug down to the bottom of his rucksack, brought out the bundle of diaries and papers and the velvet purse, and quietly stuffed them down inside the plinth, before returning the plant pot to the top of the plinth. Then he casually slung the haversack back over his shoulder and walked down the wide hallway.

As he approached the study, he was greatly relieved to see that the door was closed and, thinking that after all that, the coast was clear, he walked through the living room and to the kitchen to restock the refrigerator and the cupboards.

Brewing a pot of tea, David poured himself a cup and then headed back to the study to sit down for five minutes and rest his feet. He'd bought himself a new pair of shoes recently and, not having worn in, they were rubbing against his heels and creating blisters, and those blisters had since popped, making the shoes all the more painful to wear for any length of time.

The first thing that David noticed as he entered the study, was that someone had been in there. He hastily backed out and put his cup down on the narrow table in the hall, for fear of dropping it, then stepped back into the study, taking in the scene in an instant.

Uncle's desk had been turned over on its side and he could see quite clearly from where he stood, without having to go any closer, that the small silver key was missing from its hook. The chairs, too, had been upended and thrown back against the walls. But worse still, the rug on the floor had been snatched up and thrown away from the hearth. And there, where Uncle's chair had been, was the floor safe. The metal door was wide open and the key was in the lock.

To say that David was scared at that moment would be an understatement and give a misleading impression of what he faced that day. His arms and legs was trembling with fear and his neck was tense to the point of twitching uncontrollably; his teeth were firmly clenched together and he thought that even had he opened his mouth, he would have either screamed hideously or else been unable to call out anything whatsoever; and he had the urge, though fortunately not a great urge, to empty his bladder.

But what shocked David more than anything, perhaps, was to see so many of the books strewn across the floor. Some old tomes had landed badly, splitting the pages from the spine, and several had been torn wide open, not in a moment of wanton[42] vandalism, but clearly in a fit of rage, their pages scattered widely across the bare floorboards. Uncle Harry would have been mortified had he seen the mess they'd made of his precious books that day. It was unforgivable.

Careful not to tread on any of the fallen books, David edged further into the study and what he saw chilled him to the bone. There was one book there, the ominously titled Death Cults in Mogadoo, which had been stabbed clean through and nailed to the floorboards with the ivory handled knife that Uncle had used as a letter opener.

David prised the knife free and picked up the book, and as he did so, something small and white fluttered to the floor. It was a small rectangular card. He stooped down and, examining the card more closely, he saw that on one side it was blank and on the other it simply bore a heraldic coat of arms, with a black eagle on a blue background, and beneath it was printed a legend which he could not understand, except for those two familiar words, Roth Nagor. These had to be the colours of Prince Willum's family. Now this was deeply worrying.

David staggered out of the study, his eyes darting left and right, once again expecting to be confronted by one of the perpetrators, but they seemed to have gone. And after another ten minutes or so, when he'd begun to calm down, he finally plucked up courage and went back to again check in the kitchen, though every step he took, he took warily.

The glass in the kitchen window was intact and the back door was closed, but it was no longer locked and bolted. Venturing outside into the back yard, he saw that an attempt had been made to force the door on the edge with the hinges, just as the detective had suggested after the first break-in. However this had not succeeded, suggesting to him that the burglars had perhaps left by the back door but had entered by some other route. Yes, standing back from the house, he could see the broken pane in one of the upstairs windows, not far from a conveniently situated drainpipe. That's how the burglars had got into the house.

So he called the police and again a uniformed officer came round to make a quick inspection of the property and take down details. Again, a couple of days later, the same detective called, dusted for fingerprints and offered yet more advice about household security. And again, nothing more came of their enquiries. All they seemed sure about was that this was no spotty youth out to steal a few goodies to feed his drug habit, but a professional and targeted job.

10. The trail to the East

The next day, Mother and Father had to go on a few errands in town, and since David had no work planned, he decided to devote the whole day to Uncle's “wizard quest”. He made himself a pot of tea and brought out a plate of his favourite chocolate biscuits and settled himself in the armchair by the hearth in the study, to really get to grips with the task.

The only thing about chocolate biscuits was that he found them so moreish. He could easily devour a whole packet in a day, and for that reason when he bought in biscuits, he always bought two packets: one to pig out on and a second that he was determined must last him the rest of the week. That required inordinate willpower and mental discipline, and these were two qualities that, for one reason or another, he simply did not possess, leaving him wide open to influences which led to bad habits and addiction. So there he was, even at his age, still anxiously biting his fingernails and idly picking his nose.

Breaking his reverie and turning his attention to the task at hand, David decided that he'd first return to The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre, and finish reading to the end of the section; then have a look at the other documents, as Uncle had suggested.

“Alas,” wrote Jeremy Wildacre, “I discovered later that Princess Esmerelda had sorely under-estimated Willum Foster's resourcefulness and resolve. The snake-tongued villain had somehow managed to convince the king that Middleditch had again fooled Princess Esmerelda and persuaded her to steal Foster's fortune and run off with Middleditch.”

Foster in turn persuaded the king to allow him to take a party of armed men and pursue the rogue. He didn't at first know where to look, but sending his spies out, he finally discovered that they had fled to the east. To make life more difficult for him, Middleditch's main party had apparently made a point of bypassing large towns, sending just one or two of their number out with mules to pick up provisions, but Foster soon found that greasing the locals' palms with silver loosened their tongues marvellously.

Nevertheless, it was still difficult at times to trace their movements, for on a number of occasions, it turned out that Middleditch had greased these people's palms earlier, and encouraged them to send anyone following them off on a wild goose chase. For many, the prospect of being paid twice and having a good laugh in the process was too much of a temptation to pass over. It seemed that the princess Esmerelda's enigmatic friend was as wily as Foster, if not more so, and the affair ultimately boiled down to a distant battle of wits between the two.

And then Willum Foster had a bright idea. Wherever Middleditch went, he'd have to spend money and, most of their ready money being in the form of gold, their party would have to spend that gold, since while they were on the move, they had no opportunity to invest. Therefore, it was simply a matter of following the money – money, that is, bearing the king's distinctive coat of arms and an inscription containing the name of the city, Roth Nagor. And of course jewellers, looking to profit from a sale, tended to be more truthful than the other locals; if not about the value of the gold, then at least about the fact that someone had brought in such an item for exchange.

As David read these words, he did wonder if it were possible to still “follow the money” even all these years later; though of course what Uncle had written in his note strongly advised against such a course of action. Perhaps this is how Uncle himself had begun the quest and acquired the gold coin? Of course, David would only find this out when he came to read through his uncle's documents and diaries.

David read a little further into The Chronicles, but since Jeremy Wildacre had gone off at something of a tangent, he decided to put the book down and pick up that thread a little later.

11. The diaries

David looked at the pile of diaries and reams of paper and mentally groaned. It would take an age to wade through all these, all the more so, since he had so little idea of what he was looking for, and his uncle was such a prolific writer. Uncle Harry had been able to work to a time scale measured in years and decades, but David didn't have that luxury. Somehow he had to boil all that down into a matter of hours, days, weeks and at most months; and that would inevitably lead to him having to pick and choose and to cut corners. Presumably he should start with the earliest diary and work his way forward. Or perhaps he should start with the latest, since that might give him a better idea of what might be important in the earlier work?

He checked the covers and picked the latest diary, flicking through from the back of the bound volume until he came to the latest entry and what he saw made him laugh out loud … and then groan.

David was not in the least surprised to find that the last entry was, indeed, addressed to him:

My dearest David, I hope that if you're reading this diary, you've already read The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre and can now see the significance of the item that I've left you in the small, black velvet purse. If not, please don't waste your time reading these diaries yet.

Faced with such a large quantity of material, I also expect that you're wondering where you should start: whether you should read your way through page upon page of material and bore yourself silly, or impatiently skip forward to this latest diary, in the hope that it will provide some short cut or help you see the wood for the trees.

Well, old son, I hate to disappoint you, but if there's one thing I've learnt over the last twenty years of following this quest, it's that there are no short cuts in this line of work, nor to enlightenment – or at least, if there are, then they are likely to lead you astray or even present a very real danger to life, limb and sanity. So don't hop, skip and jump. Resist the urge and simply take it with one measured step at a time. Trust me: a period of good old-fashioned toil now could well save you a great deal of unnecessary or duplicated effort later on.

So my counsel to you would be to start with the earliest diary and slowly and methodically work your way forward, following in my carefully placed footsteps, as it were, and learning from my earlier mistakes before you make them yourself. And then read the documents, which are there to flesh out the bare bones presented in the diaries.

When you've read all this material, and concluded The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre, then you'll pretty much know as much about this whole affair as me. Just think of it, young man, you'll be the world's leading expert on the subject of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor, eh?! Everything that I know that could be written down, has been written down, and I leave it entirely up to you to decide where to go from there.

All I know – and alas I can't help you further here, since of course by the time you read this, I'll have popped my proverbial clogs – is that if you want to take this thing further, and I do so hope that you are willing to take the baton from me, then you're going to have to set these books aside and go out into the big, wide world and study and pursue this thing in the field – not walking in my footsteps any longer, but rather walking in those of the Princess Esmerelda, Angus Middleditch and their strange benefactor, of Willum Foster, and of Jeremiah Wildacre.

And when you're done, my advice to you would be to publish your findings, in one form or another, and to treat yourself with the royalties … perhaps even the rich proceeds, who knows?

Good luck and Godspeed, my friend!

Your affectionate, if unashamedly heretical and eccentric Uncle Harry.

P.S. I'll give you one pointer, based on my own research, which supersedes what I wrote in earlier diaries. This may save you much fruitless searching and perhaps a lot of grief. Please forgive me if I appear to be repeating myself, but I really do need these words of advice to sink in.

Regarding the possibility of “following the money” like Willum Foster. Not only did Esmerelda's party have to exchange gold as they fled to the East, in order to buy equipment and supplies and bribe the locals, so did Foster. And since he had to search around all over the place to pick up Esmerelda's trail, spending more time chasing wild geese than actually on their trail, after a time this causes so much confusion that it becomes impossible to follow this trail of gold any further east; and in any case, since that time, the gold has changed hands on countless occasions. At best, this provides a “guestimate” or a hint. If a few pieces of gold from Roth Nagor somehow turn up in Gothgoria, shall we say for the sake of argument, then it's possible or even statistically likely that they passed through there. That's about as good as it gets.

Nevertheless, it's still possible that some local might recall their grandmother telling them about a strange procession of foreign horsemen who passed through their village one day. Never underestimate the value of these ancient oral traditions and the storytellers who hold these tales in their memory and pass them on to future generations.

So much for the “fruitless searching”. Now, concerning the grief. Just as Willum Foster followed Esmerelda's trail, so other interested and wholly unsavoury parties have been following mine. Whilst Foster earlier followed the trail of gold, they have similarly been following my enquiries about the gold. More fool me. Well, we live and learn. So please do take the utmost care. Don't attract attention to yourself, and do hold your cards close to your chest.

Believe me, these people would stop at nothing, and stoop exceedingly low, in order to lay their hands on the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.

~~~O~~~

The doorbell rang early one morning and David dashed to the door. “Hang on a minute, Mum,” he called down the hallway as he hunted for his keys. Finally he reached the door to find that it wasn't locked after all.

He had the door open before it dawned on him that had the door not been locked, Mother would have walked straight in. And by the time that thought occurred to him, he was being pushed back into the hallway by two burly men in black tailed suits. A third man entered the hallway, closed the door behind him and, the key still being in the keyhole, he locked the door and pocketed the key.

“Where is it?” the third man asked, without so much as a cursory introduction. In an instant, David recognized him, He was one of the strangers who'd attended Uncle's funeral uninvited, most likely having read the obituary. The man fished in his pocket, unwrapped a sweet, popped it in his mouth and idly dropped the empty wrapper in the hallway where he stood. It was bright red, just like the one he'd noticed in his earlier dream.

“Where's what?” David panted breathlessly and with an emotional quiver in his voice, quite shaken by this unexpected intrusion, and genuinely not knowing at that moment what the man was asking.

“The book,” the man snapped. “The book that Professor Seymour had in his possession. And his diaries.”

David waved his arms around and played the innocent. “My great uncle had thousands of books,” he replied, hoping to buy himself a little time to think. “And as for diaries, I haven't seen any, and I've been through the house quite thoroughly.”

The third man nodded to one of the larger men who had David by the arm. “Perhaps we need to jog your memory, Mister ...”

“Seymour. David Seymour.”

The man cuffed his ear, hitting him so hard that he was stunned and left with an awful ringing sensation in his ear.

“Is it all a little clearer now?” the third man enquired, coming closer and bending down a little to peer into David's eyes.

David shook his head. “I really don't know which book you're referring to.”

“The Chronicles, David. The Chronicles of Jeremy Wiseacre.”

David opened his mouth to speak. “Wildacre,” he unthinkingly corrected the man, realizing his utter folly almost before the words had left his mouth.

The man nodded with amused satisfaction. “There, you see. It is becoming clearer to you now.” Again he motioned to one of the men and the man squeezed David’s shoulder so hard that he was forced to his knees, in agony.

“Where is the book?” the man asked again, in slow measured tones. He'd stooped down and his face was so close to David's that the stench of stale tobacco on the man's breath made him quite nauseous and he could feel the disgusting spit on his face.

“I don't know,” David replied. “All I know is that my uncle was studying this book before he died.”

“I shan't ask you civilly again, lad,” the third man retorted firmly, making a fist and thrusting it in David's face menacingly. The man was wearing a large, gold signet ring and though David had difficulty in focussing his eyes at such a close distance, he could see that there was a design on the face of the ring: the familiar, embossed black eagle of Prince Willum's coat of arms.

“I really don't know,” he gulped.

The two men dragged David to his feet and whilst one held him from behind, by the arms, the other punched him repeatedly in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs and leaving him utterly breathless. His legs collapsed beneath him and the men let him fall forward on his knees, fighting for breath and threatening to cough his guts up.

At that precise moment, a shadow loomed at the front door and the door knob began to turn. Then the doorbell rang three times. Thank heavens. That would be Mother.

“Out the back,” the third man snapped at the others, getting down on his haunches and lifting David's head in his hand. “You've been saved by the bell this time, David. But we will have that book.”

The man got to his feet, tossing David's keys on the floor, and was about to leave when he turned back. “No, I have a brighter idea, David. We'll simply watch and wait and see where your feet take you in search of the stolen treasure. Why should I do all the donkey work?”

And, giving David another clip around the ear, the man dashed off toward the kitchen door to make good his escape, leaving David thoroughly shaken.

He didn't answer the door to Mother that day. Instead he crawled away and hid in the study, huddled under Uncle's rosewood desk licking his wounds, in case she decided to peer through the letterbox and saw him lying there. The last thing he needed right now was a lot of fuss and a barrage of awkward questions. He hadn't breathed a word about the treasure to his parents. This was not so much because they wouldn't be able to keep the secret to themselves, but rather that they would undoubtedly disapprove in the strongest terms and nag and nag until he finally relented, gave up this madcap escapade and foolish notions and got himself a sensible, down to earth job.

12. First steps

It was the end of the summer by the time David finished reading through the last of Uncle's documents and finally had the ground floor of the house and the exterior paintwork sorted out.

David couldn't wait to do what Uncle had suggested, and take to the field, but all too soon he knew that it would be winter and so he'd simply have to bide his time and wait for the first signs of spring. That being the case, he might as well set about decorating the upstairs passage and bedrooms, since time always seemed to pass more quickly when he had work to do. If nothing else, it helped him forget – if only briefly – about the grave danger he felt he was still in.

He hadn't had any more uninvited guests, thankfully, but he was intensely aware that his every movement was being closely watched. That was far worse, for these suspicions led to a paranoia that really gnawed at him and wouldn't leave him alone. There really was no end to that paranoia. These thugs were always lurking somewhere in the back of David's mind. That was what was really cruel about all this. It got so bad, in fact, that at one point, at a particularly low ebb, David actually considered handing the precious Chronicles to the men and putting an end to it all. He couldn't abide having this doom-laden cloud hanging over him for much longer.

~~~O~~~

Archaeology and anthropology being Uncle Harry's primary professions, and especially cultural archaeology, it was perhaps understandable that he should initially seek to find the origins of the Lost Treasure saga, rather than subsequent outcomes; so he first concentrated his efforts in the west.

Far to the east lay Gothgoria; to the west of that lay Dravine; and to the west of that lay Kronstein, which was where he and Uncle Harry lived. Those in Gothgoria and beyond knew little about Kronstein, referring to it simply as “Yonder”, meaning the land beyond Dravine, and these people knew nothing of the world still further west, which was indeed still largely uncharted territory, even to those living in Kronstein.

So before he even began to look for the treasure itself, a quest that would eventually take him toward the East, Uncle Harry's first avowed task was to locate the city of Roth Nagor. His maiden port of call was the public records library in the capital, in the vain hope that they might have some medieval map or chart on which were marked the words “Roth Nagor”, but alas all he found to the west were fanciful depictions of fierce mythical beasts along with annotations such as “Here be dragons”. So when spring came, Uncle Harry packed his bags and set off with his horse, Bella, and crotchety[43] old mule, Muggins, heading for the high mountains of the Altar Range which ran along Kronstein's western border.

He made one failed attempt, ending up lost in the foothills for some time, before finally seeing sense and buying the services of one of the local peasants – an old but lithe looking man by the name of Yordik – to guide him through the hills and across a high pass to the other side. Having spent so many years working outdoors, the man's wrinkled face had a permanent ruddy complexion.

Uncle Harry had initially offered his guide silver, but the man had adamantly shaken his head, saying that silver was of no use to him, since he apparently led a self-sufficient life off the land. The man eventually settled instead for some food; a hand mirror that Uncle used whilst shaving; and as much firewater as Uncle was prepared to allow him, for safety's sake. However, Uncle drew the line when Yordik took a shine[44] to his pith helmet and sturdy walking boots. In the end it was agreed, and both men considered this a fair bargain. Uncle Harry was fit enough, but it was a long, arduous climb, at times wading through thigh-deep snow and at other times cautiously crossing treacherous sheets of open ice. Uncle Harry knew full well that it would take just one momentary lapse of concentration for him to slip. And if he broke any bones, that might easily finish him off. Without his guide, he was not sure that he'd have made the ascent alone. On the way up, they actually came across a couple of skeletons, clothed in just a few ragged shreds of material, and higher still, they came across some particularly ghoulish and mummified remains, a grim reminder of just how dangerous their journey was, and how tentative their grip on life, for all of Yordik's optimistic banter.

At the top of the pass, Uncle's guide waved his arms in the air and signalled that they had left Kronstein and were now in Lathmanon. That was the first time that Uncle had heard such a land spoken of, which showed how very insular Kronstein had become, at least of late. There was a spectacular view, looking back of Kronstein and on into Lathmanon, but what impressed Uncle Harry most of all were the lens-shaped lenticular clouds hovering over the mountains like enormous sky craft. His guide told him that these were a good omen; that they augured well, to use the man's own turn of phrase.

Shortly after they were through the pass and descending the other side, the guide deserted Uncle quite without warning, much to Uncle's consternation; but thankfully by that time the worst was over and the descent was easy enough: at least, easy in comparison to the dangerous and arduous ascent. Only afterwards did Uncle discover that the wretched man had gone off with his walking boots after all, though fortunately he still had a pair in reserve.

What concerned Uncle Harry more, however, was the terrible prickling sensation in his toes, and he didn't need to be a medical expert to realize that in spite of his thick soled boots and two layers of woollen socks, that he'd got a touch of frostbite. This went on for some time, and all he could do was to grin and bear it, and eventually as he descended below the snow line, the prickling sensation gave way to an unscratchable itch, which though distracting, was at least more tolerable than the awful prickles.

When Uncle Harry eventually descended into the foothills over the other side, he came across the first inhabitants, mostly hill farmers just like Yordik, and he found himself in a land where people spoke his language but in such a strange dialect and peculiar guttural accent that he had a devil of a job trying to make out what they were saying. And of course to these people, his own rather more refined accent must have sounded equally peculiar, or even contrived. Perhaps that was what caused them to smile and laugh such a lot whenever he came across them and exchanged greetings? Judging by some of the sentences these people spoke, the grammar appeared quite medieval. He could only assume from this that at some point, he and they had come from the same stock, but that there had been a parting of the ways, most likely due to the high mountain range largely cutting them off from one-another. That was another juicy anthropological morsel to add to his as yet unpublished memoirs.

Almost inevitably, the first question that these people would ask him when he appeared, was “Where do you come from?”, quickly followed by “Why are you here?” or “Where are you going”.

“I'm looking for an old city called Roth Nagor,” he told the first people he met on the way, who were tending a flock of sheep in a valley amidst the foothills.

“Ah, Roth Nagor,” they nodded enthusiastically, quite taking him by surprise, and they pointed excitedly to the west; far to the west. “Many moons away,” they added, which was both exciting and comforting and yet disturbing at the same time. Well, nobody had said that this expedition would be quick or easy. He'd thought on many an occasion that perhaps young David might follow in his footsteps, but would the lad have the patience and the stamina for what was, as they so rightly averred, one percent inspiration and ninety nine percent perspiration? Uncle Harry was quite content to play what he termed the “long game”, where advances were gradually – and sometimes suddenly – made over the course of years, or even decades; indeed sometimes unfolding over generations. But the younger folk these days so very often tended to be fickle and impatient to have it all now, on a myopic time scale measured in days, hours, or even mere minutes; and, once apparently but not truly satisfied, their interest in a thing might subside almost as quickly. Few things were made to last these days and were increasingly treated as being disposable. Even marriage, which used to mean a lifelong, loving and dedicated relationship, was now falling foul of this tendency. Was nothing sacred anymore?

These people Uncle Harry came across all wore long sheepskin coats, with the warm fleece inside and the embroidered hide outermost. The skins not being well tanned, or perhaps home-cured with stale urine, the coats, though no doubt ideal for this alpine region, invariably smelt quite rank and it was best not to stand downwind. He thanked the people for their hospitality and welcome and handed out one or two of the many trinkets he'd brought with him to help facilitate such encounters.

Everywhere he went, it was the same answer, which of course was a good thing, since it proved to him that he was heading in the right direction; but always, always it was “to the west” and “many moons away”, so much so that he did begin to wonder whether “Roth Nagor” actually meant “the land of the setting sun” to these people; and of course wherever you go, that is always some place to the west. Hell, you could circle the globe three times and it would always be the same old story.

Professor Seymour travelled on for fourteen whole days, out of the foothills, across a wide, fertile plain, up over a range of hills, across a second interminable plain and then on through yet more hills. And beyond which lay yet another formidable and jagged range of mountains. What kept him going, of course, was the sure and certain knowledge that every single day, when he met people or passed through their scattered hamlets, he learned something new, and he could add yet another morsel to his daily diary. And some day this information would find its way into print, so that others might benefit from his travels. He worked for the knowledge itself, of course, and for others, not to make a name for himself.

Heaven forbid that he should ever become some minor Celebrity for people to drool over. Once upon a time, a person was famous for a generation, if not longer; but these days, a great many people might be made famous for a mere five minutes, before being forgotten – and no doubt feeling abandoned and bewildered by the fleeting experience. Of course, the burgeoning media played a great part in this, and they had a lot to answer for. Not only did they build people's reputations up, they often took a delight in later knocking these same people down. But then, being a boring old cultural archaeologist and anthropologist, rather than a sportsman or popular musician, the chances of that happening to him were fortunately remote … providing that the media didn't get hold of the story of the Lost Treasure.

Uncle Harry laughed out loud, catching himself joggling along on the horse, daydreaming, and quite oblivious to his surroundings; and he gave himself a slap on the face to bring him to his senses. That was one of the perils of leading a scholarly life, of being so wedded to the often automatic and conditioned machinations of the mind; second only to being wed to the false construct that we call “I” or “Me” – the ego – rather than to the greater, co-mingling reality and truth of life. He'd read many of the eastern works on such spiritual matters, of course, and even studied for a time under one of the Masters, and yet still it was a struggle to apply these disciplines to his everyday life. We are such heedless, forgetful and neglectful creatures.

And then one day, quite out of the blue, when he again asked about Roth Nagor, one of the villagers pointed in the distance. At first, Uncle Harry's stomach churned, thinking that the woman was going to say “Over yon mountains”. But no, there was the city in the heat haze, she told him, no more than four hours away. Walking the horse at a sustainable pace, that would make it about fifteen or perhaps twenty miles.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Uncle Harry whooped with joy and showered the dear old lady with kisses and assorted trinkets – and she most likely thinking him quite mad – before setting off on the final leg of his journey; or at least of this stage of his journey.

If there was anywhere in the world that could shed light on the origins of the story of the Lost Treasure, then it must surely be the city of Roth Nagor itself.

That was the longest fifteen miles of the whole journey, or at least it subjectively felt like that to him at the time; possibly because he was now expecting to arrive, rather than expecting to travel just a few more miles on an interminable journey, and he was now counting every step.

As Uncle Harry had imagined, entering Roth Nagor was like being transported into some bygone age, even judging by Kronstein's standards, which were – it was said – themselves antiquated by the standards of Gothgoria and the Freelands. This did not dismay him in any way, of course, as it might have disappointed more progressive folk. Far from it: he felt so at home or in his element in such places and amongst such simple and down to earth people, from whom we could learn so much, if only we would set aside our prejudice and pride and allow ourselves.

Uncle's first port of call that day was a wayside inn on the outskirts of the city. The building was ancient and looking decidedly dilapidated, half the roof tiles having been replaced by sheets of cheap, zinc-plated corrugated iron and many of the bricks having been hollowed out and flaked by the wind and rain over countless years. One thing that you had to admire, however, was that, for all its flaws – and most likely because of them – the inn had real character, rather than merely mass produced personality. A tiled roof, for example, was simply unremarkable and everyday, certainly nothing to write home about. But a ramshackle structure or an eccentric landlord: that actually said something and touched you – something new and different and interesting, rather than run of the mill – and it did leave a lasting impression.

Uncle Harry booked a room – a pokey little room with a low, sloping ceiling, way up in the eaves, which suited him to a tee, this being a personal choice rather than the best they could offer – and he paid extra to have the friendly and accommodating landlady take in his washing. There was something confusing about the dear lady when he first saw her, and he couldn't quite work out which way she was looking as she spoke to him, and then it dawned on him that while one good eye moved, her other eye, being glass, of course stared straight ahead. As for his clothes, they were such a disgrace it's a wonder that they didn't get up and walk about. For a further pittance, the lady was also kind enough to run him a nice hot bath downstairs to luxuriate in and rest his aching muscles, especially the muscles in his legs and backside, which had taken a hammering with so much riding.

Fortunately, his toes had finally healed, though layers of dead skin had peeled and they were still a little discoloured from the slight frostbite. At the time, though he'd downplayed the event in his own mind and grimly carried on, Uncle Harry had been more than a little worried that he might actually lose his toes: that is, that he would have to have them amputated. He'd read some grim accounts of misadventure in the mountains and icy wilderness in his day, and this had played on his mind, and been blown out of proportion, as tends to happen when you have so much free time on one's hands and, travelling alone, only one's own, blinkered point of view.

Once changed and freshly shaved, after a lengthy and painful battle with a pair of scissors and a dull razor blade, Uncle Harry went downstairs to order a meal, and by lunchtime that day he took to the cobbled streets of the old city, eager to discover more about the Lost Treasure – and not least to walk off his lunch. He'd ordered a mixed game stew and had expected a medium sized portion to come on a plate, but it had actually been served in what he'd have taken to be a tourine, a deep basin with a lid usually reserved for communal potatoes and vegetables. No, though more was offered, what he'd eaten had more than sufficed, and now he was feeling quite stuffed.

One of the first things Uncle discovered about Lathmanon was that perhaps as much as ninety nine percent of the population living in the rural areas were illiterate, and even in the city, perhaps as few as one in ten could read and write. Their plight really was quite shocking and it occurred to him, therefore, that the Children's literacy Initiative might perhaps divert some of its funds their way, since their need was clearly more acute than all but the most deprived children back in Kronstein.

There was no public library as he had naively hoped. However, he did find a local school, and when he explained to the headmaster what it was he was investigating, the man reliably informed him that it would be best to talk to the monks at a monastery just over the river beyond the city, or else go to the palace itself, where a great many public records were kept.

The palace being closer, so he was told, Uncle Harry decided that he'd try there first. Uncle was rather disappointed as he neared the palace, because it looked so new, whereas he had been expecting something of considerable antiquity, and on questioning one of the guards close to the main gate, he was told that there's been an earthquake a few years back and much of what hadn't been destroyed in the earthquake had to be demolished and rebuilt.

“Are the public records still intact?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, sir, they survived,” he was told, which came as a welcome relief. However, this was almost immediately followed by, “though some were lost in the flood,” which was all rather worrying.

That reminded him of the joke of the rich man who arrived home, to be told that there was some good news and some bad news. “The good news is that we saved your budgie, sir.” And the bad news? “I'm sorry, sir, but while you were away, your horse died.” And when the man asked how that had happened, he was told that the chimney of his manor house had fallen on the horse. How did that happen? The chimney fell off when the manor house was burnt down. And how did that happen? When your wife had an argument with her secret lover. On and on the story went, with the servant reporting one calamity after another; the news getting more and more grave and disturbing and the man more and more distraught. There was possibly some clever twist at the end, but it had slipped his memory and for the life of him, Uncle Harry could not recall it. He knew that it would only take a gentle nudge, however, and he'd remember it clearly once more.

It was funny how these stories could stick in one's mind for decades, apparently forgotten, and then they'd simply resurface amidst a whole, swollen ocean of subsequent memories. The general pattern would still be there, though the details might have become rather foggy. Sometimes these things resurfaced when one had an experience that had the same kind of pattern as the template contained in the story or joke and something intuitively “clicked” inside, just as they were carefully designed to do.

Anyway, the guard directed him to an office in a wooden hut quite near to the gate where he could obtain a permit to enter the palace and gain access to the records, and he'd know soon enough whether the records had survived.

Having been issued with a permit, for a reasonable enough fee, the clerk in the office had a young assistant direct Uncle Harry to the Hall of Public Records. “If there's anything you're not sure about, just ask,” the lad told him. “Old George there has been here for years and knows this place like the back of his hand.”

Since the lad hadn't picked up that awful presumptuous habit of deliberately hovering in expectation of his entitlement to a tip, Uncle Harry thanked him and slipped a few coppers into his hand as he turned to leave. You know some of them would actually stand there like beggars with their hand cupped in front of them to receive their dues, and that kind of behaviour really did get Uncle Harry's goat.[45] But then again, I suppose if they weren't so blatant, they might go away empty handed more often than not; and being on a low wage, they probably relied on these tips to keep them afloat. It must have been a tough old life for those too timid or socially-sensitive to push themselves forward and stand there in expectation. Alas it could be a cruel world, and he knew all too well that it wasn't always the cream or the sentient who rose to the top. He hesitated to use the word scum, since the word had acquired such derogatory connotations of late, but in all honesty that was not far short of the mark. One day, perhaps, the meek would inherit the earth – or at least what was left of it.

Uncle Harry went to have a look round the hall while he got his bearings. The place was built like a barn, with row upon row of shelves, filled with cardboard boxes in which the records were kept. And at one end were similar rows of leather-bound volumes. There was some kind of numbering system, marked on the end of each row, but other than that, he wouldn't have known what to look for, let alone where it might be located.

“Yes, sir. Can I assist you?” enquired a voice close-by and he recognized the old man that the lad had pointed out. Judging by the formal manner in which he spoke, the gentleman had probably served in the army in his younger days, most likely as a noncommisioned officer.

“Thank you, yes, I certainly hope so. I've come from Kronstein and I'm researching the story of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor. I thought perhaps the Hall of Public Records might be a good place to start.”

“My word,” the old man beamed, raising his eyebrows. You mean you've come over the mountains and all this way, sir?”

Uncle Harry nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

“Well, I'm blessed, sir. Now, as for your query, if you'd be so good as to just follow me, I do believe we have something that might help.”

Old George led him back to the shelves containing the bound volumes. “To start with, your best bet would be to look in the city almanac, sir. The almanac contains reprints and digests of all the year's major or notable events. I would say start at 1250 and work your way forward to 1255. By that time, the affair had pretty much blown over and become old news, sir, though of course the story seems to have a will of its own and still lives on.”

“Now these are very old books, sir, and they're irreplaceable and also quite fragile.” The man fished in his pocket and brought out a pair of thin white gloves.

“So you can borrow these gloves. Given enough time, greasy fingerprints can wreak havoc with the books, sir. Wreak ruddy havoc. Now, I'd suggest taking the book to one of the tables and turning the pages very carefully, supporting the weight of the page like so,” old George added, miming the required action.

“And if you need any more help, or want to delve deeper into the mystery, just give me a wave. I'd be only too happy to assist.”

“Thank you so much,” Uncle Harry smiled, pumping the man's hand, before turning away, donning the white gloves and working his way down the aisle toward 1250.

It was already close to lunch time as Uncle Harry began to work his way through the almanacs and his progress was slow. Had these been modern volumes he could have flicked through the pages in a flash, but of course each page had to be turned slowly and with great care, so it was almost closing time in the early evening and Uncle's stomach was gurgling by the time he was through. He'd found what he was looking for, at least enough to satisfy him for now, and had half filled a pad with scribbled notes, which he'd transcribe later, at his leisure, if he could read his own spidery handwriting.

Having replaced the last volume, he went back to old George to return the gloves.

“Find what you were looking for, sir?” the man enquired.

“Thank you, yes. I think I'm about done for today, though I'll most likely be back tomorrow and I'll perhaps take you up on your generous offer to delve a little more deeply into the subject.”

“Right you are, sir. I'll be here. Twenty years I've worked in this Hall, and I ain't once taken a day off sick.”

“Touch wood,” the man added, superstitiously patting his hand on a nearby shelf. Uncle Harry smiled appreciatively.

“Excellent. Well, I look forward to that, Thank you once again.” And with that, Uncle Harry headed back to the inn to eat his fill and study his spidery notes.

What he'd discovered thus far, was this. In 1250, a proclamation was issued by the king and, since most of the population were illiterate, town criers were sent out in the city and towns throughout the land telling the people that a wretch by the name of Angus Middleditch had duped and abducted the Princess Esmerelda and stolen a great deal of gold and precious gemstones from her husband, Prince Willum.

Wanted posters were also circulated, offering the sum of one hundred guineas[46] for the successful apprehension of this dangerous and deceitful criminal. As Uncle Harry had flicked through the almanacs he'd seen that reward upped from one hundred guineas to two hundred and eventually to one thousand, which was a princely sum indeed, though of course by then, Esmerelda's party must surely have long since have fled the country. He'd learnt by now that there were few accessible passes through the mountains, so it might even be that they'd fled by the same route that Uncle Harry had himself taken, only in reverse. If that were the case, then he sincerely hoped that the mummified remains and the skeletons he and his guide found earlier were not from their party.

A short time later, receiving news that Middleditch had fled to the east, Prince Willum set out with a band of armed men, members of his own, trusted guard, and as they went, they circulated posters bearing a likeness of Princess Esmerelda and the villainous Middleditch, again offering a handsome reward for information as to their whereabouts. That was in 1250.

In 1251, some six months later, Prince Willum returned empty-handed with his men. According to reports, they'd expected to catch up with Middleditch much earlier and hadn't gone equipped for such a long chase. The prince rested up for a further four or five weeks, and then set out once more, again with the king's blessing, and this time with better provisions. And as well as taking the armed guards, they also took with them two experienced trackers.

Nothing more was reported in the almanac until 1253, and in that edition, it was finally reported that no word had been received from Prince Willum since he'd set out on that second manhunt.

Ominously, though perhaps prematurely, in the 1255 edition were written the words, “Princess Esmerelda, the villainous Angus Middleditch, Price Willum, and what people are now calling the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor, were never seen again.”

Beside himself with worry and rage, Prince Willum's elder brother Thadika had assembled a troop of horsemen and gone in search of Willum, but had returned in the autumn of 1254 equally empty-handed. He cursed Middleditch for his treachery and swore that he would avenge his brother, if not in his own lifetime, then in that of his sons or sons of sons. By hook or by crook – and if it took from then until the cock crowed at the very dawn of the Final Day – he would have his bloody revenge, and the stolen treasure would be rightly returned to Roth Nagor.

You wouldn't want to meet Thadika on a cold, dark night, Uncle Harry mused, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

After returning to the Hall of Public Records for a second day, though discovering nothing of great importance or new, touring the Royal Armoury and Museum, and speaking with one of the elder monks at the monastery across the river, Uncle Harry decided that it was time to be heading back home, to plan the next stage of his ongoing expedition.

The kindly monks had not been able to help him with the treasure, but they'd made him most welcome and he'd found that they did brew the most remarkable mulled wine to help boost their funds. What's more, he'd discovered that they shared his concerns about the woeful levels of illiteracy in Lathmanon and might make excellent partners in a joint initiative to help tackle this, so his journey across the river to meet them had certainly been worthwhile. Anyhow, he'd discovered the origins of the Lost Treasure and now he was growing ever more eager to find out what had become of it.

The next day, Old George was tragically found dead on the floor of the Hall of Public Records. There were signs that he'd undergone torture, and it was later discovered that several copies of the almanac dating from 1250 had mysteriously gone missing. But by the time that news broke and spread like wildfire through the city, Uncle Harry had left. This was perhaps fortunate, since otherwise he might have been implicated in the sad affair and – given the whimsical and woefully inadequate state of the judicial system in Lathmanon – found himself the subject of a grave miscarriage of justice. Had Uncle Harry known of this at the time, he'd have been out of Lathmanon at a gallop, but as yet he was blissfully unaware of any wrongdoing.

The journey back to Kronstein was a bit of a pain, to say the least, since – mission accomplished – all he wanted to do was be back home to write up his findings more formally. Uncle Harry had hoped that he might be able to persuade one of the shepherds to guide him over the mountains, but they seldom ventured out of the foothills, so in the end he simply had no option but to risk limb and life and go it alone. Fortunately, on the Lathmanon side of the range he had a clear view of the pass as he gradually approached it; and on the way back down the other side, he'd simply have to trust in God and be damn sure to mind his step. Just to be on the safe side, he'd found a cobbler's whilst still in the city and had an extra set of new hobnails hammered into the soles and heels of his climbing boots. Had he slipped on the ice in the mountains ….

He shivered involuntarily and he could feel his legs tense up, quite painfully. The messy consequences simply did not bear thinking about.

Uncle Harry was so exhausted climbing the high mountain pass, that he had to stop for a time and recuperate overnight, pitching camp in the lee of a rocky outcrop. With only a few feet between him and a five hundred foot drop – which gave him vertigo and made his legs feel like lead at the mere thought – he hammered a metal piton into a crack in the rock and secured himself with a rope around his waist. The next morning, however, thankfully finding himself still in the land of the living in spite of the bitter cold of the night before, he pressed on to the summit and began the long trek down the other side.

Going downhill rather than up was far more dangerous than the ascent, since on the way up if you slipped, you'd most likely fall forward on your hands and knees and be able to grasp the ground and dig your toes and your ice pick in; whereas on the way down, if you slipped you'd probably end up tobogganing on your back, like a helpless upturned turtle. Alas, many a climber had come to a sad and unexpected end on the way back down from successfully climbing to a peak, perhaps buoyed up by the excitement and satisfaction and lulled into a false sense of security.

No sooner were those words spoken than Uncle Harry's feet began to slip from under him. It had snowed recently and he hadn't realized that beneath that thin layer of snow was sheer ice.

He wildly flapped his arms around, involuntarily attempting to retain his balance, to no avail. Down he went, flat on his back. His heart leapt and a wave of adrenaline hit him as he realized that he was sliding forward down the slope.

Gathering momentum, he hit the crest of a slope and took off, landing with a hard thump, but fortunately his backpack took most of the impact and broke his fall.

In desperation, by now careering down the slope, he managed to roll himself over onto his belly, kicking at the snow in a vain attempt to dig his toes in, but the ground was too hard.

Finally, he managed to stab his ice axe in and he carried on down the slope, leaving a deep furrow in the ice. But still, though it slowed him a little, the axe failed stop his descent.

Finally the head of the axe broke away from the wooden handle. Try as he might, Uncle Harry could not get the hilt to dig in. All he could do now was whisper one last, deeply earnest prayer and prepare – as best he could – to meet his maker.

Just then, shooting down the slope feet first and on his stomach, his hobnailed boots hit something hard, the sheer force of the impact instantly buckling his knees under him. There was only one way to go from there – other than to be utterly squidged against the hard and unyielding boulder – and that was up and right over the top.

Tumbling head over heels, and jarring every bone in his body, Uncle Harry caught a brief glimpse of the precipice looming before him and he realized that the game was over.

And then, at the very last moment, when all hope had been lost, he hit another boulder, partly concealed by the snow, and – thank God – he finally came to rest in a bank of soft, deep snow.

He lay there for a time, partly because the tumble had knocked the wind out of his lungs and left him gasping and rather dazed, and partly – not knowing whether he was still in danger – he simply dare not move for fear that he might fall still further.

At length, Uncle Harry raised his head and peered around him and, seeing that he was indeed safe – at least for now – he slowly and painfully got to his feet and brushed himself down. Suddenly remembering Bella and Muggins, he swung round and round searching for them. Seeing them much further up the slope, he breathed a sigh of relief. They were quite distant and Uncle Harry hadn't realized until then just how far he'd slid and tumbled down that wicked slope. There they were, apparently oblivious of what had befallen him, their only concern being to nose around in the snow to see if there was anything to eat. Like a goat, Muggins would eat – or at least try – anything, though the thoroughbred Bella was more choosy, unless driven by great thirst or hunger.

Carefully skirting around the icy slope, he reached the animals and stopped for a while to fill their nose bags; then, having finally recovered his composure, he scanned around to see if there was a safer route by which they might descend. And, drawing a deep breath, he set off again, taking a little more care this time.

On the way down, he again came across the mummified remains of one previous climber and, in spite of his repugnance, he decided to check the body more thoroughly. It looked like the body of a man, though it was hard to tell – at least for a layman – as both men and women wore their hair long in these parts, and the man – or woman's – features had been almost obliterated. The head reminded him a little of the time he'd spent near Ingmar, far off to the south east. There was a tribe there who took the heads of their adversaries, removed the skull and pickled the remaining flesh so that it shrank and the flesh was cured and turned to leather, and wore the shrunken heads on strings around their necks, or attached to their belts. These people believed that in doing so, they would somehow gain the power that their adversary had before he died; and the more fierce and brave the adversary, the greater the power.

They smoked tobacco in that region and these people would often cut off the scrotal pouch of the adversaries and, after eating the testicles, make it into a purse or a pouch in which to carry their tobacco. It is truly said that “there's nowt as queer as folk”. Primitive and superstitious or not, the world would be a duller place without such customs, and of course studying these cultural eccentricities and idiosyncrasies had earned Uncle Harry a good living over the years, so he could hardly complain.

The mummified remains were largely buried in the snow and Uncle Harry had to get down on his hands and knees and carefully hollow out the snow to fully reveal the body. The clothes had long since rotted away, though some blackened shreds remained. Uncle was hoping that he might find a sword or helmet, which would confirm that this was a soldier, perhaps one of the Royal Guard; but there were none, which rather dented his hopes. However, digging deep into the snow, he did recover four button-shaped objects. They were clearly made of brass, and it looked like they bore some kind of design, but being so covered with vertegrez,[47] it was hard to tell. Later inspection, however, revealed the distinctive coat of arms of Prince Willum, which was a marvellous discovery and also, thankfully, told him that it hadn't been one of Esmerelda's party who had perished in the mountains.

Moving on down the mountainside, a little later he came across the other two skeletons in the snow and again he stopped to examine them more closely. This time he did find a shred of relatively intact, coarse material. The king's guard wore red; Princess Esmerelda's, green; and Prince Willum's wore blue. And this – though somewhat discoloured – had almost certainly been blue.

As Uncle Harry examined the skeletal remains, one of the first things that he noticed were fractures. One had received a crushing blow to the head, another clearly had a broken leg, so it's possible that these people had fallen or been struck by rocks. The pass was hard enough to climb in the springtime, and it's possible that if the weather was bad and they were injured, that they might have perished on the way; but of course this was supposition on his part. He had no clear evidence of what had befallen these people.

Uncle Harry had taken one of the skulls to examine it more closely whilst trying to determine the approximate age of the victim; and then, accidentally letting the jaw fall to the ground and stooping down to pick it up, he made an amazing discovery. There was a gold coin, hitherto lodged in what had been the victim's mouth. This was an old custom in some parts. A coin would be placed in the mouth of the recently deceased, so that they could “pay the ferryman” on their way to the hereafter. Most folk would use a copper, since that was all they could afford, but for these to be mere soldiers and this to be gold, spoke volumes. These men had a rather rich benefactor.

He carefully returned the skull and picked up the gold coin to examined it in detail. On one side was the coat of arms of the king of Lathmanon and their symbols for “One Guinea”. And on the other, the date 1248 and the words that he'd longed to find: “Roth Nagor”, the full inscription reading “All hail to Siberius, great king of Roth Nagor.”

And the mouth of the second skeleton, too, contained another golden guinea, which – needless to say – Uncle Harry pocketed. Uncle had just restarted his descent when he felt a twinge of conscience and guilt, and not wanting to be thought a common grave robber. He was determined to have the gold coins, and yet it seemed rather sacrilegious to deprive these men, and those who had sent them on their way, of this offering. So Uncle – a lifelong student and firm believer in the benign power of creative and transformative mythology – returned to the site, fished in his pocket, brought out some silver and placed this in the men's mouths instead. It wasn't much, but it should still cover the cost of the ferry crossing, if they hadn't passed over already.

The coins were dated 1248 with a nominal denomination of one guinea, though the value of the currency, and hence also the price of silver and copper, would have been determined by that of the gold, based on its weight. They called this the Gold Standard and it was a system still in use in Kronstein, though in Gothgoria they'd abandoned gold and instead adopted a system of paper promissory notes for the higher denominations. Of course things were more complicated than this in practise, since each country had its own value for gold, and its own system of weights; but nevertheless, they managed to get by.

In a country with little gold, it was of course far cheaper and more profitable to simply print more IOUs whenever it needed to raise funds, than to mine or buy gold and have coins minted. Such a system only worked of course as long as sufficient people actually believed that the paper IOUs were worth the amount printed on them. Had these people taken the notes to the bank and demanded the sum in gold, silver or copper, then the bank, the treasury and the country's whole economy would have simply collapsed, because they actually didn't have so much real, hard currency.

The gravest mistake that Uncle Harry made on his return, though of course he had no inkling of this at the time, was to deliver a public lecture about the Lost Treasure at the Archaeological Society and to prepare an article for publication in the society's prestigious journal, for which he received a nominal, but nevertheless useful fee. His earlier enquiries in Roth Nagor is what originally aroused the unhealthy interest of some in the professor's work, and the subsequent lecture is what allowed these people to put a name to a face and to eventually track him down. Such is the price of vanity; well, that and the need to raise funds to further finance his exploration.

Uncle Harry was certain by now that Esmerelda's party had fled Lathmanon. There could be little doubt about that. He was almost certain that they'd passed through Kronstein, though as yet he had no proof and he knew better than to build a case based on assumptions. And he was also as certain as he could be that if they had passed through the country that they had not settled down there. There was no way in the world that their continued presence could have been kept a secret, or at least not for very long, even with the help of those in the higher circles of Kronstein's nobility.

This being the case, what Uncle Harry really needed to find out was where the party might have been sighted in Kronstein, and hence gain an inkling of where they might have been heading. Kronstein wasn't a very large country, but Uncle Harry didn't have the time, the resources or the inclination to methodically scour the whole land looking for clues. There was a limit even to his patience when such tedious and repetitive donkey work was concerned. If Esmerelda's party had passed through Kronstein, then perhaps his best bet would be to concentrate on the towns and villages dotted along the border between Kronstein and Dravine to the east. Failing that, he'd have to look further south of Kronstein; though if he were in Esmerelda's shoes, he'd have steered well clear of that, since the natives there were said to be particularly savage and the land far too hot and inhospitable.

Setting out once more, Uncle Harry travelled to the north of the country and began his painstaking search at a small town by the name of Zigam Zubud, close to the border. The town was once part of a medieval fiefdom that had later been conquered and annexed during the Unification of 1033 to 1040.

Uncle Harry found it a slow process, but he was used to such tasks by now and, within limits, he no longer felt pained by such experience. First he'd check in public libraries and museums to see if they kept copies of very old local news sheets, dating from around the mid-1200s. Alas, this invariably yielded an apologetic shake of the head. It was so sad to see all that invaluable and irreplaceable source material simply vanish from the public record, taking with it all the lessons that history could teach us. Such a waste.

Then he'd check to see if any locals had written a history of the town. Thankfully, this was surprisingly often the case. Such books contained a wonderful wealth of information about a great many things of antiquity. But, again alas, as yet Uncle Harry had not found even the most fleeting mention of a large company of foreigners dressed in green livery passing through the town. And this was surely something that would be talked about for years, if not generations, to come?

That being the case, Uncle Harry would next tour the town or village, and speak to anyone he could find over the age of fifty who might remember a parent or grandparent telling them such a tale. And, failing that, he'd check with the teachers at a local school; the monks at a monastery; the art museums; and the jewellers, since having found the gold coins in the mountains, it had occurred to Uncle by now that it might be possible to actually follow the trail of gold.

Uncle Harry spent the whole spring that year, going from one community to the next, all the way down the border as far as Haiden Wyke, before finally returning home. He was disappointed, of course, but he was not easily crushed; knowing full well that you might easily expend ninety nine percent of your time beavering away or going round and round in circles and getting nowhere, and then – with a great and resounding cry of “Yahoo!” – you might hit the mother lode. Sometimes it was all about that elusive one percent; though, of course, even apparently fruitless effort is never really or wholly wasted. Everything in this life has a time and a place and has its rhyme and reason.

There was only one thing that Uncle Harry knew for certain right now, and that was that nobody along the eastern border had even heard of the exodus, let alone the Lost Treasure. Indeed, ninety percent of them didn't even know that there was another land over the mountains to the west. This latter ignorance quite startled and dismayed him.

Uncle Harry waited until the summer was past its peak and then he set out once more. The reason for his delay was that he had decided to venture south, where it was unbearable hot mid-season. If the exodus had not passed eastward, then really there was only one other place to look, and that was in the south. Come to think of it, the east was the first place that Willum might look; the south, the last place. And, if he were in Esmerelda's shoes, or rather the shoes of the strange benefactor who had become their guide, then perhaps the last place to look was actually the best place to be? Well, he could but hope and pray and cross his fingers for good luck.

The professor didn't know quite what to expect in the south, in Dar Bethel, or Gudwanka as the natives themselves called it and the missionaries most decidedly did not, despite the fact that the name was in no way etymologically derived from nor related to the act of masturbation. To this day, the missionaries considered such an act an abomination and maintained that it would make its practitioners go blind – if not physically, then certainly in a spiritual sense. As for the psychological, the missionaries were largely ignorant of this field, though one only had to read a few of the works emanating from the east to realize that this was a science practised par excellence by the ancients and only recently rediscovered in the west. In many ways, we were slowly and laboriously reinventing the proverbial wheel when it came to studying matters of the mind and of the emotions. Indeed, you might go so far as to suggest that we had yet to discover that square shapes do not make the most efficient wheels, let alone that the ancients knew how to fly. That's really how backward our so-called progressive modern societies actually were in the greater scheme of things.

Uncle Harry had spent a great deal of time with the people near Ingmar and found them most hospitable, but the natives to the south appeared to be fickle, judging by reports – and of course he meant the reports of his fellow archaeologists, anthropologists and explorers, not the tittle-tattle and tall tales of local folk. Some had managed to say or do the right things and had been generously welcomed – indeed, one dear lady, Jessie Fuller, had been accepted and made an Honorary Elder by one tribe – whilst others had escaped by the skin of their scrotal sacs and declared the inhabitants fierce savages, best avoided like the plague or else conquered and enslaved. The army had at one time attempted the latter, but having been massacred and thoroughly routed by the hordes armed with nothing more than sharp spears and savage swords, they had not dared to venture south of the border since that time.

And, of course, there had been attempts on the part of the brave and/or foolhardy missionaries to bring a degree of so-called civilisation to these people. The missionaries were proud of the progress they were making. There was a classic joke about that, of course, at the missionaries' expense, to wit: “Is it progress if a cannibal is using knife and fork?” Perhaps the greatest contribution we had made to these native societies was not the good book, but rather the introduction of sin; slavery; diseases for which the people carried no acquired immunity, not least venereal diseases which attacked their brains as well as their private parts; and the unnatural and repugnant act of sodomy, something which we later blamed on them and their primitive and god-forsaken ways? As for their own deities and spirits, we maintained that ours was the only one, true god, or else we demonized them, and of course, we severely punished heresy, misbelief and disbelief.

Before Uncle Harry set out, he had an artist friend draw a likeness of one of Esmerelda's horsemen in his finery; a scene showing a procession of horses and heavily-laden pack mules, and also a drawing of one of the gold coins. Speaking little of the natives' language, which included a slightly garbled smattering of words and phrases they used in Kronstein (thanks by and large to the missionaries' efforts), he felt that a picture really would save a thousand words of explanation. As for showing a picture of a gold coin, Uncle Harry figured – and probably rightly so – that had he shown the natives the real thing, then they would have wanted one themselves, and that they might not be easily dissuaded from taking it. Now, he didn't mind handing out trinkets, such as hand mirrors and hair brushes, rag dolls and beads, but he sure as hell wasn't aiming to get into a fight that he couldn't win, over the gold.

With this latter thought in mind, just to be on the safe side, Uncle packed his old army service revolver and a large box of cartridges. Well, if bad came to the worst and he ended up in the communal cooking pot, the last laugh would be on him, because he'd make one helluva tough old goose.

13. Dar Bethel

Uncle Harry couldn't have got more than ten miles across the border before he was attacked. They came out of nowhere, having been hidden in the long grass. In places the grass stood nearly five feet tall, which meant that he was just able to see over the top of it if he stood on his tiptoes.

A dozen fierce hunters, they quickly surrounded him, as they would their prey, poking at him with the razor-sharp tips of their slender spears and bringing drops of blood.

Their faces smeared with shades of green and yellow pigment, the natives alternately pulled grotesque faces to frighten him and, when he flinched involuntarily, they laughed in his face. One of these young bucks even had the audacity to step forward and urinate on his shoes, which was most unbecoming and humiliating, as – no doubt – it was intended to be.

As one of them drew his sword and moved closer, wafting the lethal, saw-toothed blade menacingly in front of him, Uncle Harry feared the worst. He'd seen such a fearsome weapon once before, though thankfully still attached to the head of a dead sawfish, and he knew that these were razor sharp. A single slash across the abdomen and your guts would be left hanging out, or a slash across the inside of one's elbows and you'd slowly bleed to death. And whilst a sawfish was unlikely to attack a human, without good reason, this was in the hands of an immature buck out to impress his peers with bravado.[48]

The youth raised the blade and pressed the tip against Uncle Harry's throat. So he was going straight for the jugular.

“Get it over with, damn it!” Uncle Harry snarled. “Do whatever you have to do, but don't toy with me like a cruel cat playing with a mouse.”

The youth merely spat at him and laughed in his face.

“Nagunja!” a lone voice cried from over to his left and the hunters took back their spears and turned to face this newcomer, in an immediate show of discipline and obedience. “Nagunja ba het vee bar!” the man called again. He was older than the others and his hair had begun to go grey and recede from his forehead, and his words seemed to be both an admonition and a command.

One of the hunters grasped Uncle Harry firmly by the arm and he was half pushed, half dragged through the deep grass and onto a beaten path, until finally they arrived at a circle of thatched huts. He was horrified to see that there really was a cooking pot not far from one of the huts, and that it was sufficiently large to feed the whole tribe.

“Koman teli var wanda,” the elder native called out, announcing their arrival. The native let go of Uncle Harry and pushed him into the open, cleared area between the huts.

Shortly afterwards, another figure emerged from a larger hut and, judging by the animal headdress he wore, and his elaborate robes, this must be their chief.

“Hello,” Uncle Harry greeted the man, smiling through gritted teeth, and he bowed and averted his eyes in a show of submission.

Words were being exchanged now, and Uncle Harry took the opportunity to slip off his haversack, rummage inside and produce one of his trinkets, a hand mirror. One of the others seized it from him, at first fearful of the object. When he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, he jumped back and dropped the mirror on the ground.

Seeing this, the chief threw his head back and laughed out loud, then came forward himself and picked up the mirror, making a show of his ability to fearlessly admire himself in the mirror.

Uncle Harry pulled out a few more trinkets and handed them around, then he turned back to the chief.

“Please forgive,” the chief spoke to him for the first time, and in a language that Uncle Harry could actually understand.

“Come, let us talk,” the man beckoned, leading Uncle Harry toward the centre of the circle of huts, sitting down on the ground and inviting Uncle Harry to join him. The others also sat down now, making a circle to surround them.

The man clapped his hands and called out a few words and two of the women dashed away, to return with two wooden cups of milk and some small items of food, which were presumably there to nibble. Uncle waited until the chief had taken some of the food and then, thanking the man, he took some, too. He didn't dare ask what the ingredients were, for fear he might baulk at the thought and cause offence. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

They exchanged names, the chief telling him that he was Fathinagua and reliably informing him that the name meant Brave Wiseman. “Harold Seymour,” the Professor replied, adding that, alas, he had no idea what it meant.

Of course, the chief wanted to know why he was here, and Uncle Harry did his best to explain to the man what archaeology and anthropology were. However, Fathinagua did understand the concept of history and of tradition, so Uncle Harry pretty much left it at that.

“I want to find out about some people who perhaps travelled through this land many, many moons ago, Fathinagua,” he explained, and he reached inside his haversack and carefully unrolled the pictures that his friend had drawn.

“There were maybe ten or twenty warriors on horseback, dressed just like this,” he told the man. “And they had women and children with them and many animals to carry their belongings.”

All the time he was speaking, the chief was peering with wonder at the pictures of the riders and nodding excitedly, but as yet he said nothing.

“And they had a lot of rich treasure, Fathinagua,” Uncle Harry concluded, showing him the drawing of the gold coin. “They had gold coins, just like this. If they passed this way, perhaps your father's father or some more distant relative would have remembered them?”

“I have not seen such a thing,” Fathinagua told him, “but my mother said that she had been told of these people coming long, long ago.”

When he said this, Uncle Harry's eyes lit up.

Fathinagua fished inside his robes and pulled out a medallion, pierced at the top and hung on a length of cord and when he saw this, Uncle Harry was thrilled beyond measure.

“Yes, that's it, Fathinagua,” he nodded excitedly and he pointed to the gold pendant and to the drawing and told the chief that the drawing and the gold coin were one and the same thing.

“Thank you so much, these are the people I've been looking for, Fathinagua.”

“This was a long, long time ago,” the chief pointed out.

Uncle Harry nodded. “I know, but I need to find out where they went. The travellers will be long dead by now, but their children's children may still be alive and I'd like to find them again. Where I come from, everybody thinks that these people are lost, you see.”

Fathinagua signalled that he understood and he called out something to one of the women. Shortly after, an old lady came hobbling toward them and sat close by the chief. The chief spoke to her for some time and they conversed, and finally Fathinagua turned back to Uncle Harry.

“Umbahloo's mother told her about the riders, just as her mother had spoken before her. The riders came through here. They were peaceful people and brought gifts. They were going to ride – what word do you use? Toward the midday sun?”

Uncle Harry stretched out his hand to the east and waved it round in a slow arc. “That's the land of the rising sun,” he told Fathinagua. “This is the midday sun, what we call the south, and at the end of the day, it sinks down in the land of the setting sun.”

The chief signalled that he understood. “The riders were going toward the land of the midday sun, the south, but the man who was then chief, Jackeesala, seeing that these were peaceful people with women and children, warned them against this. There are many tribes to the south who cook and eat their foe. Sometimes they even eat their own relatives when they die.”

“Cannibals,” Uncle Harry nodded.

“Yes, cannibals.”

“And did the travellers take that advice?”

Again, the chief and the old lady conversed for a few moments.

“Jackeesala told them to turn away and ride instead toward the land of the rising sun, and they did this.”

The chief touched the golden pendant around his neck. “And this is the gift that they gave to Jackeesala. It brings powerful protection to whoever wears it.”

“Yes, I'm sure it will,” he agreed. Well, it was only a little white lie.[49]

Uncle Harry turned to the old lady, bowed his head and smiled at her. “Thank you so much. I am very grateful for your help, and you, too, Fathinagua.”

The chief listened to his words and then said something to the old lady and she smiled back, signalling that she understood and that she was happy to have helped.

Uncle Harry stayed the rest of the day and the night with Fathinagua and his people. In the late afternoon, they feasted on a wild boar, spit roasted whole over an open fire; and they helped themselves to whatever had gone into the communal stew pot. Using a long handled wooden ladle, it really was a matter of pot luck what one brought out. And a lot of it did not look like vegetable matter. Since he was their honoured guest, he was offered some of the choicest cuts. Let's put it this way: the tribe did not waste any of the meat, and simply leave it at that. Whatever it was, it made for a magnificent and welcome feast.

In the evening, he was offered some quite sweet dark green leaves to chew, which brought on fits of giggling and the most vivid hallucinations. Whatever they contained, the leaves would have worked wonders on one or two of the old fuddy-duddies[50] fossilized relics and dinosaurs back home at the Archaeological Society. He was joking of course: these were actually epithets that had been applied to him and his colleagues on numerous occasions and he took them in the spirit that they were intended, be that jovial, philistine or neanderthal. He'd heard all the old chestnuts,[51] such as:

How many archaeologists does it take to change a light bulb?

One to change it, six to argue over the age of the old one and six to correlate their findings with other old bulbs found within a ten mile proximity.

And of course his fellow anthropologists fared no better.

That evening they all painted their faces, sang, danced, shared tall tales of what life was like for them, and generally made merry, until late into the night. One of the older women, who went by the name of Noonoo, had taken a particular shine to him, and as the revelry drew to a close, she made him an offer that few younger, more hot-blooded males than he would have found hard to turn down, but Uncle Harry knew that he was long past that stage in his life. He graciously declined, attempting to convey his reasons by way of mime, and the lady got the gist and seemed to take his response well enough.

Uncle Harry was not in the least surprised that he should have many pleasant and vivid dreams that night, as he sank into sleep. Whether it was wishful thinking or not, Uncle Harry found himself wandering around the streets of a city in the company of the kind lady, Noonoo, who'd earlier taken an interest in him.

At first he couldn't place the city, and he didn't recall having seen any of the nearby landmarks, but looking around at the passers by and noticing the men's starched and uncomfortably raised shirt collars and the women's ankle length skirts and waspish waists – drawn in so tightly that one wondered how on earth these women managed to eat or even breathe – he realized where he was. Recognizing these thankfully fleeting fashions – which the residents took so very seriously – Uncle Harry realized that this must be Gothgoria. Of course, Noonoo was all agog; this was all so very new and probably looked even more bizarre to her, coming from a culture where they quite literally, naturally and unashamedly let it all hang out. Dressed as she was in rich and vibrant finery, in sharp contrast to their sombre grey, brown, navy blue and black, Noonoo in turn received the most disapproving glances – and lingering second takes – but paid these voyeurs' attentions little heed. Two words summed it up for the anthropologist in Uncle Harry: culture shock. People's reactions were quite primitive, really, and in terms of evolution, none of them had been out of the trees for very long. There was a gossamer thin veil betwixt[52] civilized man and savage.

Just then, someone passed them by, heading in the same direction. They were idly sauntering down the road, whilst this newcomer was clearly on an urgent mission. Uncle Harry heard a familiar ker-chink as the person strode ahead, and seeing a coin rolling across the pavement and heading for the gutter, he deftly sidestepped and brought the coin to an abrupt halt with the sole of his shoe. He bent down to pick up the coin, but having grown rather more portly in his old age, and his knees not being what they once were, he couldn't quite reach. Noonoo kindly obliged, clasping his hand and pressing the coin into his palm.

When he saw that the coin was not a mere copper, but actually gold, he realized that he should alert the owner, and he called out. “Excuse me. Hello. Excuse me ….” to the person who'd dropped it. He could see now that it was a woman and, unlike the local residents, she was dressed entirely in green. And when he saw her long auburn hair, he instantly recognized her from the old painting that he'd seen hanging on a wall in the palace at Roth Nagor.

“Hey, missus!” Noonoo called out, more loudly than Uncle Harry could manage. “Missus, you dropped something.”

The woman briefly stopped and glanced back, and she nodded and mouthed a thank you, to acknowledge that she had heard. And yet she turned away again and began to walk on. Though the lady was already too far away for him to see the colour of her eyes, which had been shown as hazel in the painting, he knew with certainty now that this was Princess Esmerelda. Had she passed through Gothgoria, then? This did seem quite plausible.

Uncle Harry turned the gold coin over in his hand, and he was surprised – and yet not unduly surprised – to see the words Roth Nagor inscribed in a legend on the flip side of the coin. Again, realizing the importance of this find, he called out to the lady to stop, so that they could talk, but she was already too far distant.

When Uncle Harry next looked, he saw that the coin was gone from his hand, and he thought that he must have absently dropped it. But search as he might, there was no sign of the coin. It had simply vanished. And when he turned back to Noonoo, Uncle Harry saw that she, too, had disappeared into the night; whereupon he awoke with a start to find that it had simply been a dream after all, and he promptly fell asleep once more.

In spite of his many dreams, Uncle Harry awoke feeling wonderfully refreshed and still quite gay from ingesting the leaves the night before. Early that morning, after a hearty breakfast, he reluctantly bade them a fond farewell and journeyed on further toward the east.

Later, on his eventual return, Uncle Harry decided to take a detour in order to see Fathinagua again, eager to study this interesting people and perhaps write a paper on them, and also on the off chance that he might get a cutting from whatever shrub those magic leaves grew on, so that he could pass it on to a friend with an interest in botany.

It was then that the professor was first alerted not to the possibility, but rather to the fact, that he was being followed by a party of six armed men.

He asked Fathinagua if he could describe these men, but the chief had shrugged his shoulders, pointing out that white men all looked the same to his people. However, he had noticed that the leader of the group, who had not given his name, had a metal ring on his finger, made of the same metal as the pendant the chief wore around his neck – gold – and that on this ring there was a black bird of prey, an agret which, apparently, was their name for a vulture. More than likely the bird was an eagle, though Uncle Harry hadn't at that stage twigged[53] that this might be a part of the heraldic arms of Prince Willum's family. The prince being childless, that meant his elder brother Thadika and his heirs.

Noting Uncle Harry's concern, the chief grinned mischievously and slapped his thigh. “But do not worry yourself unnecessarily, Professor Seymour. You see, my friend, taking a dislike to these uncouth strangers and the questions they were asking, we sent them off to our neighbours in the land of the midday sun ....”

14. Eastward

Uncle Harry travelled on for several more days through wide open prairies without meeting up with another living soul, though the grassland was teeming with herds of wild bison and other wildlife. The sun beat down from a clear blue sky, with just the occasional wisp of cloud in the vast canopy, but there was a gentle breeze blowing from the north west which made the long grass sway and sent shimmering waves through the landscape, and this made the climate quite tolerable. His surroundings were pleasant enough, though personally he preferred more variety, with hills, woodland, lakes and streams. That was the kind of environment in which he felt most vibrant and alive and in affinity. But then the world would be a far duller place if everything suited only our exclusive and often jaded tastes. The world was big and broad-shouldered and bold enough to cater for all, including some extremes, be they heat, cold, humidity, wind, rain or crashing waves; or even, in a sense, natural disaster. Given extremes such as hot and cold, for example, one could recognize and better appreciate the wonder of warmth, which in isolation might be taken for granted or even be meaningless. We're far better equipped to handle crude, relative measures and changes than absolutes, though it has to be admitted that we are not particularly sensitive to slow or subtle change, or even to subtlety in general. What would good be, without bad? Or life or rebirth without death? If not the sole spice of life, then variety was indeed an important ingredient in the bubbling stew or the shaken cocktail we call life.

Every so often, Uncle Harry would catch a glimpse of someone far off, watching him from some vantage point, but that appeared to be the extent of these people's interest in him. At no time did any of them come closer or threaten him. And to ensure that he was not perceived as posing any kind of threat, he was careful not to stray too close to them.

Up ahead, Uncle Harry heard a piercing scream, the kind that could only be occasioned by the utmost fear and most urgent need for help. Snatching up his big brass binoculars, he caught sight of a horse rearing high in the air and the rider being thrown off its back. Instinctively, he untied the lumbering mule, dug in his heels and spurred his horse on at a gallop.

He could see a pack of wild dogs now. Some were chasing after the horse, trying to bring it down, while others – working together as a pack – were circling around the rider, ready to pounce at any moment. Whether this teamwork was simply a product of evolutionary advantage or of actual intelligence, or both, he couldn't say – and right now, he didn't care.

Reaching into his saddlebag, he brought out the old service revolver, flipped the safety catch and – praying that the old thing wouldn't blow up in his face – he took aim and nervously squeezed the trigger.

He missed, of course, and his own horse panicked, unseating him. He was hanging over the side of the horse now and he had his toes firmly wedged in one of the stirrups and unable to pull himself back up in the saddle. In one of those moments of extreme clarity, when the shock makes everything unfold as if in slow motion, he took aim again, this time at the strap, and fired. This freed his foot from the stirrup, of course, but now he tumbled completely off the horse and, hitting the ground, he bounced several times before coming to a halt as his horse galloped wildly on. That was the one and only time that he was grateful for the fat that he'd come to carry, for the extra padding broke his fall.

Coming to his senses, Uncle Harry looked around and again spotted the rider. He ran on until he was quite close. Seeing him coming, the dogs' attention switched from the cowering rider to him and he just had time to let off two more shots as, sensing the threat, the pack converged on him.

One of the dogs leapt at him, clearly after his throat, and he shot it dead, emptying the remaining chambers of his gun into the beast, and it collapsed in a bloody heap at his feet. This was not the dollop[54] of ketchup you might see in a bowdlerized[55] moving picture show, but pint after pint of sticky, spurting arterial blood, and it was quite sickening to behold.

Uncle Harry's horse was gone by now, though his faithful old mule had come to a rest and was merrily eating its fill, oblivious to what was going on around it. His gun was empty and his spare cartridges had gone with it. So all he had left to protect him was his knife. Drawing a deep breath, he drew the knife from his scabbard and ran forward like a man possessed. The dogs had backed off, but he could see them in his peripheral vision, circling behind him as they might surround and surprise and then pounce upon any other prey.

He could see the rider now. It was a young girl, dressed in decorated tan skins and with her long brown hair in neat plaits behind her, and she was trembling with fear and cowering, too scared to dare move.

Just then, Uncle Harry heard the sound of horses, and swinging round he caught sight of several riders galloping toward him. He heard the swish of arrows flying and two of the dogs dropped to the ground, twitching. Hearing this commotion, the rest of the pack thankfully turned and fled with their tails between their legs, and Uncle Harry fell to his knees as the depth and magnitude of his own fear finally hit him with a vengeance.

Everything was a bit of a blur, but he could see the girl running to one of the riders and being whisked up in his strong arms; then arms were around him, pulling up to a standing position. He must have looked a sight with blood splattered all over the front of him and across his face, but he was too dazed to really care.

One of the riders went off now and returned shortly afterwards, leading Uncle Harry's horse, while another had got hold of the mule and was leading him back by the rope.

One of those who had helped Uncle Harry up was talking to him, and he couldn't understand a word that the fellow was saying, not least because he was so dazed, but he could tell by the broad smile on the man's face and the tears in his eyes, that he was being thanked for his timely intervention. And this brought tears to his own eyes, too. It was a truly poignant and important moment.

They helped Uncle Harry back onto his horse, then using gestures, they encouraged him to follow them, and they headed back to their camp at a leisurely pace. The camp was nestled in a dip by a stream, perhaps one or two miles away, and you wouldn't have known it was there, had you not seen the occasional wisps of smoke from the communal camp fire.

When they got to the camp, words were exchanged, presumably explaining to the others what had happened, and an older woman sat him down by the open fire, unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, clearly pleased to see that it hadn't been his blood and that he was unhurt. And while she took the shirt to the stream to wash, another older woman gently bathed his face. The water was cold and it helped bring him round.

The plains people really looked after Uncle Harry that evening and he ate his fill, and even though they and he didn't know a single word of each other's language, they actually managed surprisingly well with signs. Some signs – and of course facial expressions and life experiences – know no cultural or political boundaries: they are universal in usage and appeal, and it was good to celebrate both our diversity and our commonality.

Then later that evening, two riders approached the camp. It turned out that they'd sent word to their chief, this just being a hunting camp, and he'd sent one of his elders to meet Uncle Harry. And, thankfully, this elder knew many words that Uncle Harry could understand.

They spoke for a time and then Uncle Harry settled down for the night; and early the next morning, the elder took Uncle Harry to meet his chief. Just before he left, the girl whose life he'd helped save – whose name was Night Owl, he'd discovered through their games of charades[56] – came forward and gave Uncle Harry a gift, a wonderful furry hide that would make a great blanket whilst camping out. He was told that this was all her own work.

Thanking her kindly, Uncle Harry went back to his mule to get his haversack, and returned with a few trinkets: a mirror in which the girl could see her beautiful face; a brush for her long black hair and a rag doll to cuddle and fuss over. He mimed the actions, so that she would understand what these things were for, and the girl was almost overcome with joy. Most of all, however: she was eternally grateful simply to still be alive.

After spending even a little time with these super, free-spirited people, Uncle Harry was quite smitten, and he promised himself that he would come back and share more time with them. He'd spoken of studying them, and he realized now just how naïve and chauvinist that thought was, for there were so many, many things that they could show and teach and delight him – not least the reverential and caring relationship they had with nature – and really so little that was wholesome that he could offer in return. That was a truly humbling thought.

What use would a gold pocket watch be, for instance, to someone whose clock was the sun, the seasons and the arousal of essential needs? That kind of thing would not be progress for such people: quite the reverse. It would be another nail in the coffin of a wonderful and unique culture. And yet this was just the sort of crude social status symbol that many in the west actually got up to work for on a morning. How sad is that?

He was a little disappointed to find that the chief and his people had no recollection of Esmerelda's party coming through their way, but then that said more about his own expectations than them. One thing he was told, however, was that they wouldn't have gone much further to the east, or if they did, then they'd have been forced to turn back. To the east lay treacherous marshland and beyond that, precipitous mountains that would be impassible to all but the most agile climber. That being the case, if Esmerelda had come this way, then she was more likely to have turned north, and that nugget of local knowledge was priceless to him.

If he had got his bearings and his geography right – the way north would take him into Dravine, or perhaps Gothgoria, which lay a little further to the east; and Uncle Harry was in two minds about which route to take. If he was looking for a place to settle in and interact with, then Dravine would be ideal. Famed for its orchards, vineyards and lush green pastures, it was a very old and advanced culture. For centuries now it had been a great seat of learning, openness and tolerance, so Esmerelda and her people would surely have received a warm welcome and sanctuary there.

Times were changing, however. The Age of Enlightenment coming to an end, and countries to the east such as Gothgoria and Ingmar were beginning to eclipse traditional cultures through the adoption of new technologies and the inexorable rise of industrialization. The Freelands, too, would rise from the ashes in later years, after shaking off the shackles of the despotic Chongyen Dynasty and casting many of their enemies into the Outlands to the north.

But if Esmerelda was merely passing through, then they might instead give Dravine a miss and head for Gothgoria, and if Prince Willum rode east through Kronstein, he'd draw a complete blank when he came to Dravine.

In the end, and remembering anew the dream that he'd had with Noonoo, Uncle Harry plumped for Gothgoria. This was as far east as he felt he could go on this particular expedition. If he, too, drew a blank there, then he'd backtrack and check out Dravine on his way back home to base camp. And if he struck gold in Gothgoria, as it were, then he could give Dravine a miss and later try again, still further east.

And then another thought occurred to Uncle Harry, just when he thought that he'd settled the matter, at least in his own mind. It was moments of indecision like this that made him feel like a man who had begun speaking, only to to find – to his horror and embarrassment – that he had the wrong set of teeth in, and the more that this self awareness arose and fed back on itself, the more tongue-tied and mortified the man would become.

There was no way that Esmerelda could have abandoned the exodus and settled in Dravine or Gothgoria, come to think of it, because such a thing would surely have become common knowledge – and clearly it had not, or he wouldn't need to be on this quest. So they must surely have travelled still further east, or north.

Very well, it was decided: he'd travel north east to Gothgoria.

There were no certainties, of course, so the best Uncle Harry could hope to do at this stage was to take a calculated risk.

15. Gothgoria

Uncle Harry was strolling one day through Gargath, which was at that time the capital city of Gothgoria. As soon as he came to the high street, he instantly recognized the place from his earlier dream, and this sent a delicious thrill through him, making the hairs on his arms and scalp stand up on end. Now he knew that he was on the right track. A door of opportunity had opened before him and the universe was behind his work.

He was nevertheless determined to take a few hours out, to simply enjoy himself and to recover from his relentless and at times wretched search for the Lost Treasure. In some ways he wished that he was back with Fathinagua and his tribe in Dar Bethel, or with the hunters on the prairie, or better still simply back home, snuggled up in front of a roaring fire toasting his toes, with a hot toddy in one hand and a freshly baked mince pie in the other.

One of these days, when David had grown up, he'd have to take the lad on his first major expedition. He always enjoyed young David's company, growing sick of the sound of his own voice, and there was so much knowledge and experience that he wanted to pass on whilst he was still possessed of his faculties[57] and control over his waterworks.[58]

He had just bought himself a toasted sandwich from a roadside vendor and was wandering through a bustling market in the wide open square near the park. One side of the square was kept clear and here a variety of performers would sing and dance and perform feats of juggling; and another, a veritable walking encyclopedia, would challenge the audience to ask a question that could not be answered.

Uncle Harry has passed by this man, but on the spur of the moment, he turned smartly on his heel and returned.

“Aha! Do you think you can fool Cyclus the Great Memory Man that easily?” laughed the performer he'd just passed by. “Though the Nautilus was originally built with two funnels, they found that the steamship was underpowered. So when it was taken to be refitted in 1375, the engineers added another boiler and fitted a third funnel.

“Come, come, my friends. I defy you to ask a question which I, Cyclus the Great Memory Man, cannot answer.”

Uncle Harry mentally drew his hand down over his face to wipe away the impish smile that was forming on his lips.

“I have a question for you, sir,” he called out, waving his arm to attract the man's attention.

“Yes, squire. Let me have it,” the man called back. “Hush now friends, and let us hear what this old gentleman has to ask.”

Old, he says? Why Cyclus himself was no spring chicken.

“Tell me, Oh Great Memory Man, where might I find the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor?”

Give the man full credit, he did not so much as flinch, and answered almost before Uncle Harry had finished his question.

“Alas, squire, I can only answer questions to which the answer has been written down or spoken and made public knowledge. I am not a medium or a metaphysician, sir, but a memory man.”

And the man turned away unabashed. “Yes, friends, your next question, please.”

Uncle Harry was not impressed and turned to go back on his way. He was just about to take a seat on a nearby bench to eat his toasted sandwich when the man, having momentarily excused himself, came hurrying up.

“Please forgive me, squire. There are some questions which may be asked whose answers it would not be prudent to reveal in public.”

This unexpected reply instantly piqued Uncle Harry's curiosity.

“I cannot tell you where the lost treasure is to be found, squire, but I do know somebody who might help you find it. There is an old storyteller here by the name of Miss Frank, the last of a long and noble line. Wait until the lady has finished for the day and the crowds have dispersed – about four o'clock, I'd say. Then ask her privately what she knows of this treasure.”

And with that, the man abruptly turned and went back to his expectant audience. “Friends, I challenge you to ask a question that I, Cyclus the Great Memory Man, cannot answer. Yes, madam? Yes, you, the lady in the brown hat ….”

Still weary from his travels, Uncle Harry went back to the inn to rest for a while. He must have nodded off in his room and awoke with a start, to find it already late in the afternoon. So he hurriedly pulled on his coat, dashed downstairs and was off across the city back to the market. As he arrived at the place where the storyteller had been sitting in her long saffron robe, telling her tales of love and miracles and daring-do, he saw her picking up her folding chair and preparing to leave.

“Excuse me, madam,” Uncle Harry called after her. “I'm looking for Miss Frank, the storyteller.”

The lady turned back. She was quite wizened with age, and frail, and her shoulders had begun to round.

“Oh, I'm sorry, young man,” the lady replied, as only one far older could say to a man as old as he. He thought that the lady must be ninety or a hundred, if she was a day. “I've finished for the day, but if you're still around, I will be here tomorrow morning, when the sun begins to rise over the square.”

“Oh dear,” he replied, having already decided to book out of the inn and travel on the next day. “I was speaking to Cyclus the Great Memory Man and he told me you might be able to help.”

The lady leant her folding chair against a nearby wall and waited as he approached her.

“I asked him a question about some lost treasure which he couldn't answer, and he kindly informed me that you might be able to help.”

The lady raised her eyebrows. “And what lost treasure would that be, young man?”

“The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor,” he whispered, looking furtively around him.

At this, the lady's deep set, tired eyes lit up and sparkled in the late afternoon sun. “Ah, now I can see why you look so excited, young man. Very well. There's a teahouse yonder, and I'm in need of a brew, so let's go there and then we can talk.”

She went to fetch her folding chair, but seeing how frail the old lady was and that every step appeared to be something of an effort for her, Uncle Harry helped her with it and walked slowly with her toward the teahouse, and they found a quiet nook in the corner where they would not be disturbed or easily overheard.

“It's a very old tale, the Tale of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor,” the old lady began, taking a sip of her tea and nibbling at a biscuit. Even the skin around her mouth was deeply wrinkled, having lost its elasticity, and perhaps the result of so much talking and so many expressive facial gestures.

“Yes, I believe Princess Esmerelda fled from Lathmanon in 1250,” he nodded.

“Ah, so you've done your homework, that's good,” the old lady nodded appreciatively.

“Indeed. It's rather become an obsession of mine. I'm an archaeologist, anthropologist and explorer, you see, and I've been researching this on and off for some time. I found my way to the source, at the city of Roth Nagor in Lathmanon, and since that time I've been tracing – or at least trying to trace – Princess Esmerelda's exodus east from there.”

Miss Frank beamed. “My word, you have been busy, young man. Though, like me, one of a dying breed, I fear.”

Just then, Uncle Harry heard the delicate jingle of the tiny bell above the door of the teahouse. He turned his head and saw Cyclus the Great Memory Man enter the room. Catching sight of them there, having been served with tea and two large sugared doughnuts, the man of course made a beeline for their table.

“Hello, Miss Frank. Good day to you again, squire. I'm glad that you've found one-another.”

That's all we need, Uncle Harry groaned inside.

“Do you mind if I join you?” the man enquired, though having pulled up a chair and sat down at the table, the question was rather superfluous.

“Don't mind me,” the man added, biting into the first doughnut and leaving a moustache of white castor sugar on his upper lip.

“Well then, young man,” the lady continued. “Let me tell you the story of the Lost Treasure, as it was handed down to me by my own dear grandmother, and perhaps it will help you on your way? It's only a piece from the puzzle but, God willing, it may just be the kind of piece that you are so earnestly looking for.”

“It all began in the year of Queen Ethelraed's coronation. I forget which year. Perhaps you would know, Derek?”

Uncle Harry had to chortle to himself. So Cyclus the Great Memory Man's real name was plain old Derek.[59]

“That would be the summer of 1251,” the Memory Man reliably informed them, which was a useful fact to know, and Uncle Harold promptly withdrew his prior misgivings about having the man join them.

“It all began in the year of Queen Ethelraed's coronation, 1251,” Miss Frank corrected herself, “in the little market town of Morden Bywater, tucked away amongst the rolling downs, in the south west corner of Gothgoria.”

In a tiny cottage in the town, lived a young girl by the name of Luchinda Moor, with her father and her little brother, Byron. They were a poor family, for her father was not a well man and he was often without work, and in the winters they would have to wrap themselves up to keep out the bitter cold, for all they could afford to keep the fire and the stove going was a little sack of nutty slack.[60]

When he heard this, Uncle Harry was instantly reminded of the tale of Mushkil Gusha.

Sometimes, little Luchinda would go off into the forest outside the town and return with some dead wood that she'd been able to scavenge, and this would help keep them warm for a time, but there was little dead wood around the edges of the forest and her father had strictly forbidden that she should venture far, for fear that the girl might get lost.

One very cold day, however, when her father had taken a turn for the worse and sat there shivering in his blankets, Luchinda knew that she must go out once more and fetch more wood to get him warm again. So she put on her coat and hat and her thick woollen mittens. She took her father's big haversack to carry the wood in and, braving the cold, she set out once more.

Little Luchinda searched all around the edge of the forest, close by the lane, but she had already taken so much dead wood, and others had done the same, of course, that all she could find was a handful of twigs. So, even though she knew that her father had warned against it, Luchinda knew that she had no option but to venture further into the forest.

The girl walked in what she thought was a straight line and tried to keep a note of where she'd been, but all too soon – or rather too late – she realized that she could no longer see the lane and that she was quite lost.

Then Luchinda thought that she heard the sound of singing and music, coming from up ahead. As she crept ever closer, she could make out the sound of voices. And as she crept even closer, she could now see a clearing in the forest, which was full of horses tied up to the trees and strangers, who must have been their riders, all sitting round a camp fire in the centre of the clearing, by a rushing stream.

Fortunately for them, the clearing was wide and the trees and the ground were still quite damp after recent snow, or else these strangers could have set the whole forest ablaze. Luchinda was only young, but even she knew that.

Just then, she stumbled and a dead stick snapped noisily under her foot. It startled her and she let out an involuntary yelp, and of course it alerted these strangers, for in that instant the music and the singing stopped and she could hear the sound of swords being drawn and saw the men swing round and stand stock still, peering into the forest and straining to listen.

“Who's that? Who goes there?” one man called, striding across the clearing, dressed from head to toe in dark green, like a woodsman. “Come out and show yourself.”

“It's only me, sir,” she croaked, standing up to show herself, and edging toward the light.

“And who's me?” asked the man, more gently this time. He sheathed his sword and turned to face her.

“Luchinda Moor, sir,” she replied feebly.

The man smiled and waved his arm gracefully toward the roaring camp fire. “Then welcome, little Luchinda Moor. Please, come and join us, and warm yourself by our fire.”

Seeing that these strangers appeared friendly folk, and feeling safe in the company of so many – though she would have run a mile had there only been one of two, as her father had rightly warned her – she ventured forward and was indeed glad to feel the warm flames of the fire.

One of the ladies with them, who was dressed in such fine clothes that Luchinda thought she must be a fairytale princess, came forward and offered her a beaker of warm milk.

“And what brings you out on such a cold day, Luchinda?” the lady wanted to know. “You should be at home with your family, all snuggled up beside the fireside.”

And so she told the kind lady about her father often being poorly, today most especially; about him often not being able to work, and about coming out to see what dead wood she could find.

They all seemed quite shocked to learn how hard it was for little Luchinda Moor and when she'd drunk her milk and thanked them kindly, the man who was dressed all in green, who said his name was Arsalan, came forward.

“May I borrow your haversack for a moment, little one?” he asked, and he went over to the camp fire and filled it with a whole heap of logs that they'd chopped and cut, then returned to her side.

“That's most kind of you, Arsalan,” she replied, “but I fear that there's such a load in there that it would break my back ….”

The man smiled and gently tussled her mousy blond hair. “I know, little one. But it's not too heavy for me to carry. Esmerelda? Perhaps you might cloak yourself, and we'll escort young Luchinda here back to her home.”

Uncle Harry was thrilled to hear Esmerelda's name.

The lady went to one of the horses to fetch her cloak and then, having some second thought, she went to a mule quite close by, opened one of the panniers and fished something out before hastily closing the pannier once more. Little Luchinda was standing quite close by and when she saw what the mule was carrying, her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, for the panniers were full of gleaming gold. She said nothing, of course, and pretended not to have noticed.

“Right then, young Luchinda Moor,” the man announced. “If you show us the way, then we'll take you back home.”

Luchinda looked all around her. “I'm sorry, but I'm lost.”

“Whereabouts did you come from?” the man asked.

“From town. From Morden Bywater, that is; along the rutted lane.”

The man smiled and pointed ahead of him into the trees. “Ah, yes. The lane is this way, I do believe. And don't worry, I shan't get us any further lost.”

When Luchinda arrived back, she invited Arsalan and Esmerelda inside and, with her heart in her mouth, she introduced them to her father. He was still trembling and he looked quite pale, poor dear, but he was not too ill to reproach her when she told him where she'd been. As her father spoke, Esmerelda busied herself at the hearth, to poke some life into the glowing embers and get a decent fire going.

“If it weren't for these kind folk, lord knows what could have happened to you, Luchinda. You could have got thoroughly lost in the forest. Or attacked by a hungry wolf. Or abducted by strangers ….”

Finally the man relented, seeing that little Luchinda was taking heed of what he had to say. “But thank you all the same. Thank you, all of you. Your kindness has tickled[61] me and warmed the cockles of my heart. Please, sit yourselves down and perhaps you'll make our friends a drink, little one, and see if there are any biscuits left in the tin?”

Arsalan and Esmerelda stayed for a good half hour after they and Luchinda arrived at the house, talking to Luchinda's father, and greatly raising his spirits – an art that Arsalan had taught Esmerelda – before getting up to leave.

Just as they were going, Esmerelda drew Luchinda aside and pressed something into the girl's palm. She looked and saw three shiny gold coins and Luchinda was simply lost for words. She'd never seen so much money in her whole life.

“Your father is ill and he must, must, must see a doctor,” the lady told little Luchinda. “You must promise me not to let your father put this gold to any other use, other than buying in coal and good food. And if your father won't go to see the doctor, then go out and make sure that the doctor comes to see him. Don't accept any excuses.”

Luchinda nodded earnestly.

“Good girl. Now listen very carefully to me. There are some very bad people following us. They are sure to find out that we have been here – especially when someone mentions this gold – but they mustn't, mustn't, mustn't find out where we're going. Have you got that, Luchinda?”

Again the girl nodded.

“By morning we'll be gone, riding eastward through Ingmar and then north to a little country called Lilith. But if these nasty people ask, or if a neighbour or even your dear father asks, would you tell them a little white lie for me? It's all right to tell little white lies, when it's going to help someone and not hurt them, you see?”

“Yes,” Luchinda replied. “I promise.”

“Then tell them that we said we are heading south. Do you understand?”

“Yes, whoever asks me, even if father asks, I shall tell them that you rode south on your horses.”

Esmerelda bent down and kissed little Luchinda tenderly on the forehead. “Thank you so much, Luchinda: that will be a great help. It's been lovely meeting you.”

“Can't you take us with you?” Luchinda piped up. “I've never even been out of Morden Bywater before.”

Esmerelda looked quite sad when she heard this, but gently shook her head. “Oh, I'd love to, little one, but your father is too ill to travel. I'm sorry. Now, let's go and say goodbye to your father and we'll be on our way.”

Then the lady had another thought and popped another four gold coins in Luchinda's hand. “Here. These are for you. Not for anybody else, just for you. Now, keep them safe and don't show them to anybody. And one day, when you're grown up, spend them wisely and buy yourself a better life, little one.”

At this point, Miss Frank concluded her story and, glancing at her wristwatch, she drained her cup and got up to leave.

“That's a wonderful story, Miss Frank, but tell me: how do you know all this?”

Miss Frank smiled. She rummaged in her handbag and found her purse. Then, taking out a small object wrapped in fine tissue paper, she carefully unwrapped the paper and held out her hand. In her palm was a gold coin, and on the face Uncle Harry read the familiar inscription:

“All hail to Siberius, great king of Roth Nagor.”

“Indeed,” the lady nodded, taking the coin and carefully wrapping it up again and returning it to her purse.

“As to how I know and how I came to acquire one of the gold coins: my great great grandmother spent one and passed three onto her daughter. And, to cut a long story short, finally the last was handed down to me. You see, my dear great great grandmother was born and raised in Morden Bywater, and her maiden name actually was Luchinda Moor. And of course Esmerelda really was a princess after all.”

“Well, I'll be darned,” gasped Cyclus the Memory Man. “Now that's one thing I really didn't know, Miss Frank – though Mum's the word, as they say. Caught me right good and proper, you did. Wouldn't have guessed that in a month of bloomin' Sundays.”

16. The land of lost content

So that, David discovered, was as far as his Uncle Harry had got before shuffling off this mortal coil, as the old man might himself have put it. He'd been as far as Gothgoria, to find that the trail led east from there. If he was to take his uncle's advice and go out into the field, then he'd have a long trek ahead of him, east through Gothgoria and the northern tip of Ingmar, to Lilith, in the hope of picking up on the trail.

It was still winter, however, and David felt it prudent to wait until spring. In the meantime, he should finish off The Chronicles, having left Jeremy Wildacre a long way back, at the time of Artor's departure.

“Though my life was considerably enriched in the company of my beloved Elzabeth,” wrote Jeremy Wildacre one day; “still I was greatly disappointed that Artor should have whet my appetite with his tale of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor and then so abruptly gone on his way. I would have rather remained ignorant of the treasure than to be so tempted and then spurned by fate in almost the same breath. Even though Artor had intimated that there was method in his madness, alas it was not readily apparent to me.”

For his part, Artor was an intelligent cove,[62] and he must surely have known beforehand what effect this knowledge would have on me, and yet he had gone ahead and regaled me with it all the same; and this was something else that I could not fathom. Unless, that is, it was to provoke me to write these chronicles and perhaps in some way help others with an interest in the treasure who might come along after me, just as a conduit might provide water for others, yet itself not drink, nor benefit from that water?

It had been a disastrous time for dear Elzabeth and me since Artor had left. Elzabeth and I were hoping to save up and get married and she had found good work on a farm looking after a prize herd of dairy cattle. But there was a terrible drought that summer and half the herd perished. Nevertheless, they'd somehow weathered the drought in the first year, though it had cost the farmer dearly, for he had to buy in hay from far afield.

But when the drought continued unabated for a second season, the remaining cows grew so weak that their milk dried up and they could not feed their calves. So in the end, old farmer Giles had reluctantly let Elzabeth go.

At this time, permanent work was scarce. The best I could do was to find temporary work and I was myself between two jobs, so Elzabeth's misfortune could not have come at a worse time. Elzabeth had been living on the farm, but now she was homeless and though I took her in, there was scarcely enough food in the larder to feed one, let alone two.

It was said that things weren't nearly so bad further north, so we packed our bags and sold the few sticks of furniture we had and whatever we could not carry, and joined the steady procession of folk leaving town and heading north. Some had wagons, and a lucky few had managed to hitch a lift, but we didn't know how far our money would have to be spun out, so we had to travel on foot.

It was a slow and painful journey and, alas, some who set out were in a more pitiful state even that us and fell by the wayside. Such was the dire necessity to press on, that these poor folk were left to rot where they fell, once relieved of their boots and any warm clothes they might have. There were some who still had food to spare, though by and large they guarded it zealously, or else offered it for sale at a price we could not hope to pay. They say that in such times, folk band together and look after one-another, but alas we witnessed little of that noble spirit. It was a case of every man for himself, or at least for himself and his loved one.

Lord knows how Elzabeth and I ever managed to survive, but finally, after two weeks on the road, we finally trudged into a small town in the north, by the name of Crawley. We had hoped to reach the capital, but we were almost literally on our last legs and we knew that we could go no further. We still had just enough money to either buy a last meal or take a room for the night, and so we decided that we must eat and that we'd simply sleep rough in the street. Grim necessity does not stand on nicety or propriety.

Jeremy Wildacre never had said what part of the world he hailed from and David broke off at this point and went to his uncle's library shelves to find an old atlas. He had no idea where to begin looking, but as fortune would have it, there was an index at the back of the book and three entries under the name Crawley.

There was a town by the name of Crawley in Lathmanon, and David had wondered if Jeremy Wildacre might live in that country, but of course the capital, Roth Nagor, was in the west, not the north.

There was also a town named Crawley in Dravine, but this was in the east and there were no cities for miles and miles around.

This left one possibility then and he turned the pages until he came to one of the maps of Ingmar. There in the north east was Baradsway; and rather conveniently, someone had pencilled in a numbered footnote. “Baradsway,” the note read. “Old provincial capital.”

Tracing his hand down the page, David did indeed come to the little town of Crawley, a few days travel south west of the capital. Again, he noticed that someone, most likely his uncle, had drawn a circle around the town and added another pencilled footnote. The note read “See page 84.” This was indeed the page that he'd just reached in The Chronicles, and this also inferred that his uncle had considered this part of Jeremy Wildacre's account somehow important.

David went back to The Chronicles. “So great was our need,” Jeremy Wildacre continued, “that much as it grieved us, Elzabeth and I had to resort to begging alms on the streets and from door to door, and at night we would have to huddle together, usually in a shop doorway, beneath our two remaining blankets.”

Most folk would have nothing to do with us, even going so far as to leave the pavement or cross the road to avoid us, whilst others – more often than not cruel youths – would shower us with insults and with their spit. A few took pity on us, however, and offered us the odd copper coin. Another, a baker, gave us a stale loaf of bread, which fed us for a day, though the man did not offer the bread so much out of a love for humanity, but rather on the condition that we vacate his doorway and move on to pester someone else.

Finally, however, a kindly soul came up and, digging in her purse, she pressed some silver into Elzabeth's trembling hand, and Elzabeth showered the dear lady with thanks and tears. We ate well that day and still had change, so with fresh resolve we pressed on, still hoping to make it further north east to Baradsway, where we hoped we might finally be able to find work.

Again, how Elzabeth and I made it to the city, I do not know, but we did. However, if we thought that life would be easier there, then alas we were gravely mistaken. There had been such an influx of folk escaping the drought in the south, that what few jobs there were had mostly by now been snapped up. So again, we would have to sleep rough on the streets and then queue at the gates of the mills in the hope of getting a day's casual, unskilled labour. A very few of the stronger and brighter folk were lucky, but most, like us, went away utterly dejected and ever more weak and hungry.

We sat on the street, huddled in our blankets, with an old tin mug before us and a tatty old piece of cardboard on which I'd scrawled the words, “Please help the needy”, scraping together just enough coppers to see us through to the next day – and sufficient insults and curses to last a lifetime. And by now, of course, dear Elzabeth and I stank to High Heaven, making it all the less likely that we'd find work. We were caught in a horrendous downward spiral.

Usually we'd hear a little clink as some passer-by dropped the odd copper in the old tin mug and we'd briefly look up to thank them kindly. But one day, instead of the clink of small copper, some dear soul passed by and we heard a louder clunk and of course I snatched at the old tin mug to quickly peer inside. As soon as I caught sight of what was in the mug, my heart skipped a beat and I looked up sharply.

When I saw the gold coin, I immediately thought of Artor; and yet even when I saw the man with my own eyes, standing there and looking down at us, I could scarcely believe my eyes.

“Artor?” I gasped, thrusting the old tin mug into Elzabeth's hands and staggering to my feet. “Oh, dear Lord. Artor? Is that you?”

“No, you are not dreaming Jeremy Wildacre. And yes, it is indeed me,” the man nodded and smiled back. He looked at me and then at Elzabeth and I felt so humiliated by our bedraggled and pathetic state that I cast my eyes down.

“Don't worry, my friends,” the man smiled. “Gather up your things and follow me, and we'll soon have you sorted out.”

As Artor said these words, I was immediately reminded of the story he'd once told, of Mushkil Gusha, the remover of all difficulty … and of how we'd forgotten to commemorate his name. I just stood there in my rags and waved my arms apologetically, and Elzabeth's eyes were flooding with tears, but the man merely smiled.

“Yes, I can see that you and Elzabeth have been dragged through the mill, and that grieves me. But that's really not a problem any longer. First we need to get you washed and spruced up. Then we'd better find a place where you can eat your fill. And finally we must talk.”

Artor took us to the inn where he was staying and made all the necessary arrangements. Whilst Elzabeth and I were soaking in the bath, the man went off to town to buy new clothes and, as we sat down to eat with him, we were grateful indeed that we looked ourselves once more and were no longer the figures of scorn.

“Thank you ...” Elzabeth began, and then we both remembered the words that Artor had once spoken and now spoke again:

“Please don't thank me ...”

“... Rather thank the One who provides,” she laughed, completing Artor's sentence.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “And might I say, it is so good to see you can once again raise a smile, Elzabeth.”

Having fair gorged ourselves on food, Artor guided us out of the dining room. He found a quiet corner in the lounge where we could sit, allow our dinner to settle, and talk without fear of being overheard, then went off to the bar to top up our glasses.

When the man returned, he turned to me. “Have you given any more thought to the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor?” he wanted to know.

Elzabeth raised her eyebrows. “After you left, Jeremy could think of little else,” she laughed, though I sensed a slight edge to her voice.

“I have to admit, I was quite smitten,” I agreed. “I simply had to write down what I'd heard about the treasure, and was determined to find out more.”

“I expect that you're cursing the day that I first tempted you with the tale of the Lost Treasure, aren't you, Jeremy? Raising your hopes, only to depart and to dash those hopes?”

I nodded and for some reason, I couldn't meet Artor's intense gaze.

Artor waved his arms in the air, apologetically. “Forgive me. I was told that this was indicated. And just as it was important that we should have met earlier, so there is a compelling reason that we should have met again. The fact that we have met again validates the urge that I had when we first met.”

I looked askance. “I'm sorry, Artor, you've lost me there. I really don't see how Elzabeth and I fit into the scheme of things.”

“What most attracted you about the stories that I told you, Jeremy?” Artor asked me.

“The people,” both I and Elzabeth replied in prefect unison, and we laughed out loud and reached across the table to link our little fingers together.[63]

“Yes, the people,” I told Artor. “Far more than thoughts of finding the lost treasure, rather I was struck by their humanity and sanity in a world gone mad. I would have loved to have met Princess Esmerelda and Angus Middleditch, and especially the mysterious and wise guide they had with them, the man in green.”

“Their guide's name was Arsalan,” Artor reliably informed me.

“Yes, Arsalan. He must have had a story or two to tell in his own right ...”

“Indeed,” Artor agreed, adding: “Far more and taller tales than you might expect.”

“... And I would have loved to have helped them against Prince Willum and to have been able to travel with them to a better life.”

I shrugged. “Heck Artor, I guess I was simply drawn in by a good yarn. It all seemed so real, the way you told the tale.”

“Is that what you think it is, Jeremy?” the man asked me, stroking his chin.

Again I shrugged. “I really don't know any longer, Artor. I've seen a sample of the gold and there's no denying that .... But it's all so far away that for all practical intents and purposes, it might as well be just another good yarn. The fairytale ending 'And they all lived happily ever after' isn't for simple folk like us.”

Artor raised his eyebrows, shook his head and spoke to me. “Is that what they've taught you in this land of lost content, Jeremiah Wildacre? That magic and good fortune and suchlike are the soul preserve of children's pantomime and fairytale? That really is so sad.

“Though you might find it difficult to accept, Jeremy, 'Once upon a time' and 'happily ever after' are precisely aimed at dear souls like you and Elzabeth.

“Let me assure you of one thing. If you know where to look and how to look, you will find the magic everywhere. The fact that this so seldom appears to be the case, should tell you something about the dire state this world is in.

“If the Princess Esmerelda's exodus with the Lost Treasure symbolizes anything, it is this. This is also what truly attracts you to this tale. And this, in turn, offers some explanation as to how and why, in your hour of need and against all odds, we have found one-another once more.

“So think on, chaps,” Artor smiled, raising his glass. “Think on that.”

We sat there in silence for a time, toasting our feet by the fireplace, and then I ventured to speak again.

“Artor,” I addressed the man at length. “If you're willing, then I'd really like to find out more about the real story of the Lost Treasure.”

“Splendid!” Artor replied, clapping his hand on my shoulder. “I was hoping you might.”

Elzabeth didn't seem quite so sure that this would be a good idea.

The man peered up at the carriage clock on the mantelshelf above the fire. “Then let's turn in for the night, as we need to be up early in the morning. Tomorrow we'll buy horses and begin our journey east.”

Artor stood up and was about to to lead the way upstairs when he had a second thought. “You said that you'd been writing down this tale? ....”

I nodded sheepishly. “Have I done wrong?”

“No, no. I'm sure that, too, is not without good reason, though you may as yet not know it. However, let me caution you, Jeremiah.”

I drew a gulp of air.

“Don't worry unnecessarily. You're not in trouble, Jeremy. However, from here on in, it would be better if you were to not openly name the places through which we are to pass. I'll have a think about the matter and hopefully we can come up with some alternatives to throw undesirables off the scent?”

“Undesirables?” I queried.

“Oh yes, indeed, Jeremy. We're not the only ones with an interest in the Lost Treasure,” Artor assured me, and he told me that Thadika, for example, had sworn to avenge his brother Willum and recover the treasure.

“But he's long been mouldering in his grave,” I pointed out.

“Thadika's sons, too,” the man agreed. “But his family line and his dishonour lives on, as did his oath to seek vengeance and restoration, if it took from then until the crack of Doomsday.

“And there will be many others,” Artor added. “Not least those who come to read your chronicles in years to come.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I wanted to know. “All you have to do is say the word and I'll toss my manuscript into the fire, without a second thought ....”

Artor shook his head in earnest. “No, no, heaven forbid. Please don't do that, Jeremy. If anything, such a course of action is contraindicated. In fact, promise me that whatever happens, you will continue writing and keep your manuscript safe.”

“Yes, I promise,” I replied obediently as we headed off up the stairs.

Then: “Artor, you said that I'd have to be carefully about what I wrote, in future. But how can we somehow veil its meaning from what you term undesirables and yet help those others whom you say will come across the tale in years to come?”

Artor stopped at the head of the stairs and turned back for a moment. “These people are not like you and Elzabeth and me,” the man said, after giving the matter some thought. “They lack a certain kind of imaginative spirit. You know, you can hide a treasure in plain sight, if it's in the last place that folk would expect to find it.

“Or I should say, more correctly, that they currently lack imagination. These people do learn, you see, though in a mechanical fashion. They're always trying to catch up with us and we're always trying to stay a step or two ahead of them. This is no new phenomenon, you understand, but something that has being going on through the ages.”

Artor turned away and headed toward the bedrooms, and we followed him. “So, Jeremy, there are ways in which you can write things that people like us can come to understand and yet these pretenders will hopefully not be able to fathom; or at least not be able to fathom for some time. But never make the mistake of underestimating these people, nor the grief that they can cause: some of them are exceedingly clever, adept at what they do, and utterly ruthless and cold hearted.”

As Artor was about to enter his bedroom and bid us goodnight, I scratched my chin and thought about that. “But if this has been going on for generations and some of these pretenders are so clever, how on earth do you prevent them from catching up with you?”

“People like us work alone or in groups,” Artor said, drawing close as if to confide in me. “They may catch up with one of us or even a group of us,” he informed me. “If we can melt away into the night, then that's good. And if the worst comes to the worst, then that's a sad loss, but the dynamic will simply move on and the others can distance themselves from that compromised group and will still be safe.

“And then there is something else, you see. Only a few of our people will show themselves openly; and beyond that are ring upon ring of others, rising up through the ranks as one travels inward.

Artor stood for a moment with his hand on the door knob of his room. “So undesirables may make it through these outer rings and yet discover little. Indeed, one of the purposes of having all these rings is to make sure that only those who are worthy to progress actually progress beyond these early stages. Undesirables are gradually weeded out and disposed of, in one way or another, before they get any further.”

I was still a little puzzled. “But what about the really clever ones?” I asked. “How do you prevent them from penetrating these outer layers?”

“Our defences are complex,” Artor replied. “One defence is that we can adopt a million and one outward forms, totally confusing outsiders. They wouldn't dream of linking the apparent objective of many of our enterprises with the secret work going on behind the façade. Another defence is simply that of time. If we sit back and twiddle our thumbs for a decade or so, or simply get on with our other work, then ninety percent of these outsiders will simply get bored silly and move on. We have a number of these crude defences and they weed out all but a handful in any thousand aspirants or infiltrators, and we can then afford to pay particular attention to those few who remain; some of whom we can then ditch as hopelessly obsessive types.”

“And if they're really really clever and aren't put off by your defences?”

“Fortunately, dear Jeremy, there comes a stage when developments occur which simply cannot be counterfeited. There comes a point when these pretenders simply cannot rise any further and ultimately cannot reach the transcendent Masters, though some vainly try through sorcery. Those who rise, find us; those who cannot, do not. End of story. At heart, you see, we cannot be tracked down or duped; and by that I don't mean to say that we are personally infallible or in some way superhuman, but rather that we are rightly guided. Indeed at our very heart – thank God – we are Untouchable.

“Imagine a paper chase or a treasure hunt, Jeremy. For the first few miles, let us say that the clues are to be found on the ground, indeed folk will become thoroughly used to finding the clues on the ground or hidden in familiar objects and will look no further. But what these people don't know and we don't tell, is that we place certain strategic clues high up, shall we say out of reach of even those who can find a step ladder. And the only way to find and reach these clues is if one has developed the means to fly. If the training has truly kicked in, then the student will have developed this ability; it's not something that can be faked. So one or two of the worthy will find these clues, which eventually lead to us, and the others will simply carry on the way they've been going all along, and even go round and round in circles apparently getting nowhere.”

“And may I write down these words?” I queried, sensing how important this was.

“Certainly, Jeremy. As they so rightly say: the secret protects itself – from the fool and the undesirable, that is.”

Artor smiled and patted me on the shoulder, before entering his room. “And on that happy note, friends, I will bid you good night. Sleep well.”

Seeing that it was already past his bedtime, David marked his page with the old beer mat and closed the book. What Artor had said had certainly put a whole new and unexpected complexion on the quest for the Lost Treasure, and he wondered what Jeremy Wildacre must have been thinking when it had been revealed to him.

It seemed to David that there was still a truck load of magic left in this land of lost content, if only he knew how and where to look for it … and if the likes of “the Third Man” and his thugs didn't stomp or defecate all over it, as they had with him.

Every so often, when David got up and went downstairs, checking to see if any post had been delivered, he'd find that someone – no doubt this man without a name, “the Third Man”, no doubt – had left his calling card on the doormat, just to let David know that he still cared. As if.[64] Whether life had soured the man or he'd been born that way, David didn't know. But what he did know by now was that there was something thoroughly sick and twisted or even evil about that man.

17. A change of heart

Sod it, David decided out of the blue,[65] the very next day. Spring might not have arrived yet, but the worst of the winter was over, and he was going to journey east, to pick up the trail in the south of Gothgoria, at the old capital. David was chomping at the bit, eager to be off. He would read the rest of The Chronicles on the way and simply hope that dear old Jeremy Wildacre didn't come out with some show-stopper, like:

Forget everything I've told you thus far. I messed up a little at Baradsway and have had second thoughts.

Or even:

Actually I've been leading fools and undesirables like you up the garden path. Back to square one.[66]

When Uncle Harry had died, he'd also left his horse and mule to David. Bella was in fine condition and had been enjoying time out at a nearby stables where there was a paddock in which to frolic with her friends; but alas Uncle's faithful old mule, Muggins had finally succumbed to the rigours of old age and died, so David had had to go to market to buy a replacement. Well, buy another mule; you could never “replace” Muggins, who had such a marvellously eccentric, if at times cranky, personality. He decided to dub the new mule Frisky, on account of his energetic temperament.

David quickly packed his haversack and headed for the door. The other provisions, including a new one man tent, since Uncle's had seen better days, he'd pick up on the way, after fetching Bella and Frisky from the stables.

He was striding along the busy high street – dodging this way and that in his haste, though a slow but straight path might actually have been the more expedient – when he happened to glance back and see quite clearly that he was being followed. As he caught sight of the two men in their black tie and tails, they abruptly stopped and turned away, as if looking in a nearby shop window. He walked on and looked back again, and again the men shifted uncomfortably. Their boss, presumably “the Third Man” who'd once paid a call on him, might be a professional, but these men really were pathetic amateurs. Not that he'd have dared tell them as much to their ugly faces, or want to have met them in an alleyway on a dark night, of course.

Instead of turning off toward the stables, he continued on up the high street and went into a shop to pick up one or two quite unnecessary items of food and, that little subterfuge out of the way, he returned home the way he had come, making no attempt to shake off his pursuers.

As soon as he arrived home, however, David quickly relocked the front door, dashed through the house and went straight out through the back door. He crossed the yard, clambered over the padlocked wooden gate and ran down the rubbish-strewn alley and away, heading through the back streets in the direction of the stables. Then he was off at a trot down the road and away from Dunstable. As for the tent and the other provisions, he'd simply have to pick these up at Fitchkirk, the next large town en route, and by the time the men discovered that he'd absconded, he'd be miles away. Most likely, if they followed him, they'd take the main road, but he'd already thought of that and had planned a more circuitous route along the ancient and less well known network of bridle paths.

It was a long and lonely journey east to Ingmar, and David spent a lot of the time pouring out his heart to Bella to break the monotony. He'd have given anything to have Uncle Harry along for the ride to keep him company. Of course, it was pretty much a one-sided conversation with Bella, unless he was talking food. The old nag would always prick up her ears at the mention of water to lap, grass to nibble or a nose bag full of oats. As Uncle Harry had once informed him: the use of language and tools and even feelings of empathy are not the sole preserve of human beings. To think otherwise merely emphasizes our own ignorance and chauvinism.

David had hoped to have read more of The Chronicles, but there was no way that he could hold the book still enough to read as he joggled up and down in the saddle, so that had to wait until he stopped and made camp for the night or booked into a wayside inn. Marvellous as the scenery might be, David wouldn't really be happy until he'd reached Baradsway. Not only had Jeremy Wildacre been there with his enigmatic friend Artor, but chances were so had Princess Esmerelda's party, as they, too, travelled east from Morden Bywater which was just across the border to the west, in Gothgoria.

When David eventually reached Baradsway, he was again chomping at the bit to be off on the trail of the Lost Treasure, but it had been a long and gruelling journey and every muscle in his body was aching. Bella herself was in much need of rest, so David found himself a quiet inn with stables on the outskirts of the city and took a couple of days out, before resuming his quest.

The inn had seen better days and was in a state of disrepair; but, if you could see beyond the spit and sawdust on the floor, it had what David really adored, and that was real character; with blackened oak beams and horse brasses,[67] tables fashioned from old barrels and good old-fashioned home baking, home cooking and hospitality. Uncle Harry hadn't taken him on any of his longer expeditions, but they had been on several local forays, invariably rounding off the day eating a meal in some country inn such as this; and perhaps most of all this reminded David of those good times he'd had with his dear uncle.

Taking a leaf out of Uncle Harry's book, he thoroughly searched the city and could only marvel at how opulent and technologically advanced Ingmar had grown, and all the more so in recent years; though to the south, and also westward to Dar Bethel, it was said to still be largely rural and woefully impoverished. These times of transition and upheaval so often hurt the weak and vulnerable and traditional sectors of a society, his uncle had told him. There was always a heavy price for some to pay for so called progress.

David visited the library, the public records office and an art gallery, and enquired of any elderly person that he came across in his search, all to no avail. When he accosted people in the street, some of them just kept on walking, or were openly rude to him, thinking perhaps that he was a beggar, a salesman or an evangelist, and David was not at all comfortable doing this. He did not possess Uncle Harry's “gift of the gab”[68] as the old man called it. The open, community spirit that had so characterized the war years and the aftermath, when people pulled together and went out of their way to help one another, appeared to be receding in so many places these days, even amongst the more elderly who should have known better.

Unless, of course, that supposed community spirit had just been fuelled by propaganda and was the stuff of urban legend?[69] Many had gone on strike over pay and working conditions and there'd been civil unrest and desertions during the war years, all of which had understandably gone unreported. Perhaps this phenomenon was simply like water or electricity, flowing along the path of least resistance, with the minimal expenditure of effort? Or perhaps David was simply taking these rebuttals too personally, when it was really something more general to do with a gulf between the older generation – who'd had to struggle, scrimp and save, and make do and mend for most of their lives – and what they might see, rightly or wrongly, as feckless[70] youth? Having said that, David did find some sentient folk who'd have been only too happy to help him, and they were most apologetic that they could not, and that more than made up for the frosty reception he received from others. Even a single act of kindness goes a long way.

If Princess Esmerelda's party had been in the area, then they must have given the city a wide berth; knowing, no doubt, that such a distinctive procession of horses and pack animals would not have gone unnoticed and unremarked.

Feeling a little dejected, even though he knew, of course, that the search would not be this easy, David left the city of Baradsway and headed east across the northern tip of Ingmar toward the tiny principality of Lilith which nestled uncomfortably between several of its much larger neighbours: the fiefdom of Chongyen[71] to the west; Ingmar to the south west; Erigwid to the south; Gilgamar to the east; and the formidable mountainous realm of Narayana to the north. Standing at the crossroads of several ancient and major trading routes, Lilith's minuscule size belied the important role that it played as a gateway for such trade; and it was the subject of a great many skirmishes between its neighbours, until finally a treaty had been signed, which for a time at least ensured its continuing independence, on condition that the country retained its neutrality.

If David didn't pick up Esmerelda's trail in Lilith, then heaven only knows which way they might have gone on from there.

Lilith was a beautiful little place, and the first thing that took David's eye were the quaint hamlets, their timber-framed houses built all higgledy-piggledy;[72] so unlike some he could mention which had been designed by a soulless bureaucrat or pedant; laid out in ordered rows in a thoroughly unimaginative grid according to some martial master plan; and the streets numbered rather than thoughtfully and appropriately named. If a road had a mill, then for heaven's sake why not name it Mill Lane rather than something bland and impersonal – albeit clear, unambiguous and efficient – like 44th Street West? Wherever you looked, there were signs of the old and natural ways being stripped out or tamed, in favour of the synthetic and the industrial. There was a war going on between man and nature, and many foolishly believed that this was a war that could be won. And when disaster struck, as was inevitable from time to time, they would deny personal responsibility and blame it instead on inferior materials or poor workmanship, or claim that it was an act of God.

The people who built these communities in Lilith, however, lived equally simple, quiet, unassuming, natural and unregulated lives. This was something that Uncle Harry often lamented and ironically felt passionate about: “Fewer and fewer people are content with simply being content these days; instead craving what the media feeds them: the ever more eventful. It doesn't even matter if that event is joyous or distressing, just so long as it is an event and passions are aroused.” It wasn't that Uncle begrudged folk passion, far from it, but rather he was concerned about the degree to which people were increasingly being manipulated by society and by technology and ultimately by themselves: by their own selfish desires. Their “I want it now!” and “Gimme!” and incessant clamour for “More, more, more!”

These days – Uncle Harry would lament – the tail is wagging the dog. Is that why Uncle took up archaeology? Is that what he spent so many years searching for? For a world that no longer existed, except in dusty tomes or far flung places or in a child's imagination? For the last vestiges of a magic that had been all but lost or expunged from the land? Was that as good as it gets? Or was that the Lost Treasure, and were the gold and jewels just a pretext or a metaphor? Perhaps even a device to goad them on, just like you might fasten a stick to a donkey's head and dangle a tempting carrot on the end of it? Was it that the end justified the otherwise deplorable means? Even if a part of you had to die along the way? Was that it?

All right, all right. So he was getting to sound like Uncle Harry more and more, these days. What of it? Someone had to keep the old flag flying. And better that than sounding like his father.

The second thing that David noticed in Lilith were the vast swathes of land carpeted in the rich petals of the native bluebell. This was such a joy to behold. And the third thing he noticed, apart from the industry of the bees, were the angelic flights of butterflies of a myriad gaily painted hues; from which, quite appropriately, Lilith had become known to many as The Land of Bluebells, or alternatively, The Land of the Butterfly.

He thoroughly scoured the country, not that there was really much of Lilith to search. But to his great dismay, he found that here the trail went cold – stone cold. For the first time he did wonder if perhaps Jeremiah Wildacre had actually misled his readers, to throw them off the scent, and he could not help but take this personally. Jeremiah Wildacre did not know him from the next man, of course, but as David had read The Chronicles, he thought he'd come to know – and trust – this writer. Perhaps his trust had been misplaced and he'd been misguided? Or perhaps the man was more obligated to the greater interests of the treasure itself than to his readership?

When he returned to the inn, David settled down in the lounge, dug out The Chronicles from his rucksack and flicked through the pages. Again he came across those lines that Artor had spoken to Jeremy Wildacre:

“However, from here on in, it would be better if you were to not openly name the places through which we are to pass. I'll have a think about the matter and hopefully we can come up with some alternatives to throw undesirables off the scent?”

And a little further down, Jeremy had asked:

“How can we somehow veil its meaning from what you term undesirables and yet help those others whom you say will come across the tale in years to come?” and Artor had explained that such a thing was possible, though for obvious reasons he hadn't spelt out quite how. Except, that was, to suggest that they deliberately conditioned and misdirected people to expect clues to be found “on the ground” whilst one of the real clues might be in the last place they'd become accustomed to look: high above their heads.

His uncle had actually turned over the corner of the book at that page, and though the man wasn't averse to adding pencil notes in the margins of books, this was a practice that he particularly frowned upon, second only to those utterly disrespectful readers who would break the spine of a paperback book so that the pages would open fully, with no regard for those who came to read the book later, or for the kind person who'd lent the book to them.

If Esmerelda had not gone east, after all, then someone had been lying. Miss Frank, the storyteller could have lied to Uncle; or her grandmother, Luchinda Moor could have lied to her. Esmerelda could have lied to Luchinda; or else Jeremy could have lied to his readers. Whoever it was, something didn't quite add up.

If this were the case and these were the new rules of engagement, then there must surely be some hint as to the truth of the matter?

David checked again, to see if what Artor had told Jeremy Wildacre offered any clues:

“These people are not like you and Elzabeth and me .... They lack a certain kind of imaginative spirit. You know, you can hide a treasure in plain sight, if it's in the last place that folk would expect to find it ...."

“There are ways in which you can write things that people like us can come to understand and yet these pretenders will hopefully not be able to fathom; or at least not be able to fathom for some time.”

He realized for the first time that, having been advised to be careful about what he wrote, Jeremy might have revised and obfuscated the whole of his manuscript and could have planted clues anywhere in that text.

And in order to find that out, David would have to wade through The Chronicles all over again, beginning with Jeremy Wildacre first meeting Artor. Back to square one, indeed; or at least it felt that way to him at the time. He was reminded by an old folk song he'd heard, many years back. “No one said it would be easy,” the lady had lilted, adding, “But no one said it'd be this hard.”

For three whole days, David sat in the lounge at the inn and read solidly, breaking only to eat, drink lots of tea, and answer the inevitable and consequential call of nature. The landlady must have thought him a strange cove; but if she did, she kept it to herself. Well, since he was paying through the nose,[73] she could hardly complain.

One thing that puzzled David and he couldn't quite fathom, were these strange utterances that Artor kept coming out with, as if they were calls from beyond this world, and he wondered quite why Jeremy Wildacre had bothered to write them down.

David marked the page he'd got to and went up to the bar to get something a little stronger than tea down his gizzard.[74] Then again he backtracked and flipped through the pages until he came to the first mention of these otherworldly states.

Yes, there it was:

Oh seeker,

do not dally with

Hyacinth's cousin

or the painted woman,

enticing as they may be.

Rather than that,

dare to turn aside.

And in their stead,

like those rightly guided

souls who went before you,

seek those who

expelled the outcasts.

Armed with the book and his notepad, David decided to revisit the local library where he could sit quietly and study the verse without interruption – and also not be tempted to drink his way to an early grave.

He was wondering who this Hyacinth or the other painted woman could be, and so he worked his way through all the books the library had on folklore, all to no avail, and then turned his attention to Hatfield's Encyclopedia. Fortunately, though this magnum opus consisted of no fewer then twenty eight hefty volumes, a separate volume had been included which contained a thorough index.

Of course without a surname, the chances of finding anybody by the name of Hyacinth were pretty remote, unless of course the woman was famous and was known as, shall we say, Hyacinth the Great. So he checked the name Hyacinth on the off chance.

Lo and behold! There in the index was the word Hyacinth. He made a note of the volume and page number and went off to fetch the appropriate section of the book, which was of course conveniently labelled “H to Hzar”.

As he turned the pages and caught sight of the entry, he could have kicked himself, for he found that this Hyacinth wasn't a woman after all, but rather a plant, indeed it comprised a whole family of plants. And then the light dawned on David: that he was looking for a cousin – a near relative – in this family of plants. “Any of numerous bulbous perennial herbs,” so he was reliably informed, which wasn't particularly helpful; but at least he seemed to be on the right track.

So, he was a slow learner and there were so many fields of knowledge that he simply hadn't got a clue about. He'd always thought, rightly or wrongly, that things like botany were for sissies.[75] Or perhaps this was a reaction on his part, because he didn't want others to think him a mummy's boy?[76] You know what kids are like: they can be so cruel, and hard knocks rather than empathy had been high on the curriculum in David's school.

Very well, he thought. If Hyacinth's cousin isn't a woman, then perhaps neither is the “painted woman” mentioned on the next line.

Having got the hang of the encyclopedia by now, he checked through the index for anything beginning with the name “painted”, and sure enough there in the long list was an entry which looked rather hopeful: that of the painted lady. When he looked that up, he discovered that it was a kind of butterfly with wonderful orange, black and white painted wings.

Again, the light dawned on David. Going back to the encyclopedia article on the Hyacinth, he discovered that one of the family was the common bluebell. And finally a part of what Artor meant had clicked into place. Where might you find bluebells and painted ladies: in Lilith, of course, Land of the Bluebell or of the Butterfly.

So what Artor was saying, or rather what the craft old Jeremy Wildacre was hinting at, basically, was not to waste time searching in Lilith, however enticing it might be.

Rather than that,

dare to turn aside.

And in their stead,

like those rightly guided

souls who went before you,

seek those who

expelled the outcasts.

If he turned away from Lilith, then where else might he go? David reached in his haversack and brought out the rough sketch map he'd drawn of what little he knew of the world.[77]

Of course! The term outcasts might well refer to those who lived in the Outlands, to the north of the Freelands, having been cast out of so-called civilized society when they were defeated at the end of the First Great War. So “those who expelled the outcasts” would be the Freelanders. That was an unexpected change of direction, and David could only hope that those who might have been following Esmerelda or Jeremy Wildacre would not at this point be expecting the unexpected.

And “like those rightly guided / souls who went before you,” must surely refer originally to Esmerelda's party and their guide, Arsalan; and perhaps also to Jeremy Wildacre and his own guide, Artor, who went before his readers.

Thank you, Jeremiah Wildacre, I was wrong to question your intent and I take back all the derogatory oaths I uttered about you.

David carefully returned the books to the shelves and headed back toward the inn with a spring in his step, feeling as pleased as Punch. Okay, again I take it back: all that donkey work does eventually pay off. Now, instead of having to drown his sorrows and return home a dejected, if not broken man, he and Uncle Harry really did have something to celebrate.

And the next day, David packed his bags, left Lilith and retraced his steps, heading back into the north of Ingmar to Baradsway, not far from the border with the Freelands. He'd take a few days out in Baradsway and then he'd push on up north, into the Freelands.

18. Katie Smiles

The gods must have been looking down on David that day and smiling as he rode back toward Baradsway. Or perhaps they'd taken pity on him, seeing him on this long journey without a companion to warm his heart?

“Hello there,” called the girl, bringing her horse up to walk alongside as David neared the city. She lent over and offered him her hand and for a moment he wasn't sure whether to shake the girl's hand or kiss it, or to sit there gawking[78] like an idiot.

“I'm Katie,” the girl introduced herself; and apart from noting that she was about his own age, or perhaps a little older, he couldn't help but notice just how pretty she was, with long, shiny blond hair cascading over her shoulders. Unlike most women, who rode side saddle in these parts, looking all prim and proper, she was fully astride her horse, and wore workaday clothes, which were far better suited to long and serious travel.

“It's okay, you can close your mouth now.”

Whoops, now that was a major faux pas.[79]

Katie Smiles,” she introduced herself, adding in the same breath: “And please don't laugh. I've heard all the jokes and the humour has worn rather thin.”

“David Seymour,” he replied when he'd come to his senses. “Pleased to meet you, Katie. And I think that's a lovely name. Are you heading for Baradsway, too?”

Well, that was a pretty dumb question to ask, of course, given that they were just approaching the southern gate, but at least he hadn't flushed bright red or begun to stammer. In his earlier youth, wearing hand-me-downs and thick rimmed spectacles held together with adhesive tape, he'd been hopelessly bashful. And the more he was conscious of nervously and visibly squirming, of course the worse it got.

“Likewise, David. Yes, I'm on the way back from visiting an elderly aunt, and I thought I might stay here and rest for a day or two.”

“I don't recognize the accent,” he observed.

“Oh, I've lived in the Freelands for seven years now, though I originally hail from Ingmar,” she informed him. “So I've picked up the Freelanders' twang and a few of their quirks and habits. And you?”

“A good deal further than that. I'm come all the way from Kronstein, in fact,” quickly adding. “That's even further west than Dravine.”

That clearly surprised the girl. “Well, well, David. So you're hundreds of miles away from home. What brings you here?”

David wasn't sure how to respond to that question, and simply replied, “It's a long story,” hoping to buy some time while he turned the question over for a while in his head.

“I'm a good listener,” she offered generously, and so David decided that he might as well let the girl into his confidence and simply tell her the truth. Uncle Harry had always maintained that honesty was generally the best policy.

“Wow,” she enthused, when she heard what he had to say. “I've never met such an intrepid adventurer before. The boys I've met have been so dull in comparison.”

Flattery will get you everywhere, he smiled to himself.

By this time, they'd come to an inn, and having agreed that they might both book in there, he continued his story as they waited to be served lunch. The dining room was in a new extension to the building and did look rather too much like a works canteen or a roadside café for his taste, but Katie's good company more than made up for that.

“I'm sorry, I hope my story hasn't bored you,” he apologized as they finally finished their meal and he rounded off his story thus far.

“Oh David, no, you mustn't apologize,” Katie insisted, clasping his hand in hers across the table for a moment. “I think this is a fascinating tale. Thank you so much for sharing it with me.”

Katie Smiles was quite forward and rather too touchy-feely for his comfort. David actually found this slightly unnerving.

She looked about her, leant closer and, in slightly hushed tones, she said, “I do hope that you find the stolen treasure, David. My word, that would be a story and a half. You'd be rich and famous.”

David cast his eyes down, feeling a little coy at all this attention from such a beautiful girl, but she leant closer and gently brought his chin up with the tips of her fingers.

“Anyway, that's more than enough about me,” he decided. “May I buy you another tea? Or something stronger, if you'd prefer? Then you can tell me all about you, Katie.”

“Oh, a tea would suit me fine, David,” she replied and fished in her shoulder bag, pulling out some silver from her bulging purse. “But please allow me to pay.”

Seeing that Katie was not exactly strapped for cash, David relented, after some playful haggling between them, and he accepted the money and headed back to the bar.

Quickly finding that they enjoyed one-another's company, David and Katie spent the next three days together, shopping in the city and going for walks during the day, under Katie's expert guidance, and going to the cinema and eating out on an evening, and they soon became fast friends.[80]

On the fourth day, however, as they met again for breakfast (since they were, of course, sleeping in separate rooms), David felt decidedly downhearted.

“Why the long face,[81] David?” asked Katie as they sat down to eat. She appeared genuinely concerned.

David sighed, acutely aware that there was no way of postponing the inevitable, however much he attempted to wish it away. “Oh Katie, I've only just got to know you and, alas, it's time for me to be moving on.”

“On your quest?” she enquired. Katie had put on a brave face, but she couldn't hide the disappointment in her eyes.

He nodded.

“Where are you heading next?”

“North to the Freelands,” he told her. “And from there, as yet I know not where. All I know is that I'll be going wherever Jeremy Wildacre's clues lead me.”

Katie immediately perked up. “I'm going that way myself, David. So why don't we travel together? At least for a few more days. I have no pressing engagements elsewhere ….”

“Are you sure?” he queried. “I don't want you to feel obligated.”

“David Seymour,” she playfully scolded him. “How can you think such a thing? Trust me: if I didn't want to be with you, I would let you know in no uncertain terms. Yes, of course I'm sure. I would love to go with you, at least for a few more days.”

That was a great relief and he nodded eagerly. “Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you so much. Now, let's eat up before our breakfast gets cold. We have a long day ahead of us.”

“We're going today?”

“Why not? If we ride at a trot at least part of the way, we could be across the border by lunchtime. Unless, of course, you'd rather stay here for one last day?”

Katie shook her head vigorously as she chewed her food and emptied her mouth. “No, let's strike now while the iron's hot, David. If you want to go today, then go we shall. Just give me a few minutes while I go and get ready – and there are one or two things I need to pick up from a shop.”

“There's no rush, I'll come with you,” he offered.

“... Ladies' personal items, you understand,” she confided, whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Ah, I see. Okay then I'll meet you out front in – what? – fifteen minutes.”

Katie laughed out loud. “Hey, I'm a woman, remember, and it takes us a while longer to get ready, since we're generally more particular. Give me half an hour and I'll be done.”

“Fair enough,” he replied, a little sheepishly.

19. The Freelands

The first thing that struck David about the Freelands was the country's burgeoning bureaucracy, and he encountered this the moment he attempted to set foot on the Freelanders' soil. He'd expected to have just been able to ride over the border, just as he had done in all the other countries that he'd passed through on his travels into the east. But no: that would have been altogether too straightforward.

Although the borders were not as yet sealed to most would-be migrants – with the notable exception of the Outlanders, who were still most unwelcome – the borders were nevertheless manned and passage was strictly regulated.

Of course, Katie was allowed through almost straight away and patiently waited for him at the other side of the barrier as he was put through the wringer.[82]

He and the others in the growing queue had their names taken, not once but twice; records were searched; and they each had to fill out a detailed questionnaire, before being taken to stand and queue outside a small office in a wooden shack painted throughout in a dismal and unwelcoming grey, adjacent to the forbidding[83] concrete guard post. And a very warm welcome to you, too.

One by one, they were then seen by a petty official whose task it was to vet their applications, ask further questions and decide whether or not to allow the applicants to pass. Rather ominously, whilst some left the office and proceeded on their way across the border, at least as many others, having apparently been turned away and looking decidedly dejected, returned the way they had come.

Finally David reached the head of the queue, and shortly after that the man who'd been ahead of him in the queue emerged, shaking his head rather sadly.

“Best of luck. You can go in now,” the man informed him. He stood there for a moment, studying the pink slip of paper he'd been handed, before screwing it up, tossing it into a nearby waste paper bin and turning to walk away.

“Next!” boomed a voice from inside the tiny office and David hurried toward the door, standing there for a moment and politely knocking to announce his presence.

“Yes, yes, come in man. We haven't got all day,” the lean faced official requested curtly, having forgotten perhaps that he was supposedly a servant of the people. The man had a rubber stamp in his hand and he was impatiently tapping it on his ink blotter, and he appeared full of nervous energy, and perhaps the bluster was there to mask some more deeply seated insecurity? He looked up just long enough to motion toward a chair. David crossed the room and sat down on the chair, and waited whilst the man scanned his application.

“Kronstein, eh?” the petty official noted. “You've come a long way. So, tell me: what brings you to the Freelands?”

He'd already answered that, of course; and had decided not to mention Katie in case that complicated matters. One of the first entries in the questionnaire, after providing details such as his name and address and whether he was applying for a travel visa or temporary residence, was “What is the purpose of your visit to the Freelands?”

David answered again. “I'm a cultural archaeologist,” he replied, since that sounded suitably important. “And I'm here to carry out research. It may take a week, a month? As yet, I do not know.”

The man stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully. “That's all rather vague, Mister – um – Mister Seymour. Perhaps you could explain in more detail?”

David hadn't had time to prepare an answer to that question and for a moment he was unsure of what to say, fearful that he might dig himself into a hole that he couldn't climb out of.

“My great uncle, Professor Harold Seymour, was a renowned archaeologist, anthropologist and explorer,” be began.

“Professor Harold Seymour, you say?” The official made a note of that in the space reserved for administrative use at the bottom of the first page of the questionnaire. “Never heard of the man, but do proceed ....”

“My uncle died, leaving his estate to me, and he also left some unfinished work, which he hoped I might complete.”

“I see. But you still haven't told me what this work entails precisely, Mister Seymour.”

Confound it, the man was after him like ferret down a rabbit hole and his default setting appeared to be to assume guilt until proved otherwise.

“I'm coming to that,” David replied, trying not to appear agitated, and hoping that the official would not see his hands trembling with trepidation. “My father had spent many years trying to locate a lost treasure.”

“A lost treasure, eh?”

“The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor,” David added, and he began to give the official a very brief and potted account of Esmerelda's flight into the east.

“I see,” replied the official, interrupting him in mid flow. “Well, you realize of course that should you locate this lost treasure in the Freelands, that the matter must be reported to the authorities? Any such hoard rightly belongs to the Treasury, though I understand that under the law of treasure trove, if the owner or their heirs cannot be located, you would receive a percentage of the treasure's worth. Anyhow, there's little point in counting eggs before they've hatched.

“Very well, Mister Seymour, I've heard enough,” the official said finally, filling out a small green slip of paper and reaching across his desk for a rubber stamp. “I'll grant you a travel permit, and I must inform you that this does not allow you to take any form of paid work in the Freelands. I must also caution you that failure to comply with any of these terms and conditions could result in a fine or imprisonment and a permanent ban on future travel in the Freelands.

“The permit will be valid for the next six calendar months, backdated to the first day of the current month, after which time you must either vacate the country or apply for an extension. Now, if you do require an extension, then you'll have to apply in person at our head office in the capital, Sher Point. That's right up north, not far from the border with the Outlands. You'll find the address and the terms and conditions pertaining to your entry printed on the back of the permit.”

These people seemed to have a rule or regulation for just about everything, David sighed. If they could be rightly called people. They were more like cogs in some gigantic, whirring, clanking, gnashing, grinding machine.

The official handed over the green slip. “Thank you, Mister Seymour. I hope that you enjoy your stay in the Freelands and find what you are looking for. Now, on the way out, please be so good as to tell the next in line to come in.”

David stifled a sigh of relief. He thanked the official and left the office, trying not to show just how anxious he was to get across the border and for him and Katie to be be on their way. Seeing him waving the little green slip in the air, Katie, too, was mightily relieved that he'd been allowed across the border, or else this would have been a final parting of the ways for them. As he approached and the barrier was momentarily raised to let him pass, she flung her arms around him and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Not far ahead was a town by the name of Chippenwich, and since they'd been delayed at the border for longer than he'd expected, David decided that they might as well stay there until the next morning. Duly presenting the requisite travel permit to the receptionist, he and Katie booked rooms and stabling at a wayside inn, then he took her along as he went in search of a bookseller or stationer's to find a map of the Freelands, which he'd study at his leisure whilst they shared a late lunch.

Chippenwich was just over the southern border and stood at the foot of Borrowdale, a wide, rounded valley pitilessly gouged out long ago by a vast glacier; and studying the map more closely, Esmerelda was almost certain to have passed through the town on the way north. There were hills to the east and west that they could have used, perhaps, but they looked altogether too wild and barren to have afforded her party an easy passage. There would be nothing up in the windswept hills other than sheep, goats and the odd crofter's cottage, and little shelter more substantial than deep bracken or a hardy and spiky, evergreen shrub like gorse.

~~~O~~~

As David and Katie rode into Chippenwich, he was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was again being followed; and of course not wishing to worry her, he hadn't mentioned this matter to Katie.

Lethik, “the Third Man” who had David roughed up back at Dunstable, had carried out much research of his own over the years, just as Prince Willum; Thadika; his grandfather, and his father had done so before him. They would never abandon the search until they were avenged and the stolen treasure was finally returned to Roth Nagor.

His independent research had also pointed toward either Lilith or to the south. That slippery customer, Fathinagua, the native chief in Dar Bethel, had been all-too keen to send them south in pursuit of Professor Seymour; but another, less scrupulous young buck in the tribe had advised them otherwise, for a bottle of their firewater and a few worthless trinkets. So they had pretended to go along with the chief's suggestion, before turning and heading east again once they were out of sight.

In the case of the professor, the trail had ended back at Gothgoria. Lethik had been hoping that his nephew might fare better, and at last it looked like his hopes had been vindicated. As David Seymour had left Lilith, heading instead back to Ingmar, en route to the Freelands, they had finally caught up with the youth again and had been following his every move with renewed optimism and delight.

Lethik was growing ever more impatient, of course, and as ever he was in two minds about whether to wait impatiently for the youth to lead them all the way to the treasure, if he was able, or – now that there had been this fresh breakthrough – whether to pounce on him, relieve him of his copy of The Chronicles, which must surely be in his possession, and figure the rest out himself. Lethik prided himself on his intelligence, and it surely couldn't be that hard a task, if some spotty faced, gangly[84] youth like Seymour could figure it out?

~~~O~~~

Map of the Freelands

A rough sketch map of the Freelands,

drawn by David Seymour.

After lunch, David and Katie went off to tour the town, such that it was. Katie hastened to point out that Chippenwich wasn't representative of the country as a whole. Apparently, the area had once been rich in bauxite[85] and the town was founded on mining this resource. The bauxite sat on top of limestone rock and the whole area still retained the awful battle scars of centuries of unregulated strip mining. Closer to the town, some effort had been made in more recent times to repair at least some of the damage; to diversify, and to retrain the now largely-redundant workforce, but it had been a pretty forlorn task and many had understandably chosen to move on, leaving the town with a rather vacant, ghostly and woefully neglected air.

Literacy levels were quite high in the Freelands and the town had a public library, but the reference section – or rather the lack thereof – left a lot to be desired, and wasn't of much use to David. However, the lady at the offices of the local Daily Herald proved far more helpful. She showed him and Katie into a basement down in the bowels of the building where copies of the newspaper were stored, some dating back to as early as the year 1200, when the newspaper was founded. When he saw the piles of old newspapers and realizing that it would take him some time to work his way through them, he apologized to Katie in advance and, at his suggestion, she went off quite merrily to look around the town, leaving him to it. She had a couple of letters to write to relatives and she could do with picking up another good book to while away the quiet hours. He'd been worried that Katie might feel left out and kick up a fuss, but she appeared a lot more self-sufficient, content and obliging than that.

The good news, at least from his point of view, was that the printer hadn't swapped over to the much cheaper and less durable newsprint until much later. This paper was unfortunately made with an acidic sizing, causing the paper to yellow and become fragile with age. And the bad news? Well, they'd recently made a start on storing the ageing documents on microfiche, beginning with the first issues, but judging by the poor state of many of the papers, alas this effort had probably come too late.

Of course, as Uncle Harry had once told him, the invention of the printing press was a rather mixed blessing, for as the written word began to thrive and folk became dependent on it, so the far more ancient skills of memorizing facts and of oral storytelling, which could be passed down through the generations, had begun to die out, taking with them a vast treasury of lesser known human knowledge. And one day, no doubt, Uncle Harry had foretold, some new technology and the ever-increasing pace of life would similarly erode the use and importance and availability of the thoughtfully written word. Uncle had often lamented the gradual erosion – and even the wholesale eradication – of the old ways. And his other pet beef[86] had been the undesirable consequences of the invention of the humble clock, which was largely introduced to regulate the industrial workforce whom the wealthy mill owners and newly emergent (and hitherto unnecessary) class of managers and overseers considered all too lackadaisical.[87] According to Uncle Harry, that was when the land lost the last of its magic sparkle.

It actually didn't take that long to wade through the papers. He discovered that in those early days, the newspaper was published only two times each week, on Mondays and Thursdays, at the time simply going by the title The Chippenwich Gazette and consisting of only the two broad sheets, which were half filled with adverts for Grady's Liver Salts, the latest in fashionable ladies' and gentlemen's corsetry, and such like.

He'd started with the 1250 editions, not that he expected to find anything at such an early date, and he'd been through 1251 without so much as a mention, and then – when he'd pretty much resigned himself to going away empty-handed – David finally came across a piece that immediately caught his attention.

There had been reports that a band of armed men on horseback had been sighted in the area, dressed in what the locals took to be the forest green colours of outlaws or mercenaries. A dispatch rider had been sent north to the garrison at Fort Wyckham with this news, but by the time a patrol could be mounted and had finally arrived, these riders had disappeared into the forests and were not seen again.[88]

This was a long time after Esmerelda's flight from Lathmanon. However, the earlier reports he'd skim read did tell of particularly harsh weather in the winter in 1251-1252, so perhaps the party had made camp and holed up until the following spring, or even headed south until the worst of the weather was over?

David didn't learn any more from his stay in Chippenwich, though he was feeling quite content that he had once again found and rejoined Esmerelda's trail; and doubly so, having Katie along for company. He hadn't said as much to her yet, but he really was growing fond of her.

Lilith lay to the east, not that far from Chippenwich, past the hamlet of Little Foss and through what remained of the Great Forest, but it seemed unlikely that Esmerelda would have taken that path, unless Jeremy was playing a game of double bluff. That being the case, it was likely that Esmerelda had gone north through the Freelands, either taking the roads to the west of the Pennines, over the rolling chalk hills and glacial lakes of the Downs and perhaps the wide and flat expanse of the Vale of Moran; or else to the east, via the rolling hills and lush green pastures of Midsomer. Esmerelda surely wouldn't have doubled back westward into Gothgoria; and he'd been reliably informed by the gentleman at the book shop where he'd bought the map, that the mountain range running along the length of the eastern border was vast and insurmountable, even to the most well-equipped and seasoned[89] climbers.

You know, in spite of what Jeremy Wildacre had intimated, David was still sorely tempted by Lilith. That gateway state offered so many possibilities, with altogether more pleasant climes.

And then again, there were far, far worst places that Esmerelda might have settled than the Freelands, from what little he'd gathered thus far – the blighted mining town of Chippenwich notwithstanding.

All this was wild speculation on David's part, of course; and it was perhaps time that he finally put Jeremy Wildacre's Chronicles to bed. Even if he could no longer take what the man had to say at face value, perhaps there were additional clues to be gleaned? And in any case, he was eager to learn more of his fellow adventurer's destiny. He nearly said “fate” then, a word which had less fortunate connotations, but then Jeremy Wildacre must surely have returned from his adventures in one piece, or else he wouldn't have been in a position to get his work published?

“We journeyed on for many days, leaving the city far behind. For so many days, indeed, that Elzabeth and I quite lost track of time,” wrote Jeremy Wildacre in his Chronicles. David sincerely hoped that the city referred to was Baradsway, in the north east of Ingmar. If not, then he had been well and truly led astray.

And we felt so lost, that from time to time, we began to doubt Artor, and wonder whether even he still knew where we were, let alone where we might be heading.

“I'm taking you home,” Artor told me yet again that day, adding enigmatically, as he so often did, “You'll be safe there and you will never again look back on life with sorrow in your eyes and wish 'If only this ...' or 'If only that …' or 'If only the other...', as we poor mortals so often tend to do.”

“Where do you live, Artor?” I ventured to ask as we made camp for the night by the bank of a woodland stream and our guide returned from fetching water. “I mean, where do you come from? Where is your home?”

Artor poured the water into the large cauldron hanging of the camp fire and added the cubes of meat and vegetables that Elzabeth and I had prepared.

“There's only one simple answer to that, my friend, and a number that are more complicated,” the man smiled.

“Tell us the simple answer, then,” laughed Elzabeth, standing there with her hands on her hips.

“Ultimately, I am from God – or Truth or Reality or Essence or Love or the Source, or whatever other name you choose to use for this ultimate and singular phenomenon. I am with God. And – when my time comes, as it comes to all of us – to God I will return.”

Artor rummaged in his pannier, brought out some herbs that we'd collected earlier on the way, added these to the cauldron and gave it a good stir.

“And the complicated answer?” Elzabeth queried, giving me a look as if to say “Go on, we'll humour him.”

“You might say that I have a foot in both worlds and sometimes I travel between them, Elzabeth. Sometimes I am absent here and present elsewhere; sometimes I am present here and absent there; and sometimes I am present in both these places at one and the same time.”

Artor scratched his head and thought for a minute. “And when I say that, of necessity I'm having to speak using crude approximations or similes. It's not so much being in a place but rather being in a state or, rather, what we call a station.

“Back to the complicated answer, my friends. If you are asking me in my human capacity as a bag of skin and bones, where I come from, then I would answer that I was born and grew up in Erigwid, which lays to the east of Ingmar and south of Lilith and Gilgamar; a warm and hospitable and largely rustic country with hills and valleys in the north and searingly hot desert dotted with welcome oases to the south.

“If you ask this bag of skin and bones where I live, I would say that I am a wanderer and I live here or there or wherever I am sent or taken.”

“And if you ask this bag of skin and bones where is my home, then I would say that once upon a time my home was with my family in Erigwid. But now it is wherever my friends offer me shelter and hospitality.”

“Of no fixed abode,” Elzabeth translated succinctly.

Artor had to smile. “Yes you're quite right, Elzabeth, you could say that.”

“There is one special place, however, that I would call my home, or at least a home away from home, and that is many days travel away. When I was a youth, some wonderful people guided me to this place, just as I am now leading you there. They took me into their homes and into their hearts and taught me a great many things. And even now, all these years later, these people are just as welcoming and homely as ever.

“But if you ask this 'otherworldly' me, I would say, perhaps, that I come from the stars. That I live here, there and everywhere; and yet also in a realm you might call No Time, No Place. And that my true home and destiny is also in the stars.”

Again, as the cauldron began to bubble, Artor gave it a good stir with a long wooden spoon. As for Elzabeth and me, well she just shrugged her shoulders and we exchanged somewhat bemused glances.

As we sat there that evening, eating the finest stew we'd tasted in many a day, Elzabeth ventured to ask another question.

“Artor,” she asked. “You know the show you put on at the circus. Could you teach us your skills? The mind reading or foresight or whatever it was?”

“Yes, you can count me in, too,” I nodded. “I'd like to be able to help folk the way you can.”

Artor waited until he'd emptied his mouth before replying. “It's not so much mind reading or foresight, Elzabeth. It's more of an attunement and it's connected to real need rather than to desire or greed.”

“Like the story of Mushkil Gusha?” Elzabeth piped up. It was more of a statement than a question.

“Quite so,” Artor nodded, popping a piece of meat in his mouth and chewing.

“Could you teach us?” she queried after a few moments' silence.

It's something that is not so much taught as caught, Elzabeth, though I can teach you certain things that will help prepare the way, if you are prepared and able to learn,” the man replied. “And, in a sense, you've already begun to learn, simply by accompanying me on this journey and being in my presence, just as I am in the presence of the Source. I can help draw you closer to that Source and the Source herself will nurture and teach you, if she sees fit.”

He peered deeply into Elzabeth's eyes and then into mine at this point, and I was suddenly quite overcome by the queerest sensation and had to look away.

“When you learn to truly see, rather than merely look,” Artor added, “you will find this ability both a boon and also a bane.”

“Why is that, Artor?” Elzabeth wanted to know.

“Because, my friend, as often or not you won't see what you want to see, but rather what you need to see – whether you like it or not. And that can be an entirely different and frightening, shocking, revolting or disgusting can of worms.

“That's the first part. Seeing and feeling what you really, really do not want to see or experience.”

“And the second part?” I queried.

“Not having any choice in the matter. Just as police officers cannot turn their back and walk away innocently whistling when they see a crime being committed, so you must act – or not act – upon what you see, and do what is right or what has to be done. It goes without saying: whether you like it or not.

“And last but by no means least, this process requires absolute trust in the Provider. It could be, for example, that the correct action to take in a situation might appear foolish to you, and of course the last thing we want is to be seen to be foolish. So, acting on trust often requires real courage. You can't afford to lose your nerve half way through the process – and the stakes may appear incredibly high – you have to see it through to completion; be that a joyous or a bitter conclusion. Now the good thing about this is that, though at times sorely tested, you'll learn, through experience, that your trust is not misplaced. And this, in turn, will draw you still closer to the Source.

“If the Provider calls upon you to caper about the streets on a child's hobby horse, naked except for a loin cloth and a donkey's nosebag, then that is what you must do. And if you decline, not wishing to make an ass of yourself in the eyes of your peers, or you feel that such frivolity or madness is beneath you, then perhaps this path is not for you?”

Elzabeth, my sweetheart, could no longer hide her growing impatience. “Artor – with respect, sir – can't you just give a simple answer and tell us where on earth we are going?”

Artor sat there and gazed up at the stars, which shone brightly on this moonless night. And at length he answered: “Which way do we go from here, you ask? My dear, we go wherever God guides us, ever living in the present moment. Even at the risk of being condemned as pagans for taking the left hand path, and scorned by the men of the cloth who on our misdeeds do simmer. If that is the way we needs must go, then so be it.”

Elzabeth was distinctly irritated by the man's unfathomable reply, and at this point she got up to see to our tin plates and cutlery, and stomped off to vigorously wash the dishes in the fine gravel of the nearby stream.

That evening, however, we put this minor altercation behind us, as one might simply and unconcernedly cast off a worn item of clothing; and the following day, as we moved on once more, we left it behind us and the matter was soon forgotten. Elzabeth was such an amiable woman and she was the last person to hold a grudge.

Since it was getting late, David again marked his page and turned his attention back to Katie, who also had her nose in the new book that she'd picked up in town earlier that day. It turned out, fortunately enough, that she was as much of a bookworm[90] as he was, and that she was quite fond of keeping herself company, though probably only up to a point, and David was anxious not to overstep that mark. Therefore he had to be careful to get the balance between work and play just right, so as not to raise the spectre of conflict; and he had to confess that there were times when he felt quite torn between the two. This reminded him so much of his mother. At some point in her life, perhaps when she was first married, she must have been a free spirit and found time to amuse herself, or else she and Father would surely not have been attracted to one-another; but over the years, this playful urge must have been gradually eroded, for in latter years all she appeared to have the time or the inclination for had been work, work, work. Occasionally, she'd slip out of the habit and let her hair down, which was a joy to share in; and then just as quickly, as if she'd caught herself in the act, like some stern parent, the shutters would come down. And that was such a sad thing to behold.

Well, we each have our human frailties and our burdens to bear; though, having said that, it did appear to David that those who were possessed of heart and conscience and soul, had more than their fair share of strife and suffering and were more sorely tested in this world. Presumably the trite theological answer to that would be that God tests those he loved so that they might eventually see the folly of their ways and instead turn to Him to find solace and succour?

That evening they ate supper and snuggled up to one-another near the fire in the lounge for a time while they drank their bedtime cocoa, then they decided to turn in for the night.

David settled down soon enough, but he slept fitfully that night and he had many vivid and quite frustrating dreams. He'd come across Artor several times in his dreams, and wanted to know as much as Elzabeth did, where all this might be leading. And yet over and over again – confound it! – the man had come out with yet more gibberish.

In the end, David had got up out of bed and pored over[91] that last passage in the book, and especially over Artor's annoyingly cryptic reply.

“Which way do we go from here, you ask? My dear, we go wherever God guides us, ever living in the present moment. Even at the risk of being condemned as pagans for taking the left hand path, and scorned by the men of the cloth who on our misdeeds do simmer. If that is the way we needs must go, then so be it.”

Finally, however, quite overcome with exhaustion, David cast the book aside in a huff, knowing just how Elzabeth must have felt, climbed back into bed and fell fast asleep once more.

When he woke in the morning and sat there in the inn's dining room, eating a hearty breakfast, David had a minor revelation. Apologizing profusely to Katie and explaining that an important thought had just occurred to him, he gobbled up the rest of his breakfast, poured the tea down his throat, and dashed back upstairs to his room to bring out his map and again open the book.

“Even at the risk of being condemned as pagans for taking the left hand path”. Here he was at Chippenwich. The Pennines were lofty hills and moorland running down the centre of the Freelands, like a backbone, from north to south. Travelling north, to the left – or west – lay Tiverton, Wiches Hill and the Downs. And what was another word for pagans? Why, witches, of course.

“And scorned by the men of the cloth who on our misdeeds do simmer”.

David traced his hand over the map, looking for place names that might match. If Wiches Hill was to the left, then did this mention of priests refer to the way to the right, east of the Pennines, through Midsomer? He pored over the map for several minutes, reciting that sentence over and over again, and finally something clicked. Taking out his notepad and pencil, he wrote down the word Midsomer. Crossing the letters off one by one and rearranging them below, it came as no great surprise to him to find that this spelt out two new words: do simmer.

And then he found one further detail that confirmed that he really did have this right. Another name for “men of the cloth” was Elder. And there in the heart of Midsomer was a little town by the name of Elderwood.

It wasn't that Artor couldn't tell his companions where they were going or was really so maddeningly obtuse and inscrutable. That was just an elaborate ruse. It was simply that Jeremy couldn't openly state the directions in his Chronicles.

So which way had Jeremy, Elzabeth and Artor gone, David wondered? Looking at Artor's words as a whole, he would say that they had almost certainly taken the left hand path, to the west of the Pennines; and thus Wiches Hill should be his next destination.

Having made this fresh breakthrough, he hurried back downstairs to rejoin Katie, who was patiently waiting for him in the lounge, with her nose in her book. She rose to her feet as he entered the room and, after exchanging kisses he sat down with her while they had a second cup of tea. He explained to Katie what he'd discovered and she appeared to be as excited as he was.

And then, of course, they came to the matter of moving on once more. That deeply worried David.

“That really isn't a problem, precious,” Katie assured him, squeezing his hand and running her hand up and down his arm. “If you're willing to take me with you, then I'd be delighted to come with you Wiches Hill.”

“Thank you. That is a big relief,” he smiled, kissing Katie tenderly on the cheek. And all the tension he'd been feeling was gone in a puff of smoke.

“Just give me a minute or two, would you, David?” she asked, rising to her feet. “I just need to nip across town for something, but I promise I'll be straight back; so as soon as you're ready, you can saddle up.”

“Fair enough,” David nodded, draining his cup and getting up. “I'll see you soon, beautiful.”

As it turned out, Wiches Hill had nothing to do with pagans at all. Rather, the name wiches referred to its vast opencast salt workings, which suggested that some time in prehistory the whole area had actually risen up out of the sea. Clearly, Jeremy Wildacre had not taken the scenic tour on his journey through the Freelands, and this path pretty much ruled out his earlier theory that the travellers might have gone through Lilith after all. Whatever. David was pretty flexible and that came as no great blow to his pride. There were some who would have found that kind of climb down too much of a challenge to their ego. He, however, had no vested interest in being right, nor even being seen to be right, but simply in arriving at the truth. Uncle Harry had tutored David well, and he would be eternally grateful for the old man's thoughtful and patient help.

Again, after a fruitless day of searching, David and Katie returned to the inn and he sat in the lounge to continue Jeremy Wildacre's account while Katie snuggled up to him and amused herself watching a film on the television. It seemed to be quite a gripping and moving romantic thriller, and had he had the time, David would have been happy to watch it, but alas this was another of those testing times. There was more work to carry out and, yes, he did feel guilty about neglecting Katie. But what was a man to do, torn as he was between two mistresses who were both more than worthy of his attentions? It was little wonder, then, that Uncle Harry had never got married and settled down to a family life, but had instead chosen – or been chosen by – a path of sacrifice. And again he remembered the words of Artor who had spoken to Jeremy Wildacre and Elzabeth of the need to stand aside and to act or not act whether one personally liked it or not. Was that the inexorable path that Uncle Harry had wittingly or unwittingly set him on? And had he himself willingly volunteered, or had he been volunteered for this at times onerous task? Certainly this was a far cry from the “wizard quest” he'd envisaged when he'd first naively set out from Dunstable on that fateful late winter's day. And the mysticism of which Artor spoke was most definitely not the same as wizardry: far from it. It had been one of those spur of the moment decisions, which was an ability that he'd actually prided himself on at the time. Over the years, much of his spontaneity had been lost, gradually replaced the mechanical gnashing of cogs and hiss of pistons that they called reason. And reason itself was gradually becoming consumed by caution. A part of him knew that this caution was largely uncalled for, and yet he had a devil of a job casting such caution to the wind. This was a side of David that he seldom revealed to others, going out of his way to have them think otherwise, but which often ate him up inside. They say that knowing something like this and admitting it – just as a drunkard might finally admit that he was an alcoholic – is half the battle. And yet, in spite of knowing full well that the more defensive armour we put on, the worse our situation becomes, this was a long, hard battle that David still fought inside, and – though Katie's presence greatly helped – he could see no end to it. There was one thing that he could do, of course, and that was to be as open and honest with Katie as he could be, and hope that love would find a way of resolving these difficulties. True to her word, she was indeed a good listener – and a wise and capable and caring counsellor.

Be strong, David Seymour. Pull yourself together and be strong. If Esmerelda's party had been through the town, then as usual they had left no trace. Most likely they'd bypassed the place and sent just one or two of their number into town to collect provisions. That would seem par for the course.[92]

~~~O~~~

That day, Lethik's patience finally ran out and his frustrations boiled over.

He stormed through to the others' room, flung open the door, and lashed out at their beds with the heel of his boot.

“Get up, get up, get up you idle layabouts!” he bellowed.

“What the fuck's up, boss?” they wanted to know when they'd finally come to their senses.

Lethik strode across the room to fling open the curtains. “There's work to be done, that's what. That's all you need to know.”

“But we need to wash and have breakfast.”

Lethik stood there unmoved, with his hands on his hips. “To use the trendy vernacular of this country, I'll give you ladies precisely two minutes to powder your noses. And then I'm going to kick some serious ass.[93]”

“All right, all right,” they grumbled, pulling on their clothes, and hopping about the room trying to get their boots on.

Lethik glanced impatiently at his watch and left the room, heading for the stables with the men trailing behind, still tucking in their shirt tails and making an attempt to comb their hair.

While he waited outside to mind their horses, Lethik's men went into the inn to get Seymour. They found him sitting downstairs in the lounge having recently finished his breakfast, caught hold of him and marched him outside at knife point, carrying him between them, with his legs lifted clear of the ground and flapping about uselessly. Seeing this, Katie Smiles came dashing out of the inn, screaming blue murder. You had to hand it to the girl, she was playing her part like a consummate professional. She didn't drop out of character for a moment, even under this pressure. It would be amusing when Seymour finally found out that the girl had been duping him all along.

Lethik brushed the girl aside, snatched the haversack from the youth and rummaged inside it, but the book was not there and he threw the rucksack down on the ground. Then he noticed the bulge in the youth's jacket pocket and there, sure enough, he found the copy of Wildacre's Chronicles.

Thrusting the book into his own coat pocket, Lethik sprang onto the back of his horse and, pushing the youth to the ground, his men mounted their own horses and they rode off, leaving Seymour to stagger to his feet, dust himself off and weep.

All day long, Lethik studied the Chronicles, telling his men not to disturb him, on pain of death or some far worse fate. Lethik collected macabre trophies, just as a child might collect marbles; so they took his word for it and stayed well clear. And all night long, until well after sun up, he pored and pored over the pages, looking for any clue that might even hint where he should go next in search of the stolen treasure.

The more he read, the more he cursed, for he simply couldn't fathom Wildacre's writing or the nonsense that Artor spouted. And in the end, gripping the bridge of his nose and shaking his head from side to side with anger and frustration, Lethik finally came to the conclusion that even with the wretched Chronicles in his possession, he would never be able to locate the treasure. Not in a million years.

Any yet …

And yet, of course, it was still possible that Seymour might. He had to hand it to the youth, he was no slouch.[94]

Lethik pounded the bed with his fists and let out a long, deep, mournful sigh. He pulled on his boots, struggled to his feet and went to fetch his coat from the hook behind the door, thrusting the blasted book into his coat pocket.

He briefly looked in on the men and, seeing his pained expression, they opened their mouths to speak.

Lethik raised his hands. “Before you ask, do not ask. There's something I must do, and I shall be gone for a few minutes.” And with that, he turned on his heel, left the room and stormed downstairs.

When he got to the inn where the youth was staying, he strode inside and pinged the bell on the counter several times until finally a weasel-faced little old man appeared.

“Yes sir, how can I help you?”

“I believe a friend of mine is staying here? Seymour? David Seymour?”

The man waved his hands apologetically. “He and his lady friend left earlier this morning, sir.”

“Do you know where they were heading?”

“Back down south, I do believe,” the little man replied timidly. “They didn't confide in me the precise details.”

Half an hour later, he caught up with the youth, drew alongside and caught hold of the other horse's reins to bring it to a halt. The girl drew up close by, a worried expression creasing her pretty little face.

“What do you want now?” Seymour glowered at him. “Don't you think you've caused more than enough grief already?”

Lethik reached into his coat pocket, produced the book and held it out.

“Just take the confounded thing,” he snarled, and thrust the book into the youth's hand.

Seymour looked dumbfounded. “Why the sudden change of heart?” he wanted to know.

Heart didn't figure in the calculation, and the last thing Lethik was going to do was publicly admit defeat, so instead he chose to say nothing.

“Do you mean that it's finally over?” the youth wanted to know, and Lethik could see the tears welling up in his eyes. Had he finally pushed the youth too far?

“Don't push your luck, Seymour,” he spat. He was on the point of outing[95] the girl, just for the hell of it – I mean, that moment would be priceless – but, seeing the look that crossed her face, he decided against it. He'd bide his time and wait for the right moment.

Then, letting go of Seymour's reins, he wheeled his horse about and trotted off the way he'd come. Hell would freeze over before he'd give up his relentless search for the stolen treasure.

~~~O~~~

With the precious Chronicles back in his possession, and having recovered his composure, though still rather bemused, David and Katie went back to Wiches Hill and booked into the inn once more, much to the innkeeper's own bemusement.

“It's a long story,” he told the man, not that this really explained anything, of course.

Again Katie and he settled themselves down in the lounge. She'd found herself another book on one of the shelves in the lounge, and he had gone back to reading The Chronicles to find out where Jeremy Wildacre might send them next; their reading interspersed with a bit of playful slap and tickle. The others must have thought it strange that two young travellers had chosen to stay indoors and read when they could have been out and about town in the fresh air taking in the sights. Well, it was a free world – allegedly – and people were entitled to their opinions, just so long as they kept them to themselves and didn't interfere, as one elderly resident had attempted. Katie had quickly put that woman in her place, taking David quite by surprise. He hadn't appreciated until then how feisty[96] Katie could be. Well, this certainly made up for what he lacked in that department. He'd apologized on more than one occasion for being so lily-livered,[97] but Katie had given him a big hug, and she'd told him that there was nothing to be sorry for, and that it took all sorts to make a world. She'd even gone so far as to enumerate a number of what she saw as his good qualities, and this had made him squirm self-consciously. He'd always found it quite hard to deal with both carping criticism and praise alike; perhaps simply because these things drew attention to him or drew his own attention to himself?

“We rode on for several more days, drinking in the lush and verdant scenery through which we were passing. For my part, I had a growing affinity for this still-enchanted land and would gladly have settled down here with Elzabeth to raise a family,” wrote Jeremy in his Chronicles.

However, my blissful reverie was abruptly shattered. I was rudely awoken one morning to find our camp surrounded by militiamen, and they proved too uncouth to be reasoned with. We had inadvertently made camp quite close to a local garrison and these ruffians accused us – quite falsely of course – of spying for the enemy. And when we'd packed our possessions and our tent, the men took us off to gaol[98] perhaps for interrogation and to await trial.

David took out his map and traced Jeremy's route up north. Finding the garrison was easy enough: that must surely be Fort Hope in the Vale of Moran, and when he'd briefed Katie she agreed that this was the most likely place.

Again, there came that awkward moment.

Katie smiled and slowly shook her head from side to side. “David Seymour,” she replied. “Let me save you a great deal of unnecessary worry. Firstly, let me say that I am very fond of you. And secondly, don't bother asking. Let's be bold and just go there. I mean wherever 'there' might be. And we'll take each fresh challenge as it arises – only if and when it should arise. There's enough in this world to contend with without conjuring up yet more through unnecessary worry; let alone worry about worry or fear about fear itself. I have every confidence in you, and now we have four strong and able hands at the tiller.”[99]

David was quite overcome and he wasn't sure what to say, so he settled on a simple “Thank you” and showered Katie with kisses.

When they eventually arrived there, Bella having thrown a shoe, and being forced to walk on foot and lead her, David found that a fine market town had grown up around the garrison. The stone fort itself had since been abandoned and later renovated by the local council. In part it had been converted to house the offices of the town hall and the rest was now used as a museum.

Katie and he toured the museum and, catching sight of one of the assistant curators, he made enquiries of the young lady.

“I read an account written around 1420,” he told the lady. “A group of travellers had pitched camp close to the garrison. The militia came across them and, thinking that they were spying for the enemy, the militia had them taken off to jail. So I was hoping that you might direct me to this jail.”

The lady thought for a moment. “Well, there are some cells in the basement,” she told David, and she gave them rather complex directions. “But as far as I can gather those were used only for drunkards and petty criminals and for guards who had been reprimanded for misconduct. Now, if you mean a larger jail, then I'm sorry, but I can't think of one in this area.”

Cells didn't sound too hopeful. But with nothing better to do, David thanked the lady for her help and they set off through the warren of passageways. Half way there, David was lost, but Katie had a better memory than he did and guided him through the museum. They arrived at the spiral staircase that the lady had indicated, and along a narrow passageway they came across a row of dark stone cells with heavy reinforced oak doors. There were two on each side of the corridor, making four in all and, venturing inside, they had a quick look round one of them, to find the cell quite dark and damp and empty. The only light entering the cell came from a small, barred and unglazed slit, set high in the wall, out of reach.

As they turned to leave the cell, David happened to notice marks on the wall and on the back of the old oak door, which had partly closed behind them as they entered. There were many scratches on the wall, made of lines grouped in fours and then crossed through and he realized that this must have been the way in which the inmates kept track of the passage of days they spent there. There were also numerous items of graffiti, some too disgusting to reproduce here, the most tame being “Smith is a knobhead”. And of course few could resist the opportunity to scratch their own names on the walls, with things like “GB was 'ere 1405”, and suchlike. Just on the off chance, David went through each cell one by one and checked the graffiti for Jeremy, Elzabeth or Artor's name, but not unsurprisingly, he found nothing.

As they re-emerged from the basement, David caught sight of the young lady curator. She was waving to him to attract his attention. In her arms she had two old leather bound books and she walked across to a nearby table, put the books down and waited until they'd caught up with her.

“I had another thought, Mister ...”

“Seymour, David Seymour,” he told her.

“Mister Seymour. These are a record of admissions to the cells in that period, from 1410 to 1419 and 1420 to 1429, if they're of any use to you? Please, feel free to look through the books and just leave them on the table when you're done.”

“Oh, yes indeed. Thank you so much,” David thanked the lady for her help.

David shrugged his shoulders and looked apologetically in Katie's direction. “I'm sorry, this is going to take some time, beautiful.”

“Don't worry,” Katie replied, kissing him on the cheek. “I can have a good look round the museum while you work. Just give me a shout when you're through.” And with that, she quite merrily went off to explore the galleries.

He sat down at the table to begin the lengthy task of flipping the pages and scanning down the seemingly endless list of names, dates and charges. Alas, he did not find the names he was looking for, and at the end of the day he found Katie and they returned to the inn. It wasn't a totally fruitless search, however, because if Jeremy Wildacre hadn't been jailed there at the garrison, then David must simply look further afield. Had it not been an important detail, then Jeremy would surely not have bothered mentioning it. Unless, of course, the man simply wanted to add an element of conflict to spice up his account?

It was only much later that day as he and Katie settled down for the night, that David realized that in his rush to find the travellers' names, he'd overlooked things that he'd read in passing in the details column. Wasn't it funny how these insights would come as one lay in bed at the end of a day's work? The vast majority of the records had simply read “Released”, followed by the date of their release; these being mostly drunkards who required no more than a night in the cells to sober up, and a slap on the wrist. But some had read “Delivered to court” and one or two were “Transferred to SP”. That must surely mean Sher Point, the capital city. But, of course, Jeremy's party had never been held in the cells at the garrison, so that still left David with another frustrating blank.

All the same, the next day, David made further enquiries, only to find that there was no jail at Sher Point. According to Katie, the nearest was probably the notorious prison at Darrok,[100] way up north near the border with the Outlands, and it seemed rather unlikely that Jeremy and his companions would have been sent all the way up there. By all accounts, Darrok was the kind of place they'd send people to when they didn't want that person to again see the light of day. They'd lock the door and throw away the key, as the saying goes.[101]

After Katie and he had eaten dinner together that day, David examined the passage in The Chronicles more closely, focussing on Jeremy's final sentence:

And when we'd packed our possessions and our tent, the men took us off to gaol perhaps for interrogation and to await trial.

He'd read enough of Jeremy Wildacre's writing to know that the man was quite punctilious[102] when it came to his punctuation, and the word “perhaps” struck David as a little sloppy. Did the man mean “the men took us to jail, perhaps for interrogation and to await trial”, or “the men took us to jail perhaps, for interrogation and to await trial”? Which was uncertain? That they were being taken to prison, or the fate they might have to endure once taken there? Katie, too, pondered over those words for quite some time, and she did wonder whether perhaps there might some secret code or perhaps an anagram.

Surely, if such a prison existed, and could be found quite simply by asking around and consulting a map, Jeremy Wildacre would have been more circumspect about so openly revealing this? And if that were the case, then was the man hinting that the word “jail” itself should not be taken at face value?

Well, he'd have to give the matter further thought in the morning, David decided; again turning in for the night after supper with Katie, and hoping that he wouldn't be left tossing and turning, but would sleep peacefully and get a good rest.

At three in the morning, David was suddenly wide awake again and scrabbling about in the dark to switch on his bedside lamp and find his trusty notepad, having received another prompting.

David might have left the matter until morning, but his unconscious yet knowing mind had not. Another name for gaol was prison. In this case, the prison, to be precise. And if you rearranged the letters ….

Hallelujah! Sure enough, they spelt out something new. By jingo, he had it! So Katie had been spot on. “The prison” was indeed an anagram of the capital city, Sher Point[103] and the word perhaps was not sloppy but used to deliberately if subtly hint that such an anagram was involved.

Finally he had some good news to share with Katie in the morning. She'd be well pleased with the progress they'd made. And he'd get a chance to buy her something special in the city, to say a big thank you. It was such a joy to spend time in her company and she was so patient with him.

“There you are, you see,” Katie had replied, feigning an air of superiority: “I'm not just a pretty face, you know.” It really was good to see Katie getting involved in the quest.

~~~O~~~

The next morning, David awoke and clambered out of bed, still rather bleary-eyed, not having had his first cup of tea. Sometimes it might take as many as three teas or coffees before he finally felt awake and civilized. He happened to notice something white, half pushed under the door, and his first stomach-churning thought was this might be a note from Katie to say goodbye. Perish the thought, he shuddered.

He stooped down to pick up the object and saw now that it was another calling card, instantly recognizing Willum's family coat of arms.

Turning the card over, he read the words scrawled on the back, and sat down on the floor with his back against the door, for fear his legs might give way beneath him. He had to read the note twice more before the enormity of what was written hit him like a runaway two ton wagon:

Why don't you ask Katie Smiles where she got all that silver? And the note was signed Lethik, which must be the real name of “the Third Man”.

Katie was patiently waiting for David as he entered the dining room and he stalked across to the table to join her. For her part, she was acting as if she'd done no wrong, playing the innocent with him.

He stood over Katie and tossed the calling card on her empty side plate, face up, then sat down opposite her, his arms tightly folded. As Katie turned over the card and read those words, you could see the colour drain from her face.

“It's not how you think it is, precious,” she bleated when she'd finally found her voice.

“Oh no? Then tell me what it is, Miss Smiles. And you can cut all this 'precious' crap for starters.”

“Please don't be angry with me, David.”

“Don't you think I have a right to be angry?” he retorted.

“Lethik is just digging the knife in, David.”

“So then, you don't deny knowing this man?”

“He approached me, before we met outside Baradsway.”

“So it was all planned with cold, military precision. And you've been lying to me and cheating on me all this time. You know, something told me that this was all too good to be true, but I dismissed that hesitant voice. I should have listened to my Uncle when he warned me not to speak of the treasure to anyone.”

“That's how it started, David, yes. And I'm not proud of that.”

“That I can believe, Katie. You really took me for a sucker and I fell for it; hook, line and ruddy sinker.”

“After Lethik stole the book from you and I saw how thoroughly evil the man is, I told him I wanted to play no further part in his schemes. David, you have to believe me.”

“And if I don't buy that for one minute?”

There were tears in Katie's eyes by now. “David, I swear to God that I told Lethik I wanted to play no further part in this. That's why he's dobbed me in,[104] don't you see?”

“Then why didn't you just ride off and let me be? Why did you keep up the charade, Katie?”

At this point, David got up and headed for the front door of the inn, anxious to get some fresh air. It stank in there, and not just from beer slops and stale tobacco. It stank of betrayal.

Katie dashed outside and tried to catch hold of him by the arm as he continued to walk away. “Don't you see, David? It is no charade any more,” she wept bitterly, and she ran round the front of him and grabbed hold of his arms to stop him. He tried to shake Katie off or push her aside without hurting her, but she hung on and she was unyielding.

“David, I've fallen head over heels in love with you, precious.”

That stopped David dead in his tracks and he could no longer hold back his own tears. And they stood there for several minutes, hugging one-another, having both finally come to their senses.

“I know that I've done something terribly wrong, David, and I'm sorry and hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I swear to God that I've learnt a valuable lesson and won't ever knowingly let you down again.”

David said nothing, too overcome with emotion at that moment to speak. He just held Katie and gently stroked her hair, and this said it all, really.

“Let's go and eat breakfast now, precious,” Katie suggested at length, wiping the tears from his eyes with her lace handkerchief. “Let's start all over again. And then you can tell me where you want us to go from here … If you'll still have me, that is. I shan’t blame you if you choose to walk away. But at least let's part as friends.”

“Sher Point, beautiful,” he smiled, walking back toward the inn, arm in arm with Katie. “If you'll still have me.”

“You silly sausage, of course I'll still have you,” she grinned, snuggling her head against his chest. “You mean the world to me, David Seymour. You truly do.”

20. Sher Point

Sher Point, the capital of the Freelands was several days' ride away, in the north east of the country, and David and Katie set out for the metropolis particularly early the very next morning, more eager than ever to be there, and their argument left far behind them. As the saying went: what doesn't break you makes you stronger.

David had been dismayed to find that they was still being followed, like a bad smell, but there really wasn't a thing he could do, so he'd simply have to grin and bear it, and hope to finally lose their pursuers – firstly by their early morning starts and long days in the saddle, and later in the maze of city streets.

He could perhaps have saved himself a shed load of effort had he read ahead in Jeremy Wildacre's Chronicles, but he'd decided that it was, after all, a lot more fun if he followed the man's travels, step by step; just as Jeremy, Elzabeth and Artor had following in Princess Esmerelda's footsteps all those years before. For David, and perhaps for Jeremy before him, the thrill was as much in the chase as in his final goal, wherever and whatever that might be.

David wasn't even sure that it was the treasure he was searching for any more, especially since Katie had come along. Certainly he was interested in the journey he was making, but he was perhaps more interested in the people who'd made that journey. And perhaps he was even more interested in the traditions and the people of whom both Artor and Arsalan before him, appeared to represent? He felt that these two individuals must have a great store of wonderful tales to tell and wisdom to share, in their own right.

And now, of course, there was Katie, and she put a whole new complexion on his life. His system was awash with a potent cocktail of pleasurable adolescent chemicals. Had she asked him to, he'd probably have given up the quest quite readily and instead devoted all his time and energy to her. But she was interested in the quest, too, and she appeared to genuinely want him to succeed in his endeavour.

Even in those days, Sher Point was a vast and sprawling place. The commercial centre had outgrown the high granite walls of the old city long ago, and now there were sprawling industrial regions and leafy suburbs for miles around. David had never before seen such a place and he felt quite lost in the myriad streets which criss-crossed the city this way and that, and so tiny and insignificant amongst the bustling crowds. Only in the vastness of nature did he feel such awe.

Seeing this, and how unsuitable their horses and mule were amidst all the madly-dashing, smoking motorized traffic, they quickly backtracked and found an inn with a paddock twenty minutes walk outside the centre and they ate there before returning to the city on foot. Those were the closest stables they could find, for the old ways were dying, he discovered, and this was the last of its kind near the city, though of course the landed gentry and racehorse trainers had their own, private stables and paddocks.

Since Katie didn't know her way around Sher Point, their first and most pressing port of call once there was to find a book shop or stationer's where they might buy a street plan, so that when they lost their bearings – as they undoubtedly would before long – then they'd be able to locate themselves once more. As a child, David had once been taken to town by relatives and, becoming separated from them, he had quickly found himself thoroughly lost and, not unnaturally, rather frightened. And, strangely enough, he still had recurring nightmares about such a thing happening to him. As an adult, this no longer frightened him; but nevertheless, it still made him panic every now and again.

The city library at Sher Point was an absolute joy to behold. With no fewer than three floors, it probably had as many rows of books as the average library had books, and though the Freelands had their own prolific literary output, these books were gathered from the four corners of the world. Well, at least as far away as Dravine, which most people, even here, took to be “Land's End”.

It was here that David made an astonishing discovery: someone had actually written a book about The Lost Treasure of Roth Niger [sic] and he sat down at a table, with his notepad at the ready, to skim read the book.

After reading a little and flicking through the rest of the pages, he was ready to put the book back on the shelf, and sorely tempted to dispatch the wretched work in the nearest waste paper basket, for the tale bore little resemblance to the reality he'd found thus far.

But then David noticed something, and this turned out to be what had sparked the author's interest and prompted him to write the book in the first place. Evidently, Princess Esmerelda's party had been seen passing to the west of Sher Point; and since the men were armed and wearing uniforms and insignia of unknown origin, the authorities had been informed and a troop of militia had been dispatched to intercept the party and take them into custody. Thankfully, through interrogation, it became clear that the travellers presented no danger and had no ill intent, and so they were finally released and allowed to go on their way.

The author wrote that the travellers were indeed found to be in possession of a hoard of treasure of “inestimable worth”, but that realizing what ill might befall the travellers were this to became common knowledge, the authorities has wisely not allowed this fact to be reported until the travellers had left the area. And all those involved, such as the militia who had taken the travellers into custody, were similarly ordered not to reveal this information, unless they wished to face court martial. As tends to happen where greed is aroused, however, word did get out; though luckily, after the travellers had left Sher Point, there were no further reports of their movements and so, presumably, they continued on their way unmolested.

So Jeremy's tale hadn't been quite as tall as David had at first imagined; it did bear a bit more than a fleeting resemblance to what had actually befallen Princess Esmerelda and her companions. David had an awful sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at that moment. It struck him then that all that time he'd spent wading through those records had been a total waste of time. What the hell, there was no point in crying over spilt milk as his mother would say. They were back on course once more and that was all that really mattered.

Unfortunately – or perhaps rather fortunately, depending on which way you looked at it – the book did not mention where the party might have been heading, though the author was full of wild and probably unsubstantiated theories of his own. David was almost certain that these things were simply conjured from a top hat with altogether too much pizazz[105] in order to sell the book and raise a few shillings; that really was about the limit of the book's literary or scientific merit. And having flicked through the book herself, Katie agreed with his assessment.

Having seen what he needed to see and without a hope in hell of fully exploring the library, let alone the bustling city – at least not in this lifetime – David and Katie found a quiet café by the river bank to sit and enjoy the pleasant, enlivening rays of the sun. This made a welcome and much needed break. Again, as Uncle Harry would say, in spite of his own workaholic nature or conditioning: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

Later that day, they spent some more time together, ogling in the shop windows and wandering through a lovely little park, walking round the lake and admiring the ornamental fish, the ducks and roses in the neatly pruned borders. Then, as dusk was coming in, they slowly wended their way out of the city, back to the inn and David turned his attention back to The Chronicles. He was eager to learn more and yet also reluctant, for he'd developed something of a love-hate relationship with the author and, for that matter, with this interminable quest. Dedication is going on when, at times, you would rather not go a single step further. And just then, that is precisely where David found himself placed.

21. Weathering the storm

“We were in the gaol for three whole days before the authorities finally came to talk to us,” continued Jeremy Wildacre in his Chronicles. “Fortunately, they were short of space at the gaol and we shared a cell together, rather than being held in solitary confinement.”

We passed the time by playing games like “I spy”, though of course given our restricted surroundings, that didn't take us very far. So Artor would tell us stories and jokes and we'd test each other with riddles, in order to keep our spirits up.

“Where will you find roads without cars, forests without trees and cities without houses?” Elzabeth asked us, and after a long silence, a grin crept over Artor's face. “On a map!” he declared.

Being the victor, he got to ask the next riddle. “Very well, my friends. What do an island and the letter T have in common?” Again there was silence.

“Do you give up?” he enquired at length.

We both nodded, reluctantly.

“They're both in the middle of 'water',” he beamed, slapping his thigh and, since he was again victorious, he got to ask another. “Here's one I was taught by an old lady by the name of Fanny Dee:”

“Weight in my belly,

Trees on my back,

Nails in my ribs,

Feet do I lack.

What am I?”

Again there was a lengthy period of silence. But just as I was about to answer, a guard came to summon us and our earlier joviality was wiped from our faces. He led us through a warren of corridors to the room where we were to be interrogated.

We were fortunate, however. Artor championed our case most successfully, having lubricated the works of the bureaucracy with a not insubstantial donation to the militia's benevolent trust, or their grog and baccie[106] fund, at their discretion or lack thereof. And finally we were released from gaol without charge, given a writ of safe passage, and allowed to go on our way.

Of course, it was not Jeremy Wildacre who had been taken in for questioning, but Esmerelda's party when they'd passed through the Freelands.

David saw Katie's eyes light up. She'd finally found the answer to Artor's riddle, bless her heart. It was a ship, of course, Katie proudly told him. And as she said those words, David began to wonder if this could be another clue on Jeremy Wildacre's part, all the more so since that riddle had come from Artor and had gone unanswered.

They checked the map again and there on the Freelands' east coast was the town of Pendlebury. It was maybe eight or so hours away on horseback, at a walking pace, so it was obviously too late in the day to set out now, but if they left early the next morning, they should arrive in time for afternoon tea. And if this proved to be a dead end, then they could easily retrace their steps to Sher Point and try elsewhere.

When David and Katie arrived at Pendlebury, they made straight for the waterfront. He could smell and almost taste the salt and seaweed in the air, blowing in off the sea.

As he had hoped, there was indeed an old harbour there, and they walked along one of the quays where the larger boats were moored. Overhead the seagulls were wheeling about, anxiously scanning the area to see if there was anything they could scavenge, especially near the fishing boats and the quays which were lined with orange crab pots, lobster pots and nets and stank of gutted fish. As they passed several small fishing cobbles, Katie pointed out that they were often named after women and David realized that perhaps the old lady Fanny Dee whom Artor had mentioned was actually the name of a boat or a ship?

Spotting a crewman up on deck aboard one of the ships, he called out to attract the man's attention.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you know a boat here by the name of Fanny Dee?”

“Hang on a minute, I'll fetch ol' Albert. If there's a boat of that name, he's sure to know,” the man requested, and he went over to the cabin and returned with an older man.

“Is it the Fanny Dee, you're after?” the older man asked, and David nodded.

“Then you're twenty or more years too late, young 'un,” the man replied. “The old Fanny Dee went to the knackers yard[107] long ago.”

David should have expected that to be the case. Then he asked: “Do you know where she used to sail, sir?”

“Up the coast to Stainesport in the Outlands[108]; then across to Habratz in Narayana, and back again,” the man reliably informed him.

“Just that route?” David checked.

“Only that route,” old Albert nodded. “Once or twice a week, depending on the season, an' regular as clockwork, 'cept when there was a gale blowin', a'course.”

“And how would I get to Stainesport or Habratz by sea these days, sir?”

Old Albert nodded further down the quay. “The May Queen has taken over that route,” he replied. “Either that or you could hire a boat to take you straight to Habratz.”

Thanking the men, David and Katie went to make enquiries. They had their horses and mule still with them, so they could be off at a moment's notice.

Having read a little way ahead in the Chronicles, David had not found any further indications of quite where his next destination lay. However, he'd be bold – or brash – and stake his money, and his reputation with Katie, on the destination being Habratz.

Would Katie go with him to Habratz? Yes, precious, she would, came the instant reply. To the very end of the earth if he asked her sweetly enough.

If it were the Outlands, then it would make far more sense to travel west of Sher Point and nip across the border on horseback. And somehow, he couldn't see Princess Esmerelda heading for the Outlands. Katie agreed with him. She reliably informed him there really was so little there, other than poverty and despair, by all accounts, and nowhere else to go from there, except the frozen wilderness of the north.

And if he was wrong? That was a was not a were, there being a subtle difference. Was was more likely than a more hypothetical were. Well, he'd be a little more the wiser and they'd simply have to return the way they'd come and have a rethink.

The good news was that, yes, the ship could take their animals, though they would cost him more than the price of his own ticket and he'd have to provide his own feed or purchase feed from them. They had a mechanical lift to lower the animals into the cargo hold, and pens where they would be safe. And the bad news was that the ship wouldn't be sailing until the following morning at seven o'clock sharp. Well, that suited him just fine. The animals would have to be stowed away no later than six thirty, so David and Katie should arrive by six. That being the case, they would have to fix themselves up with somewhere to stay for the night and find some way to while away the hours until their departure, which shouldn't be that difficult and offered them many delightful possibilities. After all the riding they'd been doing, and the smog in Sher Point, a good soak and scrub down in the bath and a long walk along the promenade and over the cliffs would no doubt do them a world of good.

It was a long and painfully slow journey up the coast to Stainesport, though the sea was relatively calm close to shore, and though he felt quite queasy at first, David gradually got used to the gentle nodding and rolling of the ship. As for Katie, she took to it like a duck to water. What was more peculiar, he would later find, was that even after stepping onto firm land once more, for a time he would still feel like he was rolling about out at sea.

At Stainesport there was a delay of a couple of hours whilst passengers disembarked, goods were transferred to and from the hold and finally more passengers embarked, then they were on their way again, heading straight out to sea. It was good to be on the move again, having been left at a loose end, twiddling their thumbs for so long.

If you were at home or out working or on a lunchtime break, half an hour would pass in a flash; and yet if you were waiting for something to happen, time would drag on and on uncomfortably, David had noted, as countless others had no doubt done before him. Perhaps the subjective element was simply to do with allowing oneself to be distracted on the one hand, and actually concentrating on – and hence being acutely aware of – the slow passage of time on the other? And the incessant activity that some seemed to have a predilection toward? Maybe all that doing was a cover or a smoke screen, because they felt so uncomfortable and in strange and unfamiliar territory when they simply let things be, and they were faced with the reality of their being and – all the more – of their unbeing?

Steaming at a respectable fifteen to twenty knots, it took a day to reach Habratz and, being away from the shelter of the coast, and the weather decidedly less calm, they arrived not a moment too soon for David's liking; though, having just about managed to hold down his food, he was more fortunate than one or two of the other passengers who had spent much of the voyage hanging over the railings in the cold and retching. These people quickly learnt to stand facing downwind when they felt the urge to vomit, and they were especially not to stand downwind of others who were similarly afflicted, for reasons that soon became blindingly obvious.

By the time David and Katie were ashore and reunited with the animals, it was beginning to come in dark and the air was quite cold, so the first thing they did was book into an inn. Fortunately, most folk in Narayana still went about on horseback, so they had no trouble in finding a place with stables; and at a very reasonable price, which was a good thing since he'd received such a poor exchange rate for his gold at Pendlebury. David had been well and truly fleeced and – with nowhere else to turn at such short notice, and the broker all too well aware of this fact – there was not a thing he could do about it, other than chalk it up to experience.[109]

~~~O~~~

When Lethik discovered that a ship had departed with Seymour on board, he stomped around, hurling obscenities; and all the more so when he discovered that the May Queen wouldn't be back and sail again for another week.

However, when he was informed that the Iron Duke, an old tramp steamer was available for charter, at a price, he was once again cock-a-hoop.[110] If she sailed directly to Habratz, chances were they would arrive sooner than Seymour and could lay in wait for him.

Oh ye of little faith, Lethik chastised himself, magnanimously promising his men that he'd double their rum ration as soon as they made port; for, as it is rightly said, the devil looks after his own.

22. On their last legs

Once their dinner had settled, David and Katie adjourned to the lounge and he rummaged in his haversack. Both he and Katie were eager to find out where Jeremy Wildacre had gone on from Habratz in his account, and they sat there nestled up to one-another reading the account together. This marked a very real turning point in their relationship.

Having abandoned any attempt to describe the true facts of his long trek, old Jeremy was leading his readers a merry dance way out east in what was most likely Erigwid and Gilgamar, a thousand miles away from what David hoped was the man's actual location. Jeremy Wildacre must surely have longed to tell his tale as it really happened, but the poor soul's hands were tied, and he couldn't even describe his real surroundings nor the people he met along the way, for fear of giving the game away.

Esmerelda's exodus had been in the year 1250 and Jeremy Wildacre was writing around 1420, nearly two centuries later, and yet the writer's guide, Artor, had warned him not to reveal details of the route they were following, which appeared to be the same path that Esmerelda had taken all those years earlier. That puzzled David, and it also gave him hope, for it hinted that there might really be a crock of gold still there to be found at the end of the proverbial rainbow. I mean, there in the same spot. Had Esmerelda moved on or the treasure been moved in the intervening period, then there would surely have been no reason to conceal such facts about their earlier exodus? This was conjecture on his part, of course, but they were certainly hiding something. There could be no doubt about that.

“We continued on through the hills, gradually climbing until we reached a fertile plateau,” Jeremy Wildacre continued quite some way on in his Chronicles and, consulting the crude map he'd bought in Pendlebury, David was certain now that it was Narayana that the writer was describing, though it might equally have described the terrain way out in the east. It most certainly did not describe the Outlands, and especially not the Shires in the south of the country, Katie assured him.

Our journey went on for days and yet in all that time, if our progress were measured in absolute terms, it might have been likened to that of a snail slowly, if resolutely, crawling across a public park. Fortunately for such a snail and less fortunately for us, the snail would have no concept of passing time, and hence would not be prone to ennui,[111] let alone despair.

So, it wasn't only he who felt the strain at times, David mused, and he was thankful indeed that he now had Katie along to offer her support and her own insights. It was so much easier and better with another pair of hands and eyes, another head and – not least – another heart and soul. He'd never ventured so close to another person before, and let them into his life in this way – not even dear old Uncle Harry. So as well as being a coming together, it was also – in a sense – an act of first letting go. And perhaps that was the hardest part?

The land was so vast that you really couldn't take in its enormity, which stretched from horizon to horizon and far beyond. That was indeed humbling. This plateau alone could have easily swallowed western countries whole and still left room for more. There were so many fields in this rich and fertile, largely rural land that if the fields were books, I swear you could have filled a library.

And for those who still stubbornly maintain that the world is flat, come here and see the scientific proof of your ignorant folly, say I. If you went far enough, I maintain that you would not fall off the edge of the world or be eaten by fierce mythical beasts, as primitive superstition avers, but that you would finally arrive back at the point where you first began, though no doubt considerably aged by that time.

We eventually came to a bustling market town and caught our first glimpse of the tips of the snow-capped mountain peaks which ringed the plateau. Asking our guide, Artor how far we were from those mountains, we were told that it would take three days, walking on horseback, to get up and over the foothills and reach their base. Given that the horizon on the plateau was no more than three miles away, this might give you an idea of just how tall these mountain peaks must be.

By now quite exhausted, we rested for two days before collecting provisions and moving on through the foothills. Finally, after another thirty hours in the saddle – and with me counting each blessèd one, having nothing better to occupy my mind – we reached a tiny hamlet and stayed the night in a quaint timber-framed inn. This journey taxed me and I'm a patient man, so I pity any youngsters who might follow in my footsteps, who possessed the attention span of a minnow.[112]

The most remarkable thing about this hostelry was that everything was so clearly out of alignment, which suggested that whomever had built the place had done so not through sloppy workmanship but with some perverse intent, or at least it seemed so when seen through my no doubt staid western eyes. Outside, all the window frames were crooked and the doorway was out of line, and inside, there wasn't a straight corridor or a square room or even a level floor to be found. It really was quite extraordinary.

Again, we stayed here another two days before moving on. Elzabeth and I were growing ever more tired and quite breathless by this time, but Artor, who was quite used to such mountainous climes, seemed to take it all in his stride. I can only assume that his body was able to deliver more oxygen to his muscles and cells than we could, and Artor confirmed that it would take time to acclimatize to the thinning air.

Then one morning, just as the sun rose, lighting up the south eastern faces of the peaks with a wonderful, glowing orange light, we set out for what Artor informed us would be the final leg of our journey. My mind was not so befuddled, I hasten to add, that I did not remember him telling us this same thing, over and over again, since we'd first set foot in this vast land.

The next morning, David and Katie went out to see if they could glean any information from the locals, asking if any of them knew of an inn such as that which Jeremy Wildacre had described, where everything was skew-whiff;[113] and not surprisingly, they were met with blank faces, queer looks, the shaking of heads, and profuse apologies. These people were nothing if not loyal, hospitable, generous, loving and polite spirits … and also undoubtedly fierce adversaries, if you were on the wrong side of them, for the land was still largely feudal and ruled over by many local and regional war lords, tenuously held together by the crown, whose seat was in the south of the country.

The only other clue that David had been able to glean from Jeremy Wildacre's account was that “the sun rose, lighting up the south eastern faces of the peaks”. He had a little difficulty getting his head around that and had to draw them a diagram in his notepad. Presumably, Katie deduced from this, since the sun rose in the east, then that would mean that the mountains were certainly to the north of the plateau. Indeed – if Jeremy Wildacre had his bearings right and was being deliberately precise – then the mountains were most likely to the north east of the plateau, assuming that the hamlet with the crooked inn was south of the mountains.

If that were the case, then the market town that Jeremy Wildacre had spoken of earlier was most likely a place called Shakra. This was large enough to show on the crude map, though of course the many smaller hamlets in which the vast majority of the population lived, had been omitted.

“Shakra?” he queried.

“It's your call,” Katie told him, after a lengthy deliberation. “And do stop picking your nose, David, unless it's an indispensable part of your thinking process. I can live with you nervously biting your fingernails; but not that filthy habit. If I'd been your mother, I'd have smeared your fingertips with mustard. That would have soon cured you.”

“Sorry.” He flushed with embarrassment, hastily withdrawing his hand from his face. “No, beautiful: you decide. Make my mind up for me.”

“You need to find the courage of your convictions, David,” she reminded him. “And that's something that you come to trust through exercising that ability and being proved right more often than you are proved wrong. You can't reap the harvest unless you're willing to sow the seeds, though you can always hold a few back, just in case. Or to choose another metaphor, your legs are strong and you don't need to use me as a crutch. In fact, I won't let you, because that would not be in your best interests.”

David could feel a lump rising in his throat as Katie spoke.

“My Uncle Harry always used to say ...” he croaked.

Katie stared at him intently with her hands on her hips, and his voice trailed off, fizzling out like some damp squib.[114]

“Bollocks to your Uncle Harry, I want to hear from David Seymour. The David Seymour whom I'm coming to know and love. It's perhaps time you let go of the vicarious, if paternal, hold that your Uncle Harry still has over your life? It's quite natural and kind of him, of course, to want to pass on some of his wisdom and better qualities to you, especially having no offspring of his own; but I'm sure that the last thing that he would want would be for you to live forever in his shadow or, in a sense, be possessed by his spirit.”

When he made no reply, she leant forward and tapped him on the top of the head, as you might knock on a door. “Hello. Hello? Is there anybody in there?”

“Yes Katie,” he nodded gravely. “You're quite right, of course.”

Then her face cracked into a broad smile and she affectionately tussled his hair.

“David, at the end of the day, remember, this is not a life or death decision and you don't have to be infallible. What's the worst that can happen? A little disappointment and backtracking? Well, that won't really hurt you, will it? And it won't cause me to love you any the less. We're made of stouter stuff than that.

“Having said that ... Shakra it is, then,” she finally agreed.

He hadn't let on to Katie, but he'd been greatly hurt to find out that she'd betrayed him, and since that time he hadn't been able to fully rid himself of lingering doubts and really relax in her company. Only now had he finally realized that he must have left those doubts behind, somewhere along the road between there and here; his earlier fears being made conspicuous by their absence. There were many things that he hadn't confided in Katie – these being mostly dark spectres in his closet, rather than shameful skeletons. But no doubt these would see the light of day, and evaporate, given sufficient time and gentle encouragement. Katie was an observant and nurturing soul.

David and Katie left the sheltered, lowland port of Habratz behind and gradually climbed up to the central plateau. They hadn't got very far down the road when they heard a loud honk-honk behind him and they moved to the side of the road and waved to let a truck past. The driver came alongside and asked Katie where they were heading.

“To Shakra,” she replied and the man's eyes sparkled.

“I'm going that way myself,” the driver told him. “Want a lift?”

“Rather. Thank you so much,” they nodded.

Climbing out of his cab, the man went round to the back of his truck and lowered the flap to make a ramp. “Here, stow your horses and mule in the back and you can both ride up front with me.”

And that was that. The driver wouldn't accept any money to cover the cost of diesel oil for his truck, but he did at least allow David to buy him a meal and a pint of ale when they stopped for the night. It was a hell of a journey, but fortunately since they and the driver had not been acquainted, there were a thousand and one things that they could talk about, that hadn't been said already, to while away the hours; except for the matter of the treasure, that was. They simply made out that they were on a touring holiday.

On the fourth long day, David must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew was Katie gently shaking him and the driver honking on his horn as they pulled into town. “Here we are, my young love birds, home sweet home,” the man smiled. “We have arrived at Shakra.”

They thanked the driver profusely and again David tried to get him to accept a contribution toward the diesel, but the man would have none of it. “With only myself to talk to along the way, it would have been a very dull journey, my friends. It was a pleasure to have been able to help.”

Bidding one-another a fond adieu, the man went merrily on his way and David and Katie looked around for a place to stay. The climb had been gradual, but he could tell that they must already be quite high, for the air felt a good deal thinner here. He could see now why Jeremy Wildacre had talked of tiredness and hinted at the need to rest up whilst he and Elzabeth acclimatized.

Taking a leaf out of Jeremy Wildacre's book, David and Katie did nothing for the next day, other than have a gentle stroll through the town and the nearby park together and otherwise sitting and relaxing and enjoying one-another's company, but by the end of the day David could feel the urge to be back on the road. He could never have shackled himself to a dead end job, like his father; facing the same old, mind-numbing task day after day after day until either retirement or death caught up with him, and Katie shared this same outlook.

The landlady at the hotel where they were staying was a pleasant enough woman, and after buying their third cup of coffee that morning, David thought he might ask about the crooked inn.

The lady's face cracked into a broad smile and she was nodding even before he'd got part way through his opening sentence. She couldn't wait to get a word in.

“That would be the inn at Renchok,” the lady reliably told them. “That's where my dear husband and I spent our honeymoon.”

The lady looked at David and then at Katie and back again. “You'll enjoy it there,” she added.

Now that was welcome news.

“Which way is Renchok?” he enquired.

“It's a small hamlet, nestling in the foothills, at the foot of a valley, to the north east of here.”

So, they'd got their bearings right, after all.

“Is it easy to find?” David asked.

“Oh, don't worry, my dear, you're not likely to get lost,” she laughed. “There's only the one bumpy old dirt road heading that way and only one inn at Renchok. Just follow that road all the way. You'll know when you get there, because the road comes to an abrupt end. And then follow your nose. The food they serve at the inn is a sheer delight, and the landlady is a secret saint.”[115]

“Any idea how long it will take?” he asked.

“That depends, my dear. If you're going by motorbus then unless they get a puncture or there's been a rock fall on the road, it will take you about six hours.”

“And if we're on horseback, towing a lumbering mule?”

The lady shrugged her shoulders. “Then I'd say five or six days, my dear, but that's just a guess.”

It was another helluva journey through the foothills to Renchok, though this time it was not so much the length of the journey, which had been a mental effort, but now rather the physical effort, a growing lethargy and also an unfortunate bout of diarrhoea, possibly from something they'd either eaten or drunk along the way. As a consequence, David didn't want to push their horses, or Katie, too much. But nevertheless, they were up at the crack of dawn each day and they'd ride on for so long and then get out of the saddle to walk the horses for a while; then they'd rest while they fed the animals and ate, and be on their way again, riding until darkness was coming in before making camp. And in that way, they finally succeeded in reaching Renchok as night was drawing in on the fifth day, just in time to book into the inn before they closed up for the night.

It was too late for David and Katie to eat that night, but they still had plenty of food with them that they could eat straight out of the tin; and in any case, they really were both too dog tired to have faced a cooked meal or company. In the morning, however, they were both feeling a lot perkier and more than made up for it by scoffing a full cooked breakfast with all the trimmings. It was quite a cold climate up here in the foothills and they'd been advised by the landlady to make sure they ate well. By “eat well” she meant eat a lot of everything, especially stodgy and fatty food and meat. The lady also prescribed a herbal tea which she assured them would sort out their diarrhoea and generally aid their digestion, suggesting that they take some of the tea with them when they left, to drink on their way. She called the herb chungari, reliably informing them that this meant Herb of Enlightenment. One cup of that and you felt quite merry; two and you were floating on the breeze. It really was like stoking a steam boiler with coal, and David and Katie had to cram in the last few mouthfuls of their breakfast and wash it down with juice.

Again, as they rested, David's attention turned to the final pages of The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre, realizing that they must be close to their goal.

“We climbed and climbed, out of the foothills and up a steep mountain pass,” wrote Jeremy Wildacre. “And on through the mountain range, through one valley after another and from pass to pass. I know for certain that without Artor to guide Elzabeth and I, we would have become utterly lost and died of exposure, or else fallen and perished all the sooner.”

Artor led us on, a stout rope tied between us so that if one of us fell, the other two might dig in their heels and their axes and save the other. He did advise us, however, that if such a thing happened and one's own life were imperilled, with no hope of saving the other, we should do the right thing and cut the rope with a knife, so that two of us could go on. That was an awful prospect.

At length, however, after trudging on through the deep snow for two days and bivouacking overnight, we were over the worst. On that second day, Artor led us into a long, sheltered valley. At the far end, a high waterfall cascaded down a cliff and the water had collected to form a deep lake. Artor led us on up the valley until the sound of the waterfall was thundering in our ears, and looking around and seeing no obvious way out of this valley, I did enquire of Artor if he knew where he was going, thinking that perhaps the thin mountain air might have befuddled his mind, too, as it had with Elzabeth and me. Indeed he did, said he, and he asked me to be patient and that all would be revealed in due course.

Artor walked on, tugging at us on the end of the rope, until we came so close to the waterfall that we were engulfed in an icy cold mist. Yet still he walked on, right behind the curtain of the waterfall in the shelter of a rocky overhang, and we could do nothing other than place our trust in this man and obediently follow him.

And then Elzabeth and I beheld a strange thing. Ahead of us, carved out of the wall of the cliff, behind the waterfall, was the mouth of a dark tunnel. Artor had a torch with him that had been dipped in pitch, and moving further into the tunnel to be out of the spray, he struck a light and managed to light the torch to illuminate our path.

Artor led us on for several hundred yards along this long, winding and echoing tunnel until finally I could see a glimmer of light ahead of us. As we approached, the light grew larger and larger and brighter, until finally Artor was able to extinguish his torch and we walked out of the far end of the tunnel.

What we saw utterly astounded us. We had reached another valley, surrounded by high peaks on all sides. That was surprising enough, but what really astounded us was that this sheltered valley was not snow-laden, except on the peaks, but instead looked so lush and green and fertile. There was a river flowing through it and here and there I could see steam rising from fissures in the rock and parts of the valley floor; which, Artor informed us, were hot springs. He told us that the area had at one time been actively volcanic, though the source had been dormant and quiet now for centuries.

And again, as I gazed out over the valley from the elevated opening of the tunnel, I could see small dwellings dotted about and a larger, stone building that looked like a monastery in their midst. As my eyes became adjusted to the light once more, I saw that the whole valley was a patchwork of irrigated fields.

“Where on earth are we?” I asked Artor. You couldn't imagine a more heavenly spot, at least on this side of death's door.

“Many have yearned after this legendary abode, though only a few have ever found it,” Artor replied. “This place has been called many names over the centuries by those who've sought it, but we call it babs chu, which simply means 'waterfall'.”

“My word,” Elzabeth remarked, “if you didn't know that this place was here, you wouldn't find it by yourself in a thousand years.”

Artor nodded. “And thanks be to God that this is so,” he replied. “Anyhow, welcome home, my friends. We have arrived at last, just as Arsalan led the Princess Esmerelda and her companions here one hundred and seventy years ago. What you see before you is in large part due to their efforts over the years.”

“You mean to say that Princess Esmerelda came and settled here?” I gasped.

“I do,” Artor nodded, leading the way along a narrow gravel path that zigzagged its way down to the valley floor.

A thought suddenly struck me and I turned to Artor and said: “There's a question that I've been meaning to ask you for some time now, Artor.”

The man nodded. “That question being, how do I know all the things that I do?”

“Precisely.”

Artor smiled at us. “There are two answers to that, my friends ...”

Elzabeth feigned a sigh and shook her head. “I rather thought there might be. Don't tell me: a simple answer, and a complex one involving a bag of skin and bones, especially designed to vex me.”

“No, no. Much simpler than that on this occasion, Elzabeth, you will be happy to know. The first being that I am rightly guided. And the second being that Esmerelda's guide, Arsalan, was my great, great, great grandfather. I'm sorry, I forget how many 'greats' there are, and I shan't bore you with a long list of who begot whom, but you get the picture. Needless to say, he was indeed a great man.

“And another thing, my friends. Rest assured that it is no accident that – like Esmerelda before you – you should find yourselves here. There is nothing without its rhyme and reason in this Work, and not so much as a drop of experience is ever wasted. This, too, is the 'economy' of which I spoke, some time back.”

There are many things about this place and its people that must go unspoken, to be revealed only to those who have successfully followed in the footsteps of the Princess Esmerelda, her Guide Arsalan and her companions, and finally reached their new home.

There begins the next stage of our life together, dear reader. And here, alas, I must conclude my tale. Elzabeth and I wish you a long, happy, wholesome and fruitful life. May you be rightly guided and soon find your way here to babs chu.

Jeremiah and Elzabeth Wildacre,

June 1429.

So that was that. All this time, David had wanted to get to the end of Jeremy Wildacre's Chronicles, hoping and praying for a happy ending … and now he found that he wanted to hear more, only to discover that no more would be forthcoming.

Well, it was all up to Katie and him now to bring the baton[116] home.

23. The journey home

David was elated that Jeremy and Elzabeth had successfully made it to babs chu, of course. And almost in the same breath, he was deeply saddened. The reality of their plight had suddenly hit him hard. He knew now that there was no way in the world that they could reach this place unguided, and he noted – to his horror – that in his Chronicles, the writer had left no further clues.

He put the book away, went to get Katie and himself two mugs of hot, thick vegetable soup, and then he turned to her.

“I'm sorry, Katie, I think I've made an enormous blunder bringing us all this way here, and I need to apologize,” he told her, and he explained his concerns.

Not only were David and Katie all alone now, they was also both several hundred miles away from home – way out on a slender, shaking limb – and that made him feel exceptionally vulnerable and also rather foolish, though at least he could live with this latter impediment, if Katie could.

“Don't worry, precious, I'm sure something will turn up. I just know that something good is going to happen. Heaven knows, you've shown true dedication and even though they say that virtue is its own reward, I still think that it's high time you met with good fortune,” Katie consoled him, gently massaging his shoulders. She was ever the optimist; indeed, had it not been for Katie's support and almost infinite patience, he probably wouldn't have made it this far. “And if the worst does happen – not that I'm saying it will – then we can simply go back home … and perhaps even shack up and settle down together.”

Now those honeyed words were welcome to his ears, and – far more than a consolation prize – they did indeed offer a great deal of very real and tangible hope.

“I still feel such a fool,” he admitted to Katie, at length.

“Stop it this instant, David Seymour,” she gently chided him. “You've no reason to feel foolish or guilty or ashamed. It's time to dump all that heavy baggage in the trash can, where it rightly belongs, and be done with it. As they rightly say: life's too short for that kind of nonsense; life is for living. And by that, I don't mean that you have to become a selfish and shortsighted hedonist, precious – and heaven knows, not some pious monk – but simply that you need to lighten up a little and enjoy some healthy pleasures. Maybe break the odd taboo, or even share forbidden fruit, if you catch my drift[117] ….”

He finally plucked up the courage to ask: “Are you tempting me, Miss Smiles?”

Katie raised her eyebrows and ran her fingers up and down his arm. “I might be, Mister Seymour. You tell me.”

They asked the locals if they'd heard of a place called babs chu, of course, but all they'd done was tell him and Katie what they already knew: that the words simply meant “waterfall” and that the hills and mountains were teeming of them.

They also asked if there were any legends of a mountain community or a procession of riders passing through the foothills; and whether they knew anyone by the name of Arsalan, Artor, Princess Esmerelda, Angus Middleditch, Jeremy Wiseacre or Elzabeth. Hearing this, some gave Katie and him the most peculiar looks, probably thinking that the thin mountain air had brought on such madness. No they hadn't, was their unanimous reply. Or at least if they had, then they weren't telling. And one or two openly advised Katie and him, though not unkindly, that they should go back home.

His hopes of finding the Lost Treasure not merely dashed but obliterated, David and Katie lingered at Renchok for another four days, both reading and rereading the blessed Chronicles until they were pig sick of the book, and racking their brains for solutions, all to no avail. Give Katie her due: she pulled out all the stops[118] to help him. She was possessed of a resourceful and fighting spirit.

Then the next day, David dejectedly stuffed his belongings in his haversack and waited for Katie to finish packing, then he stomped downstairs to settle up with the landlady. Fighting back the tears and wrapping himself warmly against the chill air, he trudged round to the stables with Katie to collect Bella and Frisky and her horse Mabel, and be on their way.

Fortunately, they still had enough supplies to see them through until they got back to Shakra. This long journey had cost David dearly and – not having planned to come this far and then have to make a return trip – his money was beginning to run out, though Katie still had silver. He desperately hoped that they'd be able to make it back to the Freelands and somehow arrange to have funds transferred from his own bank in Kronstein to the branch of another bank at Sher Point. No doubt he'd have to pay dearly for the service, but the real question was whether or not such a thing could actually be done. Well, if the worst came to the worst, then like it or not, he'd simply have to sell his uncle's gold pocket watch and brass binoculars; even Frisky and his tent, if needs be. That should just about cover them for a few more days. There was little chance of him getting a work permit in the Freelands, and he had no idea where he and Katie might go, if they did decide to settle down together. She might not want to go all the way back to Kronstein with him, and he wouldn't blame her if she baulked at the prospect and turned him down flat.

Oh, for the love of God, what else could he do?, he half lamented and half cursed as he stepped into the saddle, dug in his heels and flicked the reins to stir some life into Bella.

David and Katie had been on the road for half an hour and he was still just as worked up emotionally, if not more so, with tears threatening to burst at any moment. He heard the sound of horses' hooves approaching at a trot, some distance behind but looming ever closer. Instantly he stiffened, fearing the worst, thinking that being robbed by some bandit or highwayman would really put a thick crust on the man-sized slice of humble pie he was reluctantly being force fed.

Go on, take it! Take the whole fucking lot!, he cursed, yanking on the reins and wheeling his horse round to face the approaching riders. I really don't give a damn any more!

Perhaps the oncoming riders had heard David, or felt his anger, for they appeared as genuinely alarmed by his sudden about turn as he was by them.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the first one called out. He could see now that she was a girl about his own age. The other was an older man with a long grey beard, perhaps grown to keep out the cold.

“We didn't mean to startle you,” the girl added.

David wasn't quite sure what to say. “I'm sorry, too. I thought you were out to rob me, not that I've anything left that's worth taking any more.”

“Except for you, of course, Katie,” he hastened to add.

Hearing this, the girl peered at him, with an expression of genuine concern on her face. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she consoled him.

The riders drew their horses close to him and Katie and swung themselves out of the saddles. Pulling himself together, he clambered down to greet them and helped Katie out of the saddle.

“I'm Adam,” the older man offered, taking off his thick gloves and stretching out his arm. “And this is my daughter, Ellie.”

He took off his own gloves and they all shook hands. “This is a dear friend, Katie Smiles and I'm David. David Seymour,” he replied, hoping that the tears hadn't reddened his eyes.

“You seem saddened, young man, and angry,” the man observed, answering that question.

David sighed involuntarily and Katie gently patted his back.

“Oh, it's just that I've done a very foolish thing,” he told them, in all honesty. “I bought Katie all this way on a wild goose chase and now I'm off back home with my tail between my legs.”

“I see,” nodded the man. “Well, as yet I don't quite see. But how's about we go back to the inn and have a natter, eh? I'm sure it won't hurt to delay your journey for a few more hours, though my daughter here reliably informs me that there'll be snow tomorrow. She knows about such things and I've come to trust her judgement.”

David exchanged glances with Katie and she nodded affirmatively. He shrugged his shoulders and took hold of Bella's reins. “Sure, why not? A few more hours won't harm us.” Right now, he wished he could simply crawl away and hide under a rock, or that the ground would open up and swallow him, but he didn't voice this desire.

They found a table close to the warm fireplace in the lounge and waited until Adam had returned with four beakers of hot mulled wine. “There you go, Katie and David, that'll warm the cockles of your hearts.”

“I was going to say it'll put hairs on your chest,” David replied. He had to smile. “That's what my Great Uncle Harry would say.”

Adam raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, I'm sorry, have I said something wrong?” David gulped.

“No, not at all,” the man replied. “Did I hear you say earlier that your name is Seymour?”

“That's right, yes.”

“And is your uncle's name Harold Seymour, by any chance?”

David nodded. “Yes, Professor Harold Seymour, to give him his full title.”

“The archaeologist and explorer?”

David's eyes lit up. “Yes, the very same. I hadn't realized that he was so well known.”

“My word, yes,” Adam beamed. “We've taken quite an interest in his work over the years.”

Small world, David smiled to himself.

“He's well, I trust?”

David cast his eyes down. “I'm afraid he died some time ago.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, David. My sincere condolences. So tell me, what brings you two love birds out here into the wilds?”

“My great uncle mainly,” David told them. “When he died, he not only left me his house and estate, he also left some unfinished work. And Katie and I met along the way, at Baradsway in the north of Ingmar.”

“Ah, I see. How fortunate for you both. Or at least I will see, do go on.”

David rummaged in his rucksack and brought out the book. “And Uncle also left me this book.”

Ellie took the book and peered at the cover, then passed it on to her father. The man took out his spectacles to examine it more closely and a broad grin creased his whiskered face. “The Chronicles of Jeremy Wildacre,” he nodded, adding, “so that was the research that your uncle was working on and passed on to you. Now I do see, David. My word. Yes, indeed.”

David looked at the man quizzically. “Do you mean that you know of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor, Adam?”

“Yes, David,” the man nodded affirmatively.

“There you are, see,” Katie chipped in, giving David a playful poke in the ribs. “Didn't I say that something good would turn up?”

“Yes, it's true: you did, beautiful. I'm sorry that I ever doubted you.”

“So that's what brought you all this way?” Adam queried.

David shrugged. “I think that's what started me out on this madcap adventure, yes Adam. But now that I've got to know these people better, I'm more interested in finding out more about Princess Esmerelda and Angus Middleditch; Jeremy Wildacre and Elzabeth, and of course their guides, Arsalan and Artor. Them especially.”

“Yes, the landlady told us you'd been asking about Jeremy Wildacre. Ellie and I had just come into town to buy in routine supplies, and we missed you by a whisker.”[119]

“What am I saying?” David questioned himself. “Of course, since I first set out, I've met Katie. Without her love and her patience, I don't think that I'd have made it this far. And to be honest, I feel that the love that Katie and I share is the greatest treasure of all.”

Adam beamed at him. “Now you're getting somewhere, young man. Yes, indeed.”

“But when we asked the landlady and the other locals about these people, they just looked blank and shook their heads,” David pointed out. “And they gave us such queer looks, I thought that perhaps I'd begun to go mad in the thin mountain air.”

Adam nodded. “Oh, they would. We have them well trained, you see.”

“We?” queried David, sensing that something important was afoot.

“Let me break this to you gently, David and Katie, so that it doesn't come as too much of a shock.”

David looked worried, but the man and his daughter merely smiled impishly.

“What if I were to tell you that Ellie's full name is Elzabeth?”

David could feel his face flushing and he hoped that he didn't look as red as a beetroot. As for Katie, she took this news in in an instant and she looked fit to burst with joy.

“Or that my name is Adam Wildacre?”

“I'm sorry,” David apologized. “I'm not quite sure what to say. You mean that the story really is true and that we really have found our way to the right place?”

Adam and Ellie both laughed. “Yes, it's really really true, David, and you and Katie are nearly nearly in the right place. And no, you are not dreaming.”

Then the man drew a deep breath and pulled himself together. “You see, the Chronicles were written by my father and are dear to my own heart, David.”

“Good heavens. Is Jeremy still alive, then?”

Adam shook his head. “No, alas my father died ten years ago, and my mother only a few weeks later. She died more from a broken heart than anything. They would have been so pleased to see you make it here, you know.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Adam,” Katie commiserated. “Have others made it here?”

“By other means, yes; but you and David are the first through my father's hand. But that's all it takes, you know, just a few people like us. We're not aiming to recruit the masses for some epic and bloody crusade. We leave that to the religionists and the politicians who hold sway over this abode of decay we call the Shadowlands.”

“And the valley at babs chu, that's real, too? I mean the people are still there, after all these years?” asked Katie, growing more and more excited.

“Oh yes, indeed the community has grown from strength to strength since Esmerelda came here, though Arsalan's people had originally set up the community several centuries beforehand.

“It turned out that the old monastery had been built too low in the valley and suffered whenever there was a major flood, a freak occurrence that happens once every two or three centuries, and Esmerelda's people helped build the new community centre and re-site the dwellings on higher ground. It took them over a decade, gently prising off the intricate mosaic tiles and carefully taking down the old monastery stone by stone. But then we live by a longer and far less hasty and impatient time scale here, you'll find. This power house, as we call it, has many beneficial and healing qualities, and I feel certain that it will not disappoint you.”

“Anyhow.” The man looked at his wristwatch and stood up. “Are you still interested?”

Katie and David exchanged glances and she nodded vigorously.

“That goes without saying, Adam. Yes, of course we are. I don't know about you, Katie, but I'm cock-a-hoop.”

He didn't actually have to ask Katie to know this – he could see that she was over the moon – but it was the right thing to do.

“Absolutely,” she confirmed, for the record.

Adam patted them on the shoulder. “Excellent. Then come with us while we fetch the provisions from the store. Under normal circumstances we'd stay here overnight, but since there's snow on the way, once we've got you sorted out with some better boots and a warmer coat, we'll head back straight away. And if you two love birds are over the moon already, then you're going to be skipping for joy when you first set eyes on babs chu. It really is a home away from home.”

David drew a deep breath. “I'm sorry, but there's something important that I really need to tell you, Adam.”

Adam cocked his head to one side, indicating that he was listening.

“You see, there are people who've been following us, and I'm afraid that they might find babs chu.”

“Ah, now that won't do,” Adam nodded seriously. “Do you know who?” he asked.

“Prince Willum's elder brother swore revenge and that he'd return the 'stolen treasure' as he called it back to Roth Nagor, even if it took from then until Doomsday,” David told them. “It's one of his heirs, I believe. A thoroughly evil, scheming man called Lethik.”

“I see. And is this Lethik alone?”

“No, he has a couple of others with him. They're not the brightest stars in the galaxy, but they more than make up for that with brawn.”[120]

Adam peered into the distance and thought for a minute, then he abruptly turned back. “No matter,” he replied. “We'll await their arrival and then lead them a merry dance in the mountains.”

As Lethik and his confederates approached Renchok, Adam, Ellie, David and Katie set off on their long trek, making no attempt to evade nor outpace those following them – not that David or Katie could have gone any faster, for the snow was quite deep in places and even something as simple as raising one leaden foot and placing it in front of the other actually required a surprising amount of effort. At one point, David developed the most excruciating cramp in the back of one of his thighs and Adam had him lay in the snow whilst he gently stretched and massaged the cramp away. Then they rested for a time and shared some hot, sugary herbal tea from one of the vacuum flasks that Adam and Ellie had brought with them, before setting off once more.

Lethik was some distance behind and watching their every move through a pair of binoculars, apparently oblivious of the fact that spotting the glint of the lenses in the sun, Adam too was fully aware of them. At this point, however, he was unconcerned by the presence of these men, and he was simply goading them along and biding his time. Like Uncle Harry, he had been raised to be a patient and resourceful man.

They bivouacked overnight in the lee of a rocky outcrop, and as the air turned colder, both David and Katie slept in fits and starts, huddling close together with their clothes and their balaclavas still on and their heads buried in the zip-up hooded sleeping bags, to keep one-another warm.

Then very early the next morning, just after the false dawn, Adam roused them with a mug of hot tea and as soon as their cups were drained and they were up and about, he saw that they were roped together. It was still very dark out and it had already started to snow, but Adam assured them that he knew the way and that they'd be safe on this leg of the trip. However, he urged them to quicken their pace that day, putting as much distance as possible between them and their pursuers.

As the sun came up, they untied the ropes and Ellie walked behind them, carefully erasing their footprints for a time, until her father signalled to her. It had been a long and gruelling ascent into the mountains and they took a brief break to catch their breath and get some oxygen to their burning muscles before continuing on once more.

“It's alright, Ellie, you can stop now, and we'll let Mother Nature take her course,” Adam told her matter of factly. “Those people won't be bothering anyone again, at least not in this lifetime.”

“Are you sure?” David queried.

“Quite sure, David.” Adam laughed. “What did you expect? Some great climactic crescendo, or a violent display of fireworks? This, too, is an event, though you might not think it so.

“While others might bust a blood vessel trying to make something happen, David, we do not. We are quite content to allow things to unfold as they are intended. Unless, of course, it is intended that we should act or intervene. And this, too, is 'economy of action',” the man explained.

“But how can you tell the difference?” Katie wanted to know.

“We quieten ourselves and step out of the way – out of our own way, that is. We listen and we let what needs to happen, happen naturally,” Adam added, holding out his hand and allowing the snowflakes to settle on his upturned palm. “In this case, I simply trusted in my daughter's intuition,[121] when she told me that there would be snow, and the rest simply fell into place of its own accord. This, too, was an event, though it might have been too subtle to be seen as such.”

As Adam spoke, David was reminded of Uncle Harry's lament, that “fewer and fewer people are content with simply being content these days; instead craving what the media feeds them: the ever more eventful. It doesn't even matter if that event is joyous or distressing, just so long as it is an event and passions are aroused.”

It had begun to snow quite heavily now and David could see that their remaining tracks would soon be covered over, which would spell doom to those following them, even if they decided to turn back.

Three miles back, Lethik was indeed caught in a blinding snowstorm that suddenly swirled up out of nowhere and inundated them, by now quite thoroughly lost and growing ever more desperate. He and his henchmen's fate had been sealed.

Adam and his party were now safe. Safe, that was, from their pursuers. That didn't mean that they were yet safely through the mountains. The snow had begun to fall with ever greater rapidity where they were, too, and at times David could hardly see Katie who was once again roped between him and David, let alone see David and Ellie who were taking the lead. All they could do at times was peer down at the ground and be careful to follow in David's footsteps.

And at length, as they finally unroped themselves and skirted round the edge of the deep, dark blue lake toward the thundering waterfall, the snow began to abate; though it wasn't until they'd reached the foot of the waterfall and shuffled in behind and away from its vast freezing cold curtain, that they dare let their guard down and feel moderately safe. Even at this last minute, all it would take would be a moment's carelessness and they'd plunge into the seething, icy cold waters of the lake. Within moments they could be dead, forced under the water by the sheer weight and volume of water; and if by some miracle they survived that, then they could still be hit by hypothermia, or even a heart attack with the great shock and stress the sudden plunge would bring about. That's how precarious life was, and how awe inspiring it was, out here in the wilds. And that was a part of the reason that David felt so very alive – and truly thankful to be alive – in such places. To have come this far was a great – and above all, palpable – accomplishment for Katie and for him. This achievement made sense of all that had gone before.

David wanted to tell the whole world this good news, but he knew that he could not, or else the world and his dog would be beating an unwelcome path to this door. The goal was not there to be plundered for selfish gain; rather the unwritten invitation was something that had to be truly earned along the way.

~~~O~~~

“If you are over the moon already, then you're going to be skipping for joy when you first set eyes on babs chu. It really is a home away from home,” Adam had told him and Katie before they'd set out on this final leg.

As they stepped out of the long, dark tunnel and into the air once more, and David and Katie beheld the splendour of the hidden valley of babs chu, they saw with their own eyes how very right Adam was. Such was their joy, and the great relief they now felt, that David picked Katie up and whirled her around in his arms. Then he fell to his knees and kissed the earth and gave his thanks to Mushkil Gusha.

At that moment, an ecstatic shimmer went through David, and he thought he heard a voice calling him, saying, “Although you may not know it yet, you have been saved by Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties. Remember that Mushkil Gusha is always here. Make sure that every Thursday night you eat some dates and give some to any needy person, and tell the story of Mushkil Gusha. Or give a gift in the name of Mushkil Gusha to someone who will help the needy. Make sure that the story of Mushkil Gusha is never, never forgotten. If you do this, and if this is done by those to whom you tell the story, the people who are in real need will always find their way.”

“Now that is an event, David,” Adam casually observed, helping him to his feet. “We have a saying, you know: The Mind cogitates while the Heart engages. And that was an engagement, if ever there was. Anyway, welcome home my friends. Welcome home.”

The man waited until David had regained his composure and they'd drunk in sufficient of the breathtaking view to satisfy them.

“Anyhow, come David and Katie. There are some good folk that I'd like you to meet, and whom I'm sure would love to meet you.”

Then they set off again down the long zigzagging gravel path toward the valley floor and the warm and peaceful welcome that awaited them in the community of Friends.

As they descended, Adam pointed out some of the myriad sights. To their left, over an ornate wooden bridge on the other side of a stream, near the centre of the valley, lay the remnants of a huge building that had once been the monastery. Throughout the valley was a patchwork of irrigated fields and many clumps of trees, just as Jeremy Wildacre had described. And to the right, which is where they were heading, on slightly higher ground, were clusters of small dwellings and a community centre, partly built into a rocky outcrop in one of the valley walls.

As they approached, now along a path of crazy paving, Adam pointed out the various features of this wonderful community. Here were herb gardens where plants were grown for both culinary and medicinal purposes; an octagonal lily pond in the centre of a paved square, and a safe play area with swings, a see-saw, a roundabout and climbing frames. There, the art and craft workshops where folk painted and worked with wool, fabric, leather and clay; wood, glass and stone. Some, too, worked with metals such as gold, the valley being rich in natural gold deposits. Ahead of them there were chalets where people lived singly, in families or groups, according to their needs; and the wash houses, the old chapel, and medical ward; and beyond that the community centre where they could dine, meet, study, work and simply socialize.

Above all, however, were the many happy, friendly folk who greeted them as they made their way through the community. Like a city carnival, there really was something for everybody in this tightly knit community. Adam and Ellie knew all these people's names, too, and this was a cause for joyful optimism in itself. Their delighted faces were a picture and it did indeed speak a thousand words of welcome. This was not a community that had been thrown together by accident or as a social or psychological experiment; this was all quite clearly well designed and well maintained and it had matured and come to fruition over a period of many generations.

A few hundred yards behind them, a dishevelled and frostbitten figure staggered from the mouth of the dark tunnel and into the open air, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sunlight. It was Lethik and he had been driven on by sheer anger and determination and nothing else. Spotting the others way off in the distance on the valley floor, he waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light, then – with a great effort – he unslung the rifle from his shoulder and took aim, lining his sights up on the girl. If he killed her, then it would also deal Seymour an agonizing and mortal blow.

Down below, they heard something swish past their heads and Adam instantly realized that it had been a bullet, even before the sharp report of the gun reached them and began to echo around the valley walls.

Without thinking, Adam grabbed hold of Katie and forcibly yanked her toward him, shielding her with his own body. And in that instant something hit him hard in the shoulder, mere inches from Katie's head.

“Get down!” he screamed at the others, diving for cover and taking the bewildered girl down with him, and only then did the smarting pain fully register.

A third bullet whizzed past them, but it was well wide of the mark. Adam let go of Katie and anxiously scanned around, trying to spot where the shots might be coming from. With all the echoes around the valley, it was hard to tell.

Then he saw the figure, way up above them near the entrance to the tunnel and he realized that it must be Lethik. Fortunately, the man was too far distant to take a good shot.

Lethik fired for a fourth time, but the cartridge failed to ignite. He tried again and again, no no avail, and he searched his pockets, to find that he had no spare ammunition.

Throwing down the now useless rifle, Lethik's hand went to his belt and he finally managed to draw his knife. It had a cruel, curved and serrated blade with a blood-letting groove running its full length. In order to inflict the maximum injury, you'd thrust the knife in, twist the blade in the wound and pull it out again, tearing the flesh and muscle wide open. Every movement was an effort and caused him great pain. Lethik knew that he was dying, and he was grimly determined to hold out and to take at least some of the others down with him.

He took several agonized steps along the zigzagging gravel path, but then his knees finally gave way beneath him and he went tumbling down the steep and rocky hillside, head over heels, to land in a bloody and twisted heap at the bottom, and he knew no more. To have caught a tantalizing glimpse of his goal and not have been able to avail himself of it: this was his final, just dessert.

Seeing that the danger was now past, Adam got to his feet, clutching his right arm. “It's over now,” he grimaced.

Ellie ran to her father, clearly shocked by the experience and distraught, seeing that he'd been hurt. She helped her father to take off his coat and ripped open the sleeve of his shirt to check the wound whilst David and Katie looked on anxiously. All they could do was offer Adam words of encouragement.

The girl breathed a sigh of relief and, tearing the sleeve right off her father's shirt, she made a makeshift bandage. “Don't worry, Papa, it's just a flesh wound. But we'd better get Sister to have a look at your arm, all the same. I'm sure that she'll have you fixed up in next to no time.”

“Thank you so much,” Katie smiled, realizing now that Adam had probably saved her life and marvelling at his swift and selfless response.

“You're welcome, Katie. Anyhow, I'm sure it's not half as bad as it looks,” Adam replied, more for their benefit than anything. “Worse things happen at sea, as my dear old mother would say.”

“Okay guys, panic over,” the man lilted, putting on a brave face as Ellie helped sling his coat over his shoulders. “Let's get inside and when Sister's got me sorted I think the first thing we should do is go to the canteen in the community centre and eat our fill. And then Ellie and I will give you a guided tour.”

“Yes,” David nodded appreciatively, as they headed for the canteen a few minutes later. Sister had dismissed Adam's wound as a mere scratch and had quickly patched him up.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

“Yes what?” she enquired. “I'm not a mind reader, you know.” Of course, she knew full well, but she just wanted to hear David say it.

He gave Katie a fond hug, the tears once again forming in his eyes and dripping down his face. “I mean welcome home indeed, beautiful. I am so proud that we've finally made it here together.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And what?” David queried.

“You're proud we made it here together, and ….”

David drew a deep breath. “And I am head over heels in love with you, Katie Smiles.”

“There, that wasn't so very hard to say, was it?” Katie teased him.

“I love you to bits, too, David Seymour,” Katie nodded and she nestled her head against him as they walked on, arm in arm toward the canteen. “I'd rather hear those three magic words any day than have all the gold of Roth Nagor.”

Adam had overheard them talking. “I hope you don't mind me butting in, but you know, Princess Esmerelda said that self same thing to Angus Middleditch when they first set foot on this soil all those years ago. This is an auspicious moment in your lives, my friends, and something to be savoured and remembered for many years to come.”

~~~O~~~

The End of the Beginning

Other books by the same author

in the Shadowlands series,

awaiting publication on the Kindle

1. The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.

2. Life on the Flipside (or In Two Minds).

3. Escape from the Shadowlands.

4. In Search of Destiny.

5. The Lucian Uprising.

6. Time and Time again.

7. The Gift.

8. The Host and the Guests.

9. Whisperings of Love.

10. The Insiders: Exploring the higher realms of possibility.

The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor

By Etienne de L'Amour

Set in the Shadowlands, a degenerative realm, young David Seymour goes in search of the Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor, and finds a still greater prize.

A historical prequel, book 1 in the Shadowlands series.

1A lighthearted insult to a foolish person.

2An old-fashioned mechanical hearing aid.

3In addition.

4Possibly a corruption of high flying; lofty. These people were very much more down to earth.

5Despising those with wealth, social status, education or culture; and proud of not having these things.

6A free thinker at odds with conventional or official dogma.

7Signifying fifty years of marriage.

8A witty, amusing person who makes jokes.

9An early name for a photograph.

10Someone who is unimportant, but cheeky and presumptuous.

11Putting others' needs before one's own.

12A napped green fabric resembling felt.

13An establishment where they cook and sell fried battered fish, chipped potatoes and mushy peas, to eat out or take back home.

14Stay out of trouble.

15A small sheet of microfilm on which many pages of material have been photographed.

16Ignorant of, or hostile to, cultural and artistic values.

17Doss: To lie around; do nothing . Doss down: To sleep anywhere convenient.

18The first unnumbered page in the book.

19To set aside concern about the cost.

20Completely astounded; rendered speechless.

21A reckless, impetuous act; ill thought out; made with undue haste.

22A doctor who uses the old-fashioned method of attaching live leeches to the skin to suck out blood, to supposedly treat an illness. Also someone who tends to suck the money or the lifeblood out of others in a selfish manner.

23Grok: To grok is to intimately and completely share the same reality or line of thinking with another physical or conceptual entity.

24Unintelligible talking; jabber. Named after the Arab philosopher Geber.

25Of heaven or the spirit; as impalpable or intangible as air.

26Not in full working order; out of alignment.

27An acknowledgement made when two people say, do or think the same thing at the same time. From the children's card game of the same name, when a player spots two of the same cards adjacent at the top of the pile.

28An area of land under fifty acres, sold or let for cultivation.

29Having a natural ability, perhaps not (or in spite of not) having had formal instruction.

30To make a poor job or a mess of some task.

31The Gothgorians call Kronstein “Yonder”: meaning the land beyond Dravine, which lies to the west of Gothgoria. The opinion of scholars is divided as to whether “beyond beyond” therefore refers to Kronstein, or to some uncharted land still further to the west beyond that.

32This story is adapted from The Story of Mushkil Gusha, retold by Idries Shah in the book Caravan of Dreams, published by Octagon Press.

33To hell with the consequences.; willingly suffer the consequences; to not be concerned about them.

34To feel unhappy after an unpleasant experience or a defeat.

35Have a talk.

36For all time; permanently.

37Lacking a conscience; perhaps sociopathic.

38The phrase actually means idle worthless people, though the professor presumably means those who are up to no good.

39A timely effort will prevent more work later.

40Ready to take on anyone and everyone.

411 foot is approximately 25 centimetres. 3 feet is a little short of 1 metre.

42Occurring without motivation or provocation.

43Having a difficult and contrary disposition.

44Showed an interest in these things.

45Annoyed or angered him.

46A guinea is a gold coin worth one pound and one shilling, or twenty one shillings.

47Verdigris, a coating of green oxide that forms on such metals when exposed to the air or water for a long time.

48A swaggering show of courage.

49A diplomatic or well-intentioned untruth. For example, answering “No” when one's mother-in-law asks “Does my bum look big in this?”

50Old fashioned, conservative and dull people.

51Something repeated so often that it no longer of interest or funny anymore.

52Between the two.

53To understand or figure out, often eventually.

54A small measure, often of food.

55Edited by omitting or modifying parts considered indelicate.

56A game in which a player mimes words for the others to guess.

57Still had a sound and nimble mind.

58Could still control his bladder; not yet geriatric.

59A name long associated with what would these days be referred to as a “sad anorak”.

60Slack is poor quality coal made of dusty bituminous coal residues. Nutty slack is slack with lumps in it.

61Caused him to feel a pleasant sensation or emotion.

62Another name for a man.

63A gesture acknowledging the coincidence.

64On the contrary. Meaning that David knew that the man's interest was malign.

65Suddenly, without prior thought or planning. On the spur of the moment.

66Square one refers to the very first square of a board game such as Snakes and Ladders. In other words, go back and start all over again.

67A horse brass is a brass plaque used for the decoration of horse harness gear; believed by some, perhaps mistakenly, to be a good luck charm, or to have its origins as a magical talisman to ward off the “evil eye”.

68Having the gift of being able to easily converse with others on a wide range of subjects.

69Was possibly a myth.

70Unready or unfit to assume responsibility.

71After the First Great War, in which this region and its neighbours freed themselves from the thrall of the Chongyen Dynasty, it would become the Freelands.

72In a disordered manner.

73Paying too much for something.

74The pouch below a bird's crop. In other words, down his throat.

75Boys or men regarded as effeminate.

76Too attached to his mother, rather than being independent.

77See the map just before chapter 1. David Seymour's sketch is not to scale and contains numerous inaccuracies.

78Looking with amazement or stupidly.

79A socially awkward or tactless act.

80Firmly loyal friends.

81Sad or unhappy expression.

82A mechanical clothes drier in which the water is wrung out by squeezing the garments between two rollers.

83Harshly uninviting or formidable in manner or appearance.

84Tall and thin; with slender limbs.

85Aluminium ore.

86Complaint.

87Idle or indolent, especially in a dreamy way.

88At that time, prior to the First and Second Great Wars, much of the land was forestry. It was only during those wars, when felling was so rampant, in order to feed the insatiable appetite of the war effort, that the land became largely denuded. Some replanting has taken place in post-war years, but many fear that this is all too little, too late.

89Having overcome trials and become competent and mature; experienced.

90A book lover.

91Directed his attention to; concentrated on.

92Typical; what he had come to expect. A phrase borrowed from the game of golf.

93Kick their backsides to make them hurry up.

94He was not an incompetent person.

95Revealing her true purpose.

96Courageous.

97Timid and easily frightened.

98Jail; prison.

99A lever used to work the rudder of a boat.

100Conrad Harper is sent there in the book In Search of Destiny.

101In later years, the prison would be used to house convicted illegal immigrants who were serving sentences of hard labour.

102Marked by precise accordance with details.

103Some say that this was a joke on the part of the Sirians, and that the capital was deliberately named Sher Point since it was an anagram of “the prison”.

104Informed on me.

105Flamboyance; an active and energetic personality.

106Tobacco.

107Was retired and broken up for scrap. In olden days, retired horses were sent to the 'knackers yard' to be slaughtered and made into dog meat.

108Known to others as the Outlands, its real name is Hodweir.

109To consider something bad that has happened to you to be an experience from which you can learn a useful lesson.

110Full of high-spirited delight.

111Boredom brought about by some long or tedious task.

112A very small fish.

113Turned or twisted toward one side; out of alignment.

114A firework or firecracker that fails to properly ignite, and goes out, as the gunpowder has become damp.

115Someone who is a saint, but doesn't know it, or someone not recognized by others as a saint.

116An object passed from one runner to the next in a relay race, associated with team effort.

117If you follow my train of thought; if you understand me.

118Made every possible effort.

119A very small distance, space or time.

120Muscular strength.

121Inner tuition.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Map of the known world

1. Through the garden gate

2. The bequest

3. A bump in the night

4. Do it yourself

5. A chance discovery

6. How it all began

7. The lost treasure of Roth Nagor

8. Heartbreak

9. A timely intervention

10. The trail to the East

11. The diaries

12. First steps

13. Dar Bethel

14. Eastward

15. Gothgoria

16. The land of lost content

17. A change of heart

18. Katie Smiles

19. The Freelands

Map of the Freelands

20. Sher Point

21. Weathering the storm

22. On their last legs

23. The journey home