Heron Fleet

  ‘No… sorry… Francesca, that was the last one. I only had time to make three.’

  ‘Well if it won’t fit me perhaps it will fit someone else I know, who’s smaller than me.’ She walked over to Anya who was looking at the produce of three other children.

  She put her hand on her lover’s arm. ‘I was wondering if this might fit you?’ and she handed Alan’s coronet to Anya who took it in two hands and placed it on her head. It fitted perfectly.

  Francesca turned to Alan, ‘It seems your coronet has found a home,’ she said. Alan, who had been near to tears, laughed, smiled and hugged Francesca.

  ‘And one good turn deserves a mate.’ Francesca turned back to Anya and found she was holding out a second coronet, this one twisted in the form of the sea with fish woven into its waves. Francesca put it on. It too fitted and the partners kissed at the exchange of their gifts as the delighted children danced round them.

  ‘You’d better go to join the singing group,’ said Anya, as the children broke off, seeing fresh potential customers. Francesca looked over to the centre of the hall where the singing group would be situated for the evening’s ceremonial, just beyond the fireplace. The lute players were already there and Anya was right, it was time for her to get over there as the rest of the choir where arriving.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘As sad as I am to leave you, I better go and help.’ She kissed Anya again.

  The previous day, the hearth had been uncovered and the new winter fireplace built. There was a head-high pile of pale-grey driftwood from the beach, fallen branches from the trees, corn-stokes and olivewood prunings. She looked up and saw the open flue hole in the thatch above the fire. Earlier in the day the lightest and most agile of the Apprentices had shinned up the outer side of the roof and had opened this chimney-trap. Who had done this job was always kept as secret as it could be, revealed only when the person so honoured, brought fire back to the Hall that evening and lit the wood in the hearth; a symbol of the turn of the season.

  ‘Francesca…’ She turned at the voice. It was Peter intercepting her and carrying two earthenware beakers. He gave one to her.

  ‘I couldn’t help notice that you didn’t have a drink of elderflower champagne and I believe it’s a favourite of yours.’

  Even though it was the tradition, that Gatherers, Apprentices, in fact everyone mingled together at Harvest Festival, she still felt awkward at being offered a drink by the head of the Council. He held up his cup to her.

  ‘Francesca, nearly our newest citizen!’ then he drank. Several people within earshot noticed his gesture and joined in, making her blush.

  ‘I just wanted to be sure you knew what to expect this evening,’ he said quietly. ‘I want to put your induction last this evening, just before the lighting of the fire but after I declare the number of children for the next year. It’s the first induction of a Gatherer at Harvest Festival for many years and it’s doubly significant since you’re going to be a Gardener.’ Francesca nodded and sipped her delicious drink, trying hard to appreciate its taste as well as take in what Peter was saying.

  ‘You don’t need to worry too much, I’ll call you up,’ he indicated the platform built on the other side of the hearth, ‘as soon as it’s time. Have you any questions?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. I’m looking forward to you becoming a Gatherer. I can’t remember anyone whose calling and duties have matched better.’ Then he left her.

  Ruth was in the singing group, helping increase the number of voices and helping the children who would sing.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ she said as Francesca took her place in the group.

  Ruth had a good voice but she lacked confidence in it, as well as the natural musicianship of her former partner. As a result she was too nervous to make the most of it and only made up the numbers on feast days.

  Francesca looked back beyond the hearth, expecting to see Anya, but she had gone. Look as she might Francesca could not see her. Anya had apparently vanished in the time Francesca had taken to walk the few metres to the singing group. Francesca immediately felt nervous and her old uncertainty about Anya’s affections came back to her for the first time in months.

  ‘Ruth, did you see where Anya went?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure she’s only disappeared with her special friend.’ The remark was cold and carried an edge of spite.

  ‘Has Anya offended you?’ said Francesca, surprised.

  ‘You mean any more than having taken you away from me? And all for nothing!’

  Francesca was shocked. She wanted to let the remark go but Ruth’s tone had changed so abruptly she didn’t feel she could.

  ‘Ruth, you’re not still angry are you? I know I hurt you but surely you’re happier with Carole than you could have been with me?’

  ‘It’s not you I’m cross at but it hurts to see how she treats you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Francesca.

  ‘I saw her and that Jonathan on the river bank the other evening.’

  ‘Yes, she’s been teaching him to swim.’

  ‘Well I’ve heard some names for it but swim is a new one. It’s a good job it was me and not a member of the Council who saw them swimming!’ She moved off over to the other side of the choir leaving Francesca upset and confused.

  There was no Council procession; the Council being already there in groups across the hall. At Harvest Festival people settled in informal groups and children adopted any group they fancied. At one table Francesca noticed Sylvia sitting with Simon and his partner. Next to Sylvia was a small boy who had adopted her for the evening. The forbidding Head Gardener was happily telling him about all that he could see and the absorbed attention on the child’s face showed she was doing a good job. Francesca wondered if Sylvia had ever had a partner.

  Quiet fell and the choir started to sing.

  The autumn time has come,

  our festival is made,

  the corn and grain are gathered in,

  safe in our storerooms laid.

  The weather will now break,

  the wind and frost will come,

  but we are here and all is well,

  our Gathering is made.

  A line of children came in from the Council doors at the ends of the Hall. Each carried something from the harvest. Francesca could see an older girl, thirteen or fourteen, carrying an olive branch with the olives still on it, a small boy was carrying a freshly-caught, silver, black and blue fish in his arms. Others of various ages were bringing sheaves of wheat, another a fleece of wool. At the head of the line a small boy and girl, the youngest in the procession, carried a loaf of hardbread made in the shape of a sheaf. It had been fresh baked and was still warm from the ovens. The smell wafted out into the Hall.

  Immediately in Francesca’s mind the smell fused with the words of the song. She could remember being in the procession herself. It was as if the she of now was watching and being watched by the she of the past, as if they could nod to each other across the years and the space of the Hall.

  The sun falls to the hills,

  the evenings draw in dark,

  but round the fire we all will meet,

  to spin the thread or card.

  The strength of each is here,

  held in our common bond,

  The strength of all, the strength of one

  community’s strong song.

  The children wound their way through the hall between the tables which were set in rings round the fire and the central platform on which was a table. They showed to everyone in the Hall, the whole community, that the harvest was real; proved that they could rely on there being enough food in the stores to feed them despite whatever the winter might bring, until another growing season came.

  The silver moon grows red,

  hard down upon the shore.

  The tattered clouds will hide its shine,

  the tides will rise and fall.

  But th
ough she wax and wane,

  pointless her scowling face,

  for all is now secure within,

  against the winter race.

  They reached the platform and went up the steps to join Peter who was waiting for them. He took what each of them had and having thanked them, put each of their contributions on the table. By the time all the procession had passed over the platform, the table overflowed with samples of all the food and goods that the harvest had yielded.

  And so we will survive

  and prosper in our time,

  our hall will stand though storm may blow,

  its hearth will warm our kind.

  For we have never failed,

  to loyally keep our Rule

  to work and gather from our land,

  and bring our harvest home.

  None of the children remained, except the small boy and girl who had headed the procession. Their wheat-sheaf loaf had pride of place at the centre of the table. As the song ended they came forward. In the dead silence in the Hall they begin to recite.

  Many years ago, the Founders came here to Heron Fleet. There were twenty of them and they had travelled far across Albion. We do not know where they came from but we know that they were hungry and tired and could go no further. There were few places where plants still grew and animals could be found in those cold times, but here they found plants growing, and flowers under the trees and a few goats and sheep hiding near the sea. They found a cave in the river-cliff and they gathered what they could from the plants and made camp for the winter thinking it would be their last but they were wrong and they survived. They had seeds of corn and barley with them and they planted these the following year. They fished at the river mouth and they rounded up enough goats and sheep for a small herd. At the end of the first growing season, they celebrated their first harvest and named themselves ‘The People who Gather’. This is our story and we the youngest remember it, so none of us will forget.

  As the children finished their recitation the whole community stood up and said together the words said at every meal time:

  Reaping and sowing,

  sowing and reaping,

  this is the world we have.

  All we know is the cycle of life.

  Power to the greenwood.

  Power to the field.

  Power to our gathered food.

  Then they began to clap the children, who were overcome with shyness until their Crèche Mother came up on to the platform for them and they were lead happily away to sit with her. Peter held up his hands.

  ‘Friends, as the youngest with power to tell the story have reminded us, we come to celebrate another harvest, a harvest as plentiful and successful as anyone of us can remember.

  ‘But we have had our losses since the last Harvest Festival. Five Gatherers have died this year: Thomas lost at sea while fishing, our oldest Gatekeeper Jake who will be badly missed by all, Miriam and her partner Alice who died within a few days of each other last winter, and Jacob who was our oldest Gardener. Let us remember them and pass on their memories in the stories we tell of them.

  ‘But we should look to the future. Five youngsters will become Apprentices in the spring this year and a new roundhouse will have to be built for them. The Council has decided that we should not only bring the number of children up to replace them but in the light of such a good harvest three extra babies should be birthed, making a total of eight.’

  ‘Why, that’s the most birthing in a single year ever,’ whispered a Crèche Mother who was standing next to Francesca in the choir.

  Peter went on. ‘But at this Festival, we look to the future in other ways too. Welcoming a new Gatherer is always a great occasion both for the individual and for us all. If this is done at Harvest Festival it is twice as meaningful if that Gatherer is to become a Gardener. Francesca will you join me here along with Sylvia and Enoch.’

  Francesca felt her heart race and her legs felt unsure; she could hardly get up. She looked around for Anya but she still could not see her and she remembered what Ruth had said. But hands were pushing her to her feet and she could see Sylvia, coming determinedly forward with Enoch behind her. She had to go up the steps in front of Sylvia so her nerves and doubts would just have to take care of themselves for now. She walked to the bottom of the steps and having paused to allow Sylvia and Enoch catch up, ascended as steadily as she could.

  Peter placed her on his right and Sylvia and Enoch took up their places on his left. Francesca saw that on the table was the Red-book. Peter picked it up and gave it to her.

  ‘Repeat after me Francesca,’ he said. ‘I solemnly promise…’

  ‘I solemnly promise,’ she repeated.

  ‘Remembering all those who have gone before me…’

  ‘Remembering all those who have gone before me…’

  ‘That I Francesca will play my role in the community as a Gatherer until my life’s end.’ She heard herself saying ‘until my life’s end’ in a sort of dream.

  ‘That I will uphold the Gatherer principles of community, identity and stability and take a full part in how the community is governed.’ Again she repeated her reply in a dream.

  Peter turned to Sylvia. ‘Do you sponsor Francesca as a Gatherer?’

  ‘I do,’ replied the Head Gardener, ‘and I confirm that she will be invited to join the company of Gardeners.’

  ‘In which case, Francesca, I declare you a Gatherer. I believe Enoch has something for you.’ Enoch stepped forward. In his hand was the trowel she had selected in her visit to the Smithy. It still looked beautiful with its deeply grained handle. He showed it to Peter.

  ‘Is that correct?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ Peter confirmed.

  Enoch turned to Francesca. ‘You know the trowel of a Gardener is buried with them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Francesca knew about the tradition but in the moment she realised that this trowel would define her even beyond death. This astounded and trilled her. She thought of Jacob buried out in the fields, his trowel placed with him in his grave and how that would be her fate. She was now committed. A Gatherer she had been declared but to be a Gardener was in her blood. It was her calling and she embraced it with joy. Only one thing marred the moment; even from the platform she could still not see Anya.

  Then she spotted her. She was standing at the far door with Jonathan. He was holding out a flaming torch for her. No wonder she had disappeared so mysteriously, she was to light the fire. Ruth was simply jealous of Anya, that was all there was to it. Francesca felt she had been very foolish.

  The cheering and clapping for Francesca’s induction extended to greet the fire. Anya, torch in hand, walked quickly down the hall towards the hearth. The clapping and cheering rose to a crescendo as she arrived and plunged the torch into the pile of kindling.

  It was only a small thing. Even the people near them would not have noticed it, but to Francesca it was like a knife through the heart. As Jonathan had passed the torch to Anya there was a moment as she grasped it when his and her hands had touched. At that point, instead of releasing his hands as soon as Anya had the torch in hers, Francesca saw Jonathan slide his hands down the torch to cover Anya’s. It was no more than a slight pause but Francesca saw them look into each other’s eyes just as Anya and she looked into each other’s eyes at every evening meal when they passed and blessed the hardbread. Anya and Jonathan were emotionally involved. Ruth must have seen them embrace or similar on the river bank. That was what she was referring to.

  Though it was impossible, it was true. Anya was the reason Jonathan and Hamied were breaking up. Anya was challenging one of the basic tenets of The Rule itself, by which Francesca had just sworn to live.

  From the Archive of Master Tobias

  You Never Can Tell! May, 2032

  Mammoths back

  in London?

  We’re all used to scientists coming up with loony ideas, well here’s the latest – Mammoths are coming back to Londo
n.

  Using a computer that’s been in You Never Can Tell before2 for being used to predict the lottery numbers, Aberdeen University scientists have predicted that Britain is on the verge of a new ice age and that pretty soon we’ll all be chasing woolly elephants round our local parks.

  This stupid idea has been worked out by nutty professor Augustus Benion. By number juggling on his pet computer nicknamed Big Alma (ooh Mrs!), Augustus has says he has shown that in a few years a cold snap to end all cold snaps will plunge us all into the deep freeze.

  Augustus says that it will be due to changes in the ocean currents in the Atlantic. Winters will get longer and colder, summer will practically disappear and we won’t be able to grow food in Britain anymore. And all this will happen in over less than 15 years!

  So girls get your winter drawers on. For if idiots like Augustus are right then pretty soon you won’t be popping down to the supermarket for frozen beefburgers, you’ll be hunting polar bears in Tesco’s car park – as if.

  But don’t despair entirely that holidays on the Costa Dubai are over. Augustus also says that the effect will stabilise after about a hundred years and summers will get warmer again, probably hotter than now though winters will still be colder. Your pals at You Never Can Tell can hardly wait!

  But seriously, You Never Can Tell is outraged that when all us hardworking taxpayers are being asked to pay more and more for services like health and schools by wasteful central government, loonies like Augustus can be spending millions on this sort of rubbish. If you think it’s time we put a stop to Augustus and his like then fill in the lastest You Never Can Tell campaigning rant at on our website and put a stop to Augustus.

  The Founder’s Diary I

  Day 1

  I write as an act of magic. I write because the journey will be dangerous, so I can say to myself, I will not die because I am writing. And I choose to start today – the day we leave.

  We came here from the south, from a city where a weak sun shone through haze. We came out of our arguments. He had said that we all once lived in harmony with nature but I did not accept this. I said it was his fairy-story. What I saw was that we had always lived by feeding from nature. But in the past, he said, nature could repair itself but now it was dying.