*
The morning was fresh, and already the sun was warming the streets. Semilion and Selina strolled passed the Smuggler’s Rest and beyond the church, down the steep hill she remembered swearing she would never climb again for fear of cardiac arrest. At the foot of the hill, they veered off the road and into a steep field that transformed to a sea-grass beach at its foot.
‘So I live in Richard Kelly’s house,’ Selina asked as casually as possible.
‘That’s right,’ Semilion replied.
‘Was he an old man?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘How did he die?’
‘Heart attack.’
Selina rolled her eyes, Semilion was obviously the wrong person to ask about Kelly.
‘Eryn seems quiet recently.’ She said, changing tack.
He gave a grunt in response.
‘She’s a nice girl.’
Again he made no reply.
‘She doesn’t leave the pub much, does she?’
‘Listen, Selina!’ He said sharply, before sighing and continuing. ‘I know you and Priya spoke with Eryn. I know she told you about her punishment. It’s the way things work here.’
‘It’s medieval!’
‘It’s the only way to keep people in line is what it is. Especially children.’
‘I don’t agree. She’s hardly a child.’
‘It works here, Selina. It’s the way we do things. You can’t change that.’
‘I don’t want to change anything. I just don’t like the thought of Eryn being beaten!’
‘She stole from Guliven. Thieves are punished! Dammit, at least I did her the decency of not announcing their crime. That would have been unjust, branding them for the rest of their lives.’
‘They only borrowed from his father.’ She said, her palms open as she reduced their crime to a triviality.
‘Neither of them owned that dinghy, if they had wrecked it Guliven would have been a vessel down and the community would have suffered. Now please, Selina, Eryn is almost at the end of her confinement… by the new moon she will be allowed to return to her usual routine.’
‘And what about Boen? Priya and I have never even met him.’
‘He’s fine. He’s being kept busy with his mother. When Guliven returns Boen will continue his routine of bringing in the fish. Most importantly, he’s being kept away from my daughter. God knows what they were doing together in the first place.’
‘Maybe they enjoy each other’s company?’
‘As you already said, you haven’t met Boen. Eryn’s not interested in him.’
‘And yet they were caught together.’ Selina added, goading him. He didn’t look comfortable with the thought, but he said nothing more.
The walk seemed a long one, though Semilion reassured her it was only because she wasn’t used to it. They continued down a steep embankment, the grass gave way to flaking rocks that protruded like bones breaking skin. Thick thorny bushes shielded the dusty path from the air, bathing them in a myriad of sun-white rays that pierced the branches above.
They arrived at an artificial recess, an alcove cut into the base of the cliff. Before them was forged a narrow entrance, jagged and obscured by ivy beyond which, Semilion assured, was the mill.
They passed through the ivy into the darkness of the crevice and came to an empty antechamber. Selina was bemused, watching as Semilion took hold of what appeared to be a huge growth of moss and pulled. The camouflaged door wheezed on its hinges lazily and the antechamber glowed in the light of flames beyond.
The mill was similar to a lighthouse, though subterranean and lit by several thin windows high above the creaking rafters. The structure looked strong and ancient, and drapes of spiders webs wafted lazily above them. Behind two layers of small mullioned windows glowed a furnace on the second storey, which soaked the complex in comforting warmth, and made the cobwebs glitter dustily. Behind the glass she could make out the shape of George donning thick gloves and piling the furnace with thick logs and lumps of coal.
Semilion saw her staring. ‘You'll lose George at the weekend, he brings back coal from the Woolacombe mines. You'll be up there in the furnace room then.’
In the centre of the ground floor was a circular stone block, white with wheat powder. The wooden floor, also, was stained between the grain with dust, which sparkled in the radiance of the furnace.
‘How do they get away with having a fire down here?’
‘There’s a conduit that draws the smoke into moss filters underwater. It’s quite simple really, though I’ll tell you now - God knows Morag and Hannah will tell you often enough - never go into the furnace room with both partitioning windows open at the same time.’
She nod distantly and wiped her brow, almost overcome by the heat. She didn’t want to know what it was like in the furnace room. Semilion saw and smiled thinly. ‘Well, it’ll keep you fit at least,’ he said, apologising for placing her in such laborious employment. She returned a stilted smirk before her attention was drawn to Morag, who leant over a high railing and gave a yelp when she noticed them.
She was a plump woman, though Selina could tell she was strong and by the look of her thick legs had been traversing the embankment and the countless stairs and ladders of the mill her entire life. Her blue eyes gleamed, as though she had borrowed them from an over-awed child, and her hair was tied tightly in a bun. Selina couldn’t tell if it was the flour or her age that had turned it grey.
Morag clapped her hands together, sending a cloud of wispy dust around her like a current about an oar, and she hopped down the spiralling staircase to greet them.
‘Morning Mr. Tupper,’ she said smiling, and then she looked Selina up and down. ‘We’ve not had the pleasure, have we dear. We’ll have to work on those arms,’ she winked, and thrust a large dusty hand towards her.
Selina took hold of it and was surprised how gently Morag received her. She’d expected her fingers to be crushed.
There was a commotion high above. Morag dropped Selina’s hand, and made her way back up the stairs to the flames.
‘Hold on. Hold on will you, Han?’
‘What’s going on?’ Said a shrill voice from above, where the rafters blocked Selina’s view. ‘Where are you, Morry? This stuff ain’t exactly light, you hen!’
‘Enough of that!’ Morag shouted, ‘Mr. Tupper’s here with the new-girl so’s as we can have some much needed help,’
‘Oh... Hello Mr. Tupper. Good morning, Selina, dear.’
‘Morning, Hannah,’ She stopped just behind Morag and looked up to a mezzanine opposite the third storey. Hannah peered over the bannister, her long brown hair trailing towards them, hiding her face.
Morag turned to Selina, saying ‘I’ve been trying to get her to tie that back for years now. Will she do it? Will she ‘eck! Doesn’t mind you see,’ she turned to Hannah ‘people finding strands of it in their pastry!’
‘Oh! That was just the once, you crow!’
‘Crow am I? You wait!’ She bent, and took a handful of flour from a sack, ‘See what you make of this!’
‘Mr. Tupper, make her stop! It’s an incredible waste!’ Hannah cried as Morag neared the ladder which lead to the mezzanine.
Selina turned to Semilion, who was stepping back towards the door, washing his hands of the affair. He saluted a farewell as he stepped back into the antechamber.
Selina turned back to the millers, Morag had desisted from climbing the ladder, and was creating another cloud of powder as she wiped her hands together and looked happy for the mess she was making.
‘Well,’ she said, palms open, ‘this is the mill. The Sayers and Corbins provide the wheat and we make the bread. Who provides the wheat?’
‘The Sayers and the Corbins?’ Selina replied cautiously.
‘Blow me if Mr. Tupper hasn’t sent us a regular savant! We’ll make a miller of you in no time, once we’ve beefed up those arms of yours.’
She gestured Selina back downst
airs to the centre of the mill and gave her a brief tour. ‘There’s no better teacher than experience, let me tell you. I’ll show you about for as long as I can, then I’ll put you straight to work. We’re way behind, what with that Blackeye snooping around, but never mind, there’s not much we can do about the past, eh? You’ll pick things up quick enough, I certainly did - an’ I’m sure I ain’t got ‘alf the brains what you ‘as, going to a proper school an’ all,’
Selina looked modest, and listened to how the mill was run.
‘Six rotations per minute,’ Morag explained, as though Selina had a clue what she was talking about. ‘The water-wheel, it’s underneath the building - fuelled by seawater... it turns at six rotations per minute. The gearing from the waterwheel to the shaft driving the running grindstone,’ she indicated the huge cylindrical stone hovering above the one below it, ‘is about thirteen rotations to one. So...’
‘So when the waterwheel has rotated six times,’ Selina concluded, ‘the grindstone has turned eighty,’
‘That’s my girl,’ she leaned close to her, ‘Hannah still doesn’t understand that, bless her.’
Selina learned how to feed wheat into the grindstone and how to keep the stones from touching. ‘Never,’ Morag warned, ‘ever let the stones touch, the friction could start a fire and - what with all this dust around - it’ll blow us to kingdom come before we can curse your name!’
She learned how to collect the powder, how to store it, how to keep it fresh and make it into dough. She felt as though it would be taxing work, though already she liked Morag and Hannah, and looked forward to becoming regarded as a member of their family.
*
Priya arrived at a large building the colour of browned cheese and lined with broken windows.
‘So this is where they teach the kids,’ she sighed to herself, regarding it as being in no better a state of repair than her own school. She had been cursing Semilion since his visit, and had debated with Selina whether she could refuse to work in the crèche. She would rather do anything than spend her hours listening to screaming and having her clothes pulled at. Selina had asked her to not cause a fuss and to at least try, promising that if she didn't like it after a week or two they would ask Semilion if he would consider swapping their rolls. Priya didn't fancy working in the mill much either, though she would definitely prefer it over the crèche.
She stepped up the worn stairs and was presented with a surprisingly clean hall, painted white and lined with rows of old books. She was greeted by two women called Rosa and Briney. Both of whom, to Priya, looked as though they wore masks of cheer to cover empty, exasperated husks.
The crèche actually served as both a nursery for toddlers and a school for the older children, a thin hessian veil separating the two. It wasn't uncommon for a school child to be called across the partition to help with a particularly raucous infant of the crèche, and how they learnt anything with all the crying and brawling Priya thought she would never know.
She was charged with looking after seven girls, all under the age of five, and for the first hour they were placid and pleasant with her, though one of the girls, Edith, had a tendency to bite the others ears. She put her former hesitancy aside and began to enjoy herself as the girls sewed beanbags and other toys of irrelevance.
She listened to what was being taught across the partition, and was somewhat surprised to hear that history was being taught. What need have they of that? She thought.
‘So why did anyone trust the Germans after the second war?’ A girl asked, Priya didn't recognise the voice.
‘Because they were all supposed to be friends,’ Jocelyn answered. ‘The Europeans wanted to trust them; they didn’t want to believe that they would start a war a third time.’
‘So then why did they?’
‘It’s complicated, and to understand it fully you have to understand their economy. That’s not for me to teach you. They believed they should be stronger because they were such a big nation, but they were stopped from being strong by the other countries in Europe. So they decided to take some control away from Brussels, where all the decisions were being made for them, and a war broke out between Europe. It was nothing like the first two wars, no-one wanted anything like that again... Everyone began to fear that maybe Germans couldn't help themselves, maybe they had war in their hearts.’
‘So they bombed them!’ Someone interrupted before imitating an explosion.
‘Not the people, Harvey. Not the cities. They bombed the Bundestag building, which was where their government was.
Priya had been listening with an interest bordering on disbelief. She couldn’t help herself pulling back the partition and interrupting the class.
‘You do know that’s all bunkum, don't you?’
‘It’s not,’ Jocelyn replied defiantly, though with a touch of doubt in her voice. She went to one of the bookshelves and ran her fingers along the spines. She pulled out a small blue book and held it up. ‘It says so right here.’
She offered it to Priya, though Priya didn’t need to see it. She had read it in school herself, though it had been as part of her English literature studies, not history.
She took the book anyway, more for the sake of politeness, and studied the battered cover, which hung loosely and revealed warped cardboard beneath.
‘See?’ Priya offered the book back, turning it over. ‘Down by the barcode it should read ‘fiction’ but it’s been worn off. This is a fictional history of the twenty-first century as it may have unfolded without the Trade Centre Wars. It’s written by Marlon Vespir, one of the greatest science fiction writers of the early 22nd century. You must have other books by him?’
‘Oh God,’ Jocelyn went pale. ‘You're joking?’
Priya raised her brow and shook her head. ‘Sorry. I know this book inside out. Didn't you wonder about all the mentions of mining on Mars by the end of the century.’
‘I've been teaching that for years.’ Jocelyn said quietly, appalled.
‘That we went to Mars?’
She said nothing and slowly nodded.
‘Does Semilion know?’
‘I... I don't know.’ She moved closer to Priya so the children couldn't hear. ‘I think he suspects something. I hear him talking to my students sometimes with a look on his face like they’re, you know, simple.’
‘And everything you teach them comes from this book?’
‘Not everything. I always wondered why the fall of Germany wasn't in any other history books, but I never really considered it.’
‘Start considering it.’
‘I'm not really sure how to get out of this one, Priya.’
‘Just tell them it's a thought experiment. Make them write some alternate histories of their own. As for former students, you should take them aside one by one and let them know there was no brink of world war three, there was no mining industry on Mars, in fact you can be sure that nothing in that book actually happened.’
‘Would you take a lesson for me?’
Priya blinked in surprise. ‘A lesson? No. No way.’
‘You must know more than me though.’
‘Probably, but I don't see why I should...’
‘Please, Priya, just tell them anything you know until I work out what I’m going to teach them.’
‘You mean right now?’
Jocelyn regarded her hopefully.
‘I’ve got these girls to look after, Jocelyn. Maybe another day but I can't just drop everything and do it.’
Jocelyn nodded, though looked distant. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and hugged herself before turning back to her class.
‘That,’ she said so that the children in the back of the class looked up, ‘Is what we call a... Thought experiment?’ She turned to Priya who prompted her with a nod. ‘Which means that what I just told you didn’t happen... But someone imagined that it happened. Can anyone else tell me something that didn’t happen... Like yesterday morning when the sun didn’t rise we
all had to spend the day writing by candlelight. Anyone else have another?’
A ginger haired boy raised his hand. ‘When you said I hit Sally you smacked my legs.’
‘No, that did happen. Yesterday.’
‘I mean I didn't hit Sally, she made it up because she’s a sow-bag!’
‘We’re not going through that again, Tarn.’ She turned back to Priya. ‘I don't think they’re getting it.’
I'm not surprised, Priya thought, and gestured for her to keep an eye on her girls. She stood and negotiated the sheet dividing the room, and rubbed her hands together in a guise of excitement.
‘Right. Who knows the story of King Kong, the giant ape of New York?’
The children looked at her blankly.
‘Ok, how about something more recent. The Oubliette Fields? The Revenge of Wolfhounds?’
All their hands shot up. She wasn't surprised that their suggested reading was books that focused on the ravages of the plague.
‘Right, now you all know the part whereby the Egyptian scientists conspire to create a virus to avenge the deaths of their friends?’
The children nodded uncertainly, and Jocelyn watched cautiously.
‘Well in real life that never happened. You see, when you write something that isn't true it's called fiction. When you lie it's a fiction.’
‘So fiction is bad?' One of the children asked.
‘Lying is bad; fiction is something that storytellers use to explore ideas.’ Priya explained, trying to muster a fitting explanation. ‘I could imagine a story right now to explore how some children escaped a Blackeye that catches them down on the beach. That doesn't mean it has happened or will happen, though it explores ideas how to escape a Blackeye if it did. So, take your... board things, and write a story about something that didn't happen. Something wonderful, or scary, or funny...’ She shrugged and turned back to Jocelyn.
‘That was great, Priya. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ She ducked back through the partition, thinking her job looking after under-fives was better, at least, than Jocelyn’s.