Arcadia by Iain Pears

that he was as aware of the older man as they were.
    ‘I thank you for your welcome,’ he said, speaking each word with care, ‘and I declare that I am the Visitor you expect. Does anybody here dispute this statement?’
    No one replied. ‘Then let it be accepted.’ He took a step forward, over the boundary between the village and the great world outside.
    That step cast the law into motion. He had been recognised as the Visitor, he had been welcomed, he had entered the village. Until he left again he was now the master of them all. Everything and everybody, every man and child, every animal, every tool and every sheaf of wheat, belonged to him. He could take what he wanted, leave them as much or as little as he pleased, guided only by custom. When he heard the complaints and arguments that had built up over the year waiting for resolution, he could punish any wrong-doing as he saw fit. His decisions were final.
    For people who respected age and saw it as being little different from wisdom and authority, there was puzzlement that this man had come forward, not the older one on the horse. There was something unseemly about it. It had got the ceremony off to a bad start, and what started badly ended badly.
    If the young man understood this, he did not seek to allay their fears. He did not introduce the other man, nor even give his own name. He was the Visitor; that was all they needed to know. But he jumped to attention when the older man came down off his horse, stretched himself and rubbed his sore back.
    ‘I would like a drink, Visitor,’ he said in a pleasant voice. ‘I am dusty and tired. Could that be arranged, do you think?’
    ‘Certainly, Storyteller,’ came the reply, which sent a wave of shock through the villagers. ‘At once.’
    *
    Once the arrangements had been made, and the villagers assembled in the dip by the oak trees where the meetings were alwaysheld, then the young man, the Visitor, stood up, peered at the audience severely and began to speak in a dry, monotonous voice. The older one, the Storyteller whose presence had so alarmed everyone, stood behind him, apparently uninterested in the proceedings. Still no one knew why he was there.
    ‘The counting took place on the fifth day of autumn, and these are the results. The settlement has in the last four seasons raised forty-two goats, sixty-seven sheep, 120 bushels of wheat and sixty-two of barley. In addition there were twenty-four pigs, 122 chickens, fifteen geese and eight oxen.’
    He looked around. ‘A very much better result than last year; you are all to be congratulated. It is a blessing. The tithe is therefore four goats, six sheep, twelve bushels of wheat and six of barley. In addition, during the drought of the past few years a portion of the tithe was waived. This amounts to twelve goats …’
    A quiet groan went up from the assembled villagers. They knew this was coming, of course. It was the law, and it was fair. The Visitors had been gentle during the drought; they could easily have insisted on their rights and left them to starve. But for three years they had taken less than their due and the debt had mounted up. Now there had been a bumper harvest, and there was no reason why they should not take what was owed.
    The village could have taken their surplus – once enough had been put aside for the winter – loaded it onto wagons and traded it at the market. Bought cloth and pans and tools with the result. A few luxuries. It was not to be this year. A gloom descended and they all looked up at the Visitor, who was waiting for the murmuring to subside.
    He didn’t look annoyed, as he had a right to be. The Visitor was not to be interrupted. Then they noticed that, if he was not actually smiling, he was at least looking faintly amused.
    ‘It is decided, to give proper thanks to the seasons and our common good fortune, to collect this by adding a quarter of the tenth to the next four years. This will amount, this year and the