Arcadia by Iain Pears Page B

not happen. No one, even a madman, was so stupid that theydidn’t know that silence – total silence – was required. Even a cough was like a rebellion.
    ‘Who said that?’ the Storyteller said sharply. No one dared reply.
    ‘I asked a question, and it will be answered. Someone spoke. He must identify himself immediately.’
    The Storyteller, whose authority was now self-evident to everyone, stood and walked forward, surveying the crowd. He was insistent, but not angry. He seemed to have no doubts that his command would be obeyed.
    ‘Well?’
    The Storyteller was already walking towards him. He knew full well who had spoken. There was no possibility of hiding or denying it. He stood over the young boy until he reluctantly rose, then stuck his chin out defiantly.
    ‘I did,’ he said in a clear voice, which had no trace of a shake or tremor in it. He was scared witless, but at least it did not show.
    The old man nodded to the two soldiers, who came forward. He nodded again, and each took him by an arm and began to lead him to the door of the tent.
    Jay did not protest or resist. He knew there was no point. His mother looked on, petrified and helpless. The worst possible thing now would be if she doubled Jay’s sin and made some noise or protest herself. Then the entire family would be shamed.
    *
    ‘You’ve done it now, boy,’ one of the soldiers muttered. ‘You’re going to get a whipping like you wouldn’t believe. If you’re lucky.’
    ‘I just wanted to know …’
    They led him to the tent where the visitors were to sleep, which had been put up for them in the afternoon.
    ‘Sit.’
    Jay moved to obey. ‘Not in there!’ the soldier said as Jay bent togo through the tent entrance. ‘Who do you think you are? Maybe you want a sleep in the Storyteller’s bed? I’m sure he’d be happy to camp out on the floor so you can be comfortable.’
    ‘Please forgive me.’
    ‘Perhaps a glass of his wine? Would you like to try on his clothes?’
    The soldier looked at Jay’s miserable, frightened face, then relented. ‘Well, we’ll forget that one, shall we? Sit down, shut up and don’t move. Right?’
    Jay nodded. He buried his face in his hands and began to pray to the spirits of village and family for help. He was, in truth, more worried about his mother’s look of sadness and fear, and what his father would do, than anything that might befall him in that tent. That he could not even imagine.
    *
    The Visitor and the Storyteller stood talking, muttering, to each other a few yards away from where the lad squatted on the ground, now cold, hungry and miserable. He had been sitting there, scarcely moving, for more than two hours. It was dark, and the cold was spreading through his young body. On the far side of the village, the feast was continuing despite his best efforts to ruin it; he could hear the sounds of merriment as it went on, and he thought wistfully of the food he was missing. The best food of the year, the feast that everyone looked forward to – wine and beer, fruit and bread, pork and mutton, vegetables fresh from the ground. People ate as though they had never eaten before, or never would again. The children would be given presents – little presents, certainly, but the only ones they ever got. Then they would sing and dance …
    He was missing it all. His fear began to dissipate and be replaced by resentment. What had he done, apart from ask a question? So it was unheard of. So it was rude. But to miss the feast!
    One of the soldiers walked over. ‘Up,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
    He took him by the arm and led him towards the tent, which the Storyteller had just entered.
    ‘Now listen,’ he whispered in his ear. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to. Answer any questions. Don’t try to be funny or smart. Understand?’
    He had never been in such a thing before. The tent was almost as large as his house, and rich hangings had been draped over bars to hide the fact that it wasn’t a real