Aria Remains

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William East surveyed the gathering before him. Crowding into the largest of the huts, at the far end of the village, stood those amongst the community he considered the most valuable, those most useful, those with the most to offer. Although unsure why he had called such a meeting, why each had been told to tell no one else, why they must be so quiet as they convened in the twilight, still they did as they were asked. It was a sign of the respect they held for him, an acknowledgement of their regard and appreciation for all he had already done.

If someone needed help, William would be the first to offer. If someone had a problem, William would always provide the best advice. He would assist them in their work, no matter how much he had already toiled at his own duties. He would chase straying cattle, lend a hand with repairs, would support and defend his neighbours to the landowners should they require such representation. He was a man they trusted, a man for whom they would do all they could.

Finally, as the last of those invited edged into the hut, looking with quiet confusion at his fellows as each had done before him, William cleared his throat and began to speak. Almost assimilated into the accruing gloom beyond the hut, secluded amongst the yew and birch, her eyes narrowed, her ears keen, stood an elderly woman. Unnoticed by any of the men as they made their way along the pathway and through the door, she bent forward slightly, wanting to know exactly what it was that William was going to say to them.

‘Good men, for that is what thee be - let me offer my gratitude for thy attendance, and for keeping thy word that this night be kept between us, shall be a private and secret matter. What I have to divulge to thee will be something of a surprise, something of a shock perhaps, and I dare say that, as I go on, many amongst thee may, at first, find my utterings difficult to accept with any faith.’

A few of the men looked at one another, some frowning, others shifting their position where they stood.

‘But,’ William said, raising his hand, ‘I can promise that every word I shall say to thee be the truth, formed from the work I hath undertaken and allied with the promise of a better life for us all.’

He looked down, took a breath and then raised his face to them again.

‘I am aware there hath been much discussion with regard to whereto I hath been taking myself these last many nights, what I hath been doing as I have departed the village at dusk and returned only at the crowing of the cockerel. My friends, I hath been working, I hath been planning, engaged in the fruition of an idea that will be of great benefit to us all. What I have achieved may, I acknowledge, be as peculiar to thee all as it would be should the cows in the fields begin to talk, the pigs in the pens begin to wear hats and tunics as though they were people, yet I swear to thee, each and all, that what I hath to say, what I hath to offer is indeed as real as the suffering we have endured, the torment we have faced.’

He paused for a moment, gauging their reaction. Still every man was silent, every man hanging upon each word he spoke, every eye upon him. They were the men he hoped would be willing to join him, the men he knew he could trust, could rely upon. The men who, like himself, had felt the most downtrodden, the most oppressed, the most desperate for change. It was they, he believed, felt the scorching, desirous flame of liberty burn within them almost as much as he felt it blaze within himself.

‘It is now, as thee be aware, the year fifteen hundred and twenty-four, yet still we live as though we be enduring the bygone days of peasantry, of serfdom. That we be nothing but providers for the Lord, for the lawmakers, for the church.’

At this there came a few quiet mutterings from amongst the men in the hut, some expressions of unease exchanged. William knew that any mention of the church would cause some consternation, and raised his voice slightly so he could be heard above the murmuring.

‘I speak not against the beliefs thee hold, the worship thee perform, believe me. Each man is justly entitled to place his faith where he might, and nothing I have to say should serve to dissuade thee of such. It is of the way we are so exploited that I speak, of the mountains of grain taken from us that sit idly in the buildings yonder, ready to serve no other purpose than to line the pockets of those already more wealthy than any of us could ever imagine.’

The men quietened, some nodding in agreement.

‘Of late, as we are all aware, we have been unjustly afflicted by a loss of our income, the rising of rents and the theft of our rights to graze our cattle or forge our timber out on the common land. I fear that our so-called Lord, the so-called nobleman who sits up there in his manor house, the sallow of spine and weak of solicitude Richard Tuchet, begins to fret at losing his grip on us, that the rights he hath so enjoyed over so many years are being taken from him, as they are of many other landowners. Soon they may discover that the control they, together with their ecclesiastic comrades, hath yielded upon us will be whittled to naught in its entirety, and then what shall that mean for us?’

Another undertone of concordance rippled through the congregation, the shallow tributary beginning to burgeon into its awaiting reservoir.

‘Therefore I say that it is, my friends, time for us to make a change, to take ahold of our lives, of our futures, and to decide for ourselves what best use we can make of them. And so…’

William paused again, knowing that they would find what he was to say next as difficult to believe as he would have found it, should someone have said the same thing to him. He thought briefly, organising his words in his mind as he had been doing for the last several days in preparation for the meeting.

‘I know that thee hast been conversing amongst thyselves, pondering what it is that I hath been doing these many nights past. I know thou hast born witness to my returning with the sun at my shoulder, coming into the village from the lands and forests further north. And I knowest well that what I am to reveal to thee may be something thou shalt find hard to swallow, something thou shalt find impossible to accept as the truth but, I assure and can prove to thee, that I am, indeed, most sincere in what I have to say.’

Several of the men glanced at one another, exchanging expressions of confusion and wariness. The stream began pooling amongst a small collection of grey rocks, of the sort that were capable of banding together so as to dam an even greater force of water should it be so required. William straightened his back slightly, cleared his throat again and continued.

‘I hath constructed for us a new home, a new place for us to live. It hath been a most hard work, it hath been an intense labour, but it is now complete and it is to be a new home of hope, of freedom, of cooperation and community. The reason I hath summoned thee together, why I hath carefully chosen each of thee to be here, is simply that, I believe, thy be the very men to help me realise this vision, to bring this aspiration to reality. Thou be the men I trust most, whom I hold in the highest regard, and whom I know will make this new home a success. None amongst thee are the obsequious lickspittles I need not name, but whom we all know share this decaying plot with us, and it is these false knaves we must leave whence, must leave to the fates they will most surely meet, just as they have most surely carved for themselves.’

‘William,’ said one of the men, looking faintly embarrassed and scratching a finger against his thinning hair as he spoke. ‘William, what dost thou mean, a new home? It’s not that thee would have us all living in the one big hut, be it? I be far from certain the good lady would take kindly to such a suggestion, to such a scene.’

A nervous laughter rippled through the gathering and William, too, afforded a smile.

’No, no,’ he replied, holding up his hands. ‘Not just a hut, not just two. I have built a village, an entire village. It is a finished home, a home for us all. A place where we can all live, where we will have our own houses, our own spaces for livestock and cultivation. It shall be a place where we can thrive, where we can properly settle without handing over our produce, without being weighted down under such inequitable taxation. It be a place for us, governed by us, under the ownership of us.’

The men once more looked around at each other and William read clearly, as though it had been painted upon them, the disbelief in their faces, sensing that they were beginning to think he had lost his mind.

‘I say there, William, perhaps a little less ale of a Sunday evening be a good idea,’ said one.

‘How canst that be?’ asked another, looking incredulous and opening his arms wide to those standing close to him. ‘One man, alone, building a village. How can such a thing be?’

‘I fear, my friend,’ began a third, smiling, ‘that perhaps thou hast taken a blow to the noggin and it hath served to drive all the sense from thee.’

William waited patiently for the men to fall back to quietude, nodding and smiling at their friendly rebukes. ‘They that walk in the sun will be tanned at last,’ someone whispered, their face more serious. Another nodded, saying, ‘I believe he to be afflicted.’

When all faces were once more turned to his, he spoke again.

‘As I said, I know this is something thee must find very difficult to believe and that is why, should thee wish to follow me now, I will take thee to this place so that thee canst see the truth through thine own eyes. I must, however,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘remind thee that we must take care, that we must travel with the utmost stealth, for this be something we cannot let those who wield their control over us ever discover. We must be certain…’

‘He be sending the axe after the helve,’ came another whisper from the same stony-faced man, although this time his skepticism met no firm comrade.

‘How wouldst they not know?’ asked a more sympathetic voice from the back of the hut. ’How can such a thing as a village, a whole village, if indeed what you say is to be believed, be hidden? How can such a thing remain a secret?’

‘That is, my friend, a good and fair question, its answer being something I think it best thee see for thyselves, rather than have me attempt to explain. Please, I beseech thee all to join with me, to follow as I escort thee to our new home, our new hope. It is just along the way that runs through and out of the village, just a little way along the cliffs that follow the line of the shore. Please, come with me, come and see for thyselves what it is I have prepared for thee.’

Uncertain, wary, the men waited for William to leave the hut and then, without speaking, moving as quietly as they could, their torches extinguished, they followed him into the twilight, through the village and along the edge of the cliffs. Thirty feet below the sea lay calm and untroubled, the trees and bushes undisturbed by the warm air, the moonlight grew stronger as though guiding the group onwards and soon, as they approached the heavy thicket that had always been the mark of traveller’s end, William stopped walking and turned to the men.

‘We be here,’ he told them as the group came to a halt, looking around.

‘Aye?’ said one uncertainly.

‘Where?’ asked another.

William turned back to the trees and, holding a hand aloft as he had been taught as part of the agreement he had reached, the men watched in astonishment as a light began to glow beyond them, feeble at first but growing quickly, brightening as though the sun were rising.

‘What be this?’ someone asked, a distinct waver of equivocation in his voice. ‘What kind of sorcery hath thee undertaken?’

‘Please,’ William said, gesturing for them to follow him once more as he slipped through a path between the trees not one of the men had ever seen before.

As they worked their way through the copse, some still muttering their misgivings, others cursing the spiteful branches that attempted to snare them as they passed, and then emerged at the other side they each stood in awe, their mouths open as their eyes were wide. Before them stood some twenty houses, constructed not of the wattle and daub they were used to but, instead, fashioned from wood and stone. Strongly constructed, with large, neatly fenced areas between each one and a wide, tidy stone road sweeping through the settlement, it appeared to them all that William had, indeed, been true to his word and that he had, somehow, built a village.

‘How can this be?’

‘What deceit be this?’

William smiled and indicated for them to join him as he walked along the road.

‘Each house is the same,’ he explained, indicating with his hands as they went. ‘The same size, the same quality, and each has a second floor to allow thee have somewhere to sleep that is separate from the rest of the house. No longer will thee need to bring thy animals inside with thee since, as thee will see if thee look over there, I have built barns for us all, and for all of them, where they shall be kept safe and secure.’

As they went, the men now appreciative, their shock subsiding, their happiness growing, William led them further still, away from the houses towards another collection of buildings.

‘These,’ he said, pointing, ‘be places for thee to continue thy work, where Cordell can blacksmith, where James Throne can do his carpentry, where Nicholas Froste can work with stone. And over yonder, on the grass plain just beyond the two large oaks, there be places for us to relax, where we canst all join together and take the ale which we all enjoy, where we can sit and talk and play games.’

‘But from where,’ one of the men asked, walking more quickly to catch up with William, ‘shall we get our ale? From where will we make our money? What about trade? What about selling our wares, our produce?’

‘There are fields just yonder, where some of our crops are already planted and where we shall raise our pigs and sheep and cattle, and I have already undertaken discussions with villages further afield and hath come to agree that, twice weekly, we shall all take part in a market, where goods and grain shall be bought and sold. I think,’ he continued, ‘that I have considered all possibilities although, of course, I shall be happy to hear any and all suggestions thou might have.’

‘But what?’ asked the man, still walking more quickly beside William than he felt comfortable, ‘what about our taxes? Is it to thee we must now pay? Shall there be a charge for us, so that we might stay here?’

‘We shall all contribute what we can,’ William said, coming to a halt, turning to face all the men, ‘and shall hold such contributions in one place. A reserve of funds, if thee will, so that it is available to each of us if and when we might need it. It is, after all, our money, and it shall remain our money. If we are to truly be a community, a cooperative of men, of families, then we shall all enjoy the benefits and, should such an occasion arise, shall all share in any burden. I hope that we can come to rely upon one another, to be fair to and with one another as before, and that we shall learn what it is to truly be free, to answer to no one but ourselves. That is why I so carefully considered whom of thee I should invite, whom of all the men of our village, our old, odious village, that sewer of Colcote, I felt most worthy, most reputable, most noble and pure of heart, of mind and of spirit.’

‘Might we, and I fear to ask,’ said the man who had earlier been whispering his qualm but whose mind was now becoming changed, ‘be allowed a moment in which to discuss this all amongst ourselves? It be all, as I hope and feel sure thou understandeth well, a very great deal for us to see and hear, a great deal for us to understand. So, might we be afforded a few moments to talk about this all?’

‘Of course,’ smiled William. ‘Please, if thee would just like to go into the building yonder, tho shalt have thy privacy, thou shalt have the time I understand thee need to speak freely and frankly, to decide if this is, indeed, something thee want to do, a change thou feel within thee to make. I shall wait here. Take thy time, please. There is no hurry, I know this has all been something thee were in no way prepared for.’

The men nodded, some shaking William’s hand or clapping him across the shoulder as they passed, walking towards the large wooden building that stood close to the trees to their left. After they had all disappeared inside, William began walking in the opposite direction, striding casually along the road.

It was then he realised he was not alone.

‘Thou hast told them, I see,’ came a deep, rough voice from the tree line ahead of him.

William’s pace quickened as he approached. He could see no figure, no person amongst the dark shadows of the trees, but he knew who was there.

‘Aye,’ he said, pausing at the edge of the road, where a thin strip of grass met the trees.

‘And thou hast not let thy memory fade, I trust, with regard to the agreement reached between us, the accord that has allowed thee to be able to accomplish all of this?’

‘I hath not.’

‘Then, for now, I shall leave thee in peace, so that thou may enjoy what thou hast created. But just let me remind thee once more that thou hast a part in this bargain to which thee must adhere, a hand thou shall, at some point, be called upon to play.’

‘I stand by my dealings,’ William said flatly.

‘See that be the case,’ the voice said, a dangerous edge to it now. ‘See that thee doth. I shall never be any distance away. I shall always knowest what be happening here. Do not forget the power I wield, nor the debt owed.’

‘The debt shall be met,’ William replied, already aware that the person to whom he had been speaking had departed before he had even finished talking.

He sighed, looked up to the stars and returned to the road. Within fifteen minutes the substantial doors of the wooden building opened and the men began making their way across to him. It was Edmund Travet, one of the village’s farm labourers, who came close to William and spoke first.

‘We hath reached a consensus,’ he said, looking around to the others, ’and shall all be both indebted to thee for this opportunity, this new life, and of hearty acceptance of thy generosity. ’Tis a quite unbelievable feat thou hast managed, the construction of this place of wonder, and it shall, we all be of sincere conviction, be the saving of us all.’

The rest of the men nodded and sounded their agreement, slapping William’s shoulders, shaking his hands.

‘Well then,’ he stated, raising his hands so that the men might fall quiet. ‘Then our future stands assured, our dreams shall be met. We shall, each of us, our families and our families to come, find prosperity, equanimity and freedom. We shall be a part of something new, something transformed. We shall live as well as anyone hath ever lived, we shall care for one another and share in all that we receive.’

The men gave a rousing cheer. Some clapped, others shouted ‘hoorah!’, while one or two performed comedic jigs of glee. After a minute or two it was Cordell who quieted them again.

‘One more thing, my friend,’ he said, taking William’s arm. ‘As we were about to return to thee, our agreement most speedily attained considering the magnitude of the analysis, a question was posed as to what name we ought bestow upon this so glorious a place, our wonderful new home. And it was again in short time, I must say, that a title was proposed, a ballot called and a resolution met without a single naysayer. And so, may we offer as the name of our new land…’

He paused dramatically, turning to the others, all of whom were smiling, and then announced, ‘Easthope.’

William, taken aback, surprised not only because he had never considered a name for the village but also because he had never imagined his neighbours would wish his name be used in its designation, could say nothing.

‘It be the hope, you see,’ Penhallick said, in his usual slow, meandering manner. ‘The hope thee hath brung to us all. There it be, then, the hope of William East. East’s hope.’

The men cheered again, their hearts filled with optimism, their future reborn.

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