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Chapter One

GRiPPENHAM Life

The day Tom saw the light was just ten days before he became invisible for the first time. Eleven days later, together with Arthur, Ivy and Mildred, Tom travelled beyond the GRiPPENHAM boundaries for the first time in his life.

GRiPPENHAM is the capital village of the Quadrant of ShireGrip. There are several villages in ShireGrip, and many Quadrants within the Principality (that was) of g’Shia. Being the capital village means that it is also the largest village, with bustling streets, busy markets, and a generally milling population. Not all the Quadrants of the Principality (that was) are Shires; there are a few breakaway Hundreds, and the nearest Hundred to GRiPPENHAM is Nuff Hundred, the capital of which is Nuffingham.

The awe-full powers of Princes-gone-by have long since been removed and replaced by a Rulership (of the inner house) whose duty is to do little more than sit in a big chair listening to information provided by the Advisors. The description of the Nation of g’Shia as a Principality has therefore changed. Advisorpality did not seem to have the right ring to it, so the Advisors advised against it and, in the absence of further suggestions, the word Pality has fallen into popular use.

Although the governing of any Shire or Hundred is largely the responsibility of the Chamber of the Capital Village, for important issues it is still necessary to involve the Central Pality Parliament. However this should be avoided at all costs as it is an unbelievably lengthy and bureaucratic process involving, as it does, myriad form filling and marathon process running, involving sanctioning, vetting, authorising, and stamping at every procedural turn. Luckily the need to invoke this kind of procedure is rare in the extreme.

The general welfare of the people of GRiPPENHAM rests symbolically in the hands of Lord and Lady GRiP, who are direct descendants of the original settler and founder of the village, Graeme GRiP, a great hiking enthusiast.

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Lord and Lady GRiP occupy the Rulership Thrones of the Inner House. However, as titular heads of the Rulership, modern protocol only requires them to attend sessions for the sanctioning of decisions once they have successfully bubbled their way to a general consensus. Lord and Lady GRiP do very little actual doing. The doing is done by the Inner House of the Rulership whose duty, as we have established, is to do little more than sit in a big chair listening to advisors. The advisors are drawn from the Out House of advisory heads: they are the sifters of information. Details of possible actions, inactions, outcomes, consequences and ramifications are fed from Out House to Inner House where they are procedurally moulded into definitive advice. At this point, Lord and Lady GRiP really do have to attend in order to Rubber Stamp the decisions which are then implemented by a bewildering array of councils, committees and groups, the membership of which swells and recedes with the tides of demand – leaving Lord and Lady GRiP free to, well, not do these things. So instead, they meet people. They have teas. They attend events and ceremonies. They wave in a genuinely caring way to people, all people, no matter who they are, what they do, where they come from, or indeed whether or not they have any desire to be waved at.

Tom lives with his parents in a quiet residential area, just to the south of the main market square.

However, I’ll come back to Tom a little later. First of all, I’d like to tell you a little bit about Arthur and Ivy. As narrator I can do that.

Tom’s best friend Arthur, and his twin sister Ivy, live in

GRiPPENHAM with their grandparents, Ma and Pa Worthy. Ivy and Arthur were staying with Ma and Pa when their mum and dad, GripOrff and Amelia, set off on one of their notoriously dangerous archaeological quests some seven years ago. To say that they were committed to their work was rather an understatement. Orff and Amelia were almost as well known for their dedication to the pursuit of past knowledge as they were for the many discoveries they unearthed. They launched themselves into each and every new project with passionate enthusiasm. On this occasion their expedition to search out the truths behind the many myths surrounding the ancient times that existed even before the Princes, had taken them to the Jehavenian Foothills beyond the Lava plains of Tobono. Research had indicated that at this location they may find the half buried pyramid city of Quellion: rumoured to have strange magical links to other ancient sites; one of which might even be in GRiPPENHAM. This was known to be a dangerous region although, due to its remoteness, the

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details of the many dangers are themselves shrouded in mystery and speculation.

After many months without word everyone became increasingly concerned for their safety. The months became years, and increasingly, just as the children yearned for the return of their mum and dad, so too, Ma and Pa Worthy feared for the safety of their beloved daughter and her husband. Eventually, there was no escaping the conclusion that they must be presumed dead. As Arthur and Ivy were already living with Ma and Pa Worthy, there was no question in any anyone’s mind that this was where they should stay. The family slowly learned to accept that GripOrff and Amelia had died, and in time a different sort of comfort emerged: one that came from the belief that their Mum and Dad were still very much with them – in spirit.

Ivy and Arthur had always loved the Worthys’ cosy Sage Cottage in Leaf Avenue which had been a home from home for them all their lives. Although Ma and Pa Worthy are GRiPs by descent, they have been known as Worthy ever since the time, many years ago, when they were presented with an Appreciation Day Gratitude award by the Their Lord and Ladyships for their Acts of Great Kindness (AGK), everyone said how worthy they were of such an award, and from that moment on, they became known as Ma and Pa Worthy. AGK’s are not awarded every year, indeed there may be many years between such awards, which is an indication of just how special an AGK really is.

Amongst her family and friends, and indeed throughout the community, Ma Worthy is known for her exquisite baking, just as Pa Worthy is renowned for his jams and preserves. For both of them, their skills are a passion which they have perfectly married, to the delight of anyone who is lucky enough to sample one of Ma’s cakes, delicately blended to bring out the very best of Pa’s jam fillings. Pa on the other hand, is constantly trying variations of his culinary creations to compliment Ma’s work to an ever greater degree.

Pa is also known for having such wonderfully mysterious stories to tell. At least, that is to say, without wishing to be rude, everyone believes he has wonderfully mysterious stories to tell, but for some reason no-one has actually managed to stay focused beyond the first few sojourns into the surreal. For whilst he might launch into his tales with all the infectiously captivating enthusiasm of the most successful crowd pleaser, his encyclopaedic knowledge and passion for detail, coupled with his penchant for including all manner of marginally pertinent trivia as well as a good deal of distinctly disparate detail, causes him to compulsively contrast and compare (this with that; similar with dissimilar) whilst earnestly emphasising and re-emphasising key elements by means of his

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genial habit of punctuating his oration with Latin homilies – in Latin – all of which has the effect of creating in his listener a state of soporific sensory overload so as to temporarily disengage their cognitive functionality, thus rendering them completely incapable of having any subsequent recollection.

At least, I think that’s what he said he thought the problem was. At any rate this does suggest, perhaps, why the stories themselves

remain such a mystery. People often speak of the magic of GRiPPENHAM, for there is a

magic. Things work; plans come together, events happen. That’s not to say that you can sit back and do nothing in the knowledge that it will all be done for you, oh no! But if you do make plans, and you work hard and diligently and with the best of intent, then whatever it is you are planning will work. For example, there always seems to be just enough food on the corner shop shelves without left over bunches of rotting grapes or mouldy loaves of bread going to waste. If the shelves are getting a little bit empty, or you want a greater choice, you can always pop into the supermarket, which is kept in the corner of the corner shop, which presumably is why it’s called a corner shop. Another corner has holidays in faraway places. Yet another is so special, that it is impossible to find a name for it which adequately describes its specialness, so it is simply called The Corner. It is said that Energy Lines converge on that corner. It is a veritable Vortex of energy lines – joining the now to the future and the past, aligning events, and creating a convergence of circumstance. The Corner provides neither a ‘question and answer’ system nor an ‘ask and you get’ solution. It is not even a source of wisdom and inspiration. Perhaps it may best be described as an input point of desired need. Be that as it may – people don’t go to The Corner very often.

Being the capital village means that GRiPPENHAM is quite a reasonable size, a very reasonable size, in fact a hugely reasonable size. Well over fifty thousand souls live here. They live in flats above the shops and restaurants in the hustle and bustle of the area known as ‘The Laynes’. They live in apartments overlooking the main square. They live in uniform looking box houses in areas such as Hedge Row Estate, and they live in cottages, like Sage Cottage in Leaf Avenue. Many more live just north of the Great River in an area known simply as New GRiPPENHAM.

Beyond the central part of the village there are vast areas of land which, under Pality law, also fall under village jurisdiction. You can leave the village centre at sunrise, walk until sunset, and still not reach the boundary. Rumour has it, that at its widest point, it would take three men

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four days and five nights to walk from one side of GRiPPENHAM to the other. Coincidentally, it would also take six men, five nights and four days to tread the same course.

Forgive my interruption of the narrative at this point, but I thought a little additional background information might not go amiss. You may wonder if there are boundaries to this village: Well yes, there is a fence that stretches all the way around it. This fence is hugely important to the people of GRiPPENHAM and the person responsible for its upkeep is Grand Fence Master Professor William Lockwood.

The Grand Fence Master has sole responsible for creating and maintaining all fences wherever and whenever they are needed. When they need to be moved, he moves them. When they need to be removed, he removes them, for he is in charge of fences and defences. He will harvest fresh new shoots from the Copper Beech trees by the old mine taking care to select those with the strongest energy flow. Once these have been planted, one shadow’s length apart, they form an impenetrable defence the like of which is unmatched anywhere else in the Pality.

The Copper Beeches of GRiPPENHAM are unique. They possess an

aura of majesty and a strange effervescence that sets them apart from any other creation of the forest. Their benefit far exceeds the balms and potions that might be offered by other flora. Lockwood possesses an expert knowledge of the Coppers and is highly skilled in harnessing those powers to great benefit. They protect the village. Although no-one has ever actually seen them at work, no-one doubts that whilst the fence is no barrier to the good folks of the village, it provides an impenetrable defence against any villainously intentioned stranger. The fact that no-one knows quite how it works does not dent for a moment their unwavering belief that the fence has the power to repel any onslaught. This makes everyone feel very safe, and makes Professor Lockwood very popular, but then, most people are very popular, and most of the rest are at least, a little bit popular.

The mysteries surrounding the fences extend to the Grand Fence Master himself. Generally speaking, when he’s required, one need only leave a message with the Landlord of the Old Toad and Bucket, which is at the sunny end of The Cobbles, and within the day he will appear. However, so the legend goes, should the matter be urgent in the extreme, then if you first visit The Corner (in the corner shop) and ask for him, upon your subsequent arrival at the Old Toad and

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Bucket, he will be there. I wish I knew how he did that. Perhaps Grip Phil and Grip Thropic know – I must have a chat with them.

Now these two gentlemen are probably the two wealthiest people in

the whole village, indeed, of the whole Quadrant, possibly of the entire Pality, and even beyond. Grip Phil and Grip Thropic live in a very modest mansion; being the smallest you could possibly imagine a mansion to be, whilst still being a mansion. They inherited their wealth from ancestors who were as kindly and worldly wise as they themselves. For their many greatly grandparents discovered the most precious thing in all the land. No not the gold, although they certainly appreciated its beauty; not the steel, copper or bronze, useful as they can be. No, they discovered the unfathomable value of the Natural World. Over the centuries they have amassed a fortune in acres of forest and woodland, copse and grove. And now they devote themselves to carefully protecting this treasure for the benefit of all.

Just as gravity had existed long before Grip Newton discovered it, so the Natural World had existed for millennia before the Phil and Thropic’s ancestors discovered its true value. To discover something, you don’t have to be the first person to see it, or even use it, but you do have to be the first person to recognise it for what it is and understand its place in the Pality of things. The ancestors also recognised that with this knowledge came a great responsibility. Today, that responsibility rests in the capable hands of Phil and Thropic.

Everyone will tell you that there is one person in particular in the village who is a very difficult person to have dealings with – and that is the Mayor. This is not – it must be stressed – because he or she is a difficult person (although he or she might be, for that depends entirely on who he or she is). No, the difficulty is in knowing just who is Mayor at any given moment. Let me explain:

Mayoral duty is something that most people have to do at some point in their lives. There is a story that many years ago, after the demise of the Principality, during the early days of local Rulership, the village was ruled by twelve men – just and true – who were selected at random from the population, and served for a period of time being no less than six days, and usually not more than forty-two, but which occasionally lasted for months, depending on workload and what projects they were working on. This group of men was called the Mayor. Over time this changed. Having twelve people, often with different ideas, and different views, sometimes made it hard to reach a decision, including, on one occasion, who was to be their spokesman. They discussed, debated, and even argued about it, day after day, anguishing over this important first step. At the end of six

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days, when the spokesman was supposed to address the council and stand down from office on behalf of them all, there was no spokesman, so they all had to squeeze into the declaration box to address the council. Well that can’t happen now.

For a while, the Mayor was a group of ten men – just and true: still just, still true, and still just men. Then it was taken out of the ‘male only’ jurisdiction, and became a group of six men or women – just and true. Then it was a committee of three people. Now, strange though it may seem, the Mayor is a single person, chosen at random to serve for a period of time, not less than one day, and usually not longer that thirty-four days, or thirty-three in a catch-up month.

Of course the Mayor is not alone. For the duration of office, he or she takes an honorary seat in the Inner House and takes advice from his personal council which is drawn from members of the Out House. Some council members consider themselves to be very important. This is counterbalanced by the view, held by many others, that they may not be quite as important as they think they are – which just goes to show how intelligent most people really are. Some of these councillors appear to have been born and raised in office, whilst most are invited to join by the miraculous event of a decision having been reached by someone, somewhere, that they might in fact be qualified, or appropriate, or in some other way useful. The reality is that one more voice is added to the chaos, thus making the situation oh so slightly worse. Another fact is that once selected and elected, it is almost unheard of for anyone to be de-selected, de-elected or indeed, to resign.

Mayoral Meetings are presided over by Lord and Lady GRiP who, although technically the most powerful people in the village, in reality, do not attempt to influence matters of Mayoral concern. As a result, given that their only function is to preside, they often do not attend at all, but instead rely on the very large and impressive oil painting of themselves at the head of the table to set the appropriate tone and assure everyone that everything is under proper control. The Mayor has been known to seek more counsel from the painting than his council. He may also seek advice from “Honorary” guests, such as the Worthys who attend to represent worthy people everywhere. However, most of the Mayor’s time is taken in trying to figure out how all this works before handing over to the next incumbent.

And that, more or less, is GRiPPENHAM, which I do believe brings us very neatly to the end of Chapter One.

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Chapter Two

News Arrives

It had been a gentle day: Ma Worthy had baked a delicious sponge cake, the ingredients of which were specifically and finely blended to enhance the delectability of Pa Worthy’s latest quince preserve.

Although in just over a week’s time Ivy and Arthur would be watching their soup try and fly off the table, they were, for now, happy to spend the afternoon playing ‘Keep and Lose’ before heading home in time to see the NewsMan arriving at the Worthy front door. Whenever the heavy wooden door, almost half the size of the front of Sage Cottage, creaked open, it was hard to understand what stopped its huge weight from causing the entire house to crumble like a house of cards. The house already possessed a precariously crooked appearance, leaning as it did down the hill toward the brook at the bottom of Leaf Hill, over which stood the ancient flag stone bridge leading to the Cart Bridle Path where autumn leaves would rustle eerily from overhanging, shadowy trees, regardless of the time of year, or indeed the weather. The area around Cart Bridal Path is known as Wycoller after the family of that name who used to live in what are now the Old Hall ruins.

Not many people will publicly admit to having seen the ghostly Shire horse and cart rumbling along Cart Bridle Path although it is suspected that a great many more may have seen it, but either didn’t believe their own eyes, or feared that anyone they told would not believe their own ears. Those who do claim to have seen it, tend to fall into three main categories:

1. Those people who ran away and sheepishly admitted that they ran away. 2. Those people who did not run away and proudly told everyone they did not run away. 3. Those people who did run away but told everyone they did not run away. This was by far the largest group and its members were consistent with each other in not being able to give very much detail. Curiously, it was

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precisely this consistency of vagueness that led to them being considered the most reliable source of information.

It may, or may not be of interest to you, to review this reproduction of

the findings of the committee set up to explore these para-abnormal events.

The conclusions of the Cart Bridle Path Phenomenon Committee are:-

1. There may be an occasional appearance of a cart which may or may not be there.

2. The cart may or may not be drawn by a horse. 3. There may or may not be a driver. 4. If there is a cart, it will definitely be travelling in the direction of

the village unless it is travelling in the other direction. 5. It is quite loud although it is also surprisingly quiet, and quite

heavily laden with something or other, but then again, often empty.

6. The above are the findings of the Cart Bridle Path Phenomenon Committee

Signed Cart Bridle Path Phenomenon Committee As I said, it was a gentle day when the NewsMan arrived. Whilst most households have their own NewsBox these days, this has

not always been so. In the times before modern technological advances, there were only about half a dozen news-outlets in the village.

A NewsBox is about the size of a Tardis – at least, on the outside. On the inside it’s more the size of a – well – a police box. The NewsMan would deliver the 7:35 news in box one, then skedaddle across town to box two, and repeat the bulletin. Then a very clever piece of modern technology enabled the NewsMan to atomise himself in one box, and wire himself along connecting cables made of spun Copper Beech bark, materialising almost instantaneously at the next box. Before you knew it, everybody wanted one.

Most households keep their NewsBox in the house. In fact they all do, with one notable exception. Pa Worthy remains suspicious of all new devices, even with Ma Worthy’s embracing influence.

Pa keeps his NewsBox in the shed at the side of the house, so the poor NewsMan, having materialised in the box in the shed, has to walk all the way round the house and enter through the front door to give his news, then he has to return to the Box in the shed in order to wire his way on to the next household.

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NewsMan Barker (NB to his friends, and coincidently, also to his enemies) is short and round, very round. “Fat” does not do justice to his roundness. He could not get more round without starting to tend toward flat. No, in roundness terms, he has reached his optimum, his zenith if you will.

NB always has a point to make, usually after he has just made a point. You think, ‘that’s it’ then back he comes with another point. Perhaps that is another reason why he is called NB.

NewsMan Barker looks younger than his fifty-five years. His large round face sports huge side-whiskers surrounding the small shaved chin – and pince-nez eye glasses do their best to remain clasped on to his short and rather bulbous and slightly hairy nose. His bright yellow waistcoat, with its bold red checks, is well tailored so as not to put too much of a strain on the bright brassy buttons. This sophistication of tailoring is not however matched by his brown, lived-in looking jacket, which could not be buttoned up with all the wishful thinking in the world.

If you were to select a hat suitable for giving to your grandfather when he went fishing, you might choose one very like the one NewsMan Barker always wears. A more inappropriate hat for a public figure you could not possibly imagine, adorned as it is with a number of enamelled badges, assorted feathers and small holiday mementos. If you look closely, you will notice that not one item of clothing ever seems to match any other piece, which is why I recommend you not to look too closely. However, the overall ensemble manages to merge into an unmistakably unique image that should be a walking fashion disaster yet somehow, on him, against all the odds, it works.

One last point of interest is that NewsMan Barker is a decidedly bad-tempered and irritable old man, and yet contrary to all expectations, it is this very unpleasantness that has resulted in him becoming something of a celebrity (much to his exasperation and annoyance). His public relations office – hired by NewsCorpInt who know a winner when they see one – long ago abandoned all attempts to follow in his wake bestowing apologies, platitudes, and the occasional financial compensation on all those with whom he interacted and instead, began a highly successful direct action campaign focusing on “bigging up” [a technical media term] his inexcusable rudeness.

Well that’s show business I suppose.

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Chapter Three

Meadow Bank

I myself had been passing a pleasant time by the Great River, on the stretch known as Meadow Bank, for much of that afternoon. I had just finished my late afternoon snack when I saw the Worthy twins, Arthur and Ivy, playing in an area of the riverside known as Leaping Cairn Meadow. They often come here to play ‘Keep and Lose’. Well, they saw me and came over for a chat.

“Hello Arvee,” they said together, but not quite in unison, which made it rather a muddle, so they started again.

“Hello Arvee,” said Arthur. “Hello Arvee,” said Ivy. “And a very good afternoon to you too,” I said. “What are you doing here?” asked Ivy, which was not really surprising

given her questioning nature. Ivy is a very pretty young girl of fourteen and a half years. Pretty, not in an elegant sense, and yet not lacking poise. Although she is generally a happy young lady with a friendly look about her, she can sometimes appear to be more serious than Arthur, somewhat more questioning, and occasionally prone to pout. She is certainly more competitive than Arthur, but perhaps this is a product of his being older; ten minutes older. She was so close to being the first, the eldest, and is acutely aware that being second out of two is, in fact, last. As a result, she can be described as “having her moments”. She can be decidedly sharp if she does not get her own way, and whilst she may not always be striving to get the upper hand, you can be sure she doesn’t want anyone else to have it either. Like many young ladies of her age, she sometimes finds it hard to understand why everyone does not automatically agree with anything she says, after all, it’s obvious she is right!

Ivy has to know what is what – and why. When she is grown up, I have no doubt she will have a job which involves finding things out, making notes and keeping tabs. It will be something that satisfies her natural inquisitive nature, possibly something journalistic – not just reporting

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news, but researching the source – digging up the detail. So it was no surprise that she was the one to ask what I was doing.

“Well I have to wander all over the place,” I said, “if I am to do my job as Village Narrator. I’m like a walking history in the making; an archive of what makes our village tick; what interests and amuses us, not to mention how we govern and manage ourselves.

So today, I have wandered through this meadow and was delighted to see you two playing ‘Keep and Lose’, and then tomorrow, being Sunriseday, I shall be in the main square as our citizens come out to watch the night come to an end.”

“Will you tell us all about what you’ve seen today?” asked Ivy. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to talk about?” I

asked. “I don’t know; you could talk about watching us playing!” Ivy had not yet mastered the art of camouflaging her unabashed desire

to be the centre of attention most of the time. “And why would you like me to do that?” I asked, unable to resist the

urge to tease. Ivy considered this for a moment. She did not wish to be seen as a

headline grabber (well, not yet anyway) but she then found herself having to try and hide the fact that she was now possibly seen as someone who was trying to hide the fact that she had indeed been trying to grab a headline. This was to be avoided; after all, it might seem a little self-centred. “Because,” she replied finally, “everyone knows that when you talk about all the things you’ve seen, somehow it seems more interesting than it was at the time. It’s like you see things that everyone else misses.” She thought for a moment about what she’d just said. With a further shift from self-reflection to increasingly quizzical she asked, “Is that why you are the Village Narrator, because you make everything more interesting?”

“Well, almost,” I said. “Settle down here and I’ll tell you how it all started.”

Of course I had told the story many times before, and certainly Ivy and Arthur would have heard it before, but that is all part of being the Village Narrator – it goes with the territory – so to speak.

And so it was that I told of the day, some years before, when the Story Teller was coming to the school to tell stories of Mystery and Intrigue to the children, but he inadvertently lost his voice that day and could hardly speak. I met him as he arrived; for I was the head master of Lower High School at that time, and he explained how he had come to misplace his voice (he was adamant that he hadn’t lost it – that would have been careless.) Well what was I to do? The children were expecting a story, and because it was Story Day, the parents had also been invited. Everyone was

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gathered in the great hall awaiting, with great expectation and even greater anticipation and excitement, the arrival of the Story Teller; ready to eagerly hang on to his every word.

I stepped out onto the stage not knowing quite what to say. I didn’t want to let everyone down, but there was no-one there for me to introduce, so, slowly at first, I started to tell the story of how Mr Fable had arrived without a voice. Very quickly, I became aware of just how attentive my audience had become – as if they were embracing my every word. I felt as if I was actually experiencing Mr Fable’s discomforts and so was able to describe exactly what had happened to cause him to lose (sorry – misplace) his voice. Strangely, it seemed that I was able to transfer this feeling to each and every member of my audience.

“Did they ask you to be the new Story Teller?” Ivy asked. “No my dear, we already had a Story Teller, and besides, his job was

to tell made up stories, no-one could tell a made up a story like Mr Fable, whereas I was recounting a real event.”

“Like a NewsMan.” “No Ivy,” I replied, “not quite like a NewsMan. It seemed I was

somehow able to help an audience see every point of view: feel every nuance of an event as if they were experiencing it for themselves. A NewsMan does not do that. So they decided that I should be the Village Narrator.”

“It’s true,” said Arthur, “you make everything sound so real; there’s so much detail. It’s like you’re narrating something that happened to me. I remember when you told us about the surprise birthday party that was thrown for old Marie Hunter on her return from the Lower Tobono foothills. It was so convincing that I almost believed it was my own 93rd birthday you were describing.” Arthur does not always say very much, but when he does speak, you are pleased to hear what he has to say.

At fourteen and a half, you might expect him to be just a little less grown up than Ivy, and certainly he has the look of someone who would never take anything too seriously, and yet he will often surprise you with a maturity and an understanding of people which makes him seem very wise, which is only right, for he is indeed wise. Unlike Ivy, Arthur is more likely to accept things as being the way they are, simply because that is the way they are. He is a veritable master of is-ness in the making.

“Thank you Arthur.” “What was the story you told about the Story Teller?” Ivy just doesn’t

like loose ends. “That will have to wait for another occasion. Isn’t it time you were

home for the NewsMan?”

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“Oh Pality, yes I suppose,” said Ivy with all the enthusiasm of a small root vegetable.

“Race you back,” said Arthur, and away they ran. It would be remiss of me not to tell you a little more of Arthur at this

time. Some children are very; well, childish, whilst others seem to be rather too grown up for their years. Arthur manages to combine the best of both of these two qualities. He has an ability to relate to anyone and to see their point of view. Now some people will try to see another’s point of view, but will remain standing firmly in their own shoes, so they can only see the other person’s point of view from their point of view, so to speak. Not so Arthur, he can truly walk in another man’s shoes. He is a gentle soul, but without being weak. If I had to guess what he will do when he grows up, it would have to be a Doctor, or even Professor in the field of humanity: definitely one of those professions that society would consider to be Worth While, with capital W’s. He has a calming effect on those around him. Yes, I am sure that one day he may become a great Healer.

It is sometimes easy to forget that he and Ivy are twins, for whilst he might look much the same age, his behaviour can often be that of a much, much older young man, but then, just when you think ‘what happened to his childhood?’ a cheeky grin will spread across his face as he plays some childish joke.

Now that they have run off home to the Sage Cottage, I will tell you a little of their afternoon here in the Leaping Cairn Meadow. This is the only place you can play ‘Keep and Lose’ apart from the Knapp Sapling Nursery – but no-one plays there. You see, this meadow is full of Cairns; ancient piles of stone; some as tall as a man; dozens of them; they stand and shimmer in the sun; rattling a little as you pass by. Between the piles of stones there is a mass of wild flowers and a good number of Laurel trees in full fruit. The fruit of the Rhodobay maximus, to give them their proper name, can be used as a balm, or as a pick-me-up, or even as a snack. These lucky Laurels are amongst the friendliest (if not a little absent minded) of all the trees you could imagine or hope to meet. They always seem to be happy, and, if they notice you, pleased to see you. They love to nestle between the willows and dip their root tips in the water, but then they also like to get away from the water altogether. Their ability to waddle their way from one spot to another enables them to ensure they can provide the best possible conditions for their precious fruit.

It may be truer to say that they amble rather than waddle. The way they move is not so unlike little old ladies at the market, who have the knack of wandering into the very spot you were clearly heading for, with such benign intention as to put them totally beyond reproach – or even mild comment. From the Laurels point of view, such mobility is also a

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particularly useful ability when sharing a meadow with the Leaping Cairns, who can suddenly decide to dump themselves neatly between you and the sun!

Some say that these piles of stones are the playful souls of ancient gods who played in these lands long before people arrived. The very same Gods who shaped the landscape, filled the seas and coloured the skies. Some say that these piles of stones mark their graves, and that they leap around the meadow in order to keep the exact location of their burial a secret. Whatever their origins, their desire to leap around the meadow with such enthusiasm explains why the existence of a game such as ‘Keep and Lose’ is almost an inevitability. Cairns can remain in one place for weeks on end if they wish. In fact, one fairly large Leaper, so it is rumoured, has not leapt for over eight years, but this is unusual. The majority will leap around to their heart’s content. Some can leap around the field almost continuously, especially on a nice hot summer’s day when the pollens are high and children visit to play, which begs the question: are they leaping because the children are visiting, or would they leap just as much if no-one was there? A question which has been debated with as much curiosity and fervour as the question concerning exactly what sound a falling tree makes if there is no-one there to hear it.

If you watch a Leaping Cairn closely, you can learn to recognise the signs that a jump is close at hand: that little rattle of the centre stones; the subtle agitation of the head stone. The gentle, and oh-so-slight bending to one side, coiled and ready to leap in the opposite direction.

Children are very good at reading the Leap signs of the Cairns which is why they enjoy the game so much. It is a skill that diminishes with passing years, and this reduced ability is the reason adults often give for not joining in. “It’s a child’s game” they will say. The truth is that this skill and agile ability of children is also accompanied by a complete lack of personal injury. This last aspect also diminishes as adulthood approaches, rendering the experience of a good leap far less appealing. Grownups are more likely to enjoy games such as TriOpoly (pro: Tree-op-olly) which can also be won by children, but only when the grownups decide it should be so. This requires the children to be very, very grown up, and pretend to celebrate their great victory, so as not to upset the grownups, who can be very childish.

Most children of roughly the same age will be equally adept at ‘Keep and Lose’. The rules of the game are simple. All participants stand still, about 10 feet apart, and in a circle if there are several of them. Each person points to a Cairn and the first person whose Cairn moves, is “it”. The one who is “it” then shouts “running ready or not” and starts to run around the field, darting between the Cairns and the Laurels, trying to lose

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the other players who try to keep hot on the heels of “it”. The skill of being “it” is to anticipate the Leaps of the Cairns, so that you can place yourself behind where the Cairn will be, and then apparently disappear (if it is possible to appear to disappear). This might sound simple enough, but when you are concentrating on several dozen Cairns at once, any one of which can move at almost instantaneous speed and come crashing thunderously into their new location, dangerously close to your planned spot, it is easy to miss the perambulatory bumblings of the Laurels who can upset even the best of plans. It is precisely this element of danger which is cited by many adults as their reason for having discontinued their childhood interest in the game. It does not, however, explain why they allow their own children to play. Perhaps they know that the dangers are greatest for those who have lost their younger skills, and the truth is, accidents are rare, and when they do occur, tend to be of a minor nature.

The task of being a chaser is two-fold: As well as keeping tabs on “it”, you have to keep a very watchful eye on the progress of the other chasers, for as soon as it is apparent that someone has lost the trail of “it”, the remaining players all shout out “Peter’s lost”, unless of course his name is not Peter. Usually, Peter will admit to have lost track of the whereabouts of “it”, and will remove himself from play. If, however, Peter refuses to acknowledge that he has lost “it”, then “it” must reveal him or herself in order to settle the matter. The object is for “it” to lose everyone as quickly as possible, whereas the “keepers” try to follow for as long as possible. The last person to lose “it” will be “it” next time.

As Ivy and Arthur made their way home, they started talking about the game. “Wouldn’t it be more interesting if there were more of us playing?” asked Ivy.

“What do you mean?” asked Arthur. “Well, I mean, it’s all very well us playing together, but I always lose

you, and you always lose me, sometimes I’m a little bit quicker than you, so I win, and …”

“I know,” Arthur interrupted, “half the time I win, half the time you win, yes I suppose you’re right, it all depends really.”

“Depends on what?” “Well,” he said carefully, “it depends why you are playing.” “You could say that about anything, you play because you want to.” “I just meant that sometimes you do something because you just want

to do it, and sometimes you do it because you want to be with the people you’re doing it with.”

“Well of course I understand that,” there was a distinct sharpness in Ivy’s voice; she knew Arthur was right, and was distinctly peeved that he

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got there before she did. “That was so obvious there was no need for me to say it.”

“What I meant,” started Arthur who knew she was upset now, and that he needed to make it all right again before they got home, “what I meant was, yes, we really should go down with some friends more often, it really would be much more of a game I suppose, but it’s also nice just to come here together, just us, sometimes.”

“So that’s understood then, next time we’ll go with some friends from school,” she stopped and looked at Arthur “... and you’re right; sometimes it should still be just the two of us. Come on, we’ll be late for the 6.13 news.”

She turned and ran on. “Beat you back,” she said laughing. Arthur smiled a comfortable smile, “Oh no you don’t,” he said as he

gave chase.