THE RUNES ~ Episode 1
by Richard Banks
Of
all the disasters that can befall a farmer drought is the worse, for with the
drought come the men who dig for what used to be, the forgotten things that
would stay that way but for the marks on the parched ground that give them
away.
The museum men are the worse, trespass
means nothing to them that know the law and their so called rights. No telling
them to keep to the footpath when they have their papers from the court. Best
to be friendly, keep them sweet. “Anything of interest?” they say and we tell
them about something we noticed that’s well clear of whatever it is we think
them more likely to be interested in. Usually, it works and they go away and don’t
come back for a year, two if we’re lucky, but there’s no hiding what used to be
below water, and during the longest drought in over a hundred years, it slowly
showed itself in what was once the millpond.
Great-granddad Gedds was the last to
see it when he was a boy and the mill was not yet the ruin it became. His stories
concerning it were given little credence outside the family, and as he got older
there can be no denying that they owed more to imagination than memory. Nevertheless
from what he said both dad and grand-dad were convinced that the ‘fabled’
object not only existed but that it was a gravestone, and as the water receded
it seemed they had been proved right. I mean it wasn’t like the sort of
gravestone you see in a churchyard, no finely chiseled slab or cross of stone,
but stone it was, a large oblong stump, three sides rough-hewed with the fourth
smooth, the all of it green stained but strangely free of moss.
Great-grandad had also spoken of
writing and in this, he was also proved right for on the smooth side there were
letters; strange symbols that no one knew or understood. Even after we took a
brush to it we were none the wiser even though each symbol was now as clear as
the day it was carved. Grandma said it was to do with the old religion while
Dad, who knew a bit of history believed the stone went back in time to the East
Saxons who gave
It was a discovery that would be of
much interest to the museum men, but were we to tell them? The harvest was only
two weeks away, and although it mattered little to us what they did in the pond
they would need a broad way through our fields for the cars and trucks that
brought the equipment they’d be needing. “Best to keep quiet,” said Dad until
the corn is in. Tell them after that if it stays dry, and if it doesn’t if the
pond fills up with rain, then why say anything at all. It was a sound plan to
which we all agreed, but secrets are hard to keep especially when you’re seven
years old, and my youngest, Will, spilled the beans at school in the hearing of
his teacher.
Next afternoon Jones from the museum
arrives, with a museum woman and a Professor Henderson from the Natural History
Museum. No stopping them now and with rain forecast for the following week, they’re
in no mood to let us first go to harvest. What the writing says no one knows
but the Professor’s sure that they’re runes, the written language of the Danes
who conquered these parts, and much else before King Alfred beat them back.
Some of it he can read but most he can’t because these runes are the oddest he
has ever seen. But of one thing he’s almost sure, the stone is a gravestone and
beneath it a body, or what is left of one.
The next morning we get a copy of the
court order that gives them their right to dig, and a man from the council
promises us we will get compensation although how much and when he doesn’t
know. He’s no sooner away than the first trucks arrive bringing pumps to drain
the pond of the remaining water. They come off the nearest road and cross both
our fields. This is now their highway that gets steadily wider until councilmen bang in metal posts that make a boundary. To make matters worse we’re on
national TV and hundreds of sightseers turn up, trespassing on our land in the
hope of seeing the stone which to their disappointment, but not mine, is soon
lifted and taken to lord knows where for lord knows what.
What’s happening in the pond now is the
slow picking away of mud to reveal what lies beneath. A policeman arrives, and
the reporters and sightseers finding the diggers less than entertaining leave
them to it. By the time it gets interesting again the only one there apart from
the diggers is me. What comes into view is the biggest skeleton that anyone has
ever seen or is likely to see. When
someone takes a tape measure to it he counts seven feet and eight inches from
head to foot, thick white bones glistening in the sunlight, as perfect in death
as they had been in life.
“Superman,” I hear someone say. “Man?”
says another voice, “twenty-four toes and fingers, are you sure?” The truth is
no one is. All they know is that this is something special, something they’ve
never seen before, possibly the most
important archaeological discovery of all time. They have struck gold and the
sooner they can get their treasure to a safe place the better. By evening all
the bones are lifted and on their way to
“When can I harvest what’s left of the
corn?” I ask Penrose. He’s a Ministry man from
“Nevertheless,” he says, “we appreciate
your discretion, at this stage the less said the better.” He hands me an
envelope addressed to myself; inside there is a cheque, my compensation money,
more than I was expecting. “There will, of course, be conditions, papers to
sign but for now all you need to remember is that you never saw the skeleton,
it doesn’t exist. If it does we will say so, you will not. Money given can also
be taken back and more besides, but if that is to be avoided who knows you may
get more.” His severe expression gives way to a smile and he asks if there are
any decent restaurants nearby. I tell him The Plough is best and he goes off
for his lunch. I’m off home, to Dad who knows what I saw and, like me, has told
no one else.
Next week the rain arrives, the pond
starts filling up and the dig is abandoned until the Spring. Penrose returns with a sheet of typescript
listing all the things I’m not allowed to do or say. At this point, I come clean
that Dad knows what I know, but like me has said nothing and will abide by
whatever we agree. This is the last thing Penrose wants to hear, he’s clearly
rattled although he tries not to show it. He says I could be sued for breach of
faith, but I talk him round saying that although Dad’s eighty-two and retired he still owns the farm and that we co-sign all papers concerning it. Penrose
asks to see him and, although he continues frosty for a while, agrees to
include Dad in the agreement he has brought. He changes each ‘I’ to ‘we’ and
reads it to us from top to bottom, which doesn’t take long, it being only four
paragraphs long. We are, if asked, to deny all knowledge of the skeleton and in
exchange for our co-operation, we will receive an annual payment matching what
we have already received. “However,” he says, “be warned, break the agreement
and there will be a fine, more than you can pay.” We sign, money for old rope.
He leaves, all smiles, saying that a
colleague will look in on us from time to time. Any problems we are to let him
know. “Oh yes,” he says as he walks towards his car, “I nearly forgot, there’ll
be no more digging, you can get back to work.”
And so life returns to normal, better than normal, there’s more money in the bank than we have ever had after harvest, and there’s more to come. Farming’s never been this good, or this easy, even if we just sit on the land and do nothing we’re still in the black. Then Parry calls and life’s not as good as we thought.
[To be continued]
Copyright Richard Banks
Richard, this looks to be the start of an enthralling story. What an innocuous cliff hanger last sentence. I for one can't wait! can we have pt2 tomorrow?
ReplyDeleteI agree with Len would like part two ASAP.
ReplyDelete