Moon Song (15 page)

‘Better be halves,’ she replied, eyeing the chalked-up menu on the blackboard. ‘And a local ham and pickle sandwich for me.’

‘Make that two halves of Jail Ale please and two ham sandwiches.’

‘Coming up,’ the jolly, middle-aged woman behind the bar replied. ‘You sit yourselves down and I’ll bring the sandwiches over when we’ve made them.’ She drew the beer into a couple of handled half-pint jugs and passed them to Mark.

He followed Isoldé over to the trestle by the fire. It had a window behind it so they could see the moor.

‘Dartmoor is impressive,’ she said after a first sip of beer. ‘What’s that huge circle over there?’ She pointed out the window.

‘That’s Grimspound,’ Mark announced, there was a note of pride in his voice. ‘It’s a late Bronze Age settlement. All those little circles you can see inside it are the twenty-four hut circles, the big one is the surrounding stone wall.’

‘Cool …’ Isoldé breathed, staring at it over her half-pint. ‘Why Grimspound? It makes me think of the Grimpen Mire in The Hound of the Baskervilles.’

Mark chuckled. ‘Very likely! Although it was probably Fox Tor Mires that were Conan Doyle’s inspiration but he may well have thought up the name from Grimspound. And, a bit further down the road, if you turn off to the left you’ll come to Lower Merripit Farm where Seventh Wave Music hang out. I’m sure he used that name for the villain’s house because he knew the place.’

‘Oh I love their stuff. I’d forgotten they’re on Dartmoor. Maybe, one day, I’ll go make a drum with them.’

‘Or a flute,’ suggested Mark. ‘You could, indeed you should, play that from the heart, not from written music.’

She smiled, touched his hand. ‘Why Grimspound?’

‘Grim is one of Odin’s names,’ Mark told her. ‘A local vicar,
Richard Polwhele, gave it the name back in 1797. Later, in 1893, the Dartmoor Exploration Committee got a dig together. They recorded lots of stuff about Grimspound but they also, and very controversially, did a reconstruction of the site. Goodness knows how good that is!’

Isoldé rolled her eyes. ‘Hmmm …yup!’ She laughed. ‘You know, we should come up and walk up here. I love this ancient stuff and the tors themselves are incredible. And I want to visit Ted Hughes’ stone. I’ve wanted to since Darshan told me about it when I first came down but I never got around to it.’

‘We will, now you’ve got time. Round toits are notoriously hard to find but we have a good supply hidden away in the old mines in north Cornwall.’ Mark chuckled.

‘Oh! You!’ She made to slap him, he pretended to duck. Her face changed, became serious. ‘That’s a point though, what am I going to do with myself now I don’t have a job?’

‘What do you want to do?’ Mark put his hand out to just touch hers.

‘I don’t know. Except I have to find this song. And Tristan. The gods know how long that will take or how much of my time.’

‘I’d guess you don’t want to be a housewife …?’ Mark was grinning.

‘The gods forbid!’ Isoldé spluttered. ‘And I’m no good at it. Mrs P will stay, won’t she? We can afford her?’

‘Oh yes. She’d hate to leave, it’s part of her life. And yes, I’d be affording her anyway, you don’t make any difference to that, not economically.’ His fingers squeezed hers.

‘I just don’t know what I want to do, Mark. All my training is in writing, journalism, books. And music, and the CD sales side now from working with Darshan. Goodness knows if there’s anyone wants me to do that in Caer Bottreaux. And, you know, I don’t want to be commuting somewhere. I want to really be based in Caergollo, not have to go out to work each day.’

‘Doesn’t lots of journalism happen through the internet now?’
Mark was not one for reading, watching or listening to the news, he just about managed to catch up on a daily weather forecast and read the odd musicians’ magazine, usually when he was flying somewhere.

Isoldé chuckled. ‘Yes, it does, but I don’t know if I want to go back to that again. Being with you, not having the news in my face every day, has changed me. The world still goes on even if I don’t know all the details and the latest. The world of Caergollo, of the woodfolk, of the people in Caer Bottreaux has its own rhythm and events, I find that far more interesting than the idiot world politics.’ She paused. ‘I dunno! I’m sure something will turn up. My only thing is being financially independent.’ She scowled. ‘I know you’ve said it’s OK but it sort of isn’t, not to me! Makes me feel like a child again. I must earn a bit of money for myself.’

‘I know, love.’ Mark let go her hand as the sandwiches arrived. Isoldé earning her own money was the only fly in the ointment. It would work out, he felt that, but he’d no idea how.

‘First of all, we’ve got to get ourselves set up together at home.’ Mark was practical after eating his first sandwich. ‘One step at a time. We’re going to have a busy time getting you moved in.’

They finished up the sandwiches and gave the coffee a miss. Back on the road, Isoldé followed Mark across country again and the moors rolled along on either side. He turned right after a few miles and headed for Tavistock then headed down the lanes to cross the Tamar at Gunnislake. The transit van creaked its way down the steep hill, round the hairpin bend and squeezed over the bridge to climb up the other side. Isoldé followed trepidatiously although her car was much narrower than the van.

Coming up to Callington, Mark turned off again and headed out to Kit’s Hill. He pulled up in the car park, Isoldé drew in beside him. They walked up to the trig point and stood looking out, sipping water and glad of the break. The wind blew her hair
around her face, it felt good.

‘It’s the site of King Arthur’s last battle, so they say,’ Mark told her. ‘We’ll come up again soon so you can explore, see what you think.’

‘Feels wild,’ she said looking round and down at the surrounding land.

They went back to the vehicles and Mark led the way on the last lap of the journey across country towards Launceston and down the back ways to Caergollo. Isoldé was glad to get there, shut the gate finally behind her own car and follow the transit up to the front door. She’d enjoyed the journey but it was good to come to the end of it too.

Mrs P was waiting for them with four stalwart lads from the village, including Mark’s gardener and his teenage son. They were already wrestling boxes out of the van by the time she’d put her own car away and brought in the bags and bits it contained. Isoldé took one look and decided not even to think about it for the time being. Mrs P steered her through to the kitchen, parked her at the table with a big mug of coffee and a plate of Cornish fairings.

‘You let them all do their bit, you hear? There’s no need for you to worrit yerself over what goes where. Nial and the boy will be here again tomorrow, they can fetch and carry for you so you get sorted. The main thing’s to get that dratted van unloaded and back down the garage tonight. And Nial can see to that so Mark don’t have to fret neither.’

Isoldé had to laugh. She wasn’t used to having help, still, despite Exeter where there’d always been someone to lend a hand. It was all so unlike London where nobody was ever available except for a fee. Country folk, it seemed, did still help each other out, or most of them. She liked that.

The bay window looked out down the valley. The room was full of light and the sound of chuckling water from the stream, and the tree-echoing music of birdsong. This was the place for the desk, she thought but she also laughed softly …she might well spend a lot of her time looking out the window rather than working.

Was she going to write? Yes, she couldn’t see herself without writing, but what the outcome of the writing would be she didn’t know. She was trying to get herself not to look for outcomes but just to do things, do the writing, allow it to find its own way to wherever it was going. For Isoldé that was hard, she was used to knowing where she was going, even if the direction might change later.

“It’s good to have an end to journey to, but it’s the journey that matters in the end.” Ursula LeGuin, Isoldé remembered, from “Left Hand of Darkness”. Not a way of thinking she was used to but one she felt it would be good to get her head around. It fitted with what she was beginning to learn from the woodfolk, how they allowed the forces of nature to find their way and influence all forms of life. Not being in control but being part of a team. Hmmm! She was undoubtedly going to trip over her feet learning those lessons.

She and Mark had chosen a couple of interconnecting rooms on the west side of the house that would be Isoldé’s own, her place to be, to work, her own space. Mark would knock before entering here. Nial and his son had set the bookcases and desk where she had indicated. The next room was her sitting room, it also contained a sofa bed so she could be completely independent if she ever wanted to be. The big double door that connected the two rooms also made it possible to open them up into one big space and, in any case, she didn’t need to go out into the corridor to go from one to the other. It felt good. They’d
redecorated so the walls were a primrose yellow and the ceilings blue, her own bright rugs glowed on the waxed wood floors. She went through to the sitting room to try the window-seat. Embar was already there, sat with all four feet precisely together and his fluffy black tail neatly coiled around the whole. He was looking out the window but glanced back over his shoulder to her as she entered.

‘Hi,’ she said softly. ‘Looks good, don’t you think?’ Embar purred enthusiastically. Isoldé sat down beside him and rubbed his ears.

Outside, the wide lawns stretched down to the stream and up to the woods and the path leading up to the kieve. The grass was full of sunlight, a blackbird hunted worms and grubs, a robin carolled from the ash tree by the bridge. Peaceful.

Beside her, Embar couldn’t help clicking his teeth in excitement, watching potential lunch strutting about on the lawn. ‘Birds are
always
out of season,’ Isoldé whispered to him. He stopped clicking and butted her hand. ‘I know,’ she chuckled. ‘Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth!’

She’d enjoyed Darshan’s cats but Embar was something else. At Caergollo, she lived with him all the time rather than visiting as she had with Darshan. He had been Tristan’s companion, familiar spirit, he adored Mark and it seemed he liked her a lot too, he certainly followed her about the house, twined round her legs, got under her feet and asked her to feed him. She would find herself talking with him, confiding in him, and she always felt better after doing so.

It would work out here, she knew it, even if she couldn’t see how, couldn’t see what she would be doing as gainful employment.

‘Stop hurrying so!’ she told herself, ‘You’ve only just arrived here on a permanent basis, you still have savings in the bank, you don’t need to ask Mark for pocket money for a while yet. Give yourself a break! And, you seem to have a job – even if it’s not
gainful employment – in finding the song, and finding out what the hell is going on with Tristan. That’s going to take some time and energy. Then you have to learn how things work out here in the real countryside.’

She’d fairly grasped that although Exeter was a lot more laid back than London it was still a city, a metropolis. This was “the sticks”. You had to get in the car and drive five miles to the nearest post office, ten miles to the nearest bank and best part of fifteen to a supermarket, while Waitrose was a jaunt to Plymouth. It was deeper into the wilds than she’d ever lived before! It meant thinking and planning your shopping, menus, toiletries, everything. It also meant much more buying on the internet too. There wasn’t a Body Shop that she knew of nearer than Plymouth. She didn’t like Plymouth much so it would be buy on the net for soap, shampoo, creams and perfumes.

Did that mean more time for the things she wanted to do? An unknown factor as yet. She wanted to explore Caer Bottreaux, there might even be a job for her there although she wasn’t holding her breath and, anyway, the local people would need to get used to her, accept her, before any openings on that front were going to come about.

A call up the stairs announced lunch. Embar leapt straight down, she followed, they went downstairs together.

‘Settling in?’ Mrs P asked as she served up a bowl of homemade leak and potato soup.

‘The things are set out. I’m sort of getting used to them,’ Isoldé replied. ‘It’s odd, not being at work. Probably be a while before I get used to that.’

‘Ahhh, likely it will,’ Mrs P agreed.

Mark came in, hooked a chair with his foot and accepted a bowl of soup. ‘You done your rooms?’

‘I have so.’ Isoldé smiled at him. ‘They’re really nice. And Embar approves, he came and inspected, sat on my window seat. The view is wonderful, I could just look out there forever.’ She
chuckled. ‘Don’t know how much work I’m going to get done!’

‘You will, once it starts. You’re just getting settled.’

‘What’s your regular routine? I’ve never been here when you’re working.’

‘I have to practice every day. I do piano practice, keep up my repertoire on the music side. But I need to practice on an organ too. I use Tristan’s for that, up at St Symphorium’s on the cliffs at Forrabury, above Caer Bottreaux. You could come and listen if you like, you’ve not been there yet, it’s quite amazing and the organ itself is painted.’

‘And she could see the Stitches an’ all,’ Mrs P put in.

‘So she could.’

‘What are the stitches?’

‘Aha! They’re a mediaeval field system. The old strip system, still extant and used. The National Trust owns them now and rents the fields out to local people who farm them in the old ways. Want to come?’

‘Sure do. And I love to hear you play.’

Mark coloured up. Mrs P snorted softly, hiding her grin behind a tea towel as she pulled apple pie out of the oven for pudding.

The church was high on the top of the cliff above Caer Bottreaux. St Symphorium’s was an original, a seaman’s church, hanging above the sea to which it prayed for mercy.

Entering the church itself, Isoldé was struck by the simplicity and beauty of the place. The altar was made of old planks from pew seats, fantastically carved. The organ, as Mark had said, was painted, all the pipes coloured and beautiful, twined with vines and fruit. Mark went straight to it and began warming up. She went slowly round the church, examining all the different strange carvings and inscriptions. There was a soft breathing then the organ began to hum softly. Mark began to play. Isoldé sat down to listen.