Edmund Cooper SF Gateway Omnibus

by Edmund Cooper

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi; Sci-fi Anthologies & Collections

Synopsis

From the SF Gateway, the most comprehensive digital library of classic SFF titles ever assembled, comes an ideal sample introduction to the fantastic work of Edmund Cooper. A respected critic and writer, whose work spanned four decades, Cooper began publishing SF in the 1950s and often portrayed a bleaker view of the future than many of his contemporaries. Cooper's works tended to depict unconventional heroes facing unfamiliar and remote environments - often in post-apocalyptic settings. This omnibus contains three titles that have been out of print for many years: THE CLOUD WALKER; ALL FOOLS' DAY and A FAR SUNSET.

Release date: February 6, 2014

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 481

Sample

Edmund Cooper (1926–1982) was a UK editor and author who served in the British Merchant Navy 1944–1945. His literary career began soon after; he edited Review Fifty (three issues, Winter 1950–Spring 1951), contributing poems, fiction and nonfiction to that journal, and began to publish stories of genre interest with ‘The Unicorn’ for Everybody’s in 1951. He produced a considerable amount of short fiction in the 1950s, much of it assembled (with considerable overlap) in his first three collections: Tomorrow’s Gift (1958), Voices in the Dark (1960) and Tomorrow Came (1963). Most of his short work came early, perhaps his best known story being ‘Invisible Boy’ (23 June 1956 Saturday Evening Post), which was the basis of the film The Invisible Boy (1957). For longer works, Cooper’s early pseudonyms included George Kinley, under which name he published his first sf novel, Ferry Rocket (1954), which speculated about Space Flight in near space; Martin Lester, the name he used for The Black Phoenix (1954), in which a Nazi cabal attempts to destabilize the Western world; and Broderick Quain. For the later Expendables sf adventure series, beginning with The Deathworms of Kratos (1975), he wrote as Richard Avery – the protagonist of an earlier novel under his own name, Transit (1964). From 1967 until his death, he was an influential reviewer of sf for The Sunday Times in London.

It was as a novelist, however, that Cooper was most highly regarded. Though it was for his earlier novels that he was most appreciated, the quality of his work held up until Prisoner of Fire (1974); his last novel, Merry Christmas, Ms Minerva! (1978), a Near Future tale set in a Britain dominated by trade unions, seemed less generous than his earlier speculations about the condition of the land. His first novels were clearly conceived within sf frames, but from the very first tended to focus in Satirical terms on the Near Future. His first novel under his own name, Deadly Image (1958; published as The Uncertain Midnight in the UK), vividly describes a post-holocaust world in which Androids are gradually threatening to supplant humankind; Cooper’s vision of humanity, here and elsewhere, is acid-edged, as is his abiding sense (typical of the satirical mind) that we are all too capable of creating monsters in the name of Utopia; its bleak depiction of this android-threatened world hints at an underlying lack of trust in progress, a distrust of the new technophilic post-War milieu that – though increasingly acceptable for later readers – helps explain his lack of a wide and faithful readership. Several years later, in The Overman Culture (1971), he reversed field, with the androids seen as morally exemplary. Other tales with a refreshing sharp bite include All Fools’ Day (1966) (see below), The Last Continent (1969), The Tenth Planet (1973) and The Cloud Walker (1973) (see below). These works incorporate, more or less fully, a basic premise that the planet has been rendered to a greater or lesser degree uninhabitable; a condition for which we must almost certainly take the blame.

Several of his better novels are set off-Earth, and tend to be more sanguine. Seed of Light (1959) is a relatively weak Generation-Starship tale in which a small group manages to escape from a devastated Earth. Stronger examples include Transit (1964) and Sea-Horse in the Sky (1969), in both of which Aliens conduct experiments on humans sequestered on strange planets. The best of these books is almost certainly A Far Sunset (1967) (see below).

There can be no real doubt that Cooper’s later work struggles against a sense that the world was not improving, and that the inmates were running the asylum. This sense, that somehow we did not prosper from the experience of World War Two, is not surprising in an author who came to manhood in England of the late 1940s, and whose constant return to the theme of nuclear war amplifies the anxieties of his generation. Though some critics, who accused him of being anti-Feminist, may have taken his satirical thrusts too literally, it remains the case that his statement about women in a man’s world – ‘Let them compete against men, they’ll see that they can’t make it’ – was perhaps injudicious in lacking a level playing field to test the hypothesis. A persistent edginess about women in power becomes explicit in Five to Twelve (1968) and Who Needs Men? (1972); but it would not be wise to suggest that this edginess did not also apply to men: there are no well-run worlds in Cooper’s universe. In his last successful novel, Prisoners of Fire (1974), a group of people endowed with Psi Powers focus their energies on the assassination of the British political elite; who seem to deserve this comeuppance. Cooper died with his reputation at an unfairly low ebb; he was a competent and prolific author who amply rewards his readers, and deserves to gain more.

The three novels here selected argue strongly for Cooper’s rejuvenation as a significant voice in British sf, as one of the relatively small cadre of authors who bore World War Two, and its aftermath, in their bones. The Cloud Walker may be his most successful work, and was so received on publication. Two nuclear Holocausts have transformed England into a medievalized Ruined Earth, but the Luddite response of a new church – Cooper was consistently acidulous about organized Religion – is stupefyingly oppressive, and the young protagonist properly wins the day with an Invention which he uses to defend his village from assailants. This invention allows him to fly. The march of history resumes; progress is possible. In All Fools’ Day, Homo sapiens is murderously unbalanced by a change in solar radiation; the Near Future setting is rendered in vividly grim terms, and conveys as clearly as anything he wrote the characteristic Cooperian sense that given a chance we will fail in our duty to ourselves, our homes, our country, our world. The third novel here presented, A Far Sunset (1967), represents a welcome escape from the planet where we have behaved so badly. The protagonist has been stranded on a strange though seemingly Earthlike planet, where he is captured by Aliens, who demonstrate to him the narrowness of his human obsession with the benefits of Technology. These three novels are lessons in human nature. They are sharp-tongued, but winnowed with wit, and a love of story-telling. They are discoveries we should make.

For a more detailed version of the above, see Edmund Cooper’s author entry in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction: http://sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/cooper_edmund

Some terms above are capitalised when they would not normally be so rendered; this indicates that the terms represent discrete entries in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction.

When Kieron was eight years old he was encouraged to spend much time in the company of his affianced bride, Petrina. Later, at the end of the age of innocence, they would not be permitted to be alone together until Kieron had attained his majority, had been released from his apprenticeship, and was thus able to fulfil his contractual obligations.

Kieron was apprenticed to Hobart, the painter. Already, the boy was allowed to clean brushes and to help with the stretching of canvas and the grinding of pigment. When he was ten years old he would go to live with Hobart so that he could attend upon his master at all times. Kieron looked forward to this time and also dreaded it. He was anxious to discover the mysteries of painting, the laws of perspective, the laws of harmony and the laws of proper representation; but he did not really want to be a painter. He wanted to fly. He wanted to fly through the air like a bird. And that was heresy.

He was old enough to understand about heresy, young enough not to be terrified by it. The dominie who taught him and the neddy who took care of his spiritual discipline had spent much time expounding the diabolical nature of unlawful machines. They had succeeded not in instilling Kieron with a proper dread of machines but only with a secret fascination. Even at the age of five, Kieron knew that some day he would have to construct an unlawful machine in order to fly like a bird.

Petrina was nice – for a girl. She was the daughter of Sholto, the smith. Because Kieron was affianced to Petrina, he was allowed to watch Sholto at the forge. It was a great privilege. Some day, Kieron realised, he, too, would have to be able to work metal. He would have to be able to work metal to make the necessary parts for a flying machine. He asked many questions of Sholto. The smith, a huge, gentle man who took great pleasure in his work, saw no harm in talking to a small boy – especially one who was contracted to his daughter – and did not regard it as a breach of the oath of secrecy imposed by the Guild of Smiths. Soon Kieron had picked up a little of the lore of the tempering of steel, the fastening of plates by rivets, the shaping of helms, clasps, pikes, ploughshares.

‘Boy,’ Sholto would say good-naturedly, ‘you are nought but a loon, an idler. Your thoughts should be of draughting and colouring, not of beating metals to your will. Go now and think on how to hold a charred twig steady to your design, or Master Hobart will make your arse somewhat tender.’

Kieron was discreet. He knew when the smith joked or was earnest; and he knew also that it was wise not to mention his growing knowledge of the working of metals to anyone, and particularly his father.

The days of childhood are both long and short. Kieron would rise with his family at first light and, like them, carry out mechanically the routine tasks that were necessary before the real work of the day could begin. He would collect shavings and waste wood from his father’s workshop for the fire, while his mother drew water from the well and set the porridge to boil, and while his father went out to seek game or to fell a tree to be stored against its seasoning. When the sun was its own width above the eastern rim of the world, the family would come together for breakfast. Porridge always, bread always, fat always, bacon sometimes, eggs sometimes – depending upon the state of the hens, the state of the pigs, the state of trade.

After breakfast, Kieron, along with a score of other children in the hill reaches of the seigneurie, would go to the dominie’s house for an hour of instruction. After that, each boy would go to the house of his master, to serve at his apprenticeship until noon.

Kieron was luckier than most boys. Hobart was prosperous, having found much favour in the eyes of Fitzalan, Lord of the Seigneurie of Arundel. Hobart was strong on portraiture, and Fitzalan of Arundel was a vain man with a vain wife and three vain daughters. He still hoped for a son; but the daughters alone were more than enough to keep Hobart tolerably employed.

Hobart could afford to indulge Kieron, could afford to let the boy experiment with charcoal sticks and precious paper. Hobart had never married. Prosperous now, white-haired and lonely, he saw Kieron as the son he would have wished to beget had there been time. So the boy was indulged much and scolded little. Hobart discerned that he had a talent for line, but not as yet a great sense of colour. Well, perhaps it would come. Perhaps it would come. Hobart liked to think that his pictures and those of Kieron’s would eventually hang side by side in the great hall of the castle, collecting the dust and the dignity of centuries …

The days of childhood are both long and short. In the afternoons, when Kieron had discharged his duties to Master Hobart, his time was his own. Such freedom was a luxury. It would end when he reached the age of ten and became a full apprentice. And after that, he realised, the freedom to do as he pleased would be gone from his life for ever. Unless he could change the destiny that had been chosen for him. He was young enough to believe that this was possible, old enough to realise that he would have to challenge established – almost sacred – traditions.

In the summer afternoons, he would go with Petrina to the woodlands of the downs – the ridge of hills that rose almost like a man-made barrier ten or twelve kilometres from the sea. There, on land that belonged to the roe deer, the pheasant and the rabbit, they would construct worlds of make-believe.

Petrina was a wide-eyed nervous girl, with hair the smokey colour of wheat that was overdue for harvesting. One day, Kieron would be her husband, the father of her children. Therefore she determined to learn about him. She already knew that he had a secret ambition; but she did not know what it was.

On a hot summer afternoon, partly by chance, partly by design, she learned what Kieron wanted to do most of all.

They had wearied of climbing trees, disturbing deer, picking wild flowers; and now they were resting on short, brilliantly green grass under an enormous beech tree, gazing up through its leaves at the sky.

‘When you are a great painter,’ said Petrina, ‘I shall be able to buy beautiful fabrics and make dresses that will be the envy of every woman in the seigneurie.’

‘I shall never be a great painter,’ said Kieron without regret.

‘You are apprenticed to Master Hobart. He is a great painter. You will learn his skills, and to them you will add your own.’

‘I shall never be as great as Master Hobart. He gave his life to it. I cannot give mine.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, Petrina, there is something else I must do.’

‘There is nothing else you can do, Kieron. You are apprenticed to Master Hobart, and you and I are contracted for marriage. Such is our destiny.’

‘Such is our destiny,’ mimicked Kieron. ‘Stupid talk. The talk of a girl child. I want to fly.’

‘Don’t you want to marry me?’

‘I want to fly.’

She sighed. ‘We are to be married. We shall be married. You will be a grand master of your art. And we shall have three children. And your greatest painting will be of a terrible fish that destroys men by fire. It is foretold. And there is nothing to be done about it.’

Kieron was intrigued. ‘It is foretold?’

Petrina smiled. ‘Last summer, the astrologer, Marcus of London, was summoned to the castle. Seigneur Fitzalan wished to know if his lady would ever bring forth a son.’

‘Well?’

‘My father was commanded to repair the bearings of the stand for the astrologer’s star glass. My mother persuaded Marcus to cast your horoscope in fee … So Kieron, the future is settled. You will be a grand master, and I shall bear three children … Listen to the bees! They dance mightily. If we can follow them, we can come back at dusk for the honey.’

‘Hang the bees!’ exploded Kieron. ‘And hang the astrologer Marcus! I alone can decide my future. I shall complete my apprenticeship with Master Hobart. There is nothing I can do about that. Besides, he is a kind man, and a better master than most. Also, I like to draw. But when I am a man, things will be different. I shall be my own master. I shall choose my own future. And I choose to learn how to fly.’

‘Will you sprout wings?’

‘I shall construct a flying machine.’

Petrina turned pale. ‘A flying machine. Kieron, be careful. It is all right to speak of such things to me. I shall be your wife. I shall bear your children. But do not talk of flying machines to anyone else, especially the dominie and the neddy.’

Kieron pressed her hand, and lay back on the bright green grass and stared upwards through the leaves of the beech tree. ‘I am not a fool,’ he said. ‘The dominie is like the neddy, in that his mind is stiff with rules and habits. But the dominie is just a weak old man, whereas the neddy—’

‘Whereas the neddy could have you burned at the stake,’ cut in Petrina sharply.

‘They don’t burn children now. Even you should know that.’

‘But they still burn men, and one day you will be a man. They burned a farmer at Chichester two summers ago for devising a machine to cut his wheat … Kieron, for my sake, try not to think about flying machines. Such thoughts are far too dangerous.’

Kieron let out a great sigh. ‘All the exciting things are dangerous … Look at the sky through the leaves. So blue, so beautiful. And when the white clouds pass, don’t you wish you could reach up and touch them? They are like islands, great islands in the sky. One day I shall journey among those islands. One day I shall reach out and touch the clouds as I pass by.’

Petrina shivered. ‘You make me feel cold with this wild talk.’

‘I make myself feel cold also. The First Men had flying machines, Petrina. Silver birds that roared like dragons and passed high over the clouds. The dominie says so. Even the neddy will admit to that. It is history.’

‘The First Men destroyed themselves,’ retorted Petrina.

‘So did the Second Men,’ said Kieron tranquilly. ‘They also had flying machines; though not, perhaps, as good as those of the First Men. It must have been wonderful to pass across the skies at great speed, to look down upon the earth and see men go about their tasks like insects.’

‘Men are not insects!’

‘From a great height, all living things must seem like insects.’

‘The First Men destroyed themselves. So did the Second Men. That, too, is history. The neddies are right. Machines are evil.’

Kieron laughed. ‘Machines have no knowledge of good and evil. Machines cannot think. Only men can think.’

‘Then,’ said Petrina, ‘too much thinking is evil – especially when it is about forbidden things.’

Suddenly Kieron felt strangely old, strangely protective. He said: ‘Don’t worry, little one. I shall not think too much. Very likely, you will have three children, as the astrologer says … I know where there is a plum tree. Shall we see if there are any ripe enough to eat?’

Petrina jumped up. ‘I know where there is an apple tree. The high ones are already turning red.’

Kieron laughed. ‘Plums and apples! Let us drive all gloomy thoughts away with plums and apples.’

Hand in hand, they walked out of the glade, out into the rich gold splendour of late summer sunshine.

On his tenth birthday, Kieron ate his farewell breakfast with all the solemnity required for the occasion. Then he shook hands with Gerard, his father, and kissed Kristen, his mother, once on each cheek. It was only a ritual farewell because they would still see each other frequently. But it was the symbolic end of Kieron’s childhood. He would sleep no more in the house of his father.

Gerard said: ‘Son, you will attend Master Hobart in all his needs. He will impart his skills to you. In years to come, your paintings will adorn the walls of the castle. Maybe, they will also hang in the great houses of London, Bristol, Brum. Then, perhaps, your mother and I will not have lived in vain.’

‘Sir,’ said Kieron, forcing back the tears that came to his eyes for no apparent reason, ‘I will learn from Master Hobart all that I may. I will try to be worthy of you. I would have been a joiner like you, had it been your pleasure. But, since you wished me to make likenesses, I will paint portraits that will not shame the father of Kieron Joinerson.’

Kristen held him close and said: ‘You have three shirts, three vests and two pair of leggings. You have a lambskin jacket and good boots. These I have packed in the deerhide bag. Keep warm, Kieron, eat well. We – we love you and shall watch your progress.’

He sensed that she, too, was miserable. He could not understand why. It was supposed to be an important and joyful occasion for all concerned.

‘I will see you soon, mother.’ He smiled, trying to cheer himself up as well.

‘Ay, but you will not lie again in the bed your father made for you. You will not curl up under the sheets I wove and the down quilt I made before you were born.’

‘Enough, Kristen,’ said Gerard. ‘You will have us all whimpering like babies.’ He looked at his wife and was aware of the white streaks in her hair, the lines etched on her face. She was twenty-eight years old; but her back was still straight and her breasts were high. She had worn well.

Kieron picked up the deerhide bag. Suddenly, the sense of occasion was upon him, and he felt very formal. ‘Good day to you, then, my parents. Thank you for giving me the breath of life. Thank you for filling my belly in summer and in winter. Ludd rest you both.’

Kristen fled into her kitchen, sobbing. Gerard raised a great hairy arm to his forehead, as he often did in his workshop, and wiped away sweat that did not exist.

‘Ludd be with you, my son. Go now to Master Hobart. As I am the best joiner in fifty kilometres marching, so you will become the best painter within a thousand kilometres.’

‘Father, I want to—’ Kieron stopped. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say: I do not want to be a painter. I want to learn how to fly.

‘Yes, Kieron?’

‘I – I want to be worthy of you and to make you proud.’

Gerard laughed and slapped his shoulder playfully. ‘Be off with you, changeling. From now on, you will eat better food than we have been able to give you.’

‘I doubt that it will taste as good.’ There was more he wanted to say. Much more. But the words stuck in his throat. Kieron went out of the cottage and began to walk along the track that led down to Arundel. He did not look back, but he knew that Gerard was standing at the door watching him. He did not look back because there was a disturbing impulse to run to his father and tell him what he really wanted to do.

It was a fine October morning. The sky was blue; but a thick carpet of mist lay over the low land stretching away to the sea. Arundel lay beneath the mist; but the castle, its grey stone wet with dew and shining in the morning light, sat on the hillside clear above the mist. A faerie castle, bright, mysterious, full of unseen power.

There was a saying: those who live in the shadow of the castle shall prosper or burn. Master Hobart had a house under the very battlements. He had prospered. Kieron hoped that he, too, would prosper. Only a fool would risk burning. Only a fool would want to build a flying machine.

High in the sky a buzzard circled gracefully. Kieron put down his bag and watched it. Such effortless movements, such freedom. He envied the bird. He envied its freedom, its effortless mastery of the air.

‘Some day, buzzard,’ said Kieron, ‘I shall be up there with you. I shall be higher. I shall look down on you. You will know that a man has invaded your world. You will know that men have reconquered the sky.’

Still, this was no time to make speeches that no one would hear, and particularly speeches that no one should hear. Master Hobart, doubtless, would be waiting and impatient. Kieron bent down to pick up his bag.

He saw a dandelion, a dandelion clock. A stem with a head full of seeds. He plucked the stem, lifted the head and blew. Seeds drifted away in the still, morning air. Seeds supported by the gossamer threads that resisted their fall to earth.

Kieron watched, fascinated. A few of the seeds, caught by an undetectable current of warm air, rose high and were lost against the morning sunlight. Even dandelion seeds could dance in the air. It was humiliating that man should be earthbound.

Kieron remembered that, on this day of days, Hobart would be waiting to welcome him with some ceremony.

He sighed, picked up the deerhide bag and marched resolutely towards Arundel. Ahead of him there would be months and years wherein he would have to master all the secrets of Hobart’s craft. But when he was a man, when the apprenticeship had been served with honour, that would be the time to learn to fly.

Meanwhile, there was always the time to dream.

Winter came, turning the land bleak, capping the downs with freezing mist, weaving a delicate tracery of frost over trees, grass, hedgerows and the walls of houses, bringing ice patches on the placid Arun river, making the air sharp as an English apple wine.

Hobart coughed much and painted little in the winter. The rawness ate into his bones, brought pains to his chest. He spent much time sitting by a log fire with a shawl or sheepskin round his shoulders, brooding upon projects that he would undertake in the spring. There was the mural for the great hall to consider; and Seigneur Fitzalan had commissioned a symbolic work, depicting the fall of the First Men, to the greater glory of Ludd, and for the Church of the Sacred Hammer.

Widow Thatcher, who cleaned house for Master Hobart and cooked for him, made many nourishing stews of rabbit or pheasant or lamb or venison with parsnips, mushrooms, carrots, potatoes, and the good black pepper for which Seigneur Fitzalan paid exorbitant sums to the skippers of windjammers that sailed as far as the Spice Islands.

Master Hobart would take but a few spoonfuls of the lovingly made stews. Then he would cough somewhat and draw shivering to the fire. Kieron, waiting properly until his master had finished eating, would gorge himself until his belly swelled and he felt the need to walk off his excess of eating in the frosty downs.

Though Hobart himself was idle during the dark months, he did not allow his young apprentice to remain idle. He instructed Kieron in the art of making fine charcoal sticks from straight twigs of willow, in the mysteries of fabric printing, in the newly fashionable art of collage, and in the ancient disciplines of colour binding and the preparation of a true canvas. He was even prepared to expend precious whale oil in the lamps so that on a dull afternoon Kieron would have enough light to sketch chairs, tables, bowls of fruit, hanging pheasants, and even the protesting Widow Thatcher.

Master Hobart was a white-haired old man, nearing his three score. The pains in his chest warned him that the summers left to him would not reach double figures. But he was stubbornly determined to live at least the eight years Kieron needed to complete his apprenticeship. Ludd permitting, he would see the boy established before he was lowered into the flinty earth of Sussex.

He permitted himself a small heresy – only a very small one, which surely Ludd would excuse. He permitted himself the secret delusion that Kieron was his natural son. Hobart had never lain with a woman. His art had been enough. But now he felt the need of a son; and Kieron, a boy with bright eyes and a quick mind, was all that a man could desire.

So Kieron escaped many of the usual rigours of apprenticeship. He was well fed, he had much freedom; and Hobart slipped many a silver penny into his purse.

Kieron understood the relationship very clearly. He loved the old man and did not object to the presumptions of a second father. Besides, Hobart was a great source of knowledge, and knowledge was what Kieron desired above everything.

In the evenings, before Hobart retired to an early bed, he and Kieron would sit, staring into the log fire, discerning images and fantasies, talking of many things. Hobart drank somewhat – to alleviate the pains and the coughing – of usquebaugh, or akvavit, or eau de vie, depending on which brigantines had recently traded with the seigneurie. In his cups at night, he was prepared to discuss that which he would shun sober in the morning. He was prepared to talk about the First Men and the Second Men. He was even prepared to talk about machines.

‘Master Hobart, the dominie says that the First Men choked on their own cleverness. What does he mean by that?’

‘Pah!’ Hobart sipped his usquebaugh and felt the warmth tingle pleasantly through his limbs. ‘Dominie Scrivener should teach you more of letters and the mysteries of nature and the casting of numbers than of the First Men.’

‘Yesterday, when I was making a picture of this house as it stands below the castle, and represented the roughness of the flint walls, you said I was clever. Is cleverness a bad thing? Shall I, too, choke on it?’

‘Peace, boy. Let me think. It seems I must not only instruct you in matters of art, but in matters of the world, and in proper thinking.’ More usquebaugh. More warmth. More coughing. ‘What the dominie says is true. The First Men did choke on their own cleverness. They made the air of their cities unfit to breathe, they made the waters of their rivers and lakes unfit to drink, they covered good farming land with stone and metal causeways, at times they even made the sea turn black. All this they did with the machines they worshipped insanely. And, as if that were not enough, they devised terrible machines whose sole purpose was to destroy people by the hundred, by the thousand, even by the ten thousand. Missiles, they were called: machines that leapt through the sky with their cargoes of death. Ay, the dominie was right. They choked on their own cleverness … But your cleverness, Kieron is something different. You are clever in an honest art, not in the love of mechanisms that destroy the hand that creates them.’

‘Must all machines be bad?’ asked Kieron.

‘Yes, Kieron, all machines are evil. The Divine Boy understood that a thousand years ago, when machines first began to corrupt this fair land. That is why he attacked them with his hammer. But the people would not listen; and so he was taken and crucified.’

There was silence for a while; silence punctuated by the crackling of logs on the hearth, and by Master Hobart noisily sipping his usquebaugh.

At length, Kieron grew bold. ‘It is said that Seigneur Fitzalan has a clock in the castle. A clock that goes tick-tock and tells the hours, minutes and very seconds of the day. A clock is a machine, isn