Konsk: The Great Takeover of the Place

11 Easily Confused States

Trueman clung to the fence in astonishment, fingers gripped in the diamond mesh, shaking, body racked with tremors, gasping painfully for breath. The visual disturbances didn't help either, streams of red dots at the top of his vision.

A fence he thought. A fence! It can’t be. But here it is, unmistakeably. He stared through its mesh, utterly bewildered.

The fence ran off to either side, following the contour, curving out of sight into the hillside. It was a fence, like a fence around a tennis court, ordinary enough to remind him of his own present, whenever that might be, so much so that a lump formed in his throat and he was swept suddenly with a disturbing sense of emotional loss.

Get a grip on yourself, he ordered himself brusquely, pushing the emotion down. Let us at least preserve a semblance of scientific detachment and examine the damn thing!

He fell easily into his analytical mode. Approximately five metres high, he observed, with a similar distance between uprights and horizontal straining wires spaced at metre intervals. The weave of the mesh was just too small to put his hand through. It looked old, and felt it, rust breaking through the galvanised coating. He shook it experimentally; there was a give to it but it was still an effective barrier.

Barrier to what? His thoughts raced; what purpose could this fence possibly serve? A geographical or geological boundary? Yet it simply marked a contour, one of many, an infinite number in fact. Political then? Possibly. On his side the vegetation was dense, prolific, near solid between the mature trees with young growth straining for the light.

Below the fence, oh, lots of stuff, yes, dense but not as dense. Had the trees changed? Were those conifers? It was hard to tell as there seemed to be more than one species and it was all so untidy looking. Perhaps long abandoned forestry? And why the lessening of undergrowth, as though it had been deliberately cleared, or eaten?

It was all a bit much. He dropped his head and stared at the naked feet. They were badly scratched and bleeding. He began to feel the pain as though for the first time, the burnt palms ached terribly and the thorns in the thigh throbbed dully.

He started to shake again. Was this the beginning of a full blown panic attack? Very understandable really, after all, there were plenty of reasons for his anxiety, thrust into a distant past, 10,000 years ago, alone, in a different body, which in itself took some getting used to and now, a fence, where and when there should not be one! He extracted his fingers from the mesh and attempted deeper breaths, as Dawn had once recommended to him as a way of managing the attacks.

Trueman sat down, rather abruptly as he forgot the new body’s different geometry. He was thoroughly confused.

He recited his internal mantra; lets be rational about this. I’m in the deep past which contains a hitherto unsuspected and undiscovered technology. Or, this is the present and I have simply been physically relocated. Or, he went on after a moment, I’ve been placed in the future.

Why stop there, he almost moaned, why not a different planet, or a different world of the many worlds theory? It made his head hurt. When and where was the Little Big Farm in relation to this here and now? Ahead or behind? Near or far? Did it matter? He didn’t know. Insufficient data.

Yes, there was insufficient data to come to a firm conclusion, or even a tentative hypothesis. This made him feel better- at least he knew he didn’t know and there was nothing wrong with that, it gave him a good starting point. Now his rational, analytical self could get on with the objective gathering of raw data as he worked towards a definitive answer.

He heard the hoof-beats before they appeared. Raising his head and peering through the mesh, he counted four of them, one, a female on a horse or pony (he wasn't sure of the difference), then another female, walking and two males following behind. They were wearing loose, one piece garments of greens and browns and Trueman suddenly remembered he was naked.

Looking around, rather desperately, he made a grab at some fronds of fern, or bracken (he didn't know the difference, or if there was one). He hastily stood up to observe the new arrivals more carefully, modestly masking his nudity as best he could with the ferns, or bracken.

The first woman, riding the shaggy, red equine with black legs, mane and tail appeared to be recording him using a small device held to her eye. He caught the glint of a lens as she turned carefully to capture the setting first, then him. She spoke as though to an unseen other person, using a language which, while he could not understand it, sounded vaguely familiar. Trueman could not see how she controlled her mount, for there was no bridle or even a head collar. She halted some twenty paces distant, continuing to talk, pointing the recorder directly at him.

One of the men had a ginger beard which, in Trueman's eyes, lent him some authority so he was expecting him to say something. He was surprised then, when the men hung back, even more so when it was the second woman who approached the fence and assumed command.

She stopped some two meters away, tall, a very solid stance, as though rooted and a quiet, determined look to her face, long red hair tied back severely. Her sharp blue eyes never left him, displayed not the slightest flicker or relaxation of the concentrated stare, though she gave one quick glance at Trueman's ferns. She carried something coiled in her left hand and gestured with the other.

Trueman realised she wanted him to move along the fence to his left. Something about the precision of the movement of her arm made it feel like an order.

He turned obediently and began to make his way over the uneven ground, unsure whether to hold the ferns in front or behind, using the fence as support when he stumbled. Was there a flash of surprise in the blue eyes before she followed?

After perhaps forty paces Trueman came to a small gate in the fence, of the same mesh, framed in angle iron. An equally rusty chain and padlock secured it closed. The blue eyed woman motioned for him to move back, away from the fence. Trueman took two steps but this was evidently not far enough. He stepped back again in response to further gestures. Then she waved the two men forward.

The first, an older man with the ginger beard, carried a bag on a strap across his shoulder. The other, much younger and a cast to his features, talked quietly to himself, as if providing his own narrative to the events, a slight drool to one corner of the mouth. He wore a wide brimmed hat emblazoned with a simple, smiling face, red on yellow.

Looks like there’s some mental damage, thought Trueman critically, a learning difficulty perhaps. As if to confirm his suspicion the younger man raised an arm and pointed at Trueman with unconcealed excitement, emitting shrill squeaks and yelps. The ginger bearded one laughed softly, nodded and patted him on the shoulder.

The youth took hold of the padlock and rattled it. The other retrieved a rather ancient looking oil can from his bag and passed it to his youthful charge, who, taking it, attempted to insert the long spout into the padlock's keyhole. This was not easy for him as he seemed so distracted by Trueman’s presence, especially the ferns, that he could hardly bring his eyes to bare on his task, staring intently through the fence, chattering away quite happily though unintelligibly.

Trueman frowned, unable to understand why someone so obviously lowly had been included in the mission to retrieve, or capture him.

The youth at last managed to get the spout more or less in the right place and depressed a lever on the can, though the first gouts of oil dribbled uselessly onto the chain and dripped to the ground. The other man showed no signs of impatience or exasperation, simply speaking what sounded like encouraging words. He took back the oil can and pulled a key on a thong from the bag and handed that to the youth.

Only the dismounted woman moved at all, appearing to glide somewhat wider to the right so that the youngster did not come between her and her view of Trueman. He thought that the coil she held might be a whip. The mounted woman continued to speak, as if to herself.

After some difficulty, the key was inserted and turned, first the wrong way and then there was a click and the padlock sprung. The lad laughed, stepping back and turned towards the other man who gave him a big, open smile and patted his shoulder. He took back the key and then they both moved well back, away from the gate.

Trueman had watched all this in silence with a growing sense that there was something absurd about the whole experience. Perhaps it was time for him to be less passive, to take the initiative, so to speak. Whatever the situation, he insisted to himself, I occupy a reality which is accessible to logic and reason. He felt better being stern with himself.

“Ver’ well,” he announced, speaking as much for his own benefit as for that of the four onlookers, “Whath nexth?”

He was rather concerned that his struggle to manoeuvre the oversize tongue and the resulting clumsy voice made him sound ignorant.

“You had better open the gate and come with us,” the blue eyed woman pronounced in perfectly clear English, allowing the coil of the whip to unroll to the ground where it's tip sparked momentarily.

Trueman’s mouth fell open; things were on the verge of getting a bit much again. Back at the Little Big Farm he would have had a mug of barleycup followed by a snooze. Instead he stepped forward, removed the chain from the gate and opened it.

“Wait!” commanded the tall woman.

Though her voice was neither deep nor sharp it carried something else with it that jerked Trueman’s new body to a halt. The older man fumbled in his bag and then threw some things towards him. Trueman bent and picked up first a pair or bright orange shorts. He hurriedly turned away and stepped into them, rather clumsily. Then turned back to them, just in time to see a puzzled half-smile disappear from the blue-eyed woman's face.

He bent and retrieved the remaining item, a leather thong with a clasp at each end. Trueman couldn't see any real purpose to it, other than simple decoration. He stared at the woman and shrugged. Was she surprised, again? She seemed to settle deeper into her stance, her left arm, with the whip, drifting back. Ginger beard pulled the intent youngster away with him.

There was a long pause as though some dangerous option was being considered.

Trueman just looked at the woman, baffled.

“Your neck,” she said after a moment, “Put it on.”

Again, was she surprised?

He raised it to encircle the thick neck and pushed the clasps together. There was a slight click. When he tugged on the ends, he realised they were firmly attached. It felt light and was certainly not tight, hardly noticeable in fact but he still wasn’t happy. The youngster appeared to empathise and pulled a sad face, the corners of his wet lips drooping.

Then Trueman stepped through the gate. The woman with the whip, who Trueman was rather worryingly beginning to think of as the guard, indicated the path he was to take. The others stood well back to let him pass then fell in behind, the horsewoman first, recording the event and then the two men.

Almost immediately they came upon a grassy track following the contour. It had been concealed to him previously by the height of the vegetation and presumably gave an easy access to anywhere along the fence.

Behind him, there appeared to be a minor altercation between the man and the youth; including much yelping and some hoots from the latter. Trueman turned, attempting to interpret what was happening. As far as he could make out, the youngster wanted to walk with their charge but this appeared to be forbidden by ginger beard. The youth kept staring forward, trying to peer round the rider and guard in an attempt to keep Trueman in his sight.

The tall woman waved him onwards and followed four paces behind him, the whip trailing, crackling softly. Whenever he turned to catch a glimpse of her, she appeared to be gliding rather than walking, her centre of gravity vertically motionless, her knees flexing subtly. Her attention remained completely focussed upon him.

Thus they had made their way through the forest. Occasionally they took angled, branching tracks down to other contour paths, though Trueman noticed less and less as the time passed. The lack of food and the great psychological challenge of it all left him feeling tired and a little dizzy. It was all he could do to keep walking.

Finally, after descending some distance between high hedges, they came to occasional clearings, small fields within the forest, some with crops, others livestock, a cow and calf, a few goats, enclosed by hedges or wooden fences.

It was all a bit of a hotchpotch to Trueman, obviously very disorganised and smacking of the primitive. He wasn’t really surprised to find that their destination seemed from the outside to be a small, partially buried shed with rough sawn boards and a turf roof. A few people and some children had appeared, all keeping a good distance away. Some chickens scratched in the dust.

Here, the two men left them, the youngster yelping at Trueman in what might have been a farewell. Trueman raised a tired arm to wave anyway. The movement sparked another of those moments of tense stillness and he could almost feel the poise of his guard charging with energy. Again he felt that they had been surprised. What were they expecting?

Thus Trueman, in his rather confused state, the self-proclaimed intellectual giant and unwitting traveller in time, entered the environs of the First Of Many cantref.

Thanks for reading and many thanks to those of you who have liked, commented or offered suggestions- all feedback, of whatever flavour, is most gratefully received- I need to know! Take care all. Hwyl! Chris.