Strange songs, haunting utterances, echoing from another time: I strive to hear them, and to understand their meaning. Dead men tell no tales. Perhaps that is why these words speak to me now.

Am I a victim of the times? I don’t believe so. I didn’t grow up in the hopeless, hungry side of town. Rather, the particular accident of my birth afforded me with all the advantages that might be bestowed upon a member of the lesser gentry of England in the reign of George the Third. In short, I was blessed with a good education at one the finest schools in the land, Shrewsbury School, founded by royal charter in 1552. After coming of age, I had entered the sometimes esteemed and often profitable profession of the law, where I worked alongside some who had a far greater nobility of spirit than I would ever possess–as well as others whose character and instincts were every bit as base as my own.

I wear the black for the poor and beaten down, declaimed one of my more altruistic contemporaries. Though I recall his high-mindedness, I can no longer remember his name. It was my lot to find myself in chambers not with this pious soul, but with a man whose world-weary cynicism was a ready match for my own: unscrupulous and ready and bold. Yet his distrust of humanity was masked, for the most part, in a manner which I found nauseating. His smooth adroitness, glib tongue and keen perspicacity served his considerable ambition, even though he lacked any true spark of original thought: the provision of that, of course, was my function within our partnership. He was the lion, and received the lion’s share of praise for our accomplishments in court. I was merely the jackal. ‘Your way is, and always was, a lame way,’ spoke my colleague in law, critically. ‘You summon no energy and purpose.’ All true: yet he found his use of me.

I would don my own dusty black gown, and shabby wig, and take my place at the bench by his side, between copious amounts of port wine–my breakfast, luncheon and dinner. The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities. The poor, the beaten down, the desperate, would be paraded before us, and take their appointed place in the dock. If my companion’s eloquence, and my own lesser contributions, fell short of the mark from time to time, that was to be expected. Not all juries proved sufficiently capable of persuasion. But our successes were greater in number than our failures: and the liquid repast that followed the conclusion of each case was just as fine, regardless. It worried me not a whit when the judge would don his own scrap of black upon his scarlet robes–the cap of judgement, beneath which he would solemnly declare his doom: ‘May God have mercy upon your soul.’

Why should I be concerned? I was the idlest and most unpromising of men. I cared for no man on earth, and no man cared for me.

Until, that is, on the steps of the Old Bailey I met (for the second time) the woman who had impressed herself upon me to such an extraordinary degree in consequence of our first chance encounter. ‘Are you acquainted with our case?’ Miss M– had asked: to which I had replied, ‘I am part of your case.’ It was not every day, after all, that my companion in law and I would be called upon to defend a self-exiled French aristocrat accused of being a spy. Unto this gentle lady, who so piteously pleaded the accused’s case, I would give the solemn charge: ‘I shall be doubly industrious upon his behalf.’ I would endeavour to forget (at least for the duration of this trial) that I was a disappointed drudge.

And thus, little by little, my fate was sealed.

*

Thanks to the combined labours of the lion and the jackal, the young French aristocrat was released. In England, flawed though she might be, and sore weary though many of her instruments, such as myself, undoubtedly were, at least Lady Justice, standing aloft on the high pinnacle of the Old Bailey, still sought to be true.

The same could not be said across the Channel. The sordid iniquity and growing inequalities which bedevilled our benighted continental rival were legion. The tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be paid there. ‘Repression is the only lasting philosophy,’ spoke one of the leading aristocratic minds of that day, the tyrannical uncle of the young man I had so recently defended. And yet the resentment of the lower classes against the unchecked excesses of their masters smouldered with greater intensity with each passing year. That most glorious of hours, the apex of Le Roi Soleil, had passed, and now the twilight of the French autocrats was upon them. It would conclude with a sunset drenched in blood: blood, and fire.

There were the moderate reformers who, doubtless, felt that they could steer the course of the coming storm: who felt that they could fan the flames, once lit, but still control the conflagration. They were much mistaken, as many of them would bitterly ponder on the final journey on the tumbril carrying them to their doom. Madame Guillotine, not Lady Justice, awaited them at the end of that journey.

Oh, but the fire went wild. A l’exemple de Saturne, la révolution dévore ses enfants.

Before the breaking of the storm, the young French aristocrat whom we had defended had sought to distance himself from his cruel peers. He had renounced his titles, and built a new life for himself, with Miss M–. An earnest man of liberal sensibilities, he had wanted no part in the oppressive regime in his homeland. But there were those who had sworn to send to oblivion every last member of his noble line. For these tormented souls, it was not enough that his hated uncle, Monsieur the Marquis St. E–, had been murdered in his bed.

The trap that had been set for the French emigre, to bring him back to his homeland on an errand of mercy, was cunning. Only one with the purest of hearts would have fallen into it. I would never have allowed myself to be so easily ensnared. That was one of many differences between myself and Monsieur D–, as he styled himself in his exile. Our characters were utterly opposed to one another. Our resemblances were confined to two spheres alone. First, there was no doubt (as had come to his remarkable aid during the trial at the Old Bailey) that we shared a striking similarity of build and appearance. The second was equally undoubted–at least to me. We both loved the same woman.

His second trial, in Paris, had been marked by the spirit of vengeance, not justice. One of the great heroes of the infamous Bastille, the good doctor who had suffered incarceration in that charnel house for eighteen years, had condemned the members of that family to death with his testimony. Lacking all hope for himself, he had pronounced God’s curse upon them: ‘They have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the last of their race. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth.’ But how was the doctor to know that his daughter would meet and fall in love with the last scion of that aristocratic lineage? How was he to know that his dread curse would one day imperil his own daughter and her unborn child?

Yet this is what the President of that dread court had declared: ‘If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her.’

Oh, but the fire went wild. A l’exemple de Saturne, la révolution dévore ses enfants. And it burns, burns, burns.

The vote had been unanimous: the judgement final. ‘At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!’

But as I received news of the verdict in a nearby tavern, I still had an ace to play. Before I could cash in.

*

By chance, it would seem, I had met with all the chief players within this final act of my life. That same chance that caused me to bear that vital resemblance to a doomed young aristocrat, a resemblance that had already saved his life once–and would do so once again. All chance–or, perhaps, fate–in this age of wisdom, this age of foolishness.

I had once spoken, with some bitterness, to my rival in love: ‘That’s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one’s life, to be the object of such sympathy and compassion?’ To which he had given no answer.

Now, I felt, I understood why.

Love is a burning thing

And it makes a fiery ring…

It should not have been easy, but if it was fated to be, then of course it was easy–this switching of places, this giving of one's life for the sake of another. It was a fair exchange: indeed, three lives would now be saved, of that I was certain. The sacrifice of a life up to now lived without purpose was a small payment in return.

I spoke not a word though it meant my life. Thus had Our Lord remained silent as He stood before Pontius Pilate. His silence had sealed His fate: but His death had unleashed the full force of Redemption. The Sinless One offered Salvation to all: poor sinful wretch that I am, I am content to save the lives of three, including the one whom I have come to hold most dear of all in this short life. I sit in my cell in the Conciergerie, I summon these thoughts, and it is enough. Lord, grant me courage to keep my own counsel but a little while longer.

Waiting here in my final abode, as my final night upon this earth passes, I find myself touched by all manner of strange thoughts, half-dreams and phantasms, snatches of conversation and of song. Strains of strange music float on the very edge of my imaginings: and like John of Gaunt, in these last moments I know myself a prophet new inspired. I ponder these two great cities that I have loved and hated so well, in the best and worst of times, certain in the knowledge that these ancient foes, on either side of the Channel, will strive mightily with one another in the days to come; and yet I perceive that a time will come when they will unite against a far more deadly foe than even this unhappy Revolution can summon forth. And in those far-off struggles, if I apprehend aright, the descendants of those lost to our affections now, on the far side of the wide Atlantic, will seek to renew the bonds of brotherly solicitude: the New World come to save the Old.

A new day approaches: my last day. It is always darkest before dawn. But I think I understand now the words of these strange songs, sung by the man in black, this latter-day child of the New World.

The Judge said, ’Son, what is your alibi?

If you were somewhere else, you won’t have to die’

I spoke not a word, though it meant my life…

I smile to myself. I am giving myself for the sake of Charles Darney’s wife. And this I see: an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day.

Nobody knows, nobody sees

Nobody knows but me…

There are footsteps in the corridor outside. The heavy bolt is drawn back, and the door slowly opens. A voice speaks from without, rough yet not unkindly.

‘It is time.’

Only a few leaves remained on the great oak tree which the old man had instructed should mark the site of his grave. The fever had gripped him for three nights and days: but he was comforted by the presence of his daughters, and their families, standing vigil by his bedside.

They had kept him hidden these past few years: and none had betrayed this most hunted and hated of Welshmen to the English king. His fate would not be that of Owain Lawgoch, last of the ancient line of the House of Gwynedd, assassinated in France by an English spy. Nor would it be like that of Dafydd ap Gruffydd, brother of Llywelyn the Last, who had been dragged through the streets of Shrewsbury, before becoming the first notable person to suffer that most heinous and barbaric of deaths: judicial murder by hanging, drawing and quartering.

No, this Welsh rebel would die peacefully in bed. His rebellion had been the longest and most fiery of Wales’ mediaeval wars for independence, and the one that had come closest to achieving its aim: three years had passed since it had effectively burnt itself out. A new king had come to the throne of England, one who had struck a more conciliatory tone than his perpetually insecure father. Royal pardons had been offered, and had come to the attention of the weary old rebel, but he had scoffed at them. Though his dreams had been shattered, at least he would die a free man of Wales. He would not bend the knee to the new English king, even if the news accompanying the final pardon spoke of Henry V’s great victory over the French on the field of Agincourt.

He peered at the parchment lying across his lap through weary eyes, and chuckled gently. ‘My joints are far too enfeebled to permit me to bend the knee to anyone now,’ said Sychath’s greatest son.

*

Two nights later the final chill had come upon him. On the third evening of fever, he lay abed, gazing up at his three ever-faithful daughters. His sons, alas, were lost to him. His firstborn, Gruffydd, had been taken prisoner by the English, and had died from bubonic plague in the Tower of London three years before. Three of his other four sons - Madog, Thomas, and John - were also dead, or taken captive. Of his sons, only Maredudd remained at liberty, hiding somewhere in the mountain fastness of Gwynedd, reduced to the level of meagre banditry in his continuing futile resistance to the English. None of his sons had sired heirs: the old man knew that, with his passing, the male line of descent from the royal dynasties of Wales would surely fail.

His daughters, at least, were safe. Alys, Janet and Margaret had all found English husbands amongst the gentry of Herefordshire. It was here, in the home of Alys and her husband, Sir John Scudamore, Sheriff of Herefordshire, that the wily old fox had found a final bolthole. If only the young English king knew, that one of his most faithful servants in the Marches, had secretly married the daughter of a Welshman - and the most notorious Welshmen at that! Love is a mysterious thing, pondered the old man drowsily. I’m in the last place the king would think to look for me: and I am safe. If only my beloved homeland could be so!

‘Fear not, Owain,’ spoke an unfamiliar young voice from the crowd assembled around his bedside: ‘We know of the hiraeth you feel. You can rest now. Your labours have not been in vain.’

Who was that who had spoken?

The old man struggled to raise his head - surrounded as it was by comforting pillows - and, concentrating as best he could, tried to focus his uncertain gaze upon the attentive crowd. They looked different, somehow. In place of his daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren, a strange assembly of figures were standing there. The dress of most of them was unfamiliar, outlandish even. Most - though not all of them - were smiling at him: as if encouraging him, soothing him, by their mere presence. They seemed to be standing slightly apart from one another, as if only half-aware that they were part of a greater company. Their focus was firmly fixed upon him. One of them, he realised, was richly dressed, in a manner not entirely unlike the way he himself had once dressed, at his court at Glyndyfrdwy: though not even at his coronation had he been arrayed as splendidly as this figure was. Here before him stood the imposing figure of a great - if somewhat portly - king.

‘Hail, cousin,’ cried the king, laughing heartily. ‘Rest easy, knowing that the red rose and the white will be united, and the white dragon and the red will wage war no more. The Sons of Penmynydd will sit upon the throne of England. Camelot will rise anew.’

Next to the king, another figure, younger, much slimmer, was also dressed in princely garb, though less sumptuous than that of the merry monarch. ‘Mamma thought a crash course in y Gymraeg and a term at Aberystwyth would suffice to win over the hearts and minds of the Welsh towards their newest prince,’ the young man announced dolefully. ‘But, alas, it takes more than an investiture ceremony in an English-built castle of occupation to achieve that. I may bear the title, for a while: but you were the last true Prince of Wales, old man.’ There was a look of grave respect upon his face, but also deep sadness.

‘They drowned our valley, then stole our water,’ chimed another, bitterly, ‘But we do not forget. Cofiwch Dryweryn.’

‘We laboured in the darkest pit,’ continued a fourth figure, ‘not just us, but for many generations our children.’ His face was blacked, and he was wearing strange headgear, from which a dim but discernible light was radiating out, blending with the glow of the dozen candles flickering across the old man’s bedroom. ‘The dust blackened our lungs, the rocks scarred our bodies. Four hundred of us died beneath the earth in one day at Senghenydd alone. As for Aberfan–’ the man stopped speaking for a moment and swayed silently, as if overcome with emotion, before continuing: ‘But as we toiled underground, we also built the finest communities overground. We became a land of chapel and of song…’

‘And of rugby,’ interrupted a younger man, with a mischievous demeanour. His clothes were different, again, exposing more skin than any of the others, and he was mostly arrayed in red and white. Tucked under his right arm he held a strange elongated bladder-shaped object. But this was no court jester, despite his garb. ‘They sang Bread of Heaven in the stand, and angels wept at their rapture; we played on the pitch, and devils quaked at our determination.’

‘I was determined too,’ said the eldest individual. He had a once-impressive, now thinning head of white hair. He declaimed (somewhat imperiously): ‘I was inspired by Gandhi and King. And by you, of course. I threatened to go on hunger strike if they didn’t give us the Welsh language television channel they had promised us. They gave in. I was President of Plaid for thirty-six years, but that was the crowning moment of my life. Cymru am byth.’

‘And I walked twenty-six miles barefoot over hills and valleys to buy a book,’ said a young girl softly, clad in the traditional chequered shawl that Welsh women had worn virtually unchanged for generations. ‘But not just any book. They called me: y Gymraes fechan heb yr un Beibl. The Welsh girl without a Bible. But my story led to the foundation of societies that would take the word of God throughout the whole world.’

‘And it wasn’t just the Word that went out from Wales.’ This new voice belonged to a smiling sun-drenched brown skinned woman who spoke with a peculiar accent, neither Welsh nor English. ‘The people went too. And they built Y Wladfa, on another continent, remote and cold. But it was home. Buenas noches, dulce príncipe, descansa en paz.’

The bedridden old man could stay silent no more. ‘What manner of words are these?’ Tremulous and rasping though it might be, there was unmistakable awe and wonder in his faltering voice. ‘What portends do they present before my eyes? Visions from hell?’

‘No, not hell. Nor, indeed, of heaven - despite what Gareth Edwards might say.’ There was a languid mocking tone in this new voice. It belonged to the last of this strange crowd, a dishevelled figure with a bulbous nose, and messy hair, who was standing most markedly apart from all the others. ‘He may have been the greatest player ever to don a Welsh rugby shirt: but I’m the wordsmith, the heir to Taliesin, not him.’

‘Taliesen was never described as a roistering, drinking and doomed poet,’ said the imperious elder severely.

‘True, Gwynfor,’ said the younger man. ‘But as for you, Owain: take some small comfort, if you can, from my words. Dead men naked they shall be one / With the man in the wind and the west moon / Though lovers be lost love shall not / And death shall have no dominion.’

‘Romans chapter 6, verse 9,’ said the young girl, and the old man realised that she was the one who had first spoken to him. ‘Worry not for the future of Wales, Owain. The universities, the Senedd, the dream of a people proud and free - it will all come to pass. Because you did not give up, because you remained defiant to the end, we shall not give up either. Cymru am byth.’

‘But who will become prince in my stead?’ The weary freedom fighter gasped, straining heavily with the effort of speaking. These strange interlopers - from another time or place, he could not say - they had to hear his urgent words, even if they were to be his last. ‘The royal Houses of Gwynedd, Powys, Deheubath: I am the last of their lineage. My sons have no heirs. Though we may not not yield to the Enemy, our deepest longings remain unfulfilled. After a thousand years of striving against the invader from the East, what hope remains for the land, for the people, without their prince?’

It was the white-haired elder who responded. ‘We are Meibion Glyndŵr - the Sons of Glyndŵr. All of us. We have no need for princes now. You will never be forgotten, though we know not where lies your grave. What need is there to know where they have buried your body? You cannot bury a dream. In the hearts of your people, you will always remain alive. You will always be our Prince.’

The old man closed his eyes.

‘You will always be our father,’ sobbed Alys. He opened his eyes again, but this time it seemed to him that he was standing there, with his three daughters and their families, looking down upon himself. Of the mysterious visitors, there was neither sight nor sound. He was there, alongside Alys, Janet and Margaret. He was staring down at the body of Owain Glyndŵr, last native-born Welshman to hold the title Tywysog Cymru - Prince of Wales.

*

The next morning, they laid him to rest beneath an English oak tree - the irony of it! The precise spot that he himself had chosen. No gravestone would mark the site of the burial: though six hundred years and more might pass away, and a new millennium come, still his descendants would honour their promise to provide an inviolate sanctuary for Sychath’s greatest son. They stood in silence as the priest intoned the burial rite in Latin. As he concluded the service, a chill east wind whistled through the creaking branches of the tree, and with a sigh the last remaining leaf broke free and fluttered down into the open grave.

Unmarked by the grieving family, nine further onlookers - muses and witnesses from the future for which he had laid the foundations - watched as the final deed was done. They also said nothing for an age, waiting until the mourners had dispersed. Then at the last one of them turned his gaze heavenward. Slowly, in his deep sonorous voice, he said:

‘When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone / They shall have stars at elbow and foot / And death shall have no dominion.’

***

Commentary:

Owain Glyndŵr was descended (through the male line) from the Princes of Powys, and (through the female line) from the Princes of Gwynedd and Deheubath: the three main principalities of mediaeval Wales. His rebellion (1400-1415) was the most protracted and most nearly successful of all the Welsh wars of independence waged in the Middle Ages. Although it sounds extraordinary that ‘Wales’ most wanted man’ was able to spend his final years in seclusion just across the border in England, there’s good grounds for believing the story to be true. Descendants of his daughters continue to be around today (most notably the descendants of John and Alys Scudamore).

The nine characters from Owain’s future are King Henry VIII, second king of the Tudor dynasty that was distantly related to Glyndŵr; Prince Charles of Wales (now King Charles III), seen musing on the mixed response to his investiture as Prince of Wales in 1969 at Caernarfon Castle; a witness to the drowning of Tryweryn, a Welsh village destroyed to create a reservoir in 1965 to provide water for England, acting as a spur to Welsh nationalism; a coal miner who reflects on the mining disaster in Senghenydd (1913), the greatest industrial accident in British history, and the Aberfan disaster (1966), the collapse of a colliery spoil tip in Wales on a primary school; Gareth Edwards, widely acknowledged as one of Wales’ greatest rugby players in the 20th century; Gwynfor Evans, President of the nationalist party Plaid Cymru, whose threatened hunger strike was instrumental in securing the launch of a dedicated Welsh-language television channel, S4C, in the UK in 1982; Mary Evans, a 16-year-old girl whose determined quest to obtain a Bible of her own in 1800 led a few years later to the foundation of the British and Foreign Bible society; a descendant of the Welsh colonists who settled in Patagonia from 1865 onwards; and Dylan Thomas, the most famous Welsh poet of the 20th century (here speaking lines from his poem ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’, inspired by Romans 6:9). Why nine? Because they’re Muses, of course.

Various Welsh words and phrases are peppered throughout this piece, which functions as a companion-piece to my last effort, ‘The Dragon’s Son’. The most significant of these is ‘Hiraeth’ - a Welsh word that is difficult to translate into English, the nearest approximations being ‘longing’ or ‘homesickness’. The title here - ‘One Last Hiraeth’ is also a play on the English phrase ‘One Last Hurrah’ - which this is, of course, for Owain.

Owain Glyndŵr was born at Sycharth in North Wales in 1354. His burial site (probably in 1415) remains unknown to this day. Unless - perhaps - you’re a Scudamore.

The fading fire of a dream

It would seem could blaze anew

In the hearts of beaten men.

Prophets again spoke words true

Of a son of the dragon

Who would gladden and inspire

And rouse the people from sleep,

No longer sheep. Filled with ire

They sharpened sword axe and spear,

For ’twas clear the hour had come

Of the once and future king.

Bards would sing and beat the drum,

Pluck the harp and trumpet sound,

Declare found the anointed,

The one who would wear the crown,

Bringing down disappointed

The servant of the false king.

They would bring the captive lord

Before his throne. ’Hail Owain!

For ’tis plain steel’s in thy sword

My warriors thou didst route:

Without doubt you are the One

Whom God has blessed. Noble heir

Of Arthur’s chair, thou hast won!’

Thus Mortimer bent the knee

That all might see foe made friend.

Bolingbroke quaked, and fear felt:

This friendship spelt his near end.

Unless…Was hope to be found

In one who clowned with Sir John?

Could Hal a soldier become

And find wisdom yet, newborn?

Mortimer, Lord Percy too,

Henry knew, could spell his doom.

If with the Welsh they joined arms,

With what charms could England bloom?

So Shrewsbury, it was to be

Where Destiny played His part.

Hal met Hotspur, won the day,

And thus the play found its heart.

Not Cymru’s bards, but Avon’s:

The ravens, alas, are black,

And bleak the outcome for Wales,

Though the tales will e’er come back

To keep the fire of a dream

Alive. A gleam of maybe

Of a once and future king

Still we sing, yearn: to be free.

Commentary:

A slice of history… In the 13th century, Welsh independence came to an end, with the conquests of Edward I of England. Over a century later, in 1399, Henry Bolingbroke became King of England, overthrowing Richard II, and reigning as Henry IV. Bolingbroke’s claim to the throne was tenuous; and many of the English and Welsh lords regarded him, with some justification, as a usurper. In 1400, Owain Glyndŵr, a Welsh lord, a descendant of several Welsh royal dynasties, and a supporter of Richard II, quarrelled with a Bolingbroke loyalist, his neighbour Baron Grey of Ruthin. Glyndŵr’s grievances were ignored by the English parliament, and led him into open revolt, declaring himself the true Prince of Wales. The revolt spread quickly, and Welsh bards viewed him as heir to the legacy of King Arthur (the Once and Future King of prophecy) and the pre-Conquest princes of Wales.

Early Welsh successes included the Battle of Pilleth in mid-Wales in 1402, at which the English lord Edward Mortimer, one of the most powerful of the English barons, was captured. Mortimer changed allegiance, and entered into an alliance with Glyndŵr, as did Lord Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, the most powerful northern English Lord. The three allies agreed to divide England and Wales between them (the so-called Tripartite Alliance): Percy would rule in the North, Mortimer in the South, and Glyndŵr in Wales and the Welsh Marches. The political situation was grim for Henry IV. However, his son Prince Hal (the future Henry V), despite having spent his younger years as an impressionable and dissolute wastrel under the influence of Sir John Falstaff, turned out to be an excellent field commander. He defeated and killed Henry Hotspur (the son of Lord Percy) at the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1405, preventing the three opposing armies from joining up, and turning the tide against the rebellion.

Despite having lost his English allies, and having seen with the support he’d garnered from the French also coming to naught, Glyndŵr continued the rebellion for more than a decade, establishing a Welsh parliament, and making plans for the first Welsh university: but eventually the English crown regained control of Wales. An outlaw and a fugitive, Glyndŵr refused the offer of a royal pardon after the rebellion had finally collapsed. His date of death and exact burial place remained unknown: like Arthur before him, Owain Glyndŵr became a figure of legend. Yet the dream of Welsh independence he had rekindled never entirely died. Welsh nationhood, and the survival of Welsh culture and language to the present time, owes more to him than perhaps any other individual.

As for ‘the Bard of Avon’: William Shakespeare gives Glyndŵr a small role in his Henry IV: Part One. Together with Richard II, Henry IV: Part Two and Henry V, these history plays tell (from the English perspective, almost two centuries later) the story of the events leading up to and in consequence of Henry Bolingbrook’s usurpation of the English throne.

What do you get when you fall in love?

A girl with a pin to burst your bubble;

That’s what you get for all your trouble.

I’ll never fall in love again;

I’ll never fall in love again.

The wind was loud that night. As if possessed by a banshee. It was no wonder that Luke woke up; the true marvel was that his younger sisters had slept through it.

There were three of them. Katerina, at nine, was the eldest. Dark-haired, looking much like her mother, she was quiet, musically gifted, already studious, and above all serious. She seemed to live in fear of Luke; as if sensing that there was already ‘something of the night’ about him.

Then there was six-year-old Paulette. Paulette our poppet, people would say. Lighthearted, bright, full of sunshine: her father Bartie had delighted in her, and doted upon her. There was no doubt that she had been his favourite, and that she missed him most keenly. Luke abhorred her. He enjoyed tormenting her. Since his father’s death, he would often sit at the end of her bed at night-time, telling her dark, twisted stories that would leave her in floods of tears. Anything to wipe that sickening smile off her face.

Paulette loved dancing. She was forever pirouetting and prancing around in the drawing room; sometimes to Katerina playing on the piano, but more often to the tinny, tinkling tune produced by her music box. It was very well-known, apparently. Luke couldn’t remember the name of the composer - only that it was Russian - but the tune was called The Firebird. Luke couldn’t abide Paulette’s dancing: but he liked the music. Not long after their father’s death, he had stolen her music box, and hidden it in his room. Sometimes, if he woke up in the middle of the night, he would play it, before going back to sleep. He found it strangely soothing.

Finally, there was Josie. Just eighteen months old, Luke found her tedious in the extreme. Yet, even though she was little, Luke sensed there was something different about her. Not her personality: for what personality could you expect a baby to have? All it did was cry, and gurgle, and shit. No, it was her appearance. There was something about her that just looked different.

Luke was tired of people commenting on his appearance, Not so much his ginger hair: his father had been ginger too, so that wasn’t so unusual. No, it was his peculiar eyes, one green, one blue: that was the cause of their curiosity. There was a name for the condition, Bartie had once told him. Heterochromia. Just a word. A label.

‘You’re a freak, boy. Don’t forget it.’ His Uncle Harold had whispered those words into his ear three months ago, as he had stood, dry-eyed, watching the bearers lower his father’s coffin into the gaping maw in the ground.

Luke looked up at his uncle, and his eyes burned with cold anger. ‘I won’t,’ he promised himself. ‘And I won’t forget you telling me so. Ever.’

***

Luke listened to the rafters, creaking in protest as the autumnal storm howled around. It was a wild night, for sure. He threw back the covers, and slipped his feet into the slippers next to his bed. He thought about going over to his trunk of toys, where buried deep beneath the building bricks, Action Man figures and Matchbox cars, Paulette’s stolen music box was hidden.

Music...

Despite the wind, Luke fancied he could hear snatches of music from somewhere. Curious, he opened the door of his room. There was a chink of light showing from under the door at the far end of the landing. His mother’s bedroom: that was where the sound was coming from.

Luke grabbed his dressing-gown, and padded noiselessly across the landing. He recognised the melody, now; it was a song that had just reached the number one spot in the UK pop charts. His mother had been singing it, he remembered, earlier that evening.

What do you get when you kiss a girl?

You get enough germs to catch pneumonia;

After you do she’ll never phone you.

I’ll never fall in love again;

I’ll never fall in love again.

Creak-creak-creak... went the rafters, making their own music.

No! The wind had died down momentarily, amplifying to Luke’s ears not only Bobbie Gentry’s Mississippi vocals, but that other, rhythmic background noise. It wasn’t coming from rafters, or floorboards, or walls. Like the song, it was emanating from his mother’s room. As Luke drew up to the door, listening intently, he recognised what the noise was.

Not the creaking of wood, but the squeaking of bedsprings. Accompanied, he could tell now, by the sound of heavy, laboured breathing, and moaning.

The door was closed. Luke placed his hand on the doorknob, and was about to turn it, when a different sound from within made him freeze. It was a voice. A man’s voice: one that he knew well, and loathed with passionate intensity.

‘C’mon, baby - feels good, doesn’t it? I’m better than my brother, aren’t I? Go on - tell me, baby…’

What do you get when you give your heart?

You get it all broken up and battered;

That’s what you get a heart that’s shattered.

I’ll never fall in love again;

I’ll never fall in love again.

Luke’s eyes blazed with fire.

***

Harold Thomas sat up in his dead brother’s erstwhile matrimonial bed, and took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette.

If only Bartholomew could see us now, he mused, glancing at the framed wedding photo on the chest of drawers opposite that Emily still kept on display. He looked across at the peroxide blonde form of his sister-in-law, perched on the edge of the bed. She was studying herself critically in her dressing table mirror, all the while dabbing away at her face with a pot of facial cream; almost naked save for the flimsy covering of her short, pink see-through negligee.

Harold had lusted after his sister-in-law for a long time, even before she’d married his younger brother on a particularly cold Saturday afternoon in October 1956. Seven years later (soon after the birth of Bartie and Emily’s third child, the nauseatingly sweet Paulette), Harold had sensed his opportunity. Bartie doted upon the new arrival, but couldn’t see that his wife was suffering from a severe dose of ‘baby blues’. Three kids in seven years: Emily feared she’d never regain the figure of her youth.

Is this all that I’m for now? To produce babies to the satisfaction of James Bartholomew Thomas? Emily had asked her mother. Her unsympathetic response had been to tell her daughter to stop being so silly, and to pull herself together.

That’s what we’re for, dear. That’s why women get married.

But Emily wanted to be loved for herself again. The agony aunts in the newspaper advice columns she read avidly called it the seven-year itch. Too right! If only Bartie could be kind and considerate to her needs - more like the way her brother-in-law increasingly was towards her. Maybe she’d just married the wrong Thomas...

And so, six months after Paulette’s birth, Harold finally got what he had always wanted. A cuckolded brother. The cuckoo chick herself didn’t arrive until four years later. The giveaway (for those who had eyes to see it) was precisely that. Josie’s eyes. So like those of her real father!

Bartie’s heart attack three months ago had been an entirely unexpected boon. Harold couldn’t have been happier. Up till then, the affair had perforce been carried out in ad hoc fashion, furtively, hurriedly. With Bartie’s death, things were made very much easier. The night after they’d buried him, Harold had finally made love to Emily in his brother’s very own bed. If this doesn’t make Bartholomew turn in his fresh, newly dug grave, nothing will, he’d boasted to Emily.

The only fly in the ointment was the eldest kid. His antipathy for his uncle was clear. Quiet, plain Katerina, anxious to avoid trouble, kept herself largely to herself; and Paulette was too young to be a much of a nuisance; but Luke was a different story. The way he sometimes stared at people, with those evil, queer eyes of his... Well, Harold Thomas wasn’t going to be spooked by an eleven-year-old boy. Maybe, given time, he’d work out a way of disposing of the brat.

‘You know, we should get married,’ said Emily, suddenly, turning to her lover.

Harold looked at her, dumbstruck. What had the silly cow just said?

Emily took in the look of incredulity on Harold’s face, but was determined to say her piece. She drew back the sheets, and slipped back into bed next to him. ‘For the sake of the children,’ she continued. ‘They need a father.’

‘You’re kidding… right?’

‘No, Harry.’

He frowned. He hated it when she called him that. Just because everyone had insisted on called his brother by that ridiculous shortened name...

‘No, I’m serious, darling. I know it’s not right just yet - it wouldn’t look decent - but you will think about, won’t you?’

He looked at her, unsure what response to make to her ridiculous suggestion. He opened his mouth - then paused, and sniffed the air. What was that strange smell? There was something familiar about it...

Emily reached across, took the cigarette from his nicotine-stained fingers, and stubbed it out decisively in the ashtray on the bedside table next to him. ‘I really wish you wouldn’t smoke in bed. It’s dangerous.’ She snuggled up next to Harold, resting her head on her brother-in-law’s hairy chest. ‘You know you set my heart on fire - but I’d rather you didn’t do it literally, darling.’ She giggled.

What was that smell?

The door suddenly burst open.

Emily instinctively shrieked. She sat up with a violent start, knocking the transistor radio from her bedside table. The crooning of love songs abruptly stopped as it smashed into the floor.

‘What the...?’ Harold Everett Thomas halted, as if frozen, mid-sentence. He was unable to move. The sight before him defied belief.

There, framed in the doorway, stood his nephew Luke. He was dressed in his deep blue, towelling dressing-gown, worn over pale blue pyjamas. Partially visible from beneath the boy’s gown, Harold could see that they were decorated with patchwork elephants; and the phrase Elephants don’t forget popped unbidden into his head. Next to his nephew was a tall can of petrol, taken from his own garage next door. The floorboards upon which the boy was standing looked wet. In his outstretched hand, Luke held a burning rag.

‘Yes, I’m a freak, uncle,’ said Luke. ‘And, unlike my baby sister, I don’t have your eyes.’ The rag fell to the floor.

Emily’s eyes widened in horror. She hid her face behind her hands in a futile gesture of defence from the gruesome sight, screamed - and screamed again.

‘Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings’ (Psalm 17:8)

I: Seven-Nil

‘Splinching is what JK Rowling calls it, in her Harry Potter novels, you know.’

Seth looked up, and peered owlishly at his colleague through his horn-rimmed spectacles. With his shock of white hair, and pronounced beak, he even looks like Hedwig, thought Dawn.

‘Splinching?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, Seth, surely even you’ve read Harry Potter. That’s what it’s called when a wizard disapparates then apparates unsuccessfully, leaving a part of their clothing or, even worse, a part of their body behind at the original location. It happens to Ron Wesley in The Deathly Hallows, remember?’

She knew, of course, that he didn’t remember, and that he didn’t like to be reminded that as a young woman she had been a literature postgraduate. Her (first) doctoral thesis had been entitled ‘Children’s Literature from 1902 to 2047: from Barrie to the Burn’. She’d completed it in 2055, seventeen years ago. That was just before the abolition of the few remaining arts courses, of course, and her reallocation to the Science and Engineering Faculty of CUCOL (the Consolidated University of Cambridge, Oxford and London). Her little reminiscences were her way of recalling to herself, and him, that the world had been different: once upon a time.

Seth shook his head, and turned his attention back to the complex equations scrawled across his notepad. ‘No, Dr Founder, I’ve never indulged in the juvenile fantasies of Miss Rowling. Is it Miss? Whatever. I may have spawned seven daughters’–a pained expression formed on his face–‘but the task of reading bedtime stories to them was something that was delegated to my ex-wife from the outset.’ It was common knowledge that he was still bitter about his inability to father a son, despite his repeated attempts to do so. Seven children, all daughters, no sons, he would often mutter. Seven-Nil. 1.6% chance of it happening, you know. At least I didn’t have to provide dowries for them, thank God.

Dawn forced a smile, but said nothing. Bedtime time stories: these were almost much of a luxury these days as degrees in literature. You’d think the curmudgeonly bastard would have been grateful to have any children at all. What’s the global fertility rate now, twenty-five years on from the Great Burn? She laid a hand across her own abdomen. She was 43 years old: in the world before the Burn, not too old for most to rule out the possibility of a childbearing. But that was then. There was no chance, she knew, that she would ever produce a child. Given the way the world was, that was probably a good thing.

‘Anyway,’ continued Seth, after an uncomfortable pause, ‘I fail to see the significance of your puckish remarks. They certainly don’t provide any credible explanation for how the apple we successfully teleported this morning came to return to us with a bite taken out of it. The apple has not “apparated”: neither has it been “splinched”. This isn’t the whimsical work of magic forces. Any explanation must be firmly rooted in science.’

Dawn sighed. ‘As you say, Professor Adamson. Let’s try looking for it!’

II: The Mathematician

A week had gone by. The apple had been kept in cryostasis, and had been subjected to a barrage of tests: but the big question remained unanswered.

‘It’s very simple,’ said Sam Gupta, one of the youngest and most brilliant members of the research team. ‘Someone at the receiving end decided our Cox’s Orange Pippin was far too delectable to leave it untouched. What more is there to be said?’

Seth grimaced, and removed his glasses from the bridge of his nose. Slowly and carefully he polished them. ‘That’s not good enough, Dr Gupta, and you know it. Before we proceed further with the next stage of the project, we need to identify where, and more precisely, when the apple was transported to.’

‘Seth, I’m really not sure that your theory about temporal displacement is sound,’ argued Dawn.

‘If one applies eleven-dimension mathematics to the problem,’ countered Seth peevishly, ‘then it becomes incontrovertible that our generally accepted notions of space and time will collapse inward upon themselves. The vanishing point, Dr Founder: transcendental engineering at the quantum level. And you, Dr Gupta’–he pointed his finger accusingly at the insouciant Indian–‘are more than capable of making those calculations. Or did the University of Sydney-Mumbai exaggerate your capabilities when you joined this project?’

Sam shrugged his shoulders indifferently. ‘I can make the necessary computations. But that won’t tell us who ate the apple.’ He grinned mischievously, and not for the first time Dawn felt an instinctive attraction towards the handsome mathematician. ‘Maybe it was Sir Isaac–perhaps it fell not from the bough of a tree, but simply out of the sky. He picked it up from the ground, after it had bruised his bonce, took one bite, and then realised he’d discovered gravity.’

‘The odontological report confirms it was human, but almost certainly a female, which rather rules out Newton,’ observed Seth sardonically. ‘Meanwhile, Dr Ransom has almost completed the isotope analysis on the apple around the area of incision. There would appear to be a trace residue of molecules originating from the teleport destination point.’

Dawn snorted. ‘How is that possible? That all seems rather speculative. You’ll be believing in fairy dust next.’

‘Elwin Ransom is one of the University’s finest biochemists,’ said Seth. ‘And no one doubts his dedication to this project. It’s about time others proved their value. So no more musings inspired by literary trifles, please, Dr Founder. That one was Peter Pan, wasn’t it? As for you, Dr Gupta, I expect a full mathematical analysis by the end of the week. Otherwise, I may make a recommendation at the next meeting of the Faculty’s Appropriations Committee that your contract be terminated, and then you could find yourself on a one-way transport out of the BHZ.’ There was a distinct undercurrent of malice in the way Seth enunciated the commonly used acronym for the British Habitation Zone. ‘Things aren’t looking so good in India right now, are they?’

III: Bhagavad Gita

‘He’s quite mad, you know. It’s become an obsession,’ opined Dawn.

‘Lust, anger, and greed are the three doors to hell,’ replied Sam. ‘Our dear colleague possesses an abundance of all three.’

A little unfair, thought Dawn. ‘Another quote from the Bhagavad Gita?’

‘Naturally. Where else would I seek wisdom as old as the ages? Or–as your scriptures say–there’s nothing new under the sun.’

Dawn shook her head. ‘They’re not my scriptures: I’m an atheist. And I certainly don’t believe in hell. Unless of course you count working with Professor Seth Adamson.’ She bit her lip. Now who was being unfair?

‘Robert Oppenheimer was rather fond of the Bhagavad Gita, you know,’ mused Sam. ‘There was a particular verse that came to his mind when he witnessed the first successful atom bomb test, in the New Mexico desert.’

Dawn smiled. ‘Yes. The only verse of your scriptures most physicists can quote. I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. Rather apt, considering what was to come.’

‘Burn, baby, burn. It sure as hell did–no Satan required.’ Sam’s eyes twinkled, and the subtle ghost of a smile crept across his face. ‘Just man in all his malignant magnificence. Of course, if we’d listened to Robert…’ he shrugged, leaving thoughts of what if hanging in the air. ‘But prophets are rarely regarded in their own time, and so it was with Oppenheimer. He was nominated three times for the Nobel physics prize, but never successfully. I think our esteemed colleague is more hopeful.’ Sam Gupta rubbed his eyes, and yawned. ‘But only if I can balance these damn equations. He wants them ready by tomorrow morning so he can run another test of the teleportation cage.’

‘With the apple?’

‘Yes. He’s convinced that only organic material can be teleported. After the apple again, he’ll maybe try one of the test animals: a rat, or perhaps a snake. Pass that flask, will you? I need some more coffee.’

Dawn picked up the indicated container, but held back from passing it to him. ‘On the subject of snakes, Sam–what did you make of last night’s news announcement? About the expedition to Lambda Serpentis?’

‘A fool’s errand. The evidence for an Earth-like exoplanet in that star system is tenuous, at best. Calling it “New Eden” doesn't necessarily make it so. Paradise Regained, hidden in the constellation of the Snake? Hardly sounds likely, does it? As for naming the space ark Elon II–well, that may flatter our beloved Sec-Gen, but I can’t see the Security Council allocating the necessary resources to it. As it is, the Council’s already struggling to keep the Western CyberNet fully operational.’

‘And what about “Operation Golden Age”?’

‘More nonsense: Seth needs far more funding than CUCOL can provide, even with the support of the Gates Foundation.’

‘I suppose so, Sam.’ An unexpected thought struck her. ‘Is that your actual name? It’s funny–I’ve never thought to ask before–but really? Sam, short for Samuel? Doesn’t sound very Indian. Or is it just an anglicisation, something you adopted to fit in more easily with irascible individuals like our professor?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly, looking serious for a moment. ‘It’s short for Sampa, not Samuel. Samuel means “borrowed from the Lord”, you know. As for Gupta–that’s a common enough Indian name. It means “guardian” or “ruler”.’ A broad grin spread across his face. ‘So I’m the king of the castle! Come on, Dr Founder, stop teasing me. I really need my caffeine fix...’

IV: The Sec-Gen

Seth smiled deferentially at the severely dressed figure whose holographic presence was flickering on the dais that dominated the communications chamber. ‘Secretary General Musk, it’s very kind of you to spare the time to meet with me this afternoon.’

‘It’s morning here in New New York,’ observed the Sec-Gen dryly. ‘But let’s not quibble about time. That, I believe, is the ultimate point of your experiment, is it not?’

‘Indeed it is. And I cannot stress enough how close we are now to success. After almost fifteen years dedicated to this project, and after so many failures and disappointments, I truly believe we’re almost there!’

‘I’ve heard similar claims from Professor Mortmaine for his New Eden expedition. He seems to think that naming the space ark after my father will curry favour with me. Of course, there are many voices on the Security Council.’

‘But since the Russians and Chinese were expelled,’ reasoned Seth smoothly, ‘it’s the votes of the three remaining permanent members that make all the difference. The others will make their speeches, they will bluff and bluster; but in the end, they will accede to the bidding of whichever voice will emerge as preeminent among the three. My sources tell me that the French Cabinet-in-Exile favours Mortmaine, whereas the British Council’s preference for “Operation Golden Age” is without question. But everyone knows that the American delegate will do as you direct, Mr Secretary General. Not that fool in the Capitol-under-Hill. The casting vote, in effect, is yours, Sir. Professor Mortmaine understands politics better than he does astrophysics. He knows that your opinion is critical to the Security Council’s decision. It may yet be critical to our very survival as a species.’

Secretary General Musk nodded gravely. ‘You speak urgently, and passionately, Professor Adamson. You’ve read the ELE Report, I take it?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t paint an encouraging picture.’

The holographic image flickered for a few moments, then stabilised. ‘No, it does not. Ninety percent of the planet’s surface remains an irradiated wasteland. Our oceans are poisoned beyond any hope of recovery. The continuing demographic decline, the rapidly falling fertility levels, the increased rates of radiation-induced health conditions, the power plant burnouts, the reports from our few remaining productive farms and fisheries: whichever indices one is considering, the outlook is bleak. Just in the past six months, we’ve lost contact with the Sao Paulo-Rio Redoubt, the Joburg-Pretoria CIC, and Neo-Tokyo. The cyber-trenches are being breached by the Eastern Alliance with far too great a regularity. Time is fast running out. Space to manoeuvre, too.’

‘Both time and space, Mr Secretary-General,’ replied Seth. ‘Which to choose, then, for this last roll of the die? Seeking sanctuary on a sleeper ship across the vastness of space? Travelling on a journey that will take us five centuries to cross 39 light years: an uncertain voyage into the future to a virtually uncharted star system?’

‘Or an equally uncertain voyage into the past, professor, substituting millions of miles for millions of years,’ countered the Sec-Gen. ‘That’s if your teleportation experiment works, and if you really have cracked the secret of time-travel! I understand the apple didn’t return from its second journey, hmm?’

And we’ve no idea why, thought Seth. ‘The calculations will be difficult, the risks grave,’ he admitted. ‘But I truly think we can do it! From one ELE to another: avoiding both frying pan and fire, one fervently hopes, and thereby inaugurating a new Golden Age for humanity: a fresh start for our species. Nevertheless, you’re the one who is going to have to cast that die, Sir. I will await your decision.’

‘No need. My decision is made. The Security Council meets tonight. Naturally, both you and Mortmaine will need to present your arguments. But you’re right: the decision is mine, and mine alone. My late lamented father might turn in his forlorn grave on the Red Planet: but for the sake of the human race’–Secretary-General Gideon Randolph Musk stroked his chin, then said–‘Alea jacta est!’

V: The Awfully Big Adventure

Three months had passed. Sam Gupta’s final calculations had looked sound, and computer analysis had confirmed that they fell within the expected parameters. Bolstered by the formal approval received from the UN Security Council, engineers were working day and night on the new teleportation cage. It was far larger than the original, designed to transport not an apple: nor even, as speculated by Dr Gupta, a rat or a snake. No, time was of the essence: and the latest confidential report that Seth had received from the Sec-Gen on the ongoing cyber-warfare between the United Nations and the Eastern Alliance was not encouraging. There was a projected 22% chance that the entire CyberNet would collapse within the next three months: 65% by the end of year. Gideon Musk had calculated correctly: there was no way Elon II could have been made ready for launch in time. What remained to be seen was whether there was still sufficient time to fully initiate “Operation Golden Age.”

Further analysis of the apple had yielded ‘fruitful’ results. Although Dawn remained sceptical, Seth insisted that there could now be little doubt that it had travelled not just in time, but in space. The spatial displacement had been calculated to around 2,300 miles–give or take a hundred or so–though it was not possible to give latitude or longitude. West or East, North or South: it was impossible to say. The temporal displacement, oddly, was somewhat easier to calculate with precision: 6,075 years into the past, with a margin of error of two years either side. The information yielded was sufficient to enable the research team to re-calibrate the dimensional settings of the teleportation cage.

‘We need to avoid overshooting the Cretaceous-Paleogene boundary, else we’ll end up surrounded by vicious dinosaurs,’ observed Seth. ‘Or, even worse, we could end up arriving on the day of the Chicxulub asteroid impact itself. That wouldn’t be much fun. But I think’–he paused, calculating furiously in his head–‘I think we should be able to calculate an arrival about half a million years after the extinction event. The fauna and flora will be much less threatening then. Even allowing for a reasonable margin of error, that should deliver us to a reasonably favourable environment. You can make the necessary calculations, Dr Gupta?’

Sam smiled. ‘That’s straightforward enough, professor: both there and back again. That’s The Hobbit, isn’t it, Dr Founder? But there’s still the philosophical question to consider. Curving back within myself I create again and again, says the Bhagavad Gita. What if that’s true? Or will travelling back in time to 65 million years ago risk altering the course of human history? The grandfather paradox, and all that?’

‘Bah,’ snorted Seth. ‘We’re standing on the precipice of human extinction, and you’re worrying about theoretical paradoxes?’

‘Is it really that bad?’ said Dawn, quietly. ‘This really is the end?’ She started to sob.

There was really no point sugaring the pill, thought Seth. And yet, for the first time in a very long time, he felt compelled to look for gentle words, to avoid his customary brusque manner. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re building replica teleportation cages, as fast as we can, in a dozen places across the globe. With luck, we should have time–if the first human test run with the large cage goes well–to evacuate a few thousand, perhaps even a few tens of thousands, before we lose the CyberNet. The moment that happens, the entire project will automatically shut down, lest the Eastern Alliance gets access to it. It’s coming down to the final months now. Soon it will be the final days, then hours. But, Dawn–there’s one thing I want to ask…’

She looked up at him, through tearful eyes; startled to hear him use her first name. ‘What is it, Seth?’

‘I’m going on the test run myself. I can’t expect anyone else to do that in my stead. But there’ll be room in the cage for one other to accompany me. Would you be willing to come with me? The risks cannot be calculated, even if Dr Gupta here were to think otherwise’–he smiled, despite himself–‘You can say No, of course, but…’

‘Of course I’ll come.’ A simple statement, but spoken firmly. Then she added wistfully: ‘It would be an awfully big adventure.’

He looked into her eyes, and forgetting for a moment that they were not alone, he took her chin gently in his hand, and tilted her head towards his own.

A loud whistle pieced the air, startling both of them, and making them jump apart.

‘Well, well,’ said Sam Gupta, grinning. ‘It’s amazing the effect the end of the world can have.’

VI: Birthday Suits

He’d half expected that she would baulk at the idea of being one of the first two ‘chrononauts’ once she realised that they would have to travel naked into the past. I’m sorry, but my initial hypothesis that only living organic tissue can be teleported seems to be correct, he had said.

But no: she remained resolute in her determination to follow him. She replied: You can’t stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.

He laughed, and kissed her again. ‘Is that a quote from another children’s book, Dr Founder?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You clearly haven’t read Winnie the Pooh.’

’Or much literature at all, really. Though I am a fast reader. Mostly academic journals, engineering schematics, research papers, budget reports.’

‘Well, that won’t do, will it? We’ll have to start a regime of bedtime stories. There’s no time to lose.’

VII: The Long Night

‘You’ll have to make up for the deficiencies of my ears, and my ears, Dawn,’ he said to her, as they had snuggled together in bed that last night. ‘I’m having to forgo my hearing aid too, you see: you probably didn’t know that I use one. At least my decrepit body hasn’t yet required a heat pacemaker to be fitted, otherwise we really would be in trouble. What a fine specimen of Man!’

Dreamily, she closed her eyes, and said: ‘What piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable in action, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god!’

‘Ha! I’m no Prince of Denmark,’ Seth replied, smiling. He was glad she’d introduced him to the giants of Shakespeare these past few months; as well as a few mythological heroes from an earlier age. ‘I’m not even an end-of-time Prometheus. Just poor, foolish, aged Romeo. Sleep well, my darling. The jocund day awaits us, Dawn.’

And we must be gone, and live, or stay and die,’ she murmured drowsily. Silent minutes passed, and Seth watched as the slow rise and fall of her bosom took on a regular rhythm. His wakefulness would carry him through this dark November night, whilst she slept beside him. Winter had almost come: and the words of another author from rather more recent times came into his mind. He’d enjoyed the works of George RR Martin, the sole foray into the realms of high fantasy time had permitted him: a shame he’d never completed that final novel.

‘I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold.’

VIII: Prometheus Unbound

The day of destiny had arrived. Seth Adamson and Dawn Founder stood unclothed before the gleaming titanium cage. A naked owl now, completely shorn of his feathers, thought Dawn. No longer even wearing his glasses. No Hedwig. Perhaps the owl of Athena. Well, if ever we needed the wisdom and the luck of the gods, it’s today!

The staging area in the centre of the Ops Room was a kaleidoscope of activity, filled with technicians and engineers bustling about everywhere, waving clipboards, listening to their earpieces and studying the readouts on their minicomps: excited but nervous too. Only Sam Gupta appeared calm, unflappable as ever.

‘I’m sorry I can’t give you a copy of the Bhagavad Gita for the journey. Perhaps one final quote will suffice. No one who does good work will ever come to a bad end, either here or in the world to come. Perhaps I might add: or in the world that was. Good luck to you both.’

‘That was a hundred times more meaningful than the valedictory speech the Secretary-General gave us,’ said Seth, clasping the mathematician’s outstretched arm warmly. ‘Thank you, Sam. Thank you for everything.’

Dawn kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘This isn’t goodbye, Sam. I’ll bring you an apple back, I promise.’ He smirked, but said nothing.

‘It’s time,’ said one of the technicians, an earnest young man named Joshua. ‘Please enter Prometheus.’

Seth winced. The idea of naming the teleportation cage after the mythological Titan who had stolen fire from the gods for Humanity’s sake had been the Sec-Gen’s. Gideon Musk has a flair for the dramatic that his father would have been proud of, he thought.

As Josh spoke, the lights in the room flickered ominously, and a piercing electronic whine filmed the air. ‘Quickly, please! The energy transfer matrix won’t remain stable for much longer.’

They two chrononauts took their places, shivering slightly as their naked bodies pressed against the cold metallic frame of the cage. They resisted the temptation to reach out and take the other’s hand: they knew that this journey across time and space was one that each had to take, essentially, alone. They could not be certain they would arrive at the same destination. All they had left was faith, trust and a little pixie dust.

The light about them was building, brightening, intensifying. Seth blinked, wanting to shield his eyes, and he heard Dawn gasp next to him. He turned his head towards her, and…

Darkness.

IX: Ouroboros

‘Dr Gupta, the readings are all wrong!’ The agitated young technician thrust his minicomp towards the Indian, his hand visibly shaking.

‘What do you mean, Joshua?’

‘We haven’t sent them back to the correct point in time. Look at the year reading! It should read 64,500,000 BP. But it doesn’t!’

‘But how can you travel back in time before the Dawn of Creation itself?’ said Gupta, calmly. Far too calmly.

‘Sir, I don’t understand. The spatial and temporal readings are almost identical to when the apple was transported. So they’ve only travelled back six thousand years.’

‘As I said, the Dawn of Creation. A little over six thousand, actually. Our chrononauts have journeyed back to Friday October 28th, 4004 BC, to use the chronology of the Christian church. Otherwise known as the sixth day of creation. Archbishop Ussher was quite right in his calculations. An admirable theologian, and a capable mathematician. And now Humanity faces its day of destiny. The circle is complete.’

The lights flickered once again, more alarmingly still. ‘It’s collapsing,’ a panicked voice shrieked. ‘Look–the monitors! The CyberNet! The last firewall’s been compromised.’

Only one person in the Ops Room remained as unruffled as ever. ‘Are you a believer in the Christian God, Joshua?’

The trembling technician nodded his head.

‘Of course you are. You bear the name of HIS son, after all. Then I’ll forget the Bhagavad Gita, this time, Joshua. As your Christian scriptures say: The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare. You thought the Great Burn twenty five years ago was bad? Oh no–Dear me–but no.’

‘We have missile locks. I repeat, we have incoming missile locks!’

‘The cages, get to the cages,’ shouted another voice. A stampede of desperate men and women surrounded the three remaining titanium cages, standing against the back wall of the Ops Room, waiting to be lowered down to the teleportation pad, to follow in the wake of Prometheus.

‘Too late, far too late,’ said the being that had lately gone by the name of Gupta, shaking his head. ‘No time, no power, and shortly–no anything.’

‘Who are you?’ sobbed the technician, looking up at the terrifying figure standing before him.

‘My name is Legion. I have so many names. I am Abaddon and Set and Loki and Ahriman and Kali, and many more besides. To the Babylonians, I was Tiamat. The Hebrews called me Leviathan. To the Norse, I was Jörmungandr. For a time, I was the son of a Gujarati man, and a Hindi-speaking woman, and so I was Sampa Gupta: in English, the Serpent-King. My preferred name is Ouroboros, the serpent who swallows his own tale. I am here at Humanity’s end: and I was there at Humanity’s beginning. Curving back within myself I create again and again. The circle is complete.’

X: The Sixth Day

‘Where are we, Seth?’ Her voice sounded familiar: yet, somehow, different.

The vegetation was lush, and exotic, and above all abundant: very different from the few poor scraps of woodland with which they had been familiar for much of their lives. Seth felt heady as he breathed in the air. It was rich, heady, and clean: so totally clean. There was the sweetest birdsong in the air.

‘O brave new world.’ Again, that subtle difference in the timbre of her voice. She sounded younger, perhaps. He turned towards his companion, and gasped.

She looked to be around twenty-five years younger: the kind of age, he imagined, she had been at the time of the Great Burn, on the cusp of womanhood. She was still naked, and she was yet more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.

If her appearance was a shock to him, how much more so was his to her. She raised her hands to her mouth, and covered his lips in her shock.

‘Dawn?’

‘My God, Seth,’ she exclaimed. ‘You look to be forty years younger. You could be eighteen–nineteen!’

He smiled. ‘So could you.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Cellular regeneration at the molecular level. Dr Ransom once posited it as a theoretical effect of teleportation, but I dismissed it. Looks like she was right.’ He gasped. ‘No, no, no!’ Over her shoulder, he could see black smoke billowing from Prometheus. ‘Dawn, get down!’ Without waiting for her response, he grabbed her, and together they dived into the undergrowth. A few moments later, the birdsong fell silent as a tremendous explosion echoed, and re-echoed, all about them.

In silent awe, they clung to one another. And in that moment, it was as if–like St Paul on the Damascus Road in a future four thousand years to come–the scales had fallen from their eyes. They did not need to eat from the Tree of Knowledge after all: the foresight of six millennia of human history was laid bare upon their hearts. Yet for all that, somehow they knew they would be powerless to do anything other than play out their fated roles, and follow their appointed path.

‘You’ll finally have your sons, Seth.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, Dawn: three of them. And the last of them will bear my name.’ He knew already what dread fate would await the first two.

‘You’ll have a new name for yourself. The name of your fathers…’

‘For the father of all,’ he finished. ‘And you will have a new name too.’

She frowned. ‘But what about our daughters?’ She considered, for a moment, the implications of those words of sacred text, what lay spoken within, and what remained unspoken: and she blushed deeply. ‘No, not that!’

He hushed her, and stroked her forehead. ‘It will be okay. We don’t know all the answers. I don’t suppose we ever will. We’re alive. That’s what matters. And the human race will live: because of us.’

‘But no one else will come, from the future, will they? We’re the first chrononauts: but also the last.’

‘We don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll see. Time will tell.’ But he knew. Of course he did.

She kissed his lips, and smiled weakly. ‘At least I’m not your spare rib. That part of the story went awry somehow.’

He laughed. ‘See! There’s always something to be thankful for.’ They embraced each other again, feeling on their skins the warm glow of the very first human-induced fire. Prometheus had fulfilled his role in prophecy.

Soon an apple would arrive, and take its place upon the bough of a tree.

But, for now, they would wait to see what happened next.

They were unaware of the figure watching them from afar. Their arrival had been noted by the Fallen One.

Two of far nobler shape erect and tall,

God-like erect, with native honour clad

In naked majesty seemed lords of all,

And worthy seemed, for in their looks divine

The image of their glorious Maker shone.

But not for long, the Enemy thought grimly. He looked up to the sky, and noted, with considerable satisfaction, that as evening approached, the silvery orb, just two days old, could be seen glimmering faintly in the heavens. As the rays from her glorious golden consort faded, as day gave way to night, so that the white lustre of her pale pockmarked face would become brighter. In centuries to come its waxing and waning visage would serve as a reminder to the human race of lust, and madness, and change, and chance. All the things I like, he reflected.

The slits of the eyes of the Serpent-King narrowed, and with his forked tongue he licked his lips. The approaching evening would mark the beginning of the seventh day, he thought. A day of rest. And then…

The real work could begin.

***

Commentary:

The central conceit of this story is the Big Bang Theory is false, and that the Biblical accounts of Creation and the Fall are essential true: albeit with a time-travelling twist. Archbishop Ussher was a 17th century Anglican bishop who famously, and very precisely, dated the beginning of Creation to 6pm on October 22nd 4004 BC. Needless to say, I am no Creationist myself!

The Ouroboros legend of the snake swallowing its own tail reoccurs time and again across different world cultures and mythologies. Tying it in with various stories about the Devil, the Great Serpent as the Book of Revelation describes him, made perfect sense.

Lamda Serpentis is a relatively near star (39 light years) in the constellation of Serpens (the Snake). As recently as 2021 an exoplanet was confirmed in the system of this Sun-like star, of similar size to our planet Neptune. There is no reason why Lambda Serpentis might not be home to an Earth-like planet too.

I’m no scientist, so I have nothing to say about the plausibility or mechanics of space arks, teleportation or time-travel. These concepts serve merely as plot-devices for the story.

Very literary works are alluded to in the narrative. They include a number of children’s classics: the Harry Potter stories (JK Rowling), the Hobbit (JRR Tolkien), Peter Pan (JM Barrie) and Winnie the Pooh ( AA Milne). Reference is also made to the Greek legend of Prometheus, the gargantuan and, as yet, unfinished fantasy saga A Song of Ice and Fire (GRR Martin), and various works by William Shakespeare (specifically Hamlet, Romeo & Juliet, and the Tempest). The Bhagavad Gita, the Sanskrit scriptures that are a core spiritual text for Hindus, are quoted several times (not least the famous passage allegedly referenced by Robert Oppenheimer on the day the first atom bomb was explored in the New Mexico desert). The Holy Bible is also referenced (notably 2 Peter 3:10, with its description of the end of the universe, and Genesis chapters 1 to 3, with the various allusions to the Creation and Fall). And no re-imagining of these events would be complete without a quote from the epic poem Paradise Lost (John Milton). The term ‘Great Burn’ is lifted from The Babylon 5 episode ‘The Deconstruction of Fallen Stars’, and ‘Operation Golden Age’ from the Doctor Who serial ‘Invasion of the Dinosaurs’. The off-stage character of Dr Elwin Ransom is a tip of the hat to the character of the same name in CS Lewis’ Space Trilogy (though in the Trilogy by profession he is not a biochemist but a philologist, clearly inspired by Lewis’ great friend JRR Tolkien). As for any connection between the final Secretary-General of the United Nations, his supposed father, buried on Mars, and any real-life personage operating a major tech-company in the present day: well, that is purely a matter of conjecture...

Finally, a word about the title of the story. In Latin, the two words Mālum and Mălum were often confused. The first word (with long ā) is a noun, meaning ‘apple’: the second (with short ă) is an adjective meaning ‘evil’. It has been suggested that the reason why the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil is so often thought of as an apple (in the absence of any statement to that effect in the Book of Genesis) is that these two similar Latin words have been confused with one another.

‘I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.’ (Martin Luther King)

One of my prized possessions is a battered cloth-covered geography text book published in 1886 by George Gill & Sons. I found it in the home of one of my grandparents as a child. Its full title is the rather delightful Gill’s Oxford & Cambridge Geography: expressly compiled for middle-class schools and for pupils preparing for the Oxford and Cambridge Local Examinations. It’s a fascinating read, speaking of an era of privilege and class distinction that was once an integral part of the fabric of Victorian society. It hails from a long-vanished Age of Empire, when a quarter of the globe was coloured pink, and Britannia ruled the waves.

Almost a century and a half later, the world-spanning British Empire has been reduced to a dozen or so scattered rocks and outposts; and we can no longer boast (as Gill does) that ‘England is the chief commercial nation of the world, and her ships are found in every sea’. But the era of privilege and class distinction is all too alive and well. Of the five Conservative Prime Ministers of the UK since 2010, two of them (David Cameron and Boris Johnson) attended Eton School, whilst a third (Rishi Sunak) attended Winchester College (founded in 1382, and one of the oldest schools in Britain). All five were graduates of Oxford University. And the current Prime, Rishi Sunak, is the richest Member of Parliament, and together with his wife is said to possess a greater personal wealth than our soon-to-be crowned British monarch, Charles III. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

Yet the ascension of Rishi Sunak to the premiership of the United Kingdom might suggest a different lesson. Sunak was born in Southampton, but he is of Punjabi descent, his parents having migrated to Britain in the 1960s from East Africa. He became Prime Minister six months ago on October 25th 2022, on the Eve of Diwali, the first Hindu PM of the UK, and the first of British Asian heritage. Our capital city has already had its first Muslim and British Asian Mayor, Sadiq Khan, since 2016. And only last month members of the Scottish National Party elected Humza Yousaf as their party leader, and First Minister of Scotland. Like Sadiq Khan, he is a second-generation Pakistani immigrant.

I remember the election of Barack Obama as 44th American President in 2008 and the euphoria that surrounded it, not just in the United States but across the world. I remember the gracious speech given by Senator John McCain, his Republican opponent, in which he conceded defeat, and said this of his Democrat rival:

‘In a contest as long and difficult as this campaign has been, his success alone commands my respect for his ability and perseverance. But that he managed to do so by inspiring the hopes of so many millions of Americans who had once wrongly believed that they had little at stake or little influence in the election of an American president is something I deeply admire and commend him for achieving. This is an historic election, and I recognize the special significance it has for African-Americans and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight.’

I rejoiced at the outcome of that American election. I also thought to myself: ‘There’s no chance of anything similar happening in the United Kingdom.’ Yet here we are, fifteen years later with Rishi Sunak in No 10 Downing Street, Humza Yousaf in Bute House, Edinburgh, and Sadiq Khan ensconced as Mayor of London. Perhaps Britain is changing, after all.

*

And then, today, April 22nd 2023, I remind myself of events that took place on a street in the south-east London suburb of Eltham, exactly thirty years ago. That was the day on which a young black student named Stephen Lawrence was murdered in a racially motivated gang attack whilst waiting for a bus. He was just eighteen years old.

Stephen’s death was a watershed moment in the history of race relations in this country. It deeply shocked the nation. But it wasn’t just the savage brutality of his murder that disturbed people, appalling though that was. The way in which it was investigated by the London Metropolitan Police, with a mixture of indifference and incompetence, followed by an undoubted attempt to cover up that indifference and incompetence, was seen as definitive proof of what many people, not only people of the ethnic minority communities, had been arguing for some time; namely that the Metropolitan Police was ‘institutionally racist’.

That damning phrase was attached to the Met as a result of the 1998 public inquiry into Stephen’s death, and the police investigation that followed, chaired by Sir William Macpherson. His report, published the following year, has been described as ‘one of the most important moments in the modern history of criminal justice in Britain.’ One of its key recommendations was that the so-called ‘double jeopardy rule’ should be repealed in murder cases to allow a retrial upon new and compelling evidence. This recommendation was enacted, and as a result two of the individuals responsible for Stephen’s death were subsequently retried and convicted.

Stephen’s parents battled courageously and persistently over many years for justice for their son, at great cost, and initially in the face of considerable establishment passivity, undercover police attempts to smear them, and palpable hostility from some sections of the British press. Their perseverance paid off, and Stephen’s mother Doreen now sits in the House of Lords as Baroness Lawrence of Clarendon, from where she constitutes to champion the work of those seeking to improve race relations, and those working for a more equitable society, particularly in regard to the British criminal justice system.

In 2018, as the 25th anniversary of Stephen’s murder drew near, the then British PM Theresa May, to her considerable credit, announced that henceforth there would be an annual national commemoration of his death. Twenty years earlier, in 1998, an annual architectural award, the Stephen Lawrence Prize, was established in association with the Royal Institute of British Architects; thereby commemorating Stephen’s deeply cherished ambition to become an architect. And back in 1995, a commemorative plaque had been placed to mark the spot where Stephen was killed.

Shockingly, that plaque has been vandalised several times since its installation. But more disquieting still, perhaps, last month saw the publication of a new report, the Casey review, commissioned by the Metropolitan Police itself, in the wake of the abduction and murder of Sarah Everard in March 2021 by one of its own serving officers. If anything, it was even more condemnatory than the Macpherson report had been. Baroness Casey’s scathing review described the Met as ‘broken and rotten, suffering collapsing public trust and is guilty of institutional racism, misogyny and homophobia’. What, one wonders, has changed in a quarter of a century? Is it yet another case of Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose?

Sir Mark Rowley, the new Metropolitan Police Commissioner, has accepted the review’s conclusions, yet refuses to accept the term 'institutional’ to describe the racism, misogyny and homophobia so prevalent in his force, preferring to speak instead of it as ‘systemic’. One may or may not be able to see much in the way of distinction between such carefully nuanced phrases. There is no doubt of Sir Mark’s sincerity in his desire to ‘clean up’ the Met; and in the desire that he and other senior officers have for change, he has said that the force is no longer the same institution that it was 25 years ago. But it is hard to find fault with Baroness Lawrence when she expresses scepticism, and says in response: ‘I think the public should be the judge of that and not him’. Or in other words: ‘Show, don’t tell.’

*

As a boy, I grew up in a socially conservative Welsh mining community. It was a decidedly monocultural upbringing. I don’t think I even met a person from an ethnic minority until the year I turned eleven, in 1977. That was the year in which I began my grammar school education. That was also the year in which I met Dominic Mehta.

Dominic was South Asian. His father was highly regarded in the local community. I would frequently catch the bus between the mining hamlet where I lived and the town centre. Opposite the town centre bus stop stood the town hall, and on a board outside the name of the chairman of the town council was painted, alongside that of the town clerk. The chairman’s name might change from one year to the next, but the town clerk’s didn’t. By the time Dominic’s grammar school education began, his father Manu had already served for many years as town clerk. He was born in India, and had received his higher education at St Xavier’s College, a Jesuit-founded institution in Mumbai, before studying law in London. He had been ‘called to the bar’ at Middle Temple, one of the four Inns of Court exclusively entitled to call their members to the English Bar as barristers. It was an illustrious pedigree of diligence and service.

But that didn’t stop his son Dominic being bullied at grammar school. Many of the boys in my form faced bullying of one kind or another. Williams was the ‘fat kid’. Neat was the ‘dope-head’. I was the ‘four-eyed git’. And as for Mehta, well the bullies had the perfect word for him. The P-word: pure and simple.

Now, of course, this was doubly-insulting. The P-word was a racial slur almost on a par with the N-word in terms of its negative connotations. But it was also used pretty indiscriminately as a catch-all term of abuse against any person of South Asian heritage. Dominic’s family hailed from India, not Pakistan. Mehta is an Indian surname, derived from the Sanskrit word mahita meaning ‘great’ or ‘praised’. Famous bearers of the name have included Mehta Kalu (the father of the founder of Sikhism, Guru Nanak), the musical conductor Zubin Mehta, and the spiritual poet Narsihn Mehta (a particular favourite of Mahatma Gandhi). The name is found among various Indian religious groups, including Hindus, Sikhs, Jains and Parsis: but not Muslims. Given the historic animosity between different ethnic and religious groups on the Indian subcontinent, culminating in the bloody partition of India and Pakistan at their independence in 1947, it must have been particularly irksome for Dominic to be characterised in this way. But he bore it with remarkably good grace. That, after all, is what you did back then, in Seventies Britain, if you belonged to a minority. If you wanted to avoid a beating, that is.

Very many British people, it seemed, were at least casually racist back then. This was the aftermath of Enoch Powell’s enormously influential 1968 ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech, criticising mass immigration. The 1970s saw the rise of the National Front - the spiritual heirs to Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists. At its peak in the mid-Seventies, the National Front was England’s fourth largest party in terms of vote share. On the television we laughed at the bigoted views of Alf Garnett in Till Death Us Do Part and Eddie Booth in Love Thy Neighbour: but one couldn’t help but suspect that many viewers secretly - and not so secretly - admired them.

And then we had The Black and White Minstrel Show.

Minstrel entertainers appearing in ‘blackface’ had been a long-established staple of British music hall and seaside entertainment since the mid-19th century. The television series starring The Minstrels ran on the BBC for twenty years, from 1958 to 1978, garnering audiences in excess of 20 million viewers at its peak. Yet almost from its inception - stirred on, no doubt, by the growing civil rights movement in the United States at the time - there were voices at the BBC expressing their unease about this prime-time hit show. In 1962, the BBC’s own chief accountant wrote an internal memo describing the show as ‘a disgrace and an insult to coloured people’. A year later That Was The Week That Was, the notorious Sixties satire show, mocked The Minstrel Show savagely, producing its own skit in which Millicent Martin dressed up as Uncle Sam and sang a parody of ‘I Wanna Go Back to Mississippi’ accompanied by a band of minstrel singers in blackface crooning away:

Mississippi, it’s the state you’ve gotta choose

Where we hate all the darkies and the Catholics and the Jews

Where we welcome any man

Who is strong and white and belongs to the Ku Klux Klan.

Despite this, no doubt encouraged by the viewing figures, the BBC kept The Minstrel Show on air until finally axing it in 1978. Even then, blackface continued to appear on the BBC, usually in comedic contexts, well after the turn of the millennium, with shows such as The League of Gentleman, and David Walliams’ and Matt Lucas’ Little Britain and Come Fly with Me (the latter series depicting blackface as late as 2011).

Confession time: about twenty years ago, I wore blackface in a church panto. The panto was named ‘A Lad in A Manger’, and was based on the Nativity story. I played one of the ‘Three Wise Guys’: a blackface parody of the Three Wise Men. We played them as Noel Cowardesque characters, wearing tuxedos, brandishing cigarette holders and talking in plummy accents; but - crucially - all whilst in blackface. The worst of it was, the pantomime script hadn’t stipulated this bizarre and controversial performing choice. It was something, I’m deeply embarrassed to admit, that the three of us came up with entirely of our own accord. Our director was not impressed, but against her better judgement allowed us to go ahead with it. We received the requisite laughs from the audience: but twenty years later, it goes without saying that I really wish we hadn’t done it. But - hey - Lucas and Walliams were getting away with it back then, weren’t they? Well, a quarter of a century on from the banishment of The Minstrel Show, they should have known better. And I should have too.

*

The roots of racism are old. They undoubtedly predate historical time. Indeed, an aetiology for racism can even be found in the Hebrew Scriptures, in the Book of Genesis, dating back thousands of years:

‘Noah, a man of the soil, was the first to plant a vineyard. He drank some of the wine and became drunk, and he lay uncovered in his tent. And Ham, the father of Canaan, saw the nakedness of his father, and told his two brothers outside. Then Shem and Japheth took a garment, laid it on both their shoulders, and walked backwards and covered the nakedness of their father; their faces were turned away, and they did not see their father’s nakedness. When Noah awoke from his wine and knew what his youngest son had done to him, he said, “Cursed be Canaan; lowest of slaves shall he be to his brothers.” He also said, “Blessed by the Lord my God be Shem; and let Canaan be his slave. May God make space for Japheth, and let him live in the tents of Shem; and let Canaan be his slave.”’ (Genesis 9:20-27)

The Table of Nations in Genesis chapter 10 goes on to claim that all the tribes of nations of the Old World are descendants of Noah’s three sons. Japheth is described as the ancestor of Europeans; Shem of Asiatics; and Ham of Africans. The names Semitic and Hamitic, applied by linguists and ethnographers even today for certain Middle Eastern and African languages and ethnic groups, draws upon this Scriptural supposition. The story of the ‘cursing of Ham’ was undoubtedly derived to offer an explanation and justification for how, many centuries later, the Israelites (descendants of Shem) were able to subjugate the Canaanites (descendants of Canaan, the son of Ham).

It’s not hard not to see similar thinking at work today when one views the asymmetrical and fraught relationship between Jews and Palestinians in the Holy Land today. But these verses from Genesis were also perniciously applied in the American Deep South from the eighteenth century onwards as a defence for slavery, and (even after the abolition of slavery) continuing policies of discrimination and segregation. And its possible to draw a line from the days of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Huckleberry Finn, to the anti-abolitionist campaigns of John Brown and the rise of Lincoln and the Republican Party, to the American experience of Civil War, Reconstruction and Jim Crow, to the Civil Rights Movement of the Sixties and the deaths of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, to the election of Barack Obama, to the continuing violence, often racial in character, of the streets of America today, against the backdrop of the deaths of George Floyd and countless others, and the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement. And down through these centuries of social change and turmoil, some Christians have interpreted their Scriptures one way, and some in another; and all because (so the Good Book says) Noah couldn’t hold his liquor.

*

How do we change such deeply-ingrained prejudice? How do we create a world that truly embraces and celebrates difference, rather than viewing it as a cause for suspicion and dread?

Only through education, through a meeting of minds, and, at an even more basic level, with a meeting of people. For the first eleven years of my life, I’d never even met a person with a different coloured skin. I wish I could say my attitudes changed the moment I met Dominic Mehta. I wish I could say I stood up for him, when he faced the brunt of racism in the classroom. But I didn’t. Was it because of ignorance, or indifference, or fear of the bullies myself? Probably a mixture of all three. I’m still getting there, forty-plus years on. Prejudices that stretch back millennia aren’t overcome overnight.

But have we really improved on that old Gill geography textbook? In its section on ‘Peoples and Races’ it made the following remark, without any hint of surprise, anger or regret, about the native inhabitants of the so-called New World: ‘The Indian or American race…are gradually being exterminated by Caucasian colonists.’

Have we improved on that? I look around the world, and the many conflicts driven by racial, religious and ethnic division; and it’s easy to despair. I think back thirty years - on this Stephen Lawrence Memorial Day - to the cruel, pointless death of that gifted young man; and it’s easy to despair. I reflect on the lessons still not learned from the experiences of the Windrush generation, and the lives, mostly black, needlessly lost at Grenfell Tower fire; and it’s easy to despair. I consider the deep irony of Suella Braverman, our current UK Home Secretary, a second-generation British citizen of Asian descent, endeavouring to introduce immigration laws that would have prevented her own parents from settling in this country had they been in force back in the Sixties; and there is no doubt whatsoever that it is all too easy to despair.

But then I remember the day my younger daughter happened to casually point out, in a school photograph, the face of the young lad she had started dating. It didn’t last long (a couple of weeks, at most), and it certainly wasn’t a serious romantic engagement. I doubt they did more than hold hands! But the real point, for me, was that he was black. I remember that as I looked at the picture, I managed - just about - not to blurt anything out. It’s not that I was shocked: I wasn't. But I would have hated my daughter to have thought that I thought there was anything surprising, or even at all remarkable, in the fact that her (very brief) first boyfriend should have been black. It clearly didn’t matter to her. Why should it matter to me?

Why indeed.

Change is possible. Real change. Genuine change. It doesn’t have to be Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

I hope - one day - we really will live in a world in which Martin Luther King’s dream has been realised. A world in which Barack Obama’s cry of ‘Yes We Can’ inspires deeds not just words. A world in which we no longer have to assert that Black Lives Matter, because that would have become as obvious and irrefutable as stating that circles are round, and that the Pope’s a Catholic. A world in which, at last, I can truly believe that Martin Luther King, and Stephen Lawrence, and George Floyd, and so many others, had not died in vain. Until then, as a prophet of old once said:

‘Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream’ (Amos 5:24).

Prologue: ‘Would you like an adventure now, or would like to have your tea first?’

I wasn’t sure, at first, as I looked through the window of the dingy cafe, whether or not I’d come to the right place. There was only one customer sitting within; a thickset grey-haired man with a worn leather briefcase at his feet, wearing a battered straw hat and a creased linen jacket. He had bushy eyebrows and a luxuriant moustache, deep-set eyes, droopy jowls and a weathered face. He looked considerably older than suggested by the high-pitched voice I’d conversed with several times on the telephone over the past two weeks. But the moment I entered, he stood up, beaming, and offered me his liver-spotted right hand. He’d clearly been on the lookout for me.

‘Miss Darling, I presume?’ Yes, it was him: the youthful tones were unmistakable, like the singsong tinkling of a fresh woodland brook. A little like the stream that used to run through the woodland at the rear of my childhood home. His voice also possessed a distinct Scots accent.

‘Yes,’ I replied, as I shook hands. ‘And you’re Mr–’

‘James,’ he interrupted. ‘Please, just call me James. That’s what my friends call me. I’m certain we shall be friends. That’s unless you want to call me what they did at school. Jimbo. From my initials JMB, you see.’

I couldn’t help but smile, despite my anxiety about this meeting. He was clearly trying to put me at ease. ‘Friendy-Wendy. That’s what my brothers used to call me when we were young. Just call me Wendy.’ I took the seat he offered, and looked down at the table. Lying next to his coffee-cup was a notebook and pencil, together with what was unmistakably a recording device: the tools of his trade. I frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared for our conversation to be recorded.’

‘I can assure you, it’s purely to ensure the accuracy of my transcript. No one will hear it, other than myself.’

I shook my head. ‘No. You can take written notes, if you must. But that’s all.’

There was an awkward silence, and I could sense that he was weighing up his options. A waitress bustled over, and asked if she could take my order. I ignored her for a moment. After all, there was no point in staying if he wasn’t going to agree to my terms.

‘Very well, Wendy,’ he said. ‘I accept your condition.’ He reached for the recorder; but I got to it first, and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket.

‘You can have this back when we’re finished, James,’ I promised, patting my pocket lightly.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fair enough.’

I glanced down at the cafe’s menu card, lying on the table. Another voice, from long ago - the voice of one whom I had once cared for so very much - echoed in my mind. ‘Would you like an adventure now, or would like to have your tea first?’

I smiled to myself at the memory, and looked up at the waitress. She reminded me of Liza, our old maid. ‘A pot of Earl Grey tea, please.’

My companion picked up his notepad. ‘Where shall we begin?’

I smiled. ‘At the beginning, I suppose.’ I glanced at the clock on the wall of the cafe. It was precisely three o’clock. ‘Tick-tock,’ I murmured. ‘There goes the croc.’ I looked into his puzzled eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s an old family saying. This might take a while.’

‘Just take your time. Like you said - from the beginning.’

Chapter One: ‘All children, except one, grow up’

I was the eldest of three children. My parents were George Darling and Mary Ansell. They married relatively late in life - both just shy of forty - after a chance encounter with one another in Kensington Gardens. Mother would often proclaim it to us as love at first sight (at least on her part) though Father was always more diffident on the subject, whenever we asked. Their engagement was short, and I was born just a few months after their first wedding anniversary. They wanted children, and there seemed little point in hanging around. Two years later my brother John, Father’s favourite, was born; and then another two years after that came Michael. That was the hardest pregnancy of all for my mother; she nearly died during the delivery. We knew there could be no additional children after Michael was born, though I think both my parents would have liked more. Michael quickly became the favourite of Mother and myself. Darling Michael, rather than Michael Darling, we would call him. Or even just DM. I wasn’t anybody’s particular favourite; but I didn’t mind.

For as long as I can remember Father was often away from home with work. He was already quite high-up, by the time he married Mother, in the scientific research company that employed him. (No, I’m not going to give you the name of it, James. Some things will remain secret, even now. Let’s just call it ‘the Company’.) When I was two and a half, just after John was born, we moved out of our modest apartment in Bloomsbury, and into a rather splendid house in the Hertfordshire countryside. It was named Neverland.

My earliest memory is of playing hide and seek with Mother amongst the rose trellises, the tiger lillies and arching honeysuckles scattered around the walled garden at the rear of our new house. I remember that I plucked one of the roses and ran with it to Mother. She put her hand to her heart and cried: Oh, why can’t you remain like this forever! I knew that day that eventually I must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.

The two years that preceded Michael’s birth, and the six years that followed were the happiest of my life. During those years we’d have occasional visits from distant cousins, or other children living in the neighbourhood. But mostly it was just us. We played all manner of games in the extensive gardens of Neverland, and the adjacent ten acres of unkempt forested land that also belonged to the estate. There was no name for it on the local maps; but we called it the Neverwood. Here we imagined ourselves as bold adventurers fighting against pirates, or American Indians. Beneath the roots of our favourite oak tree in the Neverwood, we hollowed out a den. Somewhat overenthusiastically we named it the Home Under the Ground. The Home At the Side of Some Protruding Roots would have been more accurate, if less impressive. There was also a large lagoon in the middle of the woods, which was covered with a riot of water lilies from May to September. Sometimes we imagined that we could see mermaids gathered on the far shore of the lagoon; and John was adamant that sometimes he saw flamingos flying over it. It was a magical childhood.

Besides the family, we had a live-in maid named Liza, and a gruff but adorable Canadian nanny whom we all called Nana. I never learned her real name. Mother’s physical health never fully recovered after her difficult last pregnancy, but that was when Nana joined the household. She pulled us all together.

Father’s time away always seemed to grow longer and longer, but he would shower us with presents whenever he came home. The entire attic of our home was converted into the nursery, which Father gradually filled with the most fantastical and wondrous of toys. I remember that for John’s eighth birthday he installed a miniature mechanic observatory in the attic, complete with a telescope, an astrolabe and other gadgets. He’d managed to get an extended leave of absence from work; and he and John spent hours and hours that summer, staring up into the night sky.

See that star, John? he would say: Second to the right, and then straight on till morning. Then Michael and I would join them, DM dragging that teddy-bear around that was his constant faithful companion. And then John would grab the top hat that he had acquired for his previous birthday; the one when he had turned seven, and had decided to embark on a career as a magician. Pirate, train driver, fossil hunter, magician, astronomer: every year there was a new profession for John to aspire to, and a new fantasy for Father to indulge with his most favoured child.

If only we knew it, that was the last happy summer we would have together as a family. Because all children, except one, grow up.

*

Work seemed to get even busier for Father in the next few months. The company was operating at the cutting edge of research into the human genome. Some amazing breakthroughs were beginning to be made. Not that we children knew any of this, of course. We didn’t even know that Father was a research scientist. We had been raised with the belief that George Darling, our father, was a bank clerk.

A bank clerk!

It seems ridiculous now that he didn’t come up with a better cover story. Even more ridiculous was the fact that for so long we didn’t question it. How could a mere bank clerk have ever afforded such a well-appointed home in the country? Inherited wealth, over-inquisitive neighbours were told. Nana knew something of the truth, I think; but she was far too loyal to her employer to ever discuss it, even with his children.

She probably knew more about Michael’s illness, and somewhat sooner, than she ever revealed to me or John. As far as we could tell, it began to manifest itself at the end of that last wonderful summer. An unusual lethargy, and a most uncharacteristic uncommunicativeness, overcame a child who had previously been abounding in energy. Father and Mother refused to discuss it with us older children when we began to ask questions about it. Unbeknown to us at the time, when all the more usual medical investigations yielded nothing, Father took Michael to his secret laboratory. But Michael’s condition grew steadily worse. By the time of my eleventh birthday, six months after the first symptoms had appeared, Michael had become entirely mute. On that day, Father took me and John to one side; and in terms simple enough for both of us to understand, he gravely explained what had been learned about Darling Michael’s condition.

Your brother has an extremely rare medical disorder. It’s a genetic disorder - you know what that means, don’t you? John and I were bright children: we both nodded. It’s a kind of ageing disorder, which means that all the cells, and all the organs, of his body are getting older: very rapidly. It hasn’t shown up in his outer appearance, yet. But it will, soon. His seventh birthday is just a few months away: but by the time he reaches it–if he reaches it… Father's voice cracked, but after a pause, he continued: He won’t look as if he’s seven. He’ll appear to be older than that. Much older. And it’s not his body that’s affected. It’s his mind too. That’s why he’s not speaking any more. That’s why he’s moving less and less. Because the synaptic pathways of his brain are breaking down. Sorry. What I mean is - we’re losing our Darling Michael, piece by piece. And there’s nothing that anyone can do about it.

Soon after that conversation, the very worst physical manifestations of this disease - the changes that our Father had alluded to - began to present themselves. (If you don’t mind, James, I’m not going to describe them in detail. If you’re really curious, you look it up for yourself online. It’s called Hook’s Syndrome.) We had one last birthday party for Michael the following May. My parents had a lift installed, at some considerable expense, just so we could enable the party to be held in the nursery: the heart of our home. Poor DM didn’t speak once. But right at the end, as we sang Happy Birthday to him, his face turned towards us - he was completely blind by now, we’d been told - and he smiled. And then I saw a single tear running down his cheek. For an instant, that wizened, ravaged face looked like the face of my Darling brother again. And I saw his grip tighten, just for a few seconds, as he held his beloved teddy-bear in his lap once again.

Then the moment passed. I felt I was looking at a complete stranger. It was as if the last remnant of my brother had bid adieu to us. His carer came, and wheeled him away in his wheelchair. The teddy-bear fell from his feeble grasp onto the floor of the nursery. And as the doors of the lift silently closed, the four of us - Father, Mother, John and I - clutched at each other, and began our deepest lacrimosa. I never saw my brother Michael again.

*

Six weeks later, on the evening before John’s ninth birthday, Nana came into the nursery and broke the long-dreaded news to John and myself that Michael had passed away at three o’clock that afternoon. Early the next morning, before sunrise, John took Michael’s teddy-bear, and his own prized top hat, and carried them to the lagoon in the Neverwood. As I watched, he doused them in petrol from a can he’d hidden away in the Home Under the Ground. I didn’t know where he’d gotten it from. He stuffed the teddy into the hat, and set them adrift on the lagoon, amongst the water lilies that were now in full flower once again; then he lit a rag, and with unerring aim tossed it onto the gently bobbing hat.

A Viking funeral, I said.

John nodded. His latest fascination was with the myths and sagas of the mediaeval Norse. Farewell to childhood, he said. When the gods prepared the funeral boat for dead Balder, his wife Nanna died of a broken heart; so they threw her body onto the burning boat beside him. Perhaps we should do that to our Nana too.

John! I was shocked. How can you say that? Poor Nana.

If it would bring Michael back, I’d do it, said John savagely. But it won’t, will it?

No, replied the voice of Father, who appeared suddenly and soundlessly out of the shadows behind us. Together the three watched the burning remnants of beloved childhood memories. Nothing will, he continued. But our Lost Boy’s death won’t be in vain. By all the gods - I swear it won’t!

I knew that my father didn’t believe in God - or gods - so it was strange to hear him make such an impassioned vow. But there was steel, and anger, in his voice as he said it. I had no doubt he meant it. Whatever it was…

That night, I received my own personal indication that childhood had ended. I had my first period.

*

The days that followed Michael’s death–well, it was as if we were in a deep fog. John refused to speak to Nana. Perhaps it was because she was the one who had broken the news of Michael’s death to us, that evening in the nursery. He made her the scapegoat for all his pent up rage. Father quietly dismissed her. One morning we awoke, to find that she had left. Gone home to Newfoundland, was all Father would say.

The funeral service didn’t take place for many weeks. John and I didn’t know at the time, but later we learnt that Father was carrying out all manner of experiments and tests on our brother’s cadaver; so desperate was he to learn more about the mechanics of Hook’s Syndrome. It was only after Mother had made repeated impassioned pleas to him - to let her bury her beloved DM - that Father finally gave the go ahead for the funeral. The unnatural delay was much commented upon in the community where we lived; and I have no doubt that it unbalanced Mother’s mind further, and contributed to what was to come.

My Mother insisted on a religious funeral. My Father’s only faith, of course, lay in science. I remember him at the church service, sitting motionless throughout and steadfastly refusing to join in the hymns or prayers; refusing, even, to shake the hand of the poor young curate who was officiating. I later discovered that this funeral of a seven-year-old boy was his very first.

The day after the funeral, Father left home, returning to his work as a ‘bank clerk’. Neverland seemed more deserted now than ever. No Michael, no Nana, no Father. Liza gave in her notice too. I found myself doing most of the housework, and even attempted a little gardening, before giving up. It was all too much for an eleven-year-old to manage adequately by herself. Mother slowly slid into a deep depression, sometimes not leaving her room for days on end. John wasn’t much help either; sleeping throughout the day, then staying awake all night, alternately reading dark tales of Ragnarok and the Twilight of the Gods, or staring out into the velvet expanse of space with his telescope.

Once a week, I would visit the churchyard and place fresh flowers on little DM’s grave. The epitaph Give me the child until he is seven, and I will show you the man - a quote from Aristotle - was inscribed on his gravestone. Father’s choice of words, I presumed: but I dared not ask Mother.

*

A little over five months after Michael’s death, Father, John and myself stood at his graveside together once again. This time we had gathered for the funeral of our mother, Mary Darling. She had hung herself from our favourite oak tree in the Neverwood, on the day after her thirteenth wedding anniversary. Father hadn’t deigned to return home for the anniversary. It had taken his wife’s shocking death to drag him away from his precious scientific research.

The afternoon following Mother’s funeral, Father sat down with John and myself, and finally revealed to us that he was not a bank clerk. I wasn’t all that surprised. I’d had my suspicions for some while that we couldn’t really have had such a comfortable upbringing, nor could Father have been absent from home for so much of the time, if that had truly been his profession. Since Michael’s death, John and I had even speculated that Father might be a spy. One of the few things to excite John, just a little, during those dismal months was the prospect of Father turning out to be a real-life James Bond. The truth was a little more disappointing.

No, John, Father had laughed. Then, as if thinking of his wife, our mother, laid to rest only that morning, he grew more solemn again. I’m not a secret agent. Though my work is highly confidential. The Company I work for has commercial rivals, and it wouldn’t do for details of my work to leak out. But I think you are both old enough - and sensible enough - for me to tell you a little about what I do. Especially as I’ve come to think of it as our family legacy.

I asked him what he meant by that. He paused for a moment, then continued. You know that I have no religious faith myself. I’ve never pretended otherwise. It was the one great difference between myself and your Mother. She blamed God, I think, for taking away our DM. I couldn’t understand that, I’m afraid. It was beyond my comprehension that she should feel that way. So I wasn’t there for her, when she needed me. I could offer her no consolation. And so, really, I blame myself for her death. Not God. There is no God. He looked at us intently, as if daring us to challenge his impiety. Or do you think otherwise?

John said he didn’t believe in God either. I said I wasn’t sure. Father nodded. Well, if you don’t believe in God - if you really think that this life is all the life that is, or that ever can be - then that should affect how you choose to live your life. You should want to make the very best choices in that life. The one life, the only life, you will have. Carpe diem.’ He could see we were both puzzled. That’s a Latin phrase. It’s about the only thing priests and scientists have in common, you know - using technical words and phrases derived from dead languages. It means ‘Seize the day.’ Make a difference. Well, Wendy, John: I intend to do just that. I’m a research scientist. For years, I’ve been studying what’s called the human genome. Think of it as a map. A great big treasure map to…to Neverland. The Neverland we thought we’d never reach. That maybe now - thanks to your brother - we may reach. One day.

John told Father - bluntly - that he didn’t understand what on earth he meant. I thought that maybe I might, so I said: You mean, you think you can learn from Michael’s death? By studying what happened to him, you can help others who get sick like him too? Maybe even cure them? Is that what you mean, Father?

There was a curious gleam in my Father’s eye. Oh, more than that Wendy: much more. Your brother’s medical condition - Hook’s Syndrome - I think it holds the key. The genetic disorder accelerates cellular growth. But I think we can find a way not just to stop it - but to reverse it. And if we can do that: then we can reverse the normal ageing process itself. You understand what that means? Don’t you see? My Father’s voice had become more fervent as he continued to speak. John and I exchanged glances with one other, suddenly afraid. This didn’t sound like the calm, reserved man whom we looked to as the firm anchor of our family. Don’t you see? he repeated. It means defeating the Last Enemy - Death himself!

Interlude

I paused for a moment, and shuddered involuntarily. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I could have some water before I continue?’

James nodded. ‘Of course.’ He laid aside his notebook and pencil, and jumped up from his chair. Moving far more quickly than I had expected, he crossed the room to the counter, and asked: ‘Could we have a glass of water? Quickly, please. My companion is feeling a little faint.’

A few moments later he was back, and I gratefully took the glass from his hand. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind. It’s harder telling this story than I thought it would be.’ I sipped the water, and slowly regained my composure. ‘We haven’t reached the really horrid stuff yet.’

‘Take your time,’ said James. ‘I know this is very difficult for you, but you did the right thing contacting me. The truth about this business has to be told.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We can’t have any more Lost Boys. Poor Peter!’

‘You haven’t spoken of him as yet,’ noted James, cautiously. ‘But he’s the ultimate reason why you came to me, isn’t he?’

‘Of course. That dear, exuberant, reckless boy! “Proud and insolent youth.” That’s how Father described him. And as for what Peter Pan said back about my father: well, we’ll come to that. All in good time. Let’s continue from where I left off…’

Chapter Two: ‘I don't want to go to school and learn solemn things’

Father talked quite a bit more that afternoon, and long into the evening. John and I didn’t understand half of it. It seemed to both of us that our surviving parent was quite mad, unbalanced by Mother’s death just as she had been by Michael’s. His mania was in absolute contrast to her melancholia; but no less disturbing. We hardly slept that night, clinging to each other, certain that we would soon lose our father as assuredly as we had lost Mother.

The next morning, we were astonished to find Father restored to his usual rational self. He apologised for his ‘hasty words’ the day before. We were to think no further of them, he said. Grief had temporarily overpowered him. When pressed, he admitted that he was a scientist; that part of his fantastical story had been true. But as for the rest, it was nonsense. I was no more convinced by his sudden denials than by his disturbed ravings the previous day. But he was adamant that he didn’t want to speak any more on the matter. One thing was clear to him though. The time had come for both of us to go to boarding school.

My brother and I both protested against this - I don’t want to go to boarding school and learn solemn things! John had cried - especially when we realised Father’s intention was for us to attend different schools; but he remained obdurate. There was no question of him changing his mind.

It’s almost Christmas now, so there’s no point in going back to your old schools. We will spend these holidays together, here at Neverland. But come the New Year, you’ll depart for your new schools. And that is the end of the matter.

And so it was. It was the most wretched Yuletide imaginable, the three of us together, brooding on the events of the past year, as we ate our evening meals together in silence in the gloomy candle-lit dining room. Liza was enticed back, just for a few weeks, and quickly made amends for my deficiencies in the housework department. I wished we could have had Nana back too; but I knew that was never going to happen. At least Neverland was clean and tidy enough for that last Christmas. But it was too late to put right the best part of a year-long neglect of the garden. The frightful weather that winter also put paid to any planned visits my brother and I might have made to the lagoon and the oak tree in the Neverwood.

Christmas Day itself arrived. John and I had decided that if Father could disavow God, then we certainly were no longer beholden to believe in Santa Claus, or elves, or fairies. Every time a child stops believing, a fairy dies, Nana had told us repeatedly in the nursery, in happier times. But we no longer heeded her words. And there were no stockings and no presents that year, fully vindicating our unbelief. Though I do recall that there was a rather splendid turkey. Father made sure that we weren’t starved that Christmas. Except, of course, of the one thing we needed most. His affection.

No sooner had Twelfth Night passed, than John and I found ourselves packing our suitcases for the dreaded journeys to our respective new schools. I placed a poinsettia plant on the grave of my mother Mary and brother Michael. That evening, John and I laughed and hugged and cried on our last night in bed together in the nursery, remembering DM, and his teddy-bear, and John’s magic tricks with his top hat, and Nana and her stories, and the scent of Mother’s roses, and the nights with Father looking up into the skies, and that final birthday tea with the five of us all together. We shed tears as we remembered, but we also reassured each other that it wouldn’t be so very long before the Easter holidays, and our homecoming to Neverland, and the nursery.

But the day after we departed, the ‘For Sale’ sign was hammered into the ground near the entrance to our front garden. By the time Easter came, the country house that had been our home for almost the whole of our childhood had been sold. In its place, Father had acquired a new home for our reduced family, back in London. John and I never returned to Neverland.

*

The years went by. Father, John, and I saw little of each other, even during the holidays. I hated our new London home, even if it was along the fashionable and expensive Bayswater Road.

There’s no garden, I cried to Father.

Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve 265 acres of garden right opposite, was his reply.

So I spent most of my vacations with the families of school friends. They readily took pity on the poor young girl who had lost a brother and mother at a tender age, and whose thoughtless father was clearly too busy with his career to give much attention to his daughter. John, by contrast, always came home in the holidays; but he hid himself away in the attic, playing Strauss and Wagner at full volume, avoiding Father as much as possible on his own brief visits home. Whilst at boarding school, John developed an aptitude in mathematics and computing, and during his vacations gradually filled his attic room with all manner of electronic and computing equipment. When he turned sixteen, on one of our extremely rare teenage reunions, I asked him what he wanted to be when he’d grown up. A computer hacker, he replied. What about you?

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t know. All I knew was that I could never be what I had wanted to be, most of all. A mother. That had been made clear to me by Mother, during one of her rare lucid moments following Michael’s death. It’s genetic, this disease, your father says. It only affects boys. But girls can carry it. And if you’re a carrier, there’s a fifty percent chance that any boy babies you have will develop the condition themselves. That’s what happened to me, with my boys. John dodged the bullet: Michael didn’t.

Sure, I might have had a baby girl. I might have had a boy baby who didn’t develop Hook’s Syndrome. And my father might uncover the breakthrough he was searching for. But I didn’t want to take my chances with any of these imponderables.

There was always the possibility of adopting. Perhaps I could find some ‘Lost Boys’, children without parents of their own, to care for. Perhaps. But that was for the future.

Or so I thought.

*

The year John told me of his ambition to become a hacker was the one in which I turned eighteen. I won a place to study English at Imperial College, London. It wasn’t too far from our London home; and much as I disliked the place, I thought it would make sense to live there whilst I was at Imperial. Father didn’t object: and John could hardly do so. He was now a day pupil at a school in Kensington, studying for his ‘A’ levels, and living at our Bayswater Road home full time. I decided I would live in the basement, so as not to disturb my unsociable brother.

One evening, three weeks into my first term at Imperial, I happened to be walking through Kensington Gardens following a late lecture, following my usual route home. As I passed by the Long Water, I noticed a young boy curled up in a foetal position under a nearby sweet chestnut tree. Alas, one of our glorious capital city’s unnumbered waifs and strays, I thought to myself. I guessed him to be about twelve years old.

As I looked at him, he seemed to shake himself vigorously, as if awakening from a deep slumber. He yawned and stretched; and as he did so, the cloak of leaves that had been covering him, and had given him - I ventured - a modicum of insulation on this chilly autumnal evening, was shaken off. Now that I could see him more clearly, it was apparent that he was a lovely boy. The yellow and brown fallen leaves seemed to glisten in the last ensanguined light of the setting sun, and it came to my mind that it was almost as if he was clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that ooze out of trees. His mischievous eyes met mine. There was something gay and innocent and heartless in that gaze.

Hello, he said. My name’s Peter. What’s yours?

Wendy. What are you doing here?

He smiled the clearest, brightest, most perfect smile. It was entrancing; almost as if he still possessed his first teeth. But I knew he was too old for that. I live here, he replied.

These are my gardens. Where do you live?

Nearby. Where is your family? Your parents?

He shrugged. I dunno. I don’t have any. I could come and stay with you, if you like.

I laughed. It was such a bold, spirited thing to say. And I could hardly believe it–But I said Yes.

So that’s how Peter came to stay with me. And I became, I suppose, his surrogate mother.

Interlude

I took another sip of water, and paused again. Thinking about Peter was difficult. I was drawing near to the most painful part of my tale.

‘Do you want to carry on, Wendy?’ my interviewer gently inquired. ‘We can always meet up again in a day or two, if that’s easier for you.’

I shook my head vigorously. ‘No. If I stop now, then I’ll never get it all out.’

‘So,’ said James. His bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Surrogate mother? Is that really the kind of relationship you had with Peter?’

I laughed. ‘I’m not in the habit of seducing boys who haven’t yet hit adolescence. I wasn’t back then, either.’

‘But how long did he stay with you?’

‘I’ll tell you. Just give me a moment. This is going to be the hardest part of the story…’

Chapter Three: ‘To die will be an awfully big adventure’

Peter was filthy. It took an extremely long bath before he was remotely presentable. As usual, Father wasn’t at home; and John shrugged his shoulders with indifference when I introduced him to the young boy, and went back upstairs to listen to Das Rheingold. Whilst he was bathing, I managed to persuade Maimie, a college friend who lived nearby - and who had a younger brother around Peter’s age - to pop some clothes around. I told her they were for a visiting cousin who had arrived unexpectedly, travelling light. You know boys, I told her. No idea how to pack properly. I don’t think Maimie entirely believed me; but she knew better than to ask awkward questions. The torn rags that my new charge had been wearing when I’d first met him I threw out. That turned out to be a mistake; Peter had a screaming fit when he realised later that evening what I’d done.

I’m not wearing those, he said sulkily, pointing to the clothes my friend had brought round. He looked ridiculous standing there in the bedroom I’d set aside for him, wearing an oversized dressing-gown I’d purloined from John. Then he spotted a green cap with a red feather that had once belonged to Michael. It was one of the few things of my brother’s that I’d kept. I don’t know how it happened to be lying on a shelf in the spare bedroom. Before I could say anything, Peter picked it up and popped it on his head. Can I have this? he asked.

I was outraged, and I was going to say No. Of course I was. I opened my mouth, but somehow the words froze in my throat. The green cap, most surprisingly, seemed to fit him. And it certainly suited him. He looked at me, with those pleading eyes of his.

Please, Wendy. Please say yes!

A thought occurred to me. Yes, you can, Peter. But on one condition…

Ten minutes later, he was properly dressed. My friend’s brother’s clothes weren’t an exact match, but they’d do for now. Unlike DM’s cap; that could have been made for Peter.

Peter Pan.

I was the one who gave him that moniker. I told him he ought to have a family name, and as he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - tell me anything about where he had come from, we’d have to come up with something suitable, at least for now.

Why can’t I have your family name? Aren’t you going to be my mother?

I shook my head.

No, my darling boy. He giggled. That wouldn’t be right. What about… An image of the Greek god Bacchus, playing the pan pipes, popped into my head. Yes, that certainly befitted him.

So ‘Peter Pan’ it was. He seemed to like it.

*

In the days that followed, I took Peter shopping along Kensington High Street and fitted him out with more suitable clothes. I gently quizzed him about where he had come from, but he resolutely refused to talk about it. It was clear that there was some horrific experience from his previous life that continued to haunt him. And, just occasionally, I would find him in his bed, tossing and turning, and moaning in his sleep. During one of these night terrors, I happened to overhear him muttering some words under his breath. Something told me that he was subconsciously reliving one of the troubling events of his past.

No, please. No, Tink. No more fairy dust. Can’t I just sleep? Please? No, I need my shadow. Please don’t unpick it! No…not the dark and sinister man. Not him.

I went over to his bed, bent down, and stroked his fevered brow. I took care not to wake him; but the soothing action, and my voice - whispering Hush, Peter, hush - seemed enough to calm him. He shuddered one last time, then subsided, his breathing becoming more regular and gentle. The nightmare had passed.

By now I realised that I was out of my depth, and that I should contact the police, or social services. But Peter had already anticipated this. He threatened that he would run away if I told anyone about his whereabouts.

But I’ve already told my brother John.

Yes, but he hardly ever leaves his attic. He’s not going to tell anyone about me. But others might. Promise me, Wendy - or the first chance I get, I’m out of here!

So I gave him my promise.

*

Weeks went by, but it felt like we were living in a dream. The house was full of excited young laughter, something I hadn’t really heard since living at Neverland. If Peter wasn’t good at answering questions, he was certainly full of them himself. Bit by bit, I found myself opening up to him, talking to him about my Hertfordshire childhood. I didn’t go into the details of Michael’s death; how could I, with a child so young and innocent? It was enough simply to say that he’d become sick, and then died.

That’s sad - for you, I mean. And for everyone Michael left behind. But sometimes I think that to die would be an awfully big adventure.

I thought about the cruel way in which Michael had been taken from us. There had been nothing heroic or adventurous in that. But I couldn’t say that to this sweet child. Instead I said: I think that to live would be an awfully big adventure, Peter. Let’s try that for a while, shall we?

He giggled, and hugged me. I wish you could teach me to fly, he said. But if you cannot teach me to fly, teach me to sing. So I did.

I told him all about our adventures in the Neverwood. I talked to him about my Mother, and her love for her garden, and that sadly she too had passed away; and I spoke about Father, and all the wonderful toys that he had provided for us.

Why does your father not live here with you and John? Peter asked one morning.

Well, he does. But he works away most of the time.

What does he do?

Why– I hesitated for a moment. Some inner voice seemed to caution me not to tell the boy the truth. Then inspiration struck. He’s a bank clerk, Peter. A very senior one. He works in the City. Perhaps you’ll get to meet him one day. Oh look! Any distraction was welcome, to change the subject. The post has come. Peter, would you mind getting it for me?

It was a letter from Imperial. I hadn’t been to any of my lectures for well over a month now, ever since finding Peter. Well, how could I? Wasn’t I a full-time carer now? And, if I was honest with myself, I was enjoying ‘mothering’ far more than attending seminars and tutorials on Austen or Coleridge or Milton. I put the envelope to one side.

Aren’t you going to open it, Wendy?

Not now. Later, perhaps. Look, it’s a fine day. Why don’t we go for a walk in your gardens?

Maybe I could build you a house, he said, and rubbed his little snub nose against mine.

And then I’ll sing:

’I’ve built the little walls and roof

And made a lovely door,

So tell me, mother Wendy,

What are you wanting more?’

*

Another two weeks passed. It was December now, and Christmas was coming. Peter loved going down Oxford Street and seeing the festive lights. I was determined to make his first Christmas with me a special one. I did wonder, though, what would happen if Father came home unexpectedly. How would I explain Peter’s presence? I’d thought through lots of different explanations in my head, only to reject them.

Well, I might as well tell Father that he’s a Lost Boy who fell out of his pram when his nurse was looking the other way, and who has been living in Kensington Gardens ever since, I told myself one day, out loud. For all I know, that might even be the truth…

Then one morning, I was awoken by shrill cries, coming from the hallway above. It was Peter. I rushed up the short flight of stairs from my basement bedroom, barefoot, wearing just my nightgown. The sight that greeted me when I got to the hallway: I’ll never forget it. Huddled in the corner, knees bent, bawling his head off, was Peter. He was plainly terrified, hiding his face in his folded arms as best as he could from the tall figure standing over him. My father. George Darling.

At least, it looked like my father. But the terrible thunderous expression on his face was like nothing I had ever seen before.

And then I knew. This was the dark and sinister man of Peter’s nightmare.

Get up, you proud and insolent youth. Get up! The venom of the words that Father spat out of his mouth was powerful enough to soak into my soul, every bit as much as Peter’s.

Peter shook his head vigorously from side to side. No. I won’t! I won’t come back with you. I won’t! Then he opened his eyes, and staring past my father, he saw me standing in the doorway, looking on, horrified.

Wendy!

Interlude

The tears were flowing freely down my face. I couldn’t go on. I was gasping for air.

Looking deeply concerned, James had laid aside his notebook, and was holding my hands. ‘It’s okay, Wendy.’ No response. ‘Wendy–Miss Darling? We really can continue this another time, you know.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. I pulled a tissue from my pocket, and blew my nose vigorously. ‘God, I must look like such a mess. I should have known that mascara would have been a bad idea today.’ I sniffled. ‘Okay. I’m not going to talk any more about THAT day. Let’s skip forward a couple of days. To when Father unlocked my bedroom door, and let me out of my room, and told me about Peter. And just why he was so important to him.’

Chapter Four: ‘Time is chasing after all of us’

I didn’t want to believe whatever it was Father would tell me, of course. I was sure that it would be a very partial and partisan version of events. But there would also be some semblance of truth in it, I guessed, as far as it went.

Father told me that Hook’s Syndrome was so rare that it had taken him, and the rest of his team, several years to find a sufficient number of test subjects. The principal problem was that they had to be young. Once puberty had kicked in, they’d be useless. Naturally, that posed significant ethical challenges. So the Company had soon come to the conclusion that the best candidates had to be sourced by scouring the country’s diminishing number of readily accessible children’s homes; and, in the last resort, the byways and highways of our larger cities. The best pickings, of course, had been found here in London.

Put simply, we had to have Lost Boys, said Father. Always boys. Girls are far too clever to fall out of their prams… I gasped. Yes, Wendy. The house has been bugged. And you see, girls would never respond to the serums we’ve been working on at the Tinkerbell Project. But members of the fair sex have other uses within our project. All Lost Boys need their mothers, after all.

The Tinkerbell Project? I shuddered, remembering Peter’s dream. Of how he had spoken of ‘Tink’.

Yes. Not my name for it, I assure you. We’re tinkering with the human genetic code to an extent we’ve never been able to do before: on an exciting but, for some, challenging new scale. Playing God, some might say. The risks are high, but the rewards… Father shrugged. If we succeed, then the bells really will ring out in celebration. So–Tinkerbell.

Wait. You said the house has been bugged? And that all Lost Boys need their mothers? Like Peter - and me? Was this a set up from the start?

Of course. Tootles, Nibs, Slightly, Curly, the Twins - their code-names, of course - those Lost Boys were all promising subjects. But none more so than Peter. We found him five years ago, wandering in Kensington Gardens. Not far from the spot I first met your mother, long ago. A doubly-fortuitous coincidence, also being so close to our new Darling family home. He was seven then - the perfect age, of course, as asserted by Aristotle. You remember your brother’s gravestone? I nodded. Peter has helped us tremendously. We’re so very close now, Wendy, to arresting the ageing process. We can do it for Peter, I’m certain of it. Unpicking the Shadow, we call it. Again, I thought of Peter’s dream, but said nothing. Father smiled a thin humourless smile. That particular poetic turn of phrase is mine. You know the story of Plato’s Cave? The shadows on the wall that, in the fable, are the effects of an unseen reality. Used by some theists as a facile defence for their belief in God. Well, the Tinkerbell Project is all about Unpicking the Shadow. Breaking the link between life and death, the transient and the enduring. And, in so doing, finally dispelling the need for God.

So Peter need never grow old? Is that what you’re saying, Father? The implications of what my father was saying were mind-blowing: and terrifying.

Yes! Remember that conversation we had; why, seven years ago now, virtually to the day? On the day we laid your mother to rest? You thought me mad, that day, I think. But THIS is what I’ve been working towards these past seven years. The physical aspect of manipulating the genetic code, in just the right way, I’m confident, we’ve almost mastered. Truly, the dawn of the Übermensch: Nietzsche’s ‘Superman’. But the emotional and mental obstacles - if anything, those have been more difficult to overcome. In short, if we’re going to arrest Peter’s maturation, then we need deep-seated psychotherapy. And he will need what we’ve been unable to provide for him these past five years: a mother-figure.

You mean–?

Yes, Wendy. I mean you. That’s why we returned Peter to Kensington Gardens. Most of his early memories we’ve obliterated with psychotropic drugs, but certainly trace memories - such as the gardens being a home, a playground, a place of sanctuary - these have remained, and proved useful. We arranged for him to find you. We knew, from our experiments, how adept the Lost Boys are at emotional manipulation. And I knew you, of course: my own daughter. We’ve monitored everything, Wendy.

How did you manage to do all that?

Father chuckled. Having a mathematical genius for a son, someone with superlative talents in the fields of electronics and computing, has had its advantages. John’s been part of the Tinkerbell Project for the past eighteen months now. Why do you think he spends so much time in his attic? It's only a small part of what he does for us - but ever since you returned home, and began studying at Imperial, he’s been indulging in some rather detailed home surveillance. Isn’t that so, son? His eyes had turned away from my astonished face, and were now firmly fixed on John - my brother - who was leaning composedly against the doorframe of our lounge. Come and take a seat. I’m just filling Wendy in, so that she too can make her choice.

My brother coolly sat down opposite me, smirking, clearly enjoying my discomfiture. You snake, John, I hissed. How could you betray me like this? He shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing. I turned back to Father. What do you mean? What choice?

It’s very simple. Peter’s now firmly back where he belongs. But you can help him. We’ve been recruiting surrogate mothers for our Lost Boys. Finding one for Peter has proved particularly difficult. But as he’s by far our most promising subject, it’s imperative we find one for him. Urgently. I think we’ve succeeded. Will you join the Project, Wendy?

I didn’t know what to say. I sat there, in silence, staring at the floor, listening to the traffic thundering by on the busy Bayswater Road outside, trying - and failing - to take it all in.

Father played what he believed to be his ace card. If not for John - if not for me - will you do it for Michael? That his death might not be in vain?

Finally, I looked up at my father, wondering what had happened to the man I had once loved. Peter was right. There was something dark and sinister about him. John’s death had twisted him. Perhaps Mother had been the first to recognise it, when for weeks he had denied her the right to bury her son, while he carried out goodness knows what abominable experiments upon his body. Experiments that doubtless wouldn’t have been out of place in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I remembered the words spoken by the Monster:

Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful.

I looked into my Father’s cold expressionless eyes; and I imagined that such words could easily have tumbled from his mouth.

There was only one answer that I could give to him. But I also knew I had to buy myself some time.

Could I think about it for a few days, at least?

Father stiffened. I could tell my response displeased him. You can have until tomorrow morning. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. There goes the croc. I have to go: there’s some delicate work that needs my direct supervision. I really can’t leave it to Smee. Here’s the deal: you can’t leave the house until I return tomorrow. No phone calls, no emails, no texts, no social media. John will keep an eye on all that. I’ll be back for your answer at nine o’clock tomorrow. Don’t disappoint me, Wendy.

*

As soon as he’d gone, I turned to John.

Why?

You called me a snake, Wendy. Perhaps I am. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven, yeah?

I shook my head. Paradise Lost. I thought I was the literary member of the family. That sentiment isn’t yours, John. Live up to your brother’s name. Be like the angel who champions truth and justice, not the fallen Lucifer. You know this is all wrong. Mother wouldn’t have wanted any of this. And you know what? Neither would Michael. He’d have been horrified at what Father is doing in his name.

John looked unsettled. I could tell my shaft had hit home. He stood up, and walked in silence across the lounge. As he reached the doorway, he turned around. For a moment I thought he was about to admit I was right. But instead, he muttered: I’m off to my room. Just remember what Father said.

*

It took me a long time to get off to sleep that night. I wondered whether I should play along, pretend to agree to Father’s plan. Maybe, once I was reunited with Peter, I would find a way for us both to escape; to fly away together, far beyond the Company’s reach. But I doubted that I could deceive my father. He’d know if I was lying. He’d know.

Eventually, I did manage to sleep. And I dreamt of Peter.

In my dream, we were flying together, with John, and Michael too. The three of us Darlings were children once again. We were all in our nightclothes. John was wearing his ridiculous top hat, and Michael was holding on to Peter with one hand, and his teddy-bear with another. Only Peter was unchanged. He was as I had last seen him, just a few days before; wearing Michael’s green cap with the red feather. In my dream, we were laughing and swooping down out of the sky. There was the lagoon of the Neverwood, and I could see that in the middle of it, a pirate ship lay at anchor: the Jolly Roger read the name painted on the side. As we drew closer, I could see the captain of the vessel. His eyes were the blue of a forget-me-not, and his hair had long dark curls resembling black candles. In place of his right hand there was an iron hook. There was a relentless tick-tock that grew louder as I approached, and I said out loud: Time is chasing after all of us. Then I realised, as I looked down at him, that I was staring into the face of my father. A cannonball went whizzing by, missing me by inches. I was falling out of the sky now towards the captain, falling, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop…

*

Peter! I cried out. I awoke, with a start. Daylight was streaming in through the lace curtains; I hadn’t closed the blinds properly the night before, and had left the window slightly ajar, as is expecting - hoping - that someone might fly by. A young boy wearing a green cap, perhaps. I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was half-past nine: well past the time Father was due to arrive to receive the answer to my ultimatum. I dressed hurriedly, still not knowing what exactly I was going to say to him.

I bounded upstairs to the hallway, my heart thumping loudly. There was no sign of either Father or Michael. The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I walked through to the lounge. Trembling, I picked up my phone, which I had left there the night before. I scrolled quickly through the texts and messages. There was one from Maimie Mannering, asking why I hadn’t been at lectures lately, and would I like to meet up for coffee. A few other messages from well-meaning friends. A text from my tutor at Imperial: a follow-up to their letter, no doubt. Nothing from my father.

Finally, there was a message from John with an attachment - a video. The accompanying message itself said simply:

WATCH THIS.

Interlude

‘We’re almost at the conclusion now, James. The video doesn’t exist anymore. But I can still remember exactly what John said in it. But before I tell you, I want a final reassurance from you, please.’

‘Of course. What exactly do you mean?’

‘I introduced myself to you as Miss Darling. Well, I’m actually married now. I have a husband, named Edward, and a seven-year-old daughter, Jane. We adopted her. I’m not going to tell you my husband’s surname. Edward knows something of what I’ve told you. Not all the details, but it was enough for him to encourage me to contact you. He once met your father, apparently. Knew how highly regarded he remains, years after his death. I’ve kept all this hidden for twelve years now. It’s long enough. The Company that my father worked for has gone, and his research has been destroyed; but there’s always a chance that someone might try to replicate it. I think the public has the right to know what happened to Peter and the other Lost Boys. But I need your solemn assurance, James, that you will protect your source. That you won’t come looking for me, or Edward, or Jane.’

James sighed, and rubbed his eyes. They were so deep-set that I could not tell the colour of them. ‘I come from a family that has always honoured the absolute integrity of the printed word. My great-grandfather was an illustrious children’s author, my grandfather a distinguished newspaper editor, my father an award-winning war correspondent in Korea and Vietnam. He, above all, risked life and limb many times, in pursuit of the truth. Compared to the three of them, I’m just a hack. But I have never betrayed a source, Wendy. Not in almost forty years of investigative journalism. And I’m not about to do so now. Does that satisfy you?’ I nodded my assent. So. What did your brother have to say? How does the story end?’

Chapter Five: ‘Oh, the cleverness of me!’

I want you to know, Wendy: you were right. Completely right. What our father and his associates were doing: it was utterly monstrous.

Well, it all came to an end last night. As soon as Father returned to the laboratory, I knew what he was planning to do. The final experiment, with Peter. Unpicking the Shadow. Severing the Connection. The last piece in the new genetic code: the Petrine Code, he called it. The name Peter means ‘rock’: did you know that? Peter had been the toughest rock to crack. But at last, Father managed to do so last night. That’s what he was working towards - the Ultimate Sanction. He’d wanted you to be there, of course. Your refusal surprised him. The first time for him, in a long time, that things hadn’t gone completely according to plan. I think he knew, when he left, what your answer would be on his return.

They’d been preparing Peter for forty-eight hours solid, more or less from the moment they’d returned him to the lab. I won’t go into details. You wouldn’t want me to.

Anyway, something went wrong during the final phase. I’ve not been able to work out what happened exactly. The data’s too corrupted. But I think Father’s Übermensch became too much for him. He succeeded more than he could have imagined: and more than he could possibly control. There was an explosion, followed by a terrible fire. The entire facility was destroyed, together with everyone who was there at the time. The administrators, the researchers, the medical staff, the security. And the subjects themselves. The Lost Boys. All of them. Including Peter.

Wendy, I still don’t believe in God. I think you do, deep down. Will God die - just like fairies - if we renounce him? Maybe. Nietzsche said as much. Anyway, I suppose that means I don’t believe in the Judgement of God either. We brought this judgement upon ourselves. But it’s innocents like Peter who have paid the greatest price. I can’t entirely blame Father. But neither can I forgive him. Michael’s death consumed him. I think it consumed us all. Except, perhaps, you.

Anyway, I’ve been busy these past few hours, with my own Ultimate Sanction. It’s a computer virus, named ‘Crocodile’. Just one click of the button…

There. Done. Tick-tock. The mouse ran up the croc.

It’s being uploaded right now as I speak into the mainframe computer that’s the data hub for Project Tinkerbell. From there it will spread out to corrupt every file, every document, every little bit of computer code, everything associated with Father’s work. Just a sprinkling of virtual pixie dust. All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust, you know. The fire at the laboratory has destroyed the physical evidence. I’ve eliminated the rest. Götterdämmerung, Darling-style. Father was right. I am a computer genius. Oh, the cleverness of me!

But there might still be some agents left who worked for the Company. If so, I can’t imagine they’re going to be very happy with either of us. I’d get out, once you’ve opened this, just in case. Leave Bayswater Road behind, and leave behind the name of Darling. I’m getting out too: in my own way. Don’t follow me. Find a better way - a better way of living - than I ever could.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save Peter. If I’d acted sooner, if I’d really helped you, all the time he was here, as opposed to spying on you - maybe things would have turned out differently. At least, I think, it was quick at the end for him. He was happy with you, Wendy. Happier than he’d been for such a long time. Never forget that.

I’ve pulled off my best magic trick of all, without needing my old top hat. I think, at last, Michael would have approved of me. Maybe - if you’re right about God - he can yet tell me so. Mother too. Maybe Peter was onto something. Maybe death really is an awfully big adventure.

It’s three o’clock in the morning now, and I’m so damned tired. Time I slept. Goodnight, Friendy-Wendy. Remember what Father said, in better times: Second to the right, and then straight on till morning.

Interlude

James put his pencil down, and sat silent for an age. I looked at the clock on the wall of the cafe. Tick-tock: three o’clock, I thought to myself. How imperceptible the passage of time!

‘John took his own life, then?’ enquired the journalist at last.

‘Yes. Not quite Brünnhilde riding into Siegfried’s funeral pyre. Cyanide was my brother’s choice. He was long gone by the time I opened the video - as was his intent.’

‘Did you “clear out” of the Bayswater Road house?’

‘That very day. Cleared out, left it all behind. Except for this.’ I opened up my handbag. There wasn’t much inside it, except for one item that was of inestimable value to me. I pulled it out, and placed it on the table before me. It was somewhat battered, but James gasped as soon as he saw it. It was a green cap with a red feather. ‘I keep it, just in case Peter Pan has learnt to fly. Just in case one night, he flies back to me.’

‘Thank you,’ said the journalist. He stood up, opened his briefcase and slipped his notebook and pencil inside. ‘I have a meeting with my editor tomorrow morning. I’ll know then if he’s interested in the story. If not–’ he paused. ‘There are other publishers who have accepted copy from me before. I do have a reputation for reliability. As well - as I’ve already mentioned - for protecting my sources. Ring me tomorrow evening, if you like. I can let you know then how I’m getting on. This is an important story, Wendy. I promise - whatever it takes - we’ll get it out there.’

I stood up too, and shook hands with him. ‘Thank you, James. By the way, what does your middle initial stand for, if you don’t mind me asking? Is it Michael?’

He smiled. ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s Matthew. I don’t like it much.’

I laughed. ‘I’m saddled with two middle names, not one; and I don’t like either of them at all. Well, thank you James, Edward was certain that you were the right man for the story of Peter Pan. Now I’ve met you, I’m convinced of it too. I’ll be in touch.’

It was only after he’d walked out through the door of the cafe that I remembered I still had his recording device in my jacket pocket. I ran out of the door after him, calling out down the street. ‘James! Mr Barrie!’ But he was gone.

Puzzled at the speed with which he had vanished, I turned back towards the coffee shop, and swore under my breath. In my haste to catch up with the journalist, I’d neglected to pick up Michael’s - Peter’s - cap. I pushed open the door, and was distressed to see that the table and chairs where we had been sitting were empty, save for a menu card. There was no sign of the cap. I ran over and glanced down at the menu card. It looked different, somehow. The name of the cafe was printed on the top of the card.

Neverland Cafe.

Epilogue: ‘Never is an awfully long time’

‘Wendy! Wake up!’ The splash of water stung, but certainly served to awaken me from my slumber.

‘What–where am I?’

‘Gosh, sleepy-head, we’ve been trying to wake you for ages!’ The voice was that of a young boy, one that I seemed to recognise; and yet somehow I felt as if I hadn’t heard for a very long time. For many years, in fact. How could that be?

My eyes started to focus on the face of the child leaning over me. It was my brother John.

‘You always get cross with us if we sleep in,’ chimed another familiar voice. I sat up at once. There was light streaming in through a skylight above. I whirled around, confused. I seemed to be inside a small hut - no, it was more like a miniature house - and there were four sleeping bags strewn across the floor. I realised that my body from the waist down was inside one of them. The other three were lying empty.

‘Where am I?’ I asked a second time.

‘Goodness, Wendy, have you had a knock on the head?’ That was John speaking again. He looked to be about eight years old, with that slightly smug look on his face that always used to amuse and annoy me immensely in equal measure.

‘I was having the most peculiar dream,’ I said. ‘I was in a cafe that had the same name as our home, and there was an old man writing down–why, writing down what I was telling him, in a notebook. I was talking for ages and ages - but the clock on the wall, it kept saying the same time. Tick-tock. Always three o’clock. And Father was a pirate, and I found this ragamuffin boy sleeping in a park - it was all so very strange…’

Someone was poking me in the back. I turned around, and found my youngest brother, Michael, gigging in delight, clearly entertained by my confusion. He looked exactly as he had looked during that final summer, before he’d succumbed to that terrible disease. Sat on his lap was his favourite teddy-bear.

‘Well, you’re not in a cafe now. You're with us in your house, Wendy,’ said Michael. I realised that his voice was the second to have spoken to me following my awakening. ‘The one Father built for you–’

‘With the help of us boys, don’t forget,’ added John.

‘Forget? But I don’t remember it,’ I said. I thought for a moment. ‘The wild boy in my dream once promised to build me a house, though.’

John guffawed. ‘Whatever do you mean? You know full well that we've been sleeping out here in the Neverwood these past two nights, while Father finishes his mysterious birthday surprise for me. That’s why we’ve been banished from the nursery, remember? Oh you are a duffer, Wendy!’

‘One more night, and then John will be eight,’ said Michael. He threw a pillow at his older brother, but his aim was poor, and it missed John by a wide margin.

‘He’s finishing your observatory,’ I said, slowly. ‘Father’s most ambitious birthday present for you yet.’

‘What?!’ exclaimed John. ‘How do you know THAT?’

‘Oh, Wendy,’ said a new voice, ‘we were supposed to keep it a surprise. Fancy blurting that out.’ There standing in a doorway stood a figure that was hard for me to make out, as the bright morning sunlight shone in from without. But the voice was unmistakable.

‘Peter?’

‘Yes, silly,’ laughed the figure in the doorway. ‘Who else but your twin brother?’

‘My what?’ My hands clasped to my mouth. I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. The figure reached up to its head. Next moment, a green cap with a red feather came whirling towards me and landed on my lap.

‘Peter has a far better aim than Michael,’ smirked John.

‘Boo,’ cried Michael and launched himself at John; then, with a whoop, the figure in the doorway leapt in too, and in an instant three boys were tussling with each other, indulging in the kind of mock play-fighting that only children who love one another dearly will ever resort to. In the confusion, they rolled onto me, and at last I could see that the third boy truly was Peter, just as I remembered. Actually, perhaps a couple of years younger than before. Younger and, if anything, wilder. And without the slightest hint of that troubled look I’d sometimes perceived in his eyes.

John’s head poked out from the tumble of arms and legs, and looked straight at me, suddenly anxious.

‘I say,’ he inquired, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve really hurt yourself, Wendy, have you? I mean - oh, what’s it called - when people can’t remember stuff?’

‘Amnesia,’ said Peter, quietly. ‘Wendy, Wendy.’ I looked up at him. ‘Just always be waiting for me, Wendy.’

I smiled back. ‘Peter, never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.’ I hugged him tightly. ‘But I promise, I’ll never forget you, or John, or Michael. Never!’ Puzzled, yet caught up in the sheer joy of the moment, my other two brothers joined in that wondrous embrace too.

One day, I realised, all children must learn to worry about grown up things. Even Peter Pan. But the nightmare had passed. We were young again; and we were happy. And I also knew, without a shadow of doubt, that many more adventures lay ahead for all four of us that summer, around the lagoon of our magical Neverwood.

Peter laughed, and rubbed his snub nose against mine.

‘Silly Wendy. Never is an awfully long time.’

*

Commentary:

I undoubtedly have a penchant for sorrowful endings. If I were a composer, I would probably end most of my compositions in a minor key. And my original intention, with this retelling of the tale of Peter Pan, was to end the story on a downbeat note.

The original plan was to end simply with the rather anticlimactic revelation that Wendy’s interviewer was JM Barrie - not that this wasn’t already obvious from the beginning of my tale, which is why I came up with a second plan - namely, to reveal that ‘Barrie’ wasn’t a investigative journalist at all, but rather a secret agent, perhaps working on behalf of the not-quite-so-defunct Company, and endeavouring to discover what Wendy really knew, before arranging for her to be quietly liquidated.

But as I was about to write that decidedly bleak conclusion, I had a change of heart. I remembered these words: ‘Come with me, where dreams are born, and time is never planned. Just think of happy things, and your heart will fly on wings, forever, in Never Never Land!’ Then I knew what my ending should be. Additionally it just so happened I was writing this story during Easter Week. ‘They lived happily ever after’ suddenly seemed kind of mandatory. I hope you liked the final result.

This was a joyous Prose challenge to take part in, and I’m very grateful to Hunter for it. JM Barrie’s ‘Peter Pan and Wendy’ (first published in 1911) is a cracking read, and really is the definitive version of the story for me, even superseding Barrie’s stage play, which preceded it. The original Disney animated movie has its charms, and despite their various inadequacies, there are elements of interest in many of the other adaptations. I’ve enjoyed seeding plenty of quotations and allusions into my narrative: mainly from the 1911 novel, but a few from other sources too. I trust true Pan enthusiasts will have fun spotting them!

Dedication:

To Flyn & Marlowe, following the birth of Mahalia Kismet: ‘When the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.’

In the beginning God played with the planets,

Set them a-spinning in time and in space,

Stars in the night sky, while sun lit the daytime,

Blue was the globe that was formed for our race.

(Andrew Pratt)

Since the mid-20th century, the names CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien have been synonymous with the ‘high fantasy’ genre of literature. Their collective works have been read by millions, translated into dozens of languages, and have reached new audiences through the various media of radio, television and film; not least, in the 21st century, through big budget Hollywood productions of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and several of the Chronicles of Narnia, including The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.

This year, 2023, marks the 60th anniversary of the death of Lewis, on November 22nd 1963: the very same day, incidentally, as that of another renowned writer, Brave New World author Aldous Huxley; and also, most infamously, the 35th American president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. This year also marks the 50th anniversary of the death of Tolkien, on September 2nd 1973. My wedding anniversary also happens to fall on September 2nd: but my wife is probably delighted that I have, thus far, resisted any temptation to dress up as a hobbit or a wizard in homage to the late Professor Tolkien on our special anniversary.

So, a strange conjunction of dates: and that very word - conjunction - gives a further clue as to the subject matter for my lecture tonight. We perhaps most commonly use the term ‘conjunction’ when referencing the meeting together, or close proximity (at least apparently) of heavenly bodies, most particularly planets, on their journeying through the night skies above.

I say apparent - that’s the key term, of course. When these points of light, millions of miles away, appear to come together, it’s merely an optical illusion from our point of view; we’re actually viewing objects which are at vastly different distances from one another, that just so happen to be on the same line of sight from our perspective. A conjunction is, actually, a piece of fiction. It is a fantasy (albeit a powerful and inspiring one).

Fantasies and Heavenly Bodies, taken together, brings us to consider The Music of the Spheres: the title of my lecture this evening. ‘The Music of the Spheres’ refers to the mediaeval philosophical belief that there was a mathematical order in the arrangement of the planets, that harmonised with the mathematical ordering of musical notes. The Greek philosopher and mathematician Pythagoras was perhaps the first to suggest a connection between maths and music. By the time we get to the 17th century, we find that the astronomer Johannes Kepler believes passionately that the cosmic movement of the celestial bodies produces a form of music that, whilst inaudible to the physical ear, is nevertheless capable of being perceived by the soul. This is ‘The Music of the Spheres’. And as I hope to show this evening, it’s a profoundly powerful and imaginative philosophical idea about the nature of harmony within a divinely-ordered cosmos; one that resonated for centuries beyond the Renaissance, ultimately influencing the thinking of modern fantasy writers such as CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien.

So before we go further, a little bit of Cosmography 101…

The word ‘planet’ derives from the Greek word πλάνητες meaning ‘wanderer’. They were so-called because they were bright bodies that appeared to wander in their journeying through the heavens, unlike the fixed courses of the stars. The ancients observed that there were seven such objects in the night skies. They named them in honour of their gods. The Roman names for them are the ones that we, by and large, retain today: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn, to which we would add the Sun and the Moon (names we tend to use in preference to their Latin equivalents, Sol and Luna).

Now, you may already be noting, and wondering, two things. First, you may well be thinking: Hang on - that list of planets is rather inaccurate, isn’t it? Why are the Sun and Moon included as planets? And why are Neptune and Uranus excluded?

(We could also, of course, note the exclusion of Pluto, which since its discovery in 1930 most of us have grown up with as the ninth planet - that is, until the International Astronomical Union demoted Pluto to the status of ‘dwarf planet’ in 2006.)

Secondly, you may also be thinking: What does this list of heavenly bodies have to do with CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien, anyway? Well, as it happens, heavenly bodies, stars and planets, and their place within the grand cosmological scheme of things, turns out to have been of immense interest to both Lewis and Tolkien. And the answer to both of these questions lies in us understanding that Lewis and Tolkien, though writing their works of fantasy in the 20th century, are very much drawing upon far older mythological and philosophical traditions.

Let’s deal with that first question: Why those seven planets? Why are they different from the eight - or until recently nine - that astronomers generally refer to as the planets of the solar system today?

A profound change in our understanding of the universe took place in the 16th century, coinciding with the scientific and artistic revolution that we commonly refer to as the Renaissance. Before the Renaissance, it was generally assumed that the Earth was at the centre of the universe, and that all the stars and planets revolved around it. Because the Sun and the Moon had variable orbits through the heavens, they were included in the select list with the other ‘wanderers’: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn.

Now, as long ago as the third century Before Christ, the Greek astronomer Aristarchus had suggested that the Sun was at the centre of the universe, and that the Earth, and other planets, moved around it: this was the so-called heliocentric model of the universe (from the Greek ἥλιος meaning ‘sun’). However, Aristotle and Ptolemy were proponents of the rival geocentric model, placing Earth at the centre of the universe (from the Greek Γαῖα, the personification of the Earth).

It was this model that was to remain ascendant; until the great trio of 16th and 17th century astronomers Nicolaus Copernicus, Galileo Galilei and Johannes Kepler made a series of scientific discoveries that were to dethrone the Earth from its place at the centre of the universe. The new model, the so-called Copernican model, was, essentially, a revival and refinement of Aristarchus’ observations almost two thousand years earlier.

Later, of course, even Copernicus was shown to be wrong: the Sun isn’t at the centre of the universe either, but is merely a fairly unremarkable middle-aged star rotating slowly through the outer arm of an equally unremarkable spiral galaxy of stars, the Milky Way Galaxy. But at least the Sun still remains supreme within the solar system itself, orbited by those planets that are visible with the naked eye, alongside two others that were only discovered with the development of telescopes: Uranus, discovered in 1781, and Neptune, in 1846. These, then, are the eight planets of the modern solar system: and that is why we distinguish them from the seven planets of classical and mediaeval times.

On then to the second question: What does this list of heavenly bodies have to do with CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien? Before we can answer this, we have perhaps to look a little at the related background of these two remarkable individuals.

Lewis and Tolkien were both born in the final decade of the long reign of Queen Victoria (in 1898 and 1892 respectively). Both fought in the trenches of the Western Front during the First World War. Later they both became members of the English Faculty at Oxford University, which was where they first met one another. Initially somewhat wary of each other, they soon developed a strong friendship that was to last through much of their adult lives (though sadly there was a definite cooling off in their friendship in their final years). Nevertheless, both encouraged and influenced one another in their writings throughout the late 1930s, 1940s and early 1950s: the twenty-year period that saw them produce their greatest literary endeavours.

Lewis and Tolkien were leading lights within The Inklings, a literary circle that regularly met in Lewis’ college rooms, and also in an Oxford pub, The Eagle and Child (which The Inkings rechristened The Bird and Baby). As well as being fantasy writers, and members of the English Faculty, Lewis and Tolkien shared a third attribute: they were both Christians. However, whereas Tolkien had been a devout Roman Catholic since childhood, Lewis’s spiritual journey had followed a more tortuous path. As a teenager, Lewis had rejected his childhood upbringing within the Anglican Church of Ireland, and embraced atheism. Lewis later returned to Christianity at Oxford (partly due to Tolkien’s influence). For his part, Tolkien somewhat regretted that Lewis didn’t convert to Catholicism, but instead returned to the Anglican Church. Tolkien was also, privately, somewhat resentful of the fact that it was Lewis, the recent convert, who now became famous in the 1940s, thanks to his wartime radio broadcasts as an eloquent and effective apologist of the Christian faith.

In many ways, Lewis was also, at least initially, the more successful writer of the two. His many notable works included the apologetical Mere Christianity (based on his earlier radio talks); The Screwtape Letters, a blisteringly funny work of satire, purporting to be the correspondence from a senior devil to his apprentice; and The Problem of Pain and A Grief Observed, two remarkable works that give markedly contrasting viewpoints on the issue of suffering, separated from one another because they were written before and after Lewis’ encounter with a woman whom he came to love profoundly, his eventual wife Joy Gresham.

But Lewis’ greatest legacy is undoubtedly the seven children’s novels that together make up the Chronicles of Narnia, published in successive years from 1950 to 1956. These seven tales recount the adventures of a group of children from our world, who by various means, travel into the fantasy land of Narnia: a land that is inhabited by talking beasts, and protected by a Christlike figure - Aslan, the Great Lion.

Compared to Lewis’ prodigious output across the 1940s and 1950s, Tolkien was wrestling during that same period with one great endeavour: the sequel of sorts to his one significant publication thus far, the children’s story The Hobbit, which had been published in 1937. This sequel was far longer and darker in tone, and was eventually published in three parts, from 1954 to 1955. Its title?

This, of course, was The Lord of Rings: the epic tale of the struggle between the Dark Lord Sauron, the eponymous ‘Lord of the Rings’, and the various Free Folk of Middle-earth - Men, Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits. Together the Free Folk must unite to oppose the Dark Lord’s tyrannical rule, which threatens to plunge all of Middle-earth into unending darkness; unless, that is, the One Ring that Sauron himself made, but which he has now lost, can be destroyed. And ultimately only one small Hobbit stands against the overwhelming might of the Dark Lord…

Thanks to Lewis’ constant, patient encouragement, Tolkien eventually managed to complete his magnus opus. Following his death, a third work, The Silmarillion, was published posthumously by his son Christopher, in 1977. Although it was the last of his major works to see print, some forty years after The Hobbit, The Silmarillion was actually the first of his works in terms of its slow literary genesis. He had begun working on individual tales that would eventually make up The Silmarillion whilst still a young man, recovering from injury in the trenches of the Western Front. These stories would give us much of the mythological backstory to The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings; and between them, these three great works have succeeded in making Tolkien’s Middle-earth the most richly detailed and convincingly realised fantasy realm ever devised.

But once again we ask the question: What do the planets have to do with CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien? Well, let’s turn to some quotations from their works, to find out.

Let’s turn first to a passage from Prince Caspian - the second of Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia series, published in 1951. The following passage describes a night-time observation of the heavens made by the young prince, the rightful ruler of Narnia, whose throne has been usurped by his wicked uncle (shades of Hamlet) and the prince’s tutor Dr Cornelius, one of his few allies at court as the scene unfolds.

There was no difficulty in picking out the two stars they had come to see. They hung rather low in the southern sky, almost as bright as two little moons and very close together.

‘Are they going to have a collision?’ [Caspian] asked in an awestruck voice.

‘Nay, dear Prince,’ said the doctor (and he too spoke in a whisper). ‘The great lords of the upper sky know the steps of their dance too well for that. Look well upon them. Their meeting is fortunate and means some great good for the sad realm of Narnia. Tarva, the Lord of Victory, salutes Alambil, the Lady of Peace. They are just coming to their nearest.’

The idea that the celestial dance of the planets in the heavens above should be indicative of the fortune (good or otherwise) of peoples and realms on the world beneath, might sound decidedly eccentric today. It doesn’t sit very well with scientific scepticism about astrology; nor with traditional Christian warnings about the perils of dabling in such arts. And yet, according to the pre-Copernican mediaeval worldview, the sharp modern day chasm between astronomy and astrology had not, as yet, opened up. The two disciplines were, essentially, one and the same. And this is precisely the Narnian viewpoint too. Doctor Cornelius had earlier specifically told his young charge:

’

Tonight I am going to give you a lesson in Astronomy. At the dead of night two noble planets, Tarva and Alambil, will pass within one degree of each other. Such a conjunction has not occurred for two hundred years, and your Highness will not live to see it again.’

‘A lesson in Astronomy’. Yet what actually follows reads more like a lesson in Astrology, from our standpoint. But not from the Narnian standpoint. Nor from the mediaeval European one either.

In the mediaeval world, heavenly conjunctions were just as often seen as presaging ill-fortune. Perhaps one of the most famous instances of this was the appearance of Halley’s comet - a comet that passes through the inner solar system once every 76 years - in the heavens in 1066 (the one date in English history almost everyone remembers). Its appearance was noted in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry, and bewailed by a contemporary English monk with these words: ‘You’ve come, you source of tears to many mothers… for I see you brandishing the downfall of my country.’ And so, of course, it came to pass: William the Conqueror won the Battle of Hastings, and night fell on Anglo-Saxon England.

CS Lewis similarly speaks of disaster being foretold in the heavens above for Narnia, in the seventh and final Chronicle of Narnia, The Last Battle, published in 1956. Roonwit, the wise Centaur, is reporting to King Tirian the results of his observations of the night sky. The auguries are not favourable.

‘Sire,’ [Roonwit] said. ’You know how long I have lived and studied the stars; for we Centaurs live longer than you Men… Never in all my days have I seen such terrible things written in the skies as there have been nightly since this year began. The stars say nothing of the coming of Aslan, nor of peace, nor of joy. I know by my art that there have not been such disastrous conjunctions of the planets for five hundred years…

‘Last night the rumour reached me that Aslan is abroad in Narnia. Sire, do not believe this tale. It cannot be. The stars never lie, but Men and Beasts do. If Aslan were really coming to Narnia the sky would have foretold it. If he were really come, all the most gracious stars would be assembled in his honour. It is all a lie.’

As we all know, the coming of Jesus Christ was accompanied by signs in the heavens. We’re all familiar with this passage from Matthew’s Gospel: After Jesus was born in Bethlehem in Judea, during the time of King Herod, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem and asked, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star when it rose and have come to worship him.’ (Matthew 2.1, 2)

Perhaps less familiar, though, is the following passage from the Book of Revelation: A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. She gave birth to a son, a male child, who ‘will rule all the nations with an iron sceptre.’ And her child was snatched up to God and to his throne. (Revelation 12.1-5)

The language of apocalyptic literature bears more than a few resemblances to that of high fantasy works such as those of Lewis and Tolkien. Who then are these mysterious figures in this passage from the Book of Revelation? It seems like a strange mix of the first advent of Christ and the second. Is the woman ‘clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head’ a representation of Mary, the Mother of Our Lord; or is it instead a metaphor for the Church? And does the crown of twelve stars represent the twelve apostles? Or perhaps the twelve tribes of Israel?

The dragon is, of course, as we’re told explicitly a few verses later, that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray (Revelation 12.9). The dragon stands ready to devour the woman’s child the moment he is born, sounding more like King Herod than Satan: is this a flashback to the first coming of Christ, then? But we’re also told that this child ‘will rule all the nations with an iron sceptre’ - which points us forward, surely, to Our Lord’s second coming.

This jumble of images, with the cosmic order being further disturbed by the dragon’s tail sweeping a third of the stars out the sky and flinging them to the earth, is all very colourful, and poetic; but any attempts to find an entirely satisfactory historical narrative or a wholly meaningful prophetic outline are surely doomed. That’s not, really, the author’s intent. I believe the Book of Revelation, above all else, is a sublime piece of poetry. In places, it intersects with the same kind of thinking that we find underpinning the philosophy of ‘The Music of the Spheres’.

And ‘The Music of the Spheres’ is suffused with the language of poetry. John Donne, the 16th century metaphysical poet, wrote these words:

The spheres have music, but they have no tongue,

Their harmony is rather danced than sung…

(Upon the Translation of the Psalms by Sir Philip Sidney and the Countess of Pembroke, His Sister)

Whilst the great Bard himself, William Shakespeare, placed these words on the lips of cunning Ulysses in his play Troilus & Cressida:

…But when the planets

In evil mixture to disorder wander,

What plagues, and what portents, what mutiny,

What raging of the sea, shaking of the earth,

Commotion in the winds, frights, changes, horrors

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate

The unity and married calm of states

Quite from their fixture.

(Troilus & Cressida, Act 1, Scene 3)

By the day of Shakespeare and Donne, this mediaeval world-view is already beginning to give way to a new understanding of the cosmos, the adoption of which will soon accelerate further thanks to the discoveries of Galileo, Kepler and Copernicus; but within the vivid imaginings of these poets, ‘The Music of the Spheres’ still has a strong hold. Lewis and Tolkien, as scholars of Old, Middle and Early Modern English, were deeply steeped in a knowledge and appreciation of this world-view; and it is entirely natural that this world-view coloured their own literary endeavours, as they developed their own mythologies of Narnia and Middle-earth.

I’ve given a couple of examples from CS Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia (and I’ll come back to them later): but I want to turn now to the second of my authors, JRR Tolkien, and specifically, to The Silmarillion. The Silmarillion is actually a compendium of various works, the first of which is called the Ainulindalë. In Tolkien’s invented Elvish language of Quenya, this means ‘The Music of the Ainur’. The Ainur are the highest order of angelic beings that Tolkien conceives to be members of the heavenly power, the first beings to be created by Eru Ilúvatar (‘The One’ or ‘Allfather’): in other words, God. It is these Ainur who assist Eru in the creation of the universe through a holy chanting, or music, i.e. the Ainulindalë itself.

This is how the Song is described by Tolkien:

…It came to pass that Ilúvatar called together all the Ainur and declared to them a mighty theme, unfolding to them things greater and more wonderful than he had yet revealed; and the glory of its beginning and the splendour of its end amazed the Ainur, so that they bowed before Ilúvatar and were silent.

Then said Ilúvatar: ‘Of the theme that I have declared to you, I will now that ye make in harmony together a Great Music. And since I have kindled you with the Flame Imperishable, ye shall show forth your powers in adorning this theme, each with his own thoughts and devices, if he will… But I will sit and hearken, and be glad that through you great beauty has been wakened into song.’

Then the voices of the Ainur, like unto harps and lutes, and pipes and trumpets, and viols and organs, and like unto countless choirs singing with words, began to fashion the theme of Ilúvatar to a great music; and a sound arose of endless interchanging melodies woven in harmony that passed beyond hearing into the depths and into the heights, and the places of the dwelling of Ilúvatar were filled to overflowing, and the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void.

…Ilúvatar sat and hearkened, and for a great while it seemed good to him, for in the music there were no flaws.

This is Tolkien’s own particular version of the ‘musica universalis’, the great universal music, otherwise known as ‘The Music of the Spheres’.

Unfortunately, a discordant note is now introduced to this universal music, when one of the Ainur, the most powerful of the angelic beings, named Melkor, gets ideas above his station.

But as the theme progressed, it came into the heart of Melkor to interweave matters of his own imagining that were not in accord with the theme of Ilúvatar; for he sought therein to increase the power and glory of the part assigned to himself…and he had gone often alone into the void places seeking the Imperishable Flame. For desire grew hot within him to bring into Being things of his own, and it seemed to him that Ilúvatar took no thought for the Void, and he was impatient of its emptiness. Yet he found not the Fire, for it is with Ilúvatar. But being alone he had begun to conceive thoughts of his own unlike those of his brethren.

Melkor is, of course, Middle-earth’s equivalent of Lucifer. Like Lucifer, the greatest of the angels, he becomes fallen because of the original sin of pride and rebellion. Yet Melkor’s attempts to bring disorder into the great music of creation are ultimately futile, as Eru Ilúvatar is able to take even Melkor’s most discordant notes, and gradually incorporates them into the themes of his music.

Then Ilúvatar spoke, and he said: 'Mighty are the Ainur, and mightiest among them is Melkor; but…thou, Melkor, shalt see that no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined.'

Eru Ilúvatar leads the Ainur into the Void: and, behold, they receive a vision of their music made manifest. There, floating in the Void, is the Earth, the world itself, in all its created glory. And even the evil of Melkor has been subsumed into a greater good.

The Ainulindalë was written early in Tolkien's literary career, and it demonstrates the importance of music in his legendarium. According to the literary critic John Gardner, ‘Music is the central symbol and the total myth of The Silmarillion, a symbol that becomes interchangeable with light (music’s projection).’ And it’s very likely, as suggested by Tolkien and Lewis scholar Colin Duriez, that Tolkien’s Music of the Angels directly influenced Lewis, when he came to write his own account of the creation of Narnia.

This is a part of how that creation, as witnessed by some of the children from our world, is described in the sixth novel - The Magician’s Nephew (published in 1955):

In the darkness something was happening at last. A voice had begun to sing. It was very far away and Digory found it hard to decide from what direction it was coming. Sometimes it seemed to come from all directions at once. Sometimes he almost thought it was coming out of the earth beneath them. Its lower notes were deep enough to be the voice of the earth herself. There were no words. There was hardly even a tune. But it was, beyond comparison, the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. It was so beautiful that he could hardly bear it…

…Then two wonders happened at the same moment. One was that the voice was suddenly joined by the other voices; more voices than you could possibly count. They were in harmony with it, but far higher up the scale: cold, tingling, silvery voices. The second wonder was that the blackness overhead, all at once, was blazing with stars. They didn’t come out gently one by one, as they do on a summer evening. One moment there had been nothing but darkness; next moment, a thousand, thousand points of light leapt out - single stars, constellations, and planets, brighter and bigger than any in our world. There were no clouds. The new stars and the new voices began at exactly the same time. If you had seen and heard it, as Digory did, you would have felt quite certain that it was the stars themselves which were singing, and that it was the First Voice, the deep one, which had made them appear and made them sing.

The Voice on the earth was now louder and more triumphant; but the voices in the sky, after singing loudly with it for a time, began to get fainter.

The narrative continues with the rising of the sun, and Narnia’s first dawn; and in that first Narnian sunlight, Digory and his companions at last discover for themselves the identity of that mysterious First Voice. It is, of course, Aslan: the talking Lion who is Narnia’s creator, and later, Narnia’s saviour.

Here, then, is Lewis’ equivalent of Tolkien’s ‘Song of Creation’; here is Lewis’ equivalent of ‘The Music of the Spheres’.

All rather fanciful, and all rather fantastic, you might think. But there’s more. In 2008, the scholar Michael Ward published a book entitled Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of CS Lewis.

Lewis himself hinted on several occasions that there was a very specific reason for there being seven novels in his Chronicles of Narnia series. What could that reason be? Why seven - no more, no less? Lewis refused to say more. In the decades since his death, several critics, suspecting there to be some secret theme to the series, have made comparisons between the novels and, for example, the seven sacraments, or the seven deadly sins. None of these suggestions for a hidden meaning have proved terribly convincing.

However, Michael Ward has - in my view - convincingly argued for a link between the sevenfold structure of the novels, and what Jonne Donne - no stranger to the philosophy of ‘The Music of the Spheres’ as we’ve already noted - referred to as: ‘The Heptarchy, the seven kingdoms of the seven planets.’ Ward further suggests that each of the seven Chronicles of Narnia embodies the spirit or nature assigned to a particular planet, and that this shapes the plot and tone of the book.

Let me give you just one example of his thesis. The final book in the series, The Last Battle, is, in many ways, the Narnia Chronicles equivalent of the Book of Revelation. There’s no need for a spoiler alert, for the first six words of chapter one of The Last Battle read as follows: ‘In the last days of Narnia.’ And if the book’s title and opening words weren’t enough, we then read these words at the beginning of chapter two: About three weeks later the last of the Kings of Narnia… No ambiguity, then.

Michael Ward suggests, in Planet Narnia, that the planet Saturn is thematically linked to The Last Battle. The Roman god Saturn - the equivalent of the Greek god Chronos - is associated with Time. So there’s no surprise, really, when an enormous giant named Father Time, who has been sleeping whilst awaiting the End of Narnia, awakens towards the end of the novel, and brings down a final darkness upon the Lewis’ fantasy realm by reaching up into the sky, and extinguishing the Sun. Saturn is especially associated with death and decay; and these are the final, decaying days of Narnia, afflicted by apostasy and false religion. Saturn, the outermost of the seven known planets (according to the ancient heliocentric model of the universe) was also, therefore, the coldest.

Entropy, the end of time, the final heat death of the universe - the second Law of Thermodynamics, with perfect sublime synchronicity, ties together what scientists tell us about the fate of our universe with what The Last Battle, the Book of Revelation and the classical associations surrounding ‘Saturn: The Bringer of Old Age’ tell us. This is how Lewis puts it, in The Last Battle:

Then Aslan said, ‘Now make an end.’

The giant threw his horn into the sea. Then he stretched out one arm - very black it looked, and thousands of miles long - across the sky till his hand reached the sun. He took the sun and squeezed it in his hand as you would squeeze an orange. And instantly there was total darkness.

Everyone except Aslan jumped back from the ice-cold air which now blew through the Doorway. Its edges were already covered with icicles.

‘Peter, High King of Narnia,’ said Aslan. ‘Shut the Door.’

Peter, shivering with cold, leapt out into the darkness and pulled the Door to. It scraped over ice as he pulled it. Then, rather clumsily (for even in that moment his hands had gone numb and blue) he took out a golden key and locked it.

Night falls on Narnia. Saturn has sounded his horn.

That’s just a few examples, from one of the books, and one of the planets, that Michael Ward considers. And he does so, convincingly, with the other Narnia books. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader? The Sun, of course. The Silver Chair? The Moon. And so on…

So, in summary, we’ve seen that the mediaeval and Renaissance concept of ‘The Music of Spheres’ underpins the Ainulindalë, the foundational text of Tolkien’s Middle-earth legendarium. And ‘The Music of the Spheres’ runs organical right through the very structure of Lewis’ Narnia saga, as assuredly as ‘Brighton’ through a stick of rock.

It’s all fantasy. It’s all a piece of fiction. Isn’t it?

Well, perhaps not. In 1965, radio astronomers discovered that if you listen out into the universe, in every direction, you will find what is referred to as Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation, or CMB Radiation for short. This is the microwave radiation that fills all space, a landmark remnant of the Big Bang that ushered in the Dawn of Creation 13.8 billion years ago.

That background noise resonates through the universe at 160.4 GHz - that’s 160,400,000,000 (one hundred and sixty billion, four hundred million cycles per second). It’s far beyond the feeble limitations of human hearing, of course. But go onto YouTube, search for ‘Cosmic Microwave Background Radiation’, and you will find numerous audio videos that will allow you to ‘listen’ to an approximation of what that CMB radiation might sound like, if we had truly had ears to listen. Just as Kepler noted: ‘The Music of the Spheres’ produces a form of music that, whilst inaudible to the physical ear, is nevertheless capable of being perceived by the soul.

Alternatively, you could just listen to Holst’s Planet Suite.

But seriously, my friends: CMB Radiation is the very ‘Song of Creation’ itself. Perhaps Lewis and Tolkien, and Donne, and Kepler and Pythagoras, truly knew that of which they spoke. Music and light. ‘The Big Bang’. ‘Let there be Light’.

The Music of the Spheres.

Two great beasts, ruled by enmity, and ire,

The Red, the White: champions eternal.

Full-burning with ice, filled with coldest fire:

Diabolical rage, depths infernal.

The invaders come: Angle, Saxon, Jute.

Merlin seeks for the One: Arthur, the King.

The finest songs, made for harp and for lute,

Of golden days tell: but also the sting…

Lust, and betrayal: and tears for what’s lost.

The Table is sundered. Camelot falls.

Mordred’s defeated: but Pyrrhic the cost.

The Sword is surrendered. Avalon calls.

Centuries pass - still they wrestle, those drakes,

Till dawn comes again: and Arthur awakes.

Whilst punting on the Cam - The Backs being more scenic than anything along the Isis - my companion drolly ventured:

'Speaking as a Light rather than a Dark Blue the use of unnecessary commas is generally not to be commended.'

I replied:

'Next up - the death of the semi-colon.'