The Field of the Cloth of Gold Read Free Page B

Hen.
    ‘Whose tent is this?’
    ‘He’s a newcomer,’ Hen replied. ‘Just recently arrived.’
    ‘Otherwise you’ve been all alone?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Now the voices began to fade. Evidently, the two of them were moving away towards the river. The conversation dwindled gradually into nothing, accompanied by the receding tramp of feet. After that I lay for a long time dwelling on what I’d heard. Understandably I was a little dismayed at being described as a newcomer, especially by Hen, whom I’d always thought regarded me as a fellow pioneer. Clearly I’d been deluding myself.
    There was something else, though, which was rather bewildering. Even in my drowsiness I’d perceived a certain reticence in Hen’s words. During the brief exchange he’d made no mention of his perennial claim to be the first in the field, and vaguely I pondered the cause of this omission.
    I wasn’t sure how long I slept after that. When next I awoke my tent was bathed in warm sunshine. The voices I’d heard all those hours ago were like a distant memory; then, as the light came filtering in, I recalled my resolution of the day before. I was due to make a move, so I got up and looked out across the field. To my absolute astonishment I saw a new tent in the south-east. It was pure white, and appeared to be shimmering under the clear morning sky.
    After gazing at it with disbelief for several minutes, I finally roused myself and ventured outside. All was quiet. There was no sign of Hen, or anyone else for that matter, and an air of undisturbed calm lay over the entire field. I paused again to contemplate the scene before me. For reasons which I couldn’t explain, the new tent seemed completely familiar, as though it had been standing in the same place for ever. At the same time I felt that it was somehow unapproachable; that henceforward the land it occupied would be out-of-bounds to me. Needless to say, I swiftly dismissed these preposterous notions: what nonsense, I thought; after all, it’s only a tent, nothing more than the product of human invention; then I set off towards the south-east to get a proper look.
    I had to admit it was a splendid sight; the outline of the new tent was almost classical in its perfection. Its walls were quite steep, with an upper rim surmounted by a decorative mantle. The canopy was made from some white fabric which I couldn’t identify, and which gleamed softly in the sunlight. Beneath a curved awning hung an elaborate cloth doorway. Apparently the structure was supported by a single centre pole and a multitude of guy ropes. From its pinnacle flew a distinctive black-and-white pennant, but the tent’s most notable characteristic was its shape. Keeping my distance I walked around it in a large circle, counting its many sides. There were eight in total, a fact that confirmed what I already suspected: evidently the octagonal tent had returned.
    All of a sudden the doorway parted, and a bearded man emerged. He was dressed in flowing white robes. I knew that he couldn’t have failed to see me standing there: I was barely a stone’s throw away, and actually our eyes met for a moment as he surveyed his surroundings. I waited for a nod of acknowledgement, which was customary in such circumstances, but to my surprise he turned and began closing up his tent. Next there followed a prolonged interlude during which he appeared to do nothing in particular, while constantly ignoring my presence; then eventually he moved off towards the river. Naturally, I was dumbfounded: the newcomer had effectively rebuffed me at a glance. I watched in silence as he neared the river bank. Finally, after a further delay, he entered the water and started wading across to the opposite side. His chosen point of departure was in the extreme south of the field where the river was conspicuously broad and shallow. I’d noticed on previous occasions that the sandy riverbed was clearly visible, but the idea of it being a possible crossing