She talked while he set and lit the fire, while he reviewed his own events. He'd never know what had gone wrong, could only suspect a bird-strike. He hadn't ejected before. The aircraft had certainly carried on into the sea. No-one would have seen his parachute, because of the low cloud: he'd be assumed dead. People who did eject were often looked upon with some mistrust: are you sure you did everything you could before you consigned n million pounds' worth of hardware to the sea-bed? He'd been in voluntary spins, of course, but this one hadn't resembled any of those. What if it had hit something? There'd be no medals for sinking a ship, even if it were laden down with Japanese cars. He'd abandoned at the lowest possible altitude. He knew he was blameless, but no-one else knew – he'd lost radio-contact.
At the same time he was listening to her describe how she'd got here. She must have been pretty unbalanced to start with. A few months before, she'd driven to Newton Abbott railway station and left her car there. She'd then taken a bus up to Dartmoor with the intention of literally walking herself into the ground. She'd had enough of everything and totally intended to die. It had been neither a cry for help nor an act of revenge. She'd wanted her husband to believe that she'd run away. If he knew she'd committed suicide he'd blame himself, whereas if he thought she'd run away he'd be able to blame her and hopefully get over it a lot quicker.
She'd walked until she was exhausted and then she'd lain down to wait for the chill of the night to finish her off.
The next thing she knew she was here in this shelter. The peat-fire was flickering and Demelza was sitting at her feet. For a while she really believed she'd died and been resurrected in a different world, or a different era. Although they treated her with kindness and gentleness they wouldn't speak to her, didn't even appear to understand her questions.
The first day and night she slept between sips of mutton-broth. The second morning she felt well enough to sit up when Demelza and Jack came in. They brought with them a black, steel, padlocked box. They set it down beside her, handed her the key. Inside, she found a Cornish-English dictionary, a couple of phrase-books, a grammar, some original texts. They indicated that she was to immerse herself in study.
"… They gave me this as well," she said, producing a piece of card from beneath the sheepskins and handing it to the pilot. "It was my first assignment - to find out what it said."
The card was ornately bordered with botanical motifs. In the middle were two words, hand-written in red and gold capital lettering:
DYNARGH DHYS
So what? thought the pilot.
"So what does it mean?" he said.
"It means 'you are welcome'. It meant I was welcome. You can't imagine how I felt when I understood. To be welcome. Nothing else. Just welcome… The possibility of belonging… I set to work with real enthusiasm, like I hadn't felt for years. Learning the language was the best therapy I could have been given – instead of thinking a lot of useless and feeble thoughts, which was what I had been doing, I had something concrete, something specific to get my teeth into… All those chewy consonants… I used to love languages when I was at school-"
"But why Cornish?" interrupted the pilot. "We aren't even in Cornwall."
"I think they felt it was the only language which had any claim to be indigenous to the peninsular. It would provide a direct link to the land. But the main thing was to get away completely, not just to cut themselves off from society in space and feeling, but in time and thought as well. That's why they're so strict about not speaking a word of English – in the end it'll just wither away until it's completely forgotten."
The pilot shook his head. It might have crossed his mind that this desire to isolate themselves was in some way similar to his own ambition, which had always been to fly; but if the comparison existed it remained trapped beneath the surface. He was only conscious that these people weren't even worth despising.
The hierarchy over which he'd crowed in the twenty odd years since receiving his wings was indisputable. Now, a navigator (a man with only one wing) was always worth looking down upon. Medical officers and chaplains (men without wings) occasionally attained the standards demanded by his contempt. As for civilians, they didn't enter the picture. If he was forced to consider them he might assume they possessed petty little hierarchies of their own in which to coalesce, but these people here, these layabouts, these outlaws, these dregs, were beyond even that pale…
"For ages I did nothing else except learn," she continued. "They helped me with the pronunciation side – Rhiannon especially was so patient. And the more I learned the more I understood what they were doing here, and the more I understood the more attracted I felt. There was nothing for me to look back on with any regret. They positively wanted me to join them. They didn't look at my arrival as an accident. Of all the thousands of uninhabited square miles the fact that I'd walked here and collapsed, so the next morning they saw me – or rather they didn't see me but four or five sheep huddled together in a way that looked strange and when they came up to investigate they discovered that the sheep were surrounding me and keeping me warm – far from being an accident was simply an answer to their prayers or incantations or whatever you like to call it. You see, when they first arrived there were only six of them, but they felt they needed eight, four of each gender, as a proper foundation… Of course, now you've come they're cock-a-hoop. They told me just now how they got you."
The pilot, who'd hardly been listening, perked up:
"What was that? Say that again."
"They said they shot you down."
"Shot me down?" he exploded. "What the hell with?"
"I don't mean literally… But it's not just the land they own – it's the air above it as well. They plucked you out. They rescued your body from all the technology in which it was – what's the word? – encumbered. They sent the plane on into the sea. They brought you down safely. No-one's hurt by it, are they?"
He was now seriously concerned for her sanity.
"You don't really believe all this?"
"Why not? What other explanation is there? I'm here. You're here. If we're here we're meant to be here."
"Listen. I don't know what they've done to you, but whatever it is is not good. I'm going to get you out of here. Don't worry."
She sighed; raised her eyes to the ceiling.
"You haven't understood a word I've said, have you? I'm here because I want to be here."
She raised her arm and pulled a string which led up through a hole in the wall.
"What's that for?"
"They've got a little brass bell attached to the end of the string. I just ring it if I want anything and they come as soon as they can."
Sure enough, a couple of minutes later the door opened and Jack and Terp appeared. They exchanged a few words with her and then Terp stood between the pilot and the door while Jack pulled her upright and equipped her with the crude wooden crutches which up till now had been leaning against the wall.
"Where are you going?" said the pilot.
"For a shit, if you must know."
He winced. He wished he hadn't asked. Never before had he heard a woman refer quite so unambiguously to that particular function. But now was no time for amending or even analysing his squeamishness. As soon as they'd gone he retrieved his things from beneath the sheepskins, pocketing all except the knife. He then stood by the door on the side it opened from, pressed his back against the wall; unclasped the knife; cleared his mind for action.
He wasn't keen. The thought of stabbing another man held no attraction whatsoever. Yet he was obliged to. It was his duty as well as his right.
The door opened. The pilot held his breath. Whichever one of those scum came in first…
Nothing happened. There was no sound from outside.
What the hell were they doing?
As he turned to investigate he felt something at his throat. He started back, saw a huge blade and groaned.
This is it, he thought.
But Jack only grinned and shook his head reproachfully. Then he clasped and pocketed the pilot's knife; sheathed his own; laughed; patted the pilot on the shoulder; helped the woman back down onto her bed; went out.
The pilot sank to the floor, relieved that he hadn't had his throat cut, annoyed that he'd been outwitted.
"Did you tell him about my knife?"
"No. I forgot you had one. I would if I'd remembered. Luckily he had a feeling you might try something."
"Great," he said. "I don't believe this."
"You're not going to get away," she said, quietly. "You'll just have to come to terms with that. They couldn't afford to let you go even if they wanted to… Just think, though – in a few months you'll have forgotten all about how you feel right now. You'll be wanting to pass the test as much as I do."
"What test?" he muttered.
"There's a tor a little way from here. All you have to do is jump off it and land without hurting yourself. If you succeed, you're in."
"How high?"
"When you're up there it looks about forty feet, but it's probably no more than thirty. That's how I broke my ankles."
She paused. A look of consternation crossed her face.
"I made all the right preparations, but in the end I was too eager. I jumped too soon. I forced myself when I should have waited until it came naturally. I'll know next time."
"What? They made you jump thirty feet?"
"No-one made me do anything. They all six of them jumped before me. They all landed beautifully… I can see now why I wasn't ready – there'd have been no-one here to help you, to speak to you. I don't think you'd have had the patience to learn the language on your own. We'll jump together. By the time my ankles have mended, you'll be ready. I know you can't conceive it at the moment."
The pilot was silent. Tonight he would escape. Tomorrow he would return with police to rescue her and arrest the rest of them. He couldn't take what she said at face-value. These people were extremely sinister. They must have brainwashed her. She was lucky she hadn't broken her back. He knew all about landing on feet as well as on wheels.
"Here," she said, reaching down inside her jumper and handing him a tiny, wizened mushroom. "You probably think I'm not in my right mind, but that little person will prove otherwise."
He would have laughed if he'd been in a better mood. As it was, he merely raised his eyebrows:
"Oh yes? How?"
"It's a counterpower. As soon as I became fluent enough to understand they gave me some. I swallowed them but I didn't eat them. That's important. You don't eat mushrooms. Did you know that? Because you can't digest them. But some species have developed the ability to communicate as they pass through you."
What was she on about? He didn't care. Her words were just symptoms, of no interest except in so far as they cast light on the mechanics of her subjugation.
"They're communicating continuously, but sometimes it's easier to hear what they're saying if you swallow them."
"I see."
"Just look at that one in your hand. Look at it for a while and tell me if you don't feel anything."
He pretended to look at it.
"I don't know what you're getting at," he said, handing it back to her.
She shrugged;
"That's understandable. You're too agitated and too prejudiced at the moment. Everything it represents is meaningless to you just as everything you represent is meaningless to it… But there's plenty of time."
He gritted his teeth, turned away from her and stared into the fire.
He had to keep reminding himself that she wasn't one of them, in order not to react against her as if she were.
It was difficult, because it was like talking to two people: the person they'd deluded her into thinking she was and the person he assumed her to be – a rather weak, middle-class 'wife' who'd 'got a bit depressed'…
A. R. Lamb lives in Cornwall, U.K. He writes as trancedly as possible, with practical help from various carbon compounds. He presently has fiction at Electron Press, and many little poems at Ariga. Other sites (poetry) include Some Words, Swansong, and Shadyvale. He has early experimental fictions published by John Calder and in anthologies and magazines. His paper publications include In Many Ways Frogs, a joint poetic volume (Abraxas). His recordings include Bark of a Stray Dog and Eight Poets. He's a sculptor by trade. Secession is available from Buy.com.