Dichotomy

Alfred was ten years’ old and lived in Croindone, a market town about ten miles south of Londinios. His dad worked at one of the mills stretching along the River Wandle. His mum was a baker, busy with the flour dad brought back from the mill on his cart. The family had a couple of horses, old Grimbold who pulled the cart, and a rather more sprightly pony, Bertha, ridden mainly by Alfred and his older, grumpy sister, Moira.

It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon. A gentle breeze wafted through the open windows of their home, and from outside you could hear the hypnotic, continuous hum, almost like a Gregorian chant, of the millions of bees going about their business. “Ma”, said Alfred to his mother, “can I go and see Alastair?” His mum looked at the kitchen clock. “Goodness”, she said, “it’s nearly two-thirty already, I’m behind as usual. Alright, but make sure you’re back by six, in time for tea when your dad gets home. You’d better get a move on. Alastair’s at least half an hour away, so you’re going to spend an hour just travelling. Take Bertha if you want to save some time”. “No, it’s alright, I fancy walking”, replied Alfred jauntily, and sauntered out of the house.

They say children take things for granted because their reality is what they’re born into, but the rural beauty all around Alfred had a searing, if sometimes unconscious, effect upon his spirit, whistling in competition with the birds as he sauntered along the dusty old track. So much green, so much blue, the colours of life. He passed a couple of neighbours on the way and waved to old Joel the dairyman who trotted by on his rounds. In truth, he didn’t much care for Joel, Pa said he was a sly old devil, always trying to pull a fast one, but it takes all sorts, as they say.

It took him fifteen minutes to reach his local pod station on foot. Several horses were tethered outside, waiting patiently for their owners’ return. The pod station rather resembled the entrance to a mausoleum, a somewhat apposite description, built into the hillside with granite stonework, in harmony with its natural surroundings. Alfred stepped inside and onto the escalator, which whisked him down into the bowels of the earth. Several pods were lined up, rather like the jostling cars waiting their turn on a switchback rail. He stepped inside the front one and the door closed silently behind him.

Alfred wanted to go to Glaschu, about 370 miles north, in Alba. He punched the keyboard for Glaschu and the pod moved forward in readiness, rather like a cat getting ready to spring. It launched into a vacuum tube, balanced and floating like a weightless thing, under the control of gyroscopic magnetism, and accelerated forwards by continuous electromagnetic impulses along the length of the tube. Floating in a vacuum meant there was no resistance to the pod’s movement. This was the fast transport system for the whole of England, an underground, frenetic alternative to the deliberately slow, natural network above ground of horses, tracks, rivers and canals. The Tube was a complex of arteries, veins and capillaries, its beating heart electrical power under the guidance and control of sophisticated computer technology.

Alfred’s pod was on one of the capillaries of Croindone, and it moved silently over the next few minutes to the vein connecting Croindone to Londinios, where it reached the main artery connecting Londinios to Glaschu. That springing cat sensation again, more this time like the anticipatory pause before take-off people used to experience in the old days of commercial aircraft. Then it rocketed forwards, accelerating to Mach 2 speed. Although largely cushioned from the forces at work by extreme stabilisation, in the total silence of this journey, the sensation always thrilled Alfred. He called Alastair. “A1, it’s A2, on my way, see you in fifteen”.

Fifteen minutes later he stepped out at Glaschu main pod station, and there was Alastair waiting with a huge grin and a couple of mountain bikes. Glaschu means Green Glen. In the old days it was called Glasgow. Alfred loved mountain bikes, as much as anything because they weren’t permitted south of Alba. But here, this was particularly wild and rugged country, without a high-speed underground system after Glaschu, and that is how the locals liked it. So children especially tore about on mountain bikes they’d saved up for and bought from Robot City.

“Come on”, said Alastair, “let’s go and find them”, and with that, they got on their bikes and pedalled strenuously into the wilderness. After half an hour or so, they reached the top of a steep hill quite breathless, threw down their bikes and gazed at the glen below. Alastair got on all fours, raised his head to the sky and howled like a wolf. He gestured to Alfred to do the same. After several minutes of mutual howling, there was a reply down in the valley. They looked at each other with anticipation and redoubled their howling. There was another reply and then another. Not echoes. They were wolves. The cacophony of howling was suddenly complemented by an appearance from the trees below of the creature. And then another. Gradually the whole pack emerged and stared upwards at the two boys. “Come on”, said Alastair, “leave the bike”. And they walked down to the valley below, eyed steadily by the pack as they got nearer. Alfred’s heart was thumping and in truth he was rather scared. But Alastair had discovered a natural affinity with these wild creatures. “Don’t say anything”, he said, “drop on all fours when I do. Don’t look them in the eye, just stare at the ground”. This they did, and there was some growling and grunting from these magnificent and terrifying creatures. The wolves sniffed around them curiously, and Alfred closed his eyes as he felt the hot breath of one of them right by his ear. The magic moment was timeless, you couldn’t count it in seconds, minutes or even hours. All he knew was that the growling, grunting and sniffing had suddenly stopped, and there was total silence. “You can look up now”, said Alastair. In front of them, in a semi-circle, the pack had settled down like dogs around a fire, staring quizzically at the two boys, their chins on their paws. Well, it probably wasn’t exactly a semi-circle, but that’s how Alfred remembered it. Memory makes its own adjustments, and when Alfred was old and related the story to his grandchildren with tears in his eyes, it was a perfect semi-circle. “Don’t touch them”, warned Alastair, sensing correctly that Alfred had the compulsion to do so, “they can touch you if they wish, but not round the other way, they wouldn’t like that”. And so they sat there in this timeless, silent communion. Then quite abruptly, with no sound or discernible signal, the creatures were gone, absorbed once again by the trees.

“Come on”, said Alastair, “let’s get back to our bikes before the bears catch us”. He was only joking, but Alfred started with some degree of alarm, and Alastair chased him up the hill, roaring like a bear behind him. Nevertheless, many a true word is spoken in jest. There were, after all, wild bears and wolves in abundance in Alba.

By the time they reached their bikes, they were yelling and laughing, just like badly behaved boys in any era, the profundity of their recent epiphany buried under the sheer joy of living in the moment. It was a noisy race downhill, and when they reached the pod station, Alfred really didn’t want to go back. He called his mum: “Ma, can I stay with Alastair tonight and bring him back with me tomorrow to stay with us?” There was a long pause. “You’re a bad boy”, replied his mum, “you intended this all along, didn’t you?” “No, honest Ma”, replied Alfred, with a degree of truth. “Well alright”, said mum. “Ma, can we come back the long way, please, Ma.” Another long pause. “That means you’ll be away over a week”, Ma said finally, “what am I going to do with you, Alfred? I don’t think your father’s going to be very pleased, I believe he was expecting some help at the mill later this week”. “Tell him Alastair and I will both give him a hand when I get home”, Alfred offered, crossing his fingers and looking at Alastair. Ma relented: “Now you make sure you get a change of clothes. I know how boys like to wallow around in their own muck.” “I can always borrow some of Alastair’s”. “That’ll make you look like a clown”, Ma replied. Alastair was taller and bigger than Alfred. “Have you got any credits?” she continued. “Just enough, I think”, replied Alfred, a little unsure. “Well, see if there’s a teacher on board, and get some of your studying done while you’re travelling”. “I will, Ma”, replied Alfred chirpily, “love you, Ma”. There was a sigh and a tut-tut from the other end, a sure sign that he’d been forgiven, and a wagging finger on the screen. He didn’t dare tell her he’d been fraternising with a pack of wolves.