In Which Despair Gives Birth to Audacity
The journey to Black Mixen Tump always filled Charles Flinders-Petrie with dread. Although the gentle hills of the Cotswold countryside appeared benign enough, it was the destination that cast a pall over all that went before. He felt it now—and he could not even see the great mound from the window of his carriage. But it was there, hidden from view, waiting for him. The thought made his heart skip a beat.
Almost fifty years had passed since his father, Benedict, had introduced him to the infamous mound—and still the thing occupied a baleful place in his psyche. An earthwork of incalculable age, the tump had been raised by the hands of primitive labourers using nothing more than deer-antler picks and reed baskets. Why this primitive society thought it necessary to build yet another hill in a landscape of nothing but hills remained a mystery. “The Age of the Monument Builders,” murmured Charles to himself. An age, so far as he could tell, that was rife with mysteries of every kind.
The carriage lurched and took the turning in the road, leaving behind the village of Banbury, and Charles regretted his decision to come to this godforsaken place. Even more, he regretted that the decision was necessary. But something had to be done. His last exchange with Douglas had made that abundantly clear.
The boy had always been headstrong; as a child he had been willful, wayward, intractable. Charles, bereft after the death of his dear wife in childbirth, despaired of the boy’s rebellious and destructive nature and packed him off to boarding school in the hope that a stern institution would instil the discipline he himself was unable to generate. Stoneycroft School had made the lad more mannered and well behaved, to be sure; but it had also made him far more devious. That, combined with a self-confidence bordering on reckless audacity, cast Douglas as a most formidable adversary to anyone or anything that crossed him. In short, from a selfish, unbearable youth, Douglas was fast becoming a cunning, implacable, and dangerous young man.
“I do not see what difference a piece of paper makes anyway,” Douglas had complained during their last in a long series of confrontations. “Nothing they teach is any use on the quest. Anyway, it is my birthright.” He glared at his father. “Or will you deny me that—as you have denied me everything else?”
Charles exploded. “Ingrate! How can you say that? In all good conscience, how can you possibly even think it? I have denied you nothing.” Rising from his chair, he began pacing about the parlour. “All I ask is that you gain a little more learning, apply yourself to your studies, show me you can achieve something through your own efforts.” He looked at Douglas’ sullen face and saw he was not getting through to his unruly son. He tried another tack. “You are not stupid, Douglas. In fact, in many ways you are amongst the most intelligent persons I know. If you were to apply even the smallest portion of your native wit and mind to your studies, you would achieve wonderful things.
“Listen, I’ve secured your place at Christ Church, and all is arranged,” Charles continued. “Three years is nothing—you’ll be busy, make new friends, and establish associations that will serve you through the rest of your life. If you apply yourself, time will pass just like that.” Charles clicked his fingers. “On the day you finish your exams, I will personally place the map in your hands.”
“Why should I believe you?” grumbled Douglas. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“Now, son—that’s not fair.”
“You should know—you’re the one who sold grandfather’s collection and gambled away the money. Was that fair?”
“That was wrong. It was a sad and terrible mistake, and I’ve been paying for it all my life.” He thrust out pleading hands. “Douglas, please, try to understand. I know I have kept it from you—I admit as much—but the last thing I wanted was to see you make the same mistakes I made when I was your age.”
“So just because you failed, now I have to make up for it. Isn’t that what you mean?”
“All I want is for you to be prepared. I want you to be better at the quest than I was.” He paused. “And yes, I failed. But you have it in you to succeed. To do that you must be thoroughly grounded in language and history. Oxford can give you that.”
“And if I refuse to go? What then?”
“It is not as if I am asking the impossible,” Charles pointed out. “It is for your own good, after all.”
“Since when have you ever known what was good for me, Father?” The question was a slap in the face.
“Douglas, there is no cause for—”
“I see it now, Father,” he sneered. “You get sent down in disgrace, so now I have to go and restore the family name. You tried the quest and failed, so now you want to keep everyone else from even trying.”
“This discussion is over,” declared Charles, collapsing behind his desk. “I have told you what I expect and what you must do to inherit. You either take up your studies or suffer the consequences.”
Douglas rose from his chair, his fists balled at his sides. “You don’t frighten me with your threats, old man.” He turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard it rattled the lamps on the mantle.
“Douglas!” called Charles after his son. “Come back!”
Another door slammed in the hall, and the house was quiet once more.
Why does it always have to be like this? wondered Charles, shaking his head sadly.
That was a two-year-old argument, and still it rankled. Douglas had taken up his place at Christ Church, but from all Charles was able to learn, his son rarely attended lectures and was never seen in any of the university’s libraries. Douglas might as well have been a ghost as far as his tutors were concerned. Then, when the demands for money from the town’s merchants and publicans began arriving, Charles read the writing on the wall. He sent pleading letters, one after another . . . letters that went unanswered, never a reply.
Then came the straw that broke the longsuffering camel’s back: an urgent message from the college chaplain stating that, along with two other students, Douglas had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly and starting a public affray. The Rev. Philpott indicated that the young miscreant could be released on bail of fifty pounds; otherwise he would be forced to spend time in gaol until the case was called to court.
Filled with despair, Charles had made up his mind before he had even read the signature on the letter. Douglas would remain in gaol and take his chances with the magistrate. He could not count on his father to save his worthless hide this time; it might even do the boy some good to suffer the consequences of his actions. But gaol was at best merely a stopgap, not a solution—and a solution was desperately needed. If Charles was ever to have any peace, he would have to be bold and ruthless—more audacious than he had ever been in his life to now.
He spent three days and nights in intense cogitation, thinking up and then discarding one desperate plan after another until he hit upon an idea that offered the perfect solution. Thus, as the sun rose early in the morning on a clear May day, Charles made the decision that would solve his immediate problem. Unfortunately, this decision, born of despair, would also confound the quest for generations to come.
The carriage jolted back and forth over the rutted road, moving deeper into the countryside. When Charles stirred and looked out the window once more he saw the dark, unnaturally conical shape of the mound looming in the near distance and felt the skin on the back of his neck tingle with apprehension. Black Mixen Tump was only a portal, he told himself. He had used it before; there was nothing to fear.
Charles drew a deep breath and glanced at the flat wooden box beside him on the seat. He pulled the box closer and rested his hand on the polished lid. If ever he needed assurance that he was doing the right thing, he needed it now. “God help me,” he whispered. “Give me a sign.”
He turned his gaze to the imposing dark mass of the tump and saw the Three Trolls—the ancient oaks growing from the flattened top of the mound. As he watched, three crows rose from the uppermost branches—one from each tree. Was it the sign he had requested?
Charles shrugged. It would have to do.