Forgotness: Book 1: 200m
Wayland’s Smithy

“Well, we reckon it’s an aeroplane,” said Leicester, dragging the latest find across the soggy ground.

“How?” asked Shefford, another younger kid who hung around with us but who wasn’t really supposed to. “In what possible way does that get you into the sky?”

It was a funny looking machine but in its favour was the fact that it did have an engine, though a very small one. The motor sat on one side of a wire bowl inside of which were three fan blades looking a bit like the propellers of a boat. Not that many boats had propellers nowadays, or at least not ones that turned. But these were bigger blades, flatter too.

“Why do you think it’s a flying machine Leicester?” we asked.

“Well,” Leicester explained patiently. “It’s got a sticker on the side saying Property of Lambourn Paramotor Club and there’s a picture of someone sitting with this on their back and it looks like they’re flying through the air.”

We all crowded round to have a look. Leicester rubbed the mud away so we could get a better look at the label. The figure was sitting with this engine on their back and with a very round head, probably some sort of helmet. Their arms were stuck out sideways at a funny angle.

“We think it blows away dangerous levels of fart.” Joked Shefford.

“Now that would be useful on our parent’s boat.” Stanford said peering over our shoulders. “But there are no wings are there? Maybe you lie on your back with this under you and kind of float up.”

No one was convinced by that either. But this was an engine that could be of some value.

“Are you going to take it up to the White Horse?” Stamford asked Leicester.

The White Horse was a village a few miles west of us. Some folks called it a castle. The village was in a giant ring of earth above a huge white horse carved into the chalk. As the waters had risen more and more people had moved there so now the village ran along the entire length of the ridge to Wayland’s Smithy. The Smithy, with its stone walls and roof, was one of the few solid houses we had ever seen above water. For as long as we could remember the Smithy was a pub and if ever there were any celebrations (which were surprisingly often), they were held there.

The White Horse was home to many hundreds of Wetlanders, probably even thousands now, and food was a very real problem for everyone living along the Downs. But despite all that, or maybe because of it, there was trade to be had: trade for food and trade for old machines and artefacts pulled out of the sunken valleys around us.

“We’ll come with you.” We said, before Leicester had even agreed but we knew what was going to happen; there wasn’t much else to be done with it.

“Right well, suppose so.” Leicester looked at the paramotor. “Sort of hoped... well, you know.”

We patted Leicester on the back. Yes, we knew. But hopes were not very useful around here.

“Hang on” interrupted Stamford. “What about Alne and the big plan? Aren’t we supposed to be hearing more about that today?”

“Sure,” we said, “but all they’re going to say is: head north and save us somehow. Youi go along and find out who we’re going with and we’ll try to bring back something decent to eat.”

“Chicken, get a chicken,” said Shefford eagerly, “we haven’t had chicken in weeks.”

Which was probably true. We’d had a lot of seagull and duck, and a couple of times a year even a goose if we got lucky but chicken was a rare treat. On the Ridgeway the eggs certainly came before the chickens.

“Where’s the Purple Leak then, may as well get going now.” said Leicester. The Purple Leak was the worst boat at Treetops and, therefore, the one least likely to be noticed if we borrowed it. It was also purple.

“Sure,” we said and together we carried the paramotor over to the boat and lowered it in carefully.

“You just pulled it up?” We asked Leicester as we set off, each taking an oar after Stamford had pushed us off.

“No, we were swimming down there by the old farm.” Leicester meant the buildings half a mile south of us and about thirty metres underwater. It was a big house surrounded by a lot of farm buildings. It had been picked dry by folk, maybe our grandparents, long ago when the waters were still rising but we still liked to swim down and take a look.

The oldies couldn’t believe that we could see much underwater and they loved to bang on about our ‘big eyes’: Ooh haven’t you got big eyes, such wonderful big eyes, who needs carrots when you’ve got eyes like that?

It’s not like all of us had eyes that worked better than theirs, but... things change, maybe we were different from them, but wasn’t it better to be able to see in the dark?

“The old farm, yeah.”

“Well, we noticed a sort of shed by the smaller house to the side, a few days ago.” We nodded, we knew it. “So we put a hook on the roof and pulled it off.”

“Who?” we asked, surprised that we hadn’t been involved.

“Oh, Amesbury, Neston and that other kid,” Leicester saw our look. “We looked for you but you weren’t around.”

Oh, yeah, we remembered now. We may even have heard them calling but we were up in our hammock having a bit of a moment to ourselves.

“It was a laugh actually when we pulled the roof off we tipped the boat over, nearly lost it. Anyway, we swam down and took a poke around. It hadn’t been cleared, it was all really well locked up. That’s where we found this motor. Looked like there’s some good sheeting too and ropes. We were going to take another look tomorrow? You should come down.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Could do with some more chicken.” Though we doubted we would get a chicken or even an egg for this old motor. Nice thought though.

We rowed on in silence for a bit, getting into the swing of the oars. The mist and rain broke around us but it wasn’t bad weather, the water was calm and we could see that the sun was up there, somewhere.

We were coming to White Horse hill from the east but if we had been rowing in from the west we would have seen the huge horse carved into the hillside, half above water, half below, an incredible thing. It was hard to imagine a horse. The largest animal we had ever seen, other than eels of course, were pigs, but they didn’t gallop the way these horses seemed to.

Eventually the clatter and chatter of the township around Uffington reached us over the water. We passed other traders in their boats and children splashing in the water and, finally, we ran the Purple Leak up onto the grass. Leicester hammered the anchor spike deep into the thin chalky soil and we lifted the paramotor out of the boat.

We were going to go to the Pot Men at Wayland’s Smithy. Bill and Ben pretty well single-handedly (or should that be double-handed?) ran anything that was remotely fun or interesting on the ridge. The pub obviously, with their various beer brews of which nettle beer was the most popular (it was also the flavour of the soup they served), a potato peel spirit (Tattygin or Tattynger depending on whether you understood Bill and Ben’s jokes, which, in this case, we didn’t, however often they explained it to us.) They also had the biggest garden on the ridge and grew the best everything, but especially the best grass. They even had a greenhouse.

We loved coming to see them for all these reasons, but also they were fun and kind and interesting, and they did the best trades.

We set off with the engine swung between us, our hammock taking the weight. We walked through the tents, caravans, shacks and allotments, heading up hill to the tall trees that still stood in a circle around the Smithy.

A few folk called out to us, asked after the clan at Treetops and we swapped news, what little there was, and showed off Leicester’s find, though we were careful not to mention where it was found. It all took quite a long time.

Eventually we reached the stone steps that went down into the Smithy. We dropped the paramotor on the ground, glad to rest our shoulders from the cutting weight of the ropes.

“We’ll wait here and watch this,“ said Leicester. “See if you can get us a pint.”

We smiled and nodded and, ducking down, went in.

Wayland’s Smithy was old, like the White Horse. Bill and Ben said thousands of years old, but who knew? But it wasn’t like Park Farm where Leicester found the paramotor. There, everything was bricks and slate and corrugated iron roofs. Wayland’s Smithy was big lumps of stone lying on top of each other with earth piled round.

We walked down the steps into the dark. It was not totally dark because Bill and Ben had put holes in the ceiling into which they had stuck big plastic bottles with water inside that shone like bulbs during the day. They did sod all at night, but still.

“Bill! Ben!” We called out. Someone walked out of one of the side rooms, swaying a bit.

“They’re down there.” They pointed and, with a triumphant burp, headed out.

“Thanks,“ we said, wincing at the smell, “thanks for that.”

“Bill!” we shouted again, “We’ve got something for you.”

Further in, the space got bigger. Bill and Ben had said that they had dug it out a few years ago, before the ridge got popular. They had put in steel beams and a cement floor. It was a big room, probably the biggest, most modern room we had ever been in. And there was music because they had electricity from the many little wind turbines they had built from old car dynamos. They also had a couple of bicycles that could be peddled for payment in beer or whatever. These were always popular. They had tables and chairs and a pool table! At the end of the room was the bar and sure enough there were the Pot Men.

“Felixstowe!” shouted Bill. Ben looked up.

“Hi Felixstowe,” said Ben as I reached the bar. “We hear you’re going to take the North for us.”

“What!” It was always incredible how they got to know everything. “How the freak do you...?”

But there was no point going on. Of course they knew. They supplied happiness in its many forms in a pretty awful world. Bill and Ben were the first contact for everything, especially news.

“So it seems,“ we confirmed, “Alne has spoken, so we’re going.”

“How soon?” Asked Bill.

“Is this farewell?” Asked Ben.

“No,” we said, “well, we don’t know, maybe, hopefully not for a week or so. They’ve stuff to prepare supposedly.”

“Ah, the bombs,” said Bill.

“Yes the pesky bombs,” agreed Ben, “that’s been fun.”

“Aye, not had that much fun since we found Hymenogastraceae by the Horse’s arse.”

Ben nodded. We were lost, which was fairly normal when talking with Bill and Ben.

“Look, Leicester’s found a motor. A paramotor? We’ve got it outside. Thought you might...”

“We’ll be right out.” Said Bill. “Ben, the honours?”

Ben looked around and saw someone peddling one of the bicycles.

“Frankly!” Frankly looked up. “Come and barkeep will you? Just got to nip out and see a man about a dog.”

Frankly looked a bit puzzled but nodded and went behind the bar.

“Right, paramotors. Lead the way.” Bill waved an arm and we went outside.

“Leicester, my poppit.” Bill shook Leicester’s arm enthusiastically while Ben knelt down to get a closer look at the engine.

“Lambourn Paramotor Club,” read Ben, “but...”

He turned the motor over.

“It’s not petrol.”

“It certainly isn’t is it?” Said Bill. “That would seem curious.”

“To say the least,” said Ben, “and no obvious battery either.”

“No, no obvious battery,” continued Bill, “so either the pilot carried it.”

“Which would seem unnecessarily awkward.”

“Unless.”

“Unless it was a balance issue.”

“Or?”

“Or they had another source of energy?” The two thought outloud together all the time, we got used to it. “Like mini power cells...”

“No.”

“OK, like solar powered parachute-y material?”

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“And strong?”

“Or?”

There was silence for a minute.

“Whispering Grass?” asked Ben.

“Oh! That would be good.” Agreed Bill. Seeing our puzzled faces Bill continued. “Whispering Grass was a current multiplier.”

“In theory,” interrupted Ben. Bill nodded.

“Yes in theory but possibly in practice too. They had moved their research centre out here somewhere.”

“Somewhere where Leicester here fishes?”

“Well it has to be somewhere so why not where Leicester happens to fish?”

We still looked puzzled.

There was a sound like a big wave and as it got louder we could make out what it was: a lot of people shouting: “Mugs!”

Everybody stood up. If Mugs attacked in one place they always attacked somewhere else as well and in the mist and fog it was difficult to know where.

“We’ll continue this later.” Said Bill. Ben was already organising a group of children and old folk into the Smithy for safety. The able-bodied were arming themselves with their knifes, sticks, bows and guns (that may or may not have had any ammunition but the sight of them was often enough to frighten a Mug away).

“Where are they attacking?” We asked Bill.

“It sounds like they’re attacking on the far side of White Horse but they’ll try for here soon enough. They always do. So if you don’t mind helping out we could do with a few more folk round here who are handy.”

We pulled our knife out, a long dagger that we used for everything. We were told once that it was called a bayonet. We also had a lethal spike in our hair but for the moment it was more useful up there, our hair was kind of long.

After a minute, during which the shouting from Uffington continued at the same level, we noticed a new noise back from down the way we had come.

“Right, let’s go.” Said Bill and a dozen or so of us spread out and began jogging down the hill back towards our boat. We had to push past a lot of folk running the other way with their children and belongings, some paused to tell Bill or Ben what they had seen.

We could see fires from burning shacks and then a Mug ran out from behind a tent and swung an axe, we twisted out of the way and Leicester stabbed the Mug in the back, we stabbed the side of the chest and the Mug collapsed. We turned, expecting more, none came. We pushed on. We could see Mugs further ahead with bags over their shoulders, one was pulling a pig; they were heading back to the sea.

Then we were standing at the water’s edge in time to see their boats disappear into the mist and the Mugs were gone.

We spent the rest of the afternoon putting out fires, rescuing what we could from the demolished homes and reuniting parents with children. At the end of it all, twenty or so families had lost vital food and some irreplaceable equipment: water bottles, cloth, plastic sheeting, knives and axes, books, kettles, pots and pans, bedding. Luckily the allotments were mainly untouched so not much food was lost though the pig and two chickens would be sorely missed.

“Four Mugs killed, we lost two and another dozen or so with bad cuts. We may lose another one or two if they don’t heal well.” Said Bill.

“Better get cooking up some more Tattynger.” Ben gave us a look. “For sterilising the needles and things. It keeps the wounds clean, more chance of survival.”

“And yes, I could do with a drink.” Ben continued. Ben used the selfish I. The oldies did that sometimes, especially when they were stressed.

“We don’t think we should head back tonight.” Said Leicester quietly as we walked back to the Smithy. “The Mug could still be out there, we don’t want to run into them.”

“Good point,” we said, “let’s stay and get wrecked.”

“There’s that,” Leicester replied, “but we want to hear more about the Whispering Grass.”

“Whispering Grass my arse,” we said, “but fine, we like the Pot Men’s stories.”

Later, after a baked potato and nettle soup, we settled in for the night at the Smithy. We sat at a table with a few others we knew from around the Ridgeway, chatting, drinking and smoking Bill and Ben’s fine grass. We had a tab at the bar ‘for helping out with the Mugs’. The paramotor was under our table getting a fair bit of attention.

The Smithy was packed that night anyway with folk celebrating the defeat of the Mugs, mourning the dead and nursing wounds.

Early on in the evening there was a collection for the families who had lost members and belongings. We donated our fourth knife. (So? We had four: our main one, spike in the hair, a wee one in the sock and a spare in the bag. We donated the spare in the bag.) We would have given more but that was all we had on us.

Then there were toasts and singing and even later when we were feeling really rather mellow: music and quiet chat.

“Put on Perfidia.” We shouted over to Bill. “Phyllis Dixon. Perfidia.”

“It’s Dillon, Phyllis Dillon, anyway we prefer Desi Arnaz’s version.” Explained Ben coming over and pulling up a chair beside us. “Keep peddling old boy, we need music.”

Frankly was on the bicycle but having a break with a pint and with what looked like one of the largest reefers we had ever seen.

“Are you sure Frankly’ll survive that?” We asked Ben.

Ben laughed. “Frankly’ll be fine and’ll peddle ’til morning.”

“Desi Arnaz roars like a pregnant seal. We don’t know how you can put up with it.” We laughed. Ben pointed a finger at us, but we continued, “we know, Phyllistine. Still don’t get the joke.”

“And,” we went on, “we didn’t get the whole Whispering Grass multiplier thingy thing either.”

“Ah, well,” said Bill joining us, “it’s all about nano filaments. Nano Filaments? No? OK, look on your arm, you have tiny hairs. Imagine if those hairs were so small you couldn’t see them but they were there, millions of them. The wind blows over them and they move. With every movement each hair makes a tiny bit of electricity.”

“Like a windmill.” Leicester butted in from over the table.

“Yes, just like a windmill, but they don’t spin, they just flick from side to side.“

“And because there are millions of them,” Ben took up the explanation, “that tiny bit of electricity starts to add up to a usable amount.”

“And that powers the paramotor,” it was Bill, “but also, the flick of the filament creates an extra eddy, a sort of stream of air, so the next filament along flicks just a little bit more, and these streams build up, getting faster and faster.”

“So it starts to make even more electricity than it really should,” back to Ben. “The bigger the area of filament the more electricity it makes above what it should make.”

“And!” Bill was actually getting excited now. “And there’s this gale blowing across this sheet that’s getting faster and pushing back more and more.”

“So actually, not only does it make more electricity than it should to power the motor it also creates an additional push off the back of the parawing. Oh that’s clever,” said Ben. “Oh that’s very clever.”

“Isn’t that making more energy than what goes in?” Asked Leicester. “We thought that wasn’t possible?”

“Well it’s not.” Said Bill, nodding, “but maybe it is.”

“Aye,” said Ben, “maybe it is.”

“So, you want us to see if there’s a big sheet, the wing for this paramotor thing then?” We asked. It was getting difficult to focus our eyes now, but we wanted to get to the bottom of this.

Bill pointed a finger.

“Yes,” said Ben, “exactly, we need,” there was a pause. “We need you to go down wherever you got this and find that wing.”

“It’s really quite important. Perhaps, maybe,” said Bill, “if it still works.”

“Which it probably doesn’t.” Said Ben. Bill nodded. “But it might.”

We couldn’t quite be arsed to go outside so we slept on the floor of the Smithy. There was a lot of snoring. Though we do remember finally hearing Phyllis Dillon singing Perfidia. Good song.

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