Prologue

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 ‘Have you news of my boy Jack?’

Not this tide.

‘When d’you think that he’ll come back?’
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

‘Has anyone else had word of him?’
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

‘Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?’
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind —
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Rudyard Kipling.

 

No time no place to talk about the weather 
The promise of love is hard to ignore 
You said the chance wasn't getting any better 
Labour of love is ours to endure 

I will run for shelter 
Endless summer lift the curse 
It feels like nothing matters 
In our private universe 

Neil Finn.

The moon shines on the river and the castle. The day, June 2nd, 1915, has been unusually hot; the walls of the castle soaking up more sun than they can easily absorb. Windows gape wide to let the night's breezes cool the interior. Those asleep inside fall to more peaceful slumber as the walls breathe out heat and sweat dries from bodies.

Outside, the air turning cool and sweet, the moonlight glints on the river in slow dancing patterns. Owls fly; small animals scuttle; trees sway like graceful women attempting the steps of the river’s dance.

From out of the trees, walking slowly on the gravel path to the castle entrance, come two figures. Look at them and tell me what you see.

One a man; the other a woman. True, but look closer; there is more to them than that.

Wearing clothes the silver white of the moonlight. Yes, yes. And do you see? These clothes are not of this time. But look more carefully. There is something else.

You have it now, don’t you? Subtle, isn’t it, the way the moonlight shines not on these two, but through them?

At the edge of the castle's gravel courtyard, both pause while the woman gazes around at the scene. She looks down the small hill which the castle sits atop at the view of the river, the bridge and the distant mill. The hill forms a natural amphitheatre; a grass-covered lap of earth leading away to the line of the woods.

The woman nods; pleased by the prospect? The man stands, arms akimbo, proprietorial pride written on him. He was on this hill before the building started, ordered the design of the castle, oversaw its furnishing, was the force behind it becoming a beautiful stately home, watched as it acquired a patina of age and is well pleased with what he's wrought.

He turns to the woman, makes a slight bow and extends his hand in a gesture of formal invitation. The woman gives him a smile, drops a playful curtsy and walks on towards the entrance. By force of habit, both enter through the door. A less remarkable feat, this, had they opened it first. Perhaps you enjoy the sight of them passing through solid timbers on a tour of their new habitation. Or perhaps not.

Inside, they climb the stairs and survey the bedrooms. War has taken the men away and in the house, only women and girls remain, peacefully sleeping, unaware of the spectral forms moving amongst them.

At length the two stop. The woman nods, her face perhaps still slightly pensive, but content.

The man addresses her. ‘And, Miss Mason?’

‘Perfect, Turing. They told me about this to get me to sign the contract…’

‘But seeing it is different. Yes, I understand. Seeing is believing.’

‘Will he remember…?’

‘Some things. They are what he is, not merely what he does. But have no concern. He will believe he is what they tell him he is. It's in the nature of the cure.’

The two fade into the air. 

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