Three

That evening, the four archaeologists sit around the communal supper table at the Wardhouse.

Their landlord is a kindly old man; his wife is the cook. Every evening they prepare and serve something simple, but delicious, all from the island, an island that seems to have everything its small population needs: sheep and goats for meat and milk, plenty of fish in the sea, lobsters, and even oysters. The fields are full of wheat, gently ripening, and there are orchards of fruit and fields of vegetables.

When Edward tried to offer a little more for their food and lodging the landlord would hear nothing of it.

“We do things differently here,” he’d said. “What need have I of money? We have enough to cover our costs, and you are welcome visitors to our island. That is enough for us. We are always glad of visitors. Our little population has been dropping, you see. We used to be so many more, but not many babies are born on Blessed now.”

He’d smiled.

*   *   *

It’s an extraordinary place, Edward has decided, and he wonders if it’s the sort of place he’d like to retire to one day. Maybe not. It might be a bit too simple, too quiet, even for his taste.

There’s always something a little odd about remote places, he thinks. That sense that things happen differently. That’s all it is, though earlier that day, a man began to cut the hay in the meadow, not with a tractor and swather, but with a scythe, as if this were 1911, not 2011.

And then there’s the sun being up when it should be in bed. That would really mess with his sleep, and presumably it means in the winter it’s perpetually dark, in return. That, he knows, he would not like.

They’ve been given permission to dig in the far end of the meadow, but only for two weeks; they have used half their time.

“Council of war,” Edward says, as they push away their plates. “We need to find something, and quickly, or this dig will be written off and me with it.”

He smiles grimly.

“So, what do we do?”

Edward sighs. He’s getting too old for long days in trenches with nothing to show for it. Once, he would have been excited anyway, just to have the trowel in his hands and the dirt under his fingernails. He looks at his three young keen accomplices.

“What do you guys think? Nancy, Isabella, how’s life in trench one? Anything giving you cause for hope?”

Nancy shakes her head. Languidly.

“Nope. I know we found some resistance when Mat did the geophysics, but I’m dubious. No offense, Mat.”

Mat raises a hand.

“None taken. The equipment is…”

He stops, realizing it’s an implied criticism of Edward.

“… is rubbish,” Edward finishes. “Don’t worry, I apologize. It’s all we could afford to transport.”

“I know this is not how you’re supposed to do it,” Isabella says, “but I’d love to have a go at some of the mounds round the edge of the field.”

Edward smiles inwardly at her excellent English idiom. Have a go.

“No, Isabella, that is not how we’re supposed to do it. Real archaeologists do not just have a go…”

Edward takes another drink of beer.

“Listen, I’m the boss. I’ll think about it overnight and decide on a new plan for tomorrow, okay? At least we’ve had great weather. We can all go home with no artifacts, but lovely suntans. Even you, Isabella.”

They laugh.

Isabella pretends to glare at Edward, then smiles, too.

“Yes, but you know, even if it was raining, I would bet that boy would still be standing there, watching us.”

They all agree.

“I think he’s a bit creepy,” Nancy says.

“No. Don’t be mean,” Mat says. “He’s okay. He’s just interested.”

“But that toy. He must be fifteen, sixteen? That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

Edward nods, but says nothing.

“Yes,” says Isabella, “but there is something about him. His eyes.”

“His eyes?” asks Nancy.

“Yes, his eyes,” Isabella says. “His eyes … it seems like he knows everything, but is saying nothing.”

It is a remark that Edward finds disconcerting, because he had been about to say the very same thing.