25. Breakfast at the White Heron

The White Heron was already awake when we came downstairs.

Someone had opened the shutters in the dining room, and the morning light lay across the tables in long pale rectangles. Outside, the square was still damp from the night rain. A woman was sweeping leaves from the steps of the baker's shop, although the wind seemed intent on putting them back.

The innkeeper stood behind the counter, arranging a small collection of cups.

"Good morning," he said. "You slept well?"

"Very well."

"Good. The house was quiet."

He glanced towards the ceiling.

"At least, most of it was."

We waited, but he offered no explanation. Instead, he brought us breakfast: warm bread, butter, soft cheese, a dish of honey, and a pot of tea. There was also a plate of little cakes, each marked with a shallow circle.

"Edith's biscuits," I said.

"Not quite," he replied. "These are Margaret's. Edith makes the ones with three marks."

I examined one of the cakes. It had two.

"Does the number mean anything?"

"Not usually."

He said it with such calm assurance that I decided not to ask what happened when it did.

Rowan arrived while we were eating, carrying a bundle of willow rods under one arm. He stopped when he saw the cakes.

"Margaret's," he said. "Good. Hers are better."

"She'll be pleased to hear it," said the innkeeper.

"She knows."

Rowan sat down and began stripping the bark from one of the rods. He had apparently brought his work with him, though he had not brought anything resembling a basket.

"Are you going to the church?" he asked.

"We thought we were."

"Then you'll want to speak to Samuel. He's been there since dawn."

"Has he found the other bell?"

Rowan gave us a look.

"If Samuel had found the other bell, we'd all have heard about it."

The innkeeper placed a cup of tea beside him.

"Mrs Bell is coming," he said. "She asked me to tell you not to bring the key."

I looked towards the pocket where the innkeeper usually kept the little wooden box.

"Not to bring it?"

"She says it isn't needed yet."

Rowan stopped working.

"Then why did she ask for it yesterday?"

The innkeeper considered this.

"Perhaps she wanted to make sure it was still where it ought to be."

"People in this valley," Rowan muttered, "have a remarkable talent for making simple things complicated."

The innkeeper smiled.

"That may be why the valley keeps them."

A few minutes later Mrs Bell appeared in the doorway, carrying a basket covered with a blue cloth. She greeted Rowan, took a cake from the plate without asking, and sat beside us.

"Have you been to the church this morning?" she asked.

"Not yet," we said.

"Good. Then we can all go together."

She uncovered her basket. Inside lay three small pears, a folded piece of linen, and an old wooden object that at first looked like a handle from a broken tool. It was dark with age, slightly curved, and had a small circular hollow at one end.

Rowan leaned forward.

"What's that?"

"Something I found."

"Where?"

Mrs Bell looked at him.

"Where it was."

Rowan sat back.

"That answers nothing."

"Not everything needs answering before breakfast."

She turned the object over in her hands. There were three small marks on its surface: a leaf, a crescent, and a circle.

I recognised them from the stone slab in the church.

"Is it part of the bell?"

Mrs Bell did not answer immediately. She looked towards the window, where the wet square was beginning to fill with people.

"Perhaps," she said. "Or perhaps it was made for something that came before the bell."

The innkeeper had been listening. He set down the coffee pot.

"Will you be taking it with you?"

"No. It can stay here for now."

She wrapped it in the linen and returned it to the basket.

"There's something else," she said. "The church has a door that isn't in the church."

Rowan closed his eyes briefly.

"I knew it."

Mrs Bell laughed.

"Don't worry, Rowan. It isn't a difficult door. It simply opens from the other side."

"And where is the other side?"

She stood and picked up her basket.

"That's what we're going to find out."

Outside, somewhere beyond the square, a bell rang once.

It was not the little bell Samuel carried.

Mrs Bell paused at the door and listened.

"Ah," she said. "Someone has arrived."

"Who?" I asked.

She looked back at us, smiling faintly.

"That," she said, "is what I was hoping to discover."

24. The Road That Remembered the Mountains

The bell sounded once more, somewhere beyond the hazel trees.

Elian stood beside the old stone wall, listening. Mrs Bell had returned to the village, and Rowan had gone back to his baskets, leaving us alone with her.

"Shall we?" she asked.

We passed through the narrow opening in the wall and followed the path downhill. It was barely wide enough for two people, and in places the grass had grown over the old stones. Here and there, however, the surface was clearly visible: large flat slabs, worn smooth by countless footsteps.

"Who built the road?" we asked.

"People who needed to get somewhere."

"Where did they come from?"

"Some came from the mountains. Others came from beyond them. A few came from places that no longer have names."

Elian said this without ceremony, as though describing the different villages along an ordinary country road.

The path descended to the river. There was no bridge, but a line of broad stones crossed the water at a shallow point. We stepped carefully from one to another. The current moved quietly around our boots.

On the opposite bank, the road climbed through a grove of old trees. Their branches formed a high arch overhead, and the light beneath them was green and subdued.

We walked for some time without speaking.

Then we came to a small clearing. In its centre stood a stone post, weathered and lichen-covered. Three marks had been carved into it: a leaf, a key and a crescent moon.

"Another of the gardeners' signs," we said.

"Yes. Though these are older."

Elian brushed the moss from the lower part of the stone. Beneath the three symbols was a fourth carving: a simple outline of a mountain, with a narrow line running through it.

"What's that?"

"The old road."

We looked towards the mountains. The path continued through the trees, then disappeared behind a rocky outcrop.

"Does it go all the way through?"

"It used to."

"And now?"

Elian smiled.

"That depends on whether the other side remembers it."

We asked what lay beyond the mountains.

"Several things. A high valley, a lake, a village where the houses have no chimneys, and a place where the rain falls upwards."

She paused.

"Though I wouldn't recommend visiting all of them in one day."

We laughed.

A little further along the clearing stood a low stone building. It had no windows, only a narrow wooden door, which was slightly open. Above the doorway was a carved inscription, so worn that only a few words could be made out.

Elian stopped.

"This was a resting place for travellers. People would leave something here before continuing their journey."

"What sort of thing?"

"Something they no longer needed."

We looked inside. The room was empty except for a stone bench and a small wooden shelf. On the shelf lay a single white flower.

We recognised it.

It was the same kind of flower that had been placed in our room at the White Heron.

Elian noticed our expression.

"Ah," she said. "So it has travelled."

"Where did it come from?"

"That's not quite the right question."

She took the flower from the shelf and held it carefully.

"Some things are left behind so that others may find them. Some are placed here because someone knows they will be needed later."

She returned it to the shelf.

We asked whether she had brought it.

"No."

"Mrs Bell?"

"No."

"Then who?"

Elian looked towards the far end of the clearing.

"Perhaps the person who will come after us."

We stepped outside.

The bell sounded again, this time much closer. Beyond the clearing, the path climbed towards a narrow gap in the rocks. Through it we could see a distant slope, covered in dark trees. At the top stood a small building with a pale roof.

"What's that?" we asked.

Elian followed our gaze.

"An old house."

"Does anyone live there?"

"Sometimes."

"Could we visit?"

"Not today."

She turned back towards the valley.

"We should return. The river will be different by evening, and I don't think you'd want to cross it after dark."

We followed her down through the trees, across the stepping stones and back towards the orchard.

At the wall, she stopped.

"There's something you should know about the old road," she said. "It doesn't take everyone to the same place."

"Why not?"

"Because people don't all travel for the same reason."

She smiled, then slipped through the opening in the wall.

We remained a moment, looking back towards the mountains.

The road was still there, but the clearing had disappeared behind the trees.

And somewhere in the distance, the bell rang once more.