She looked slightly disappointed to see Tristran Thorn appear from the back room. “Good day,
Miss Forester.”
She smiled a tight smile, and handed Tristran her list.
It read as follows:
½ lb of sago
10 cans of sardines
1 bottle of mushroom ketchup
5 lb of rice
1 tin of golden syrup
2 lb of currants
a bottle of cochineal
I lb of barley sugar
1 shilling box of Rowntrees Elect Cocoa
3d tin of Oakey’s knife polish
6d of Brunswick black
1 packet of Swinbome’s Isinglass
1 bottle of furniture cream
1 basting ladle
a ninepenny gravy strainer
a set of kitchen steps
Tristran read it to himself, looking for something about which he could begin to talk: a
conversational gambit of some kind—any kind.
He heard his voice saying, “You’ll be having rice pudding, then, I would imagine, Miss Forester.”
As soon as he said it, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say. Victoria pursed her perfect lips,
and blinked her grey eyes, and said, “Yes, Tristran. We shall be having rice pudding.”
And then she smiled at him, and said, “Mother says that rice pudding in sufficient quantity will
help to stave off chills and colds and other autumnal ailments.”
“My mother,” Tristran confessed, “has always sworn by tapioca pudding.”
He put the list on a spike. “We can deliver most of the provisions tomorrow morning, and the
rest of it will come back with Mister Monday, early next week.”
There was a gust of wind, then, so strong that it rattled the windows of the village, and whirled
and spun the weathercocks until they could not tell north from west or south from east.
The fire that was burning in the grate of Monday and Brown’s belched and twisted in a flurry of
greens and scarlets, topped with a fizz of silver twinkles, of the kind one can make for oneself at
the parlor fire with a handful of tossed iron filings.
The wind blew from Faerie and the East, and Tristran Thorn suddenly found inside himself a
certain amount of courage he had not suspected that he had possessed. “You know, Miss Forester, I
get off in a few minutes,” he said. “Perhaps I could walk you a little way home. It’s not much out
of my way.” And he waited, his heart in his mouth, while Victoria Forester’s grey eyes stared at
him, amused. After what seemed like a hundred years she said, “Certainly.”
Tristran hurried into the parlor, and informed Mr. Brown that he would be off now. And Mr.
Brown grunted in a not entirely ill-natured way, and told Tristran that when he was START younger
he’d not only had to stay late each night and shut up the shop, but that he had also had to sleep on
the floor beneath the counter with only his coat for a pillow.
Tristran agreed that he was indeed a lucky young man, and he wished Mr. Brown a good night,
then he took his coat from the coat-stand and his new bowler hat from the hat-stand, and stepped
out onto the cobblestones, where Victoria Forester waited for him.
The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the
distant winter on the air—a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.
They took a winding lane up toward the Forester farm, and the crescent moon hung white in the
sky and the stars burned in the darkness above them.
“Victoria,” said Tristran, after a while.
“Yes, Tristran,” said Victoria, who had been preoccupied for much of the walk.
“Would you think it forward of me to kiss you?” asked Tristran.
“Yes,” said Victoria bluntly and coldly. “Very forward.”
“Ah,” said Tristran.
They walked up Dyties Hill, not speaking; at the top of the hill they turned, and saw beneath
them the village of Wall, all gleaming candles and lamps glimmering through windows, warm
yellow lights that beckoned and invited; and above them the lights of the myriad stars, which
glittered and twinkled and blazed, chilly and distant and more numerous than the mind could
encompass.
Tristran reached down his hand and took Victoria’s small hand in his. She did not pull away.
“Did you see that?” asked Victoria, who was gazing out over the landscape.
“I saw nothing,” said Tristran. “I was looking at you.”
Victoria smiled in the moonlight.
“You are the most lovely woman in all the world,” said Tristran, from the bottom of his heart.
“Get along with you,” said Victoria, but she said it gently.
“What did you see?” asked Tristran.
“A falling star,” said Victoria. “I believe they are not at all uncommon at this time of year.”
“Vicky,” said Tristran. “Will you kiss me?”
“No,” she said.
“You kissed me when we were younger. You kissed me beneath the pledge-Oak, on your
fifteenth birthday. And you kissed me last May Day, behind your father’s cowshed.”
“I was another person then,” she said. “And I shall not kiss you, Tristran Thorn.”
“If you will not kiss me,” asked Tristran, “will you marry me?”
There was silence on the hill. Only the rustle of the October wind. Then a tinkling sound: it was
the sound of the most beautiful girl in the whole of the British Isles laughing with delight and
amusement.
“Marry you?” she repeated, incredulously. “And why ever should I marry you, Tristran Thorn?
What could you give me?”
“Give you?” he said. “I would go to India for you, Victoria Forester, and bring you the tusks of
elephants, and pearls as big as your thumb, and rubies the size of wren’s eggs.
“I would go to Africa, and bring you diamonds the size of cricket balls. I would find the source
of the Nile, and name it after you.
“I would go to America—all the way to San Francisco, to the gold-fields, and I would not come
back until I had your weight in gold. Then I would carry it back here, and lay it at your feet.
“I would travel to the distant northlands did you but say the word, and slay the mighty polar
bears, and bring you back their hides.”
“I think you were doing quite well,” said Victoria Forester, “until you got to the bit about
slaying polar bears. Be that as it may, little shop-boy and farm-boy, I shall not kiss you; neither
shall I marry you.”
Tristran’s eyes blazed in the moonlight. “I would travel to far Cathay for you, and bring you a
huge junk I would capture from the king of the pirates, laden with jade and silk and opium.
“I would go to Australia, at the bottom of the world,” said Tristran, “and bring you. Um.” He
ransacked the penny dreadfuls in his head, trying to remember if any of their heroes had visited
Australia. “A kangaroo,” he said. “And opals,” he added. He was fairly sure about the opals.
Victoria Forester squeezed his hand. “And whatever would I do with a kangaroo?” she asked.
“Now, we should be getting along, or my father and mother will be wondering what has kept me,
and they will leap to some entirely unjustified conclusions. For I have not kissed you, Tristran
Thorn.”
“Kiss me,” he pleaded. “There is nothing I would not do for your kiss, no mountain I would not
scale, no river I would not ford, no desert I would not cross.”
He gestured widely, indicating the village of Wall below them, the night sky above them. In the
constellation of Orion, low on the Eastern horizon, a star flashed and glittered and fell.
“For a kiss, and the pledge of your hand,” said Tristran, grandiloquently, “I would bring you
that fallen star.”
He shivered. His coat was thin, and it was obvious he would not get his kiss, which he found
puzzling. The manly heroes of the penny dreadfuls and shilling novels never had these problems
getting kissed.
“Go on, then,” said Victoria. “And if you do, I will.”
“What?” said Tristran.
“If you bring me that star,” said Victoria, “the one that just fell, not another star, then I’ll kiss
you. Who knows what else I might do. There: now you need not go to Australia, nor to Africa, nor
to far Cathay.”
“What?” said Tristran.
And Victoria laughed at him, then, and took back her hand, and began to walk down the hill
toward her father’s farm.
Tristran ran to catch her up. “Do you mean it?” he asked her.
“I mean it as much as you mean all your fancy words of rubies and gold and opium,” she
replied. “What is an opium?”
“Something in cough mixture,” said Tristran. “Like eucalyptus.”
“It does not sound particularly romantic,” said Victoria Forester. “Anyway, should you not be
running off to retrieve my fallen star? It fell to the East, over there.” And she laughed again. “Silly
shop-boy. It is all you can do to ensure that we have the ingredients for rice pudding.”
“And if I brought you the fallen star?” asked Tristran lightly. “What would you give me? A kiss?
Your hand in marriage?”
“Anything you desire,” said Victoria, amused.
“You swear it?” asked Tristran.
They were walking the last hundred yards now, up to the Foresters’ farmhouse. The windows
burned with lamplight, yellow and orange.
“Of course,” said Victoria, smiling.
The track to the Foresters’ farm was bare mud, trodden into mire by the feet of horses and
cows and sheep and dogs. Tristran Thorn went down on his knees in the mud, heedless of his coat
or his woolen trousers. “Very well,” he said.
The wind blew from the east, then.
“I shall leave you here, my lady,” said Tristran Thorn. “For I have urgent business, to the East.”
He stood up, unmindful of the mud and mire clinging to his knees and coat, and he bowed to her,
and then he doffed his bowler hat.
Victoria Forester laughed at the skinny shop-boy, laughed long and loud and delightfully, and
her tinkling laughter followed him back down the hill, and away.
Tristran Thorn ran all the way home. Brambles snagged at his clothes as he ran and a branch
knocked his hat from his head.
He stumbled, breathless and torn, into the kitchen of the house on Westward Meadows.
“Look at the state of you!” said his mother. “Indeed! I never did!”
Tristran merely smiled at her.
“Tristran?” asked his father, who at five and thirty was still middling tall and still freckled,
although there were more than a few silvering hairs in his nut-brown curls. “Your mother spoke to
you. Did you not hear her?”
“I beg your pardon, Father, Mother,” said Tristran, “but I shall be leaving the village tonight. I
may be gone for some time.”
“Foolishness and silliness!” said Daisy Thorn. “I never heard such nonsense.”
But Dunstan Thorn saw the look in his son’s eyes. “Let me talk to him,” he said to his wife. She
looked at him sharply, then she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “But who’s going to sew up the
boy’s coat? That’s what I would like to know.” She bustled out of the kitchen.
The kitchen fire fizzed in silver and glimmered green and violet. “Where are you going?” asked
Dunstan.
“East,” said his son.
East. His father nodded. There were two easts—east to the next county, through the forest, and
East, the other side of the wall. Dunstan Thorn knew without asking to which his son was referring.
“And will you be coming back?” asked his father.
Tristran grinned widely. “Of course,” he said.
“Well,” said his father. “That’s all right, then.” He scratched his nose. “Have you given any
thought to getting through the wall?”
Tristran shook his head. “I’m sure I can find a way,” he said. “If necessary, I’ll fight my way
past the guards.”
His father sniffed. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “How would you like it if it was you was
on duty, or me? I’ll not see anyone hurt.” He scratched the side of his nose once more. “Go and
pack a bag, and kiss your mother good-bye, and I’ll walk you down to the village.”
Tristran packed a bag, and his mother brought him six red, ripe apples and a cottage loaf and a
round of white farmhouse cheese, which he placed inside his bag. Mrs. Thorn would not look at
Tristran. He kissed her cheek and bade her farewell. Then he walked into the village with his
father.
Tristran had stood his first watch on the wall when he was sixteen years old. He had only been
given one instruction: That it was the task of the guards to prevent anyone from coming through
the gap in the wall from the village, by any means possible. If it was not possible to prevent them,
then the guards must raise the village for help.
He wondered as they walked what his father had in mind.
Perhaps the two of them together would overpower the guards. Perhaps his father would create
some kind of distraction, and allow him to slip through... perhaps...
By the time they walked through the village and arrived at the gap in the wall, Tristran had
imagined every possibility, except the one which occurred.
On wall duty that evening were Harold Crutchbeck and Mr. Bromios. Harold Crutchbeck was a
husky young man several years older than Tristran, the miller’s son. Mr. Bromios’s hair was black,
and curled, and his eyes were green, and his smile was white, and he smelled of grapes and of
grape juice, of barley and of hops.
Dunstan Thorn walked up to Mr. Bromios, and stood in front of him. He stamped his feet against
the evening chill.
“Evening, Mister Bromios. Evening, Harold,” said Dunstan.
“Evening, Mister Thorn,” said Harold Crutchbeck.
“Good evening, Dunstan,” said Mr. Bromios. “I trust you are well.”
Dunstan allowed as that he was; and they spoke of the weather, and agreed that it would be
bad for the farmers, and that, from the quantity of holly berries and yew berries already apparent,
it would be a cold, hard winter.
As he listened to them talking, Tristran was ready to burst with irritation and frustration, but he
bit his tongue and said nothing.
Finally, his father said, “Mister Bromios, Harold, I believe you both know my son Tristran?”
Tristran raised his bowler hat to them, nervously.
And then his father said something he did not understand.
“I suppose you both know about where he came from,” said Dunston Thorn.
Mr. Bromios nodded, without speaking. STARI
Harold Crutchbeck said he had heard tales, although you never should mind the half of what you
hear.
“Well, it’s true,” said Dunstan. “And now it’s time for him to go back.”
