The Cedar Tree

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Come in, Brandon.’

  He moved from the door to the oval table where Mr Truby had sat.

  ‘Come now, sit down, lad.’

  Brandon positioned himself carefully on a cushioned seat opposite the Englishman and set his hands on his thighs, conscious of his river-washed clothes among such finery. A decanter and two cut-crystal glasses were at his left elbow; on the right, a large terrestrial globe on a finely turned mahogany stand, with a compass resting beneath.

  ‘Ah, yes. It’s quite something to see the world laid out. It’s my favourite piece, I must admit. My father knew the globemaker, John Smith. He had a shop on the Strand in London and my father purchased this fine example from there in the year of its manufacture, 1825,’ said Mr Truby.

  ‘It’s very fine,’ said Brandon. He was wary of why he’d been summoned indoors.

  Mr Truby folded his hands one over the other and rested them on the tabletop. ‘The summer doesn’t lend itself to great action in this country. When I was young, my friends and I yearned for the warmer months. Cricket. Wonderful game. Have you ever played?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. It’s a sport that’s worth pursuing. I once took four wickets while at Cambridge. It wasn’t a top-drawer game. Still, it’s something to talk of in those circles where a hint of importance is the key to acceptance. Great emphasis is placed on sportsmanship in cricket. I rather think that’s why it’s proved so popular. The idea of fair play towards one’s opponent. Rather a benchmark for life, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t you measure yourself against others? You must, for how else do you judge if your life is better or worse, whether you are better or worse, than others,’ said the Englishman.

  Brandon found the globe to be extraordinarily interesting at that point. He fixed his gaze on the southern parts beneath Australia where the words unknown lands were scrawled. He was hesitant to say anything lest he appear ignorant, but at the same time he found himself thinking of Sean and the differences that set them apart.

  Mr Truby coughed, and Brandon was drawn back into the conversation that he was doing his best to ignore.

  ‘You’re beginning to lose that ghostly pallor, Brandon. Tell me, what is it like in the forest?’

  He thought of what the woodlands meant to him. ‘The air is thick. Sometimes almost too heavy to breathe. In the winter, when it’s cold, that changes. It’s as if there is too much oxygen. It’s sharp, like fresh water when you crack the ice from the top.’

  His employer oriented the globe so that Australia was replaced by ocean. ‘I’ve ridden around the edges of it. Cut down whatever was left on my land, probably taken what was outside my boundary as well, but I couldn’t live there, day after day. I’d feel surrounded. Claustrophobic. A person needs to be able to see where they’re going. There must be a clear path. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I think so.’ But he didn’t, not really.

  ‘Do you have any idea how I made my money, Brandon?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘By being able to see ahead. The day I arrived in the Valley I rode as far as I could in every direction. Where this house stands is the point I left from. A clump of trees back then. Not an auspicious beginning, however I had a sense of what could be achieved. A man needs money, of course. Money gives us possibilities. Nothing can replace the coin you make from your own endeavours. You recognise that, I think.’

  ‘I understand that a person has to work to succeed in life,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Exactly. And one needs to be aware of opportunities as well.’ Mr Truby removed the stopper from the decanter and poured the liquid into two glasses. ‘A drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink rum, sir.’

  ‘Ah, but this is sherry. Christopher Columbus took sherry on his voyage to the New World. And after Francis Drake sacked Cadiz in 1587, he brought back nearly three thousand barrels of sherry from Spain. If one’s going to drink, it should be something with history.’

  He raised a glass and Brandon did the same, unable to formulate any argument that could warrant refusing the man opposite. He took a sip. The taste was dry, but pleasant.

  ‘Four generations ago my ancestor married a woman who, by the end of their unfortunate alliance, left him almost penniless. It took the next three generations to regain only a portion of what was lost. Which is why I have certain rules. Women being one of them. You do understand?’ He licked his lips. ‘I have always found women quite difficult to manage. They are flighty, undependable characters, prone to emotional outbursts and often prove difficult to control.’

  Brandon moved forward on the seat. ‘Maggie is like that.’

  ‘Then we must find a better situation for her. One that will benefit everyone. I will think on it.’ Mr Truby set the glass down. ‘Now to business. I want the new storey above us to have a room like this. Exactly the same. In every way. I thought perhaps you could sort out the best planks from those already cut at the mill.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Brandon.

  ‘It’s important for the room to be perfect. In England, one prefers a grand view. And, as you said on the day of your arrival here, framing is of importance.’

  ‘You’ll need bigger windows than this room has. I mean, wouldn’t you want bigger windows for that very reason?’ said Brandon meekly, nervous of speaking his mind.

  ‘You’re right.’ Mr Truby went to a desk in the far corner of the room and returned with papers. ‘Move those, will you.’

  Brandon lifted the decanter and glasses and placed them on a side table as Mr Truby unrolled the plans for the house. He ran a spotlessly clean fingernail, which was slightly long and pointed, across the parchment and tapped an oblong box that was drawn on one edge of what Brandon supposed was the outer wall. ‘There. You’re right. They could be twice the size, couldn’t they?’

  Brandon studied the windows of the parlour and then the drawing on the table. Then, after asking permission, he walked to the end of the room and paced out the distance between the corner and the first window. He returned to the desk to reread the measurements noted within the diagram.

  ‘Here. You’ll need this.’ Mr Truby passed him a magnifying glass. ‘The architect has the absolute worst handwriting – cramped, tiny. A sign of small-mindedness.’

  Brandon read the measurements. ‘Both windows could be two feet longer, I think. But I only cut timber. I’m not a builder, Mr Truby.’

  The older man viewed him with renewed interest. ‘It seems to me that the successful completion of nearly every task has more to do with common sense and discipline than previously acquired knowledge. There are plenty of educated men who understand very little.’ He sat back at the table and pointed at Brandon to do the same. ‘Tomorrow you’ll measure this room and I’ll show your estimates to the builder.’ He leant back in the chair. ‘Now, as we have discussed the merits of industriousness, the importance of sherry and the melancholic attachments of a son to his dear father’s globe, let us debate a subject considered unparalleled by many. Religion. Are you a churchgoer?’

  Brandon felt his anxiety return. A week had passed since the Protestant attack. Time enough for the postal rider to deliver news from the village. ‘I don’t have much opportunity,’ said Brandon, trying to sound as detached as he could.

  ‘So you’re not a religious man. The religious ensure they never miss a service for fear of being refused a seat at the Lord’s table when the reckoning comes.’ Mr Truby stopped abruptly, as if willing a response. When none was given, he continued. ‘But, for those of us unable to sit beneath his roof there is Sunday and the Bible at home. Come now. It’s just us here. There is no priest nearby wielding incense. Are you one of the faithful?’

  ‘My stepmother believed in the old gods.’ Brandon was eager to change the subject.

  Mr Truby got up from his seat and walked to the window, where a magpie had begun to bash against a pane of glass. ‘She was a pagan?’

&n
bsp; ‘I suppose so. But my father was a believer. He read to us when we were little about the seven deadly sins until we were too scared to do anything other than what we were told.’

  Hands clasped behind his back, Mr Truby observed the bird as it continued its useless plight. ‘Rules. A guidebook for living. I can appreciate those learnings of the Catholic faith, for Protestants are not much different when it comes to good and evil. It’s the confession I abhor. The false belief that the slate can be wiped clean when evil has been done. Chanting prayers does not atone for one’s sins.’

  Brandon had never heard such a thing. ‘What does?’

  ‘Punishment. Discipline. I am yet to understand how a pope can make his priests judge and jury, who then in turn send away a member of their flock with a few Hail Marys. It is insubstantial.’

  ‘But it’s faith,’ replied Brandon.

  Mr Truby moved away from the window and back to the table. ‘And what is faith? Confidence in a religious belief. Do you think a man can truly receive atonement through the vehicle of confession? What if he murders and only his priest knows? Do you think prayers and reflection can undo the deed?’

  The Englishman’s conviction made Brandon uncertain. He’d not had the opportunity to seek out a priest after Mr Macklin’s death, but it was true, he doubted it would have made him feel absolved of his part in the crime.

  ‘Doesn’t your faith demand absolutism? It would seem a Catholic has no room for argument when it comes to a discussion of your beliefs. So tell me. What do you truly think?’ Mr Truby asked.

  ‘That if a man does a very bad thing, eventually the law will make him pay. It has nothing at all to do with religion,’ said Brandon slowly.

  Mr Truby leant on the table with his knuckles. ‘Exactly.’

  Were they speaking of religion or Sean?

  ‘I don’t believe you’re the type to place religion above your wellbeing. Not now. Not here in this valley. Consider the opportunity awaiting you if you chose to put your future above all else.’ Mr Truby moved to his desk and sorted through the documents stacked in piles of varying sizes. He pulled out a newspaper and then held it up for Brandon to see as he returned to the table. He drank down the sherry and then poured again for both of them, waiting until Brandon had drained his glass before continuing.

  ‘This is the Protestant Standard. Last month, a Miss Edith O’Gorman gave a lecture in Lismore. She spoke of her time as a nun, which was clearly quite traumatic. Her account certainly did not endear her to those of her discarded faith, who broke up the gathering in a riotous fashion. Can you not see that a religion that requires such brutal defence, one that sets itself against a truthful woman, can only be false?’ He folded the newspaper. ‘This chapter has brought scandal on your church. Isn’t it difficult enough being Irish? Why overcomplicate your life?’

  Brandon rubbed his brow in confusion. His employer made a compelling argument for the Protestant faith, one that made Sean’s Fenian leanings seem doubly wrong. He needed time to think and the sherry wasn’t helping. He asked permission to leave, the chair falling backwards in his eagerness to stand. He picked it up and pushed it towards the table, straightening it carefully.

  Mr Truby sipped his sherry. ‘Thank you, Brandon. I enjoyed our conversation. A bit of stiff debate energises the mind.’

  Once outside, Brandon went straight to the middle of the cedar trees. He felt confused, and he knew the sensation could not be blamed on the sherry alone. He stared up into the close-knit branches and thought of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the kings, queens and heroes of long ago, who were banished from heaven because of their knowledge. They’d come to Ireland among dark misty clouds and landed in the mountains to rule as immortals. Not one true God or religion, but many gods. Why did he think of these gods of the underworld, the ones his stepmother burnt offerings to, now?

  The conflict between the Orange and the Green was age-old and battle-worn, formed by centuries of grievances. And, Brandon realised bleakly, Mr Truby had just stoked a fire that possibly had always been within him. It was, quite simply, the struggle for the possession of his soul. For the Englishman was right; he’d never quite been a true believer.

  He thought of his father. If he were dead, he’d be turning in his grave.

  Chapter 38

  The scents of the evening were already gathering, steeping the summer air with lavender and the tang of native trees. Hetty was on the side veranda, near the caged falcon. She had a wooden box under one arm and was bashing something on the bannister with the other. As Brandon neared, he saw the patch of blood on the wood, and the victim. She was holding a dead mouse by the tail, assessing her handiwork. He considered sneaking away before she caught sight of him, for she was also on his list of people to evade, however, like with his employer, there was little possibility of that occurring as Hetty glanced in his direction. Committed to speaking with her, he waited for a witty remark or pithy retort, an unsubtle reference to what had transpired at the river. Work kept him occupied but he had to admit, the thought of her woke him during the night.

  ‘Miss Schaefer’s away at the moment visiting a friend. She likes him fed twice a day, but I don’t like killing them in the morning. It doesn’t seem right when the sun’s shining and everything is fresh and new. So I kill them and store them overnight.’ She poked the battered mouse through the cage wire and Glanville pecked the carcass from her fingers. ‘That’s all,’ she told the bird. ‘Feeding time is finished.’

  She reached for another mouse. It wiggled free, jumping from her grasp and running across the grass. Hetty shook her head at this loss and then tied twine around the box of dead mice to secure the lid and placed it on a table with a lump of wood on top of it.

  ‘I shouldn’t like him. Not when I have to do the killing for him. But he is very beautiful.’ She made a series of clucking noises that caused Glanville to give a lofty stretch of his wings. ‘But he’s not one to be trusted. He killed Athena, the other falcon. Well you were there the morning it happened. I saw you walking with Miss Schaefer. She must have let him do it, but still, it makes you wonder. Glanville and Athena were caged next to each other for over a year.’

  ‘He has a killer’s instinct,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Perhaps. Or maybe he was just hungry. When I was at the orphanage, I saw children scrabbling on the floor, fighting over bits of bread. Hunger can make a person mean. It’s probably the same for falcons. I have some food if you want to join me. There’s a hunk of meat and potatoes ready and I swear it’ll be better than what McCauley has concocted over at the men’s quarters.’

  ‘McCauley’s here?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Your cousin never came back. Took off into the scrub. McCauley arrived this afternoon to tell Mr Truby. He’s to walk those bullocks of yours to the tallow works when he leaves in a few days. I’m sorry,’ said Hetty. ‘Not about your cousin, but the bullocks. It’s a hard thing to work for something and then lose it.’

  The blood began to pound in Brandon’s chest. ‘Is Maggie at your cottage?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Cook had her washing the floors in the big house and she wasn’t doing a particularly good job of it. It’s a privilege to work in a house like that. She should be more grateful. Maggie told me she was used to work, but every time I see her, she’s dawdling about, or she can’t be found at all. I warned her I wasn’t going to watch out for her anymore.’

  ‘The last few years have been hard on her,’ replied Brandon defensively.

  She gave a huff as if what he said was ridiculous and he chastised himself inwardly. Hetty had no one, after all.

  Brandon considered walking overnight to Wirra to search for Sean and returning to the property before daylight. But the moon was on the wane. It was the waiting that gnawed at him, for who knew what his cousin might do next.

  ‘You’ll eat with me,’ said Hetty.

  ‘No,’ answered Brandon distractedly.

  ‘Why? Am I not good enough?’ said Hetty,
lifting her skirt as she stepped through long grass.

  ‘I’m tired, Hetty. That’s all. Anyway, what about Mr Truby and his rules? I doubt he’d care for us to be seen together.’

  ‘He enjoys your company. I’ve seen him wandering around the garden while you’re cutting trees, stopping to talk to you. You’re lucky. He doesn’t take to most. Like your cousin. He’s a slippery one. Your sister’s not much different. She can barely be in the same room with me, though she’s happy to have a blanket and the use of my fire and food. We’d never be friends, she and I. Your sister doesn’t want any. I think you’re the same.’

  ‘Maggie’s my stepsister,’ he corrected.

  ‘My apologies. Stepsister,’ replied Hetty.

  ‘And she’s not one for people.’

  ‘Sure she is. It’s just that I’m not her sort,’ said Hetty.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m Protestant. And you lot being Catholic, well, I suppose you would have sniffed that out quick smart. Mr Truby converted me to the faith within a month of my coming here. I don’t think the mistress bothers with such things, not where staff are concerned, but Mr Truby is one for education and emancipation,’ said Hetty.

  ‘We’re not slaves, Hetty,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Silly.’ She widened her eyes and gave a little grin. ‘I’ve been liberated. I was a sheep blindly following others, when the one true faith was waiting to welcome me.’

  ‘And you were happy to become a Protestant?’

  Hetty shrugged. ‘Makes little difference to me. I get to keep my job. Anyway, I hardly ever went to church and now I only have to sit through an hour of Mr Truby’s readings on a Sunday. You will eat with me?’ she asked hopefully.

  Brandon found himself being led to the little cottage. After what had occurred by the river he was unsure if he cared for her or not, but he’d liked her body pressed against his and that was a complication he’d not anticipated. The girl drew him in. She was strong and outspoken without being plagued by the hysterics that beset Maggie on occasion. And Hetty made him forget. He’d not thought about Maggie since the river and as he stepped through the cottage door, he put thoughts of Sean aside too.