Tree Slayer

by Harriet Springbett

  She was armed with a file, her notes, and a list of journalist contacts. It wasn’t much, but it could be enough to fire up the locals if Druana was able to organise a meeting for tomorrow evening. That way, they’d have all weekend to prepare a strategy and would be ready to face the bulldozers on Monday.

  She prepared a speech in her head as she pedalled. Of course, she wouldn’t be making the speeches: that would be Druana’s job. The idea of standing up in front of people and speaking made her feel sick, whereas Druana would be an experienced nature lover and activist, used to making rallying speeches. Rainbow would just give Druana her ideas. How inspiring to work with someone else who loved trees enough to set up a protest group!

  The last house in the row opposite the village bar had ‘Cazenave’ marked on its mailbox. She buzzed the bell at the front gate. The shutters were open but there was no answer. She buzzed it several more times, in vain. She looked up and down the empty street. The only movement came from someone inside the bar, which was also a brasserie and shop. She crossed the road.

  The bar was big inside, with tables set for meals, but the only customer was an elderly man who was talking to the long-haired barman. Rainbow ordered a Coke and looked around. There were no ‘Save Our Forest’ leaflets on the advertisements board, so she asked the barman if she could leave one. He shrugged and told her he didn’t have any spare drawing pins. She pinched some from the other adverts and asked if there had been any protests about the golf course.

  “No point, is there? Not with Barateau heading up the council. Always gets what he wants, that one, doesn’t he, Jacques?”

  “Aye. Too right,” said the old man. “Shame, though. All them strangers’ll be looking in our front windows.”

  “Starting with those film stars tomorrow.” The barman leant closer to the old man. “Did you hear they’re invited to the festival? They’ve got some new environmental film coming out, and there’s talk of photo shoots and the like.”

  The old man harrumphed. “Can’t be doing with showbiz,” he said.

  The two of them resumed their muttering. Rainbow took her drink outside onto the terrace, wondering if it would be worth watching the environmental film, and looked for a seat where she could keep a lookout on Druana’s house. A collection of green and blue gas bottles chained together took up half the space. She sat beside them and filled in her travel log while she watched for Druana.

  By dinner time, Druana still hadn’t arrived. Rainbow hoped she hadn’t gone on holiday. She decided to return the following morning, and cycled back to the campsite.

  At the bottom of her rucksack she found the soggy memoir notes and spread them out to dry in her tent. Luckily, the ink hadn’t run, but she didn’t want to risk damaging them further. She would read them as soon as they were dry – though now she had Druana, she didn’t really need them anymore.

  At least, she hoped she had Druana. If Druana wasn’t back tomorrow, Rainbow would have to start campaigning on her own, without the help of an experienced leader. There wasn’t much time left. Perhaps she should begin. She could ring Melanie Brown, the English journalist she’d met at the Marais Poitevin campsite. Melanie would surely want to protest about this project to massacre part of the magical forest of Brocéliande.

  Chapter 32

  On Friday morning, Eole woke to the sound of people talking beside Druid Oak. He unzipped his tent. It wasn’t Rainbow. Of course it wasn’t, he reminded himself: she’d left Brocéliande, and now he had his secondary plan to carry out.

  He washed in the stream and dressed. Today he had to go into Paimpont. Alone. His brain reminded him that although he had a demanding plan, he didn’t have to think any further than the first part for the moment. It was like considering the ascent of Vignemale Mountain in separate, manageable stages instead of one difficult climb.

  He cycled towards Paimpont. Cumulonimbus clouds were gathering in the sky, just like a couple of days ago, and the air was muggy. He’d have to monitor the weather while he was in the library: he must keep his promises.

  There was a lot of activity on the road to Paimpont. A car with flashing lights came towards him and then a bulldozer on a flatbed lorry rattled past, blocking most of the road. A queue of cars followed the convoy, and a couple of motorbikes zipped out onto his side of the road. While he cycled, Eole concentrated on making a table of questions and possible responses for his contact with the librarian.

  Unlike on Wednesday, the Paimpont streets were full of people. He put his hand in his pocket for his headphones. They weren’t there. He hadn’t needed them for so long that he’d forgotten them. There was no time to go back to his tent, so he used his contingency method of staring at the ground and not engaging in eye contact with anyone.

  The library was on the first floor of the abbey, above the secretary’s office. He took a steadying breath, entered, and climbed the wooden staircase. A sign at the top told him it was closed today and wouldn’t be open until tomorrow afternoon. While he stood on the landing, waiting for his brain to find an alternative plan, footsteps came towards him. There was a smell of fish and then Mademoiselle Henri appeared.

  “Eole! Have you found your mum yet?”

  He kept his eyes on his boots so he could visualise Mademoiselle Henri from Arras-en-Lavedan better, and shook his head. It was an illogical question because she’d said it would take a fortnight to get a reply to his letter, which he hadn’t even written yet.

  “Did you want to check the library archives?”

  He nodded.

  “It’s closed, but I can let you in. I know you won’t vandalise the books.”

  An empty library would be heaven (not that heaven existed). He waited for her to get the key, and then followed her inside the series of little rooms. At the end were some hand-bound books of newspaper cuttings about Paimpont.

  She told him to pop into her office when he’d finished, and then left him alone. He relaxed, sat down, and pored over the books. Mademoiselle Henri had told him that the newspaper story about the baby dated from eighteen years ago. If the baby was him, the article would have been written after his birthday. He looked for cuttings from June 1978.

  On Friday morning, Rainbow woke later than she’d intended. The memoir notes were still damp, and as she separated the pages, she saw the passage she’d read before, about the danger of two parallel beings meeting. She remembered how she’d expected her or Mary to be absorbed as soon as they’d touched hands – and when they hadn’t, she’d discounted the authenticity of the memoir. But Mary had been absorbed, even though it hadn’t happened immediately.

  Rainbow read beyond the part where she stopped last year. Domi’s mother had written about the after-effects of absorption, and was emphatic that care must be taken when one personality was stronger than the other. “Rare are the cases where equilibrium is reached and true sharing achieved,” she read. “Unless the need is dire, a mental separation is safer: otherwise the weaker personality can disappear altogether.” This seemed to conclude the section in the memoir.

  No wonder Domi had worried about Mary’s personality taking over and suggested she construct a mental wall. Rainbow was relieved she’d kept the wall intact. Though, come to think of it, the original wall of solid bricks now felt more like a thin elastic membrane.

  She tried to separate the page from the next one so she could check if it really was the section end, but when she peeled them apart the corner disintegrated into mush. She would read the rest later, when the paper was completely dry.

  Walking to the campsite phone box, she compared the warning in the memoir notes with Amrita’s words. Amrita had said she must recognise she was One with Mary, and Rainbow was pretty sure she’d done so by giving Mary more space and letting her make occasional decisions. Mary’s recent lack of resistance was proof they’d learnt to accommodate each other. Amrita couldn’t mean for her to step aside completely. The memoir was confirmation that if she did so, she would disappear.

  She co
uldn’t imagine Mary sharing. Mary would keep her strength to herself and force her desires on Rainbow. She would make Rainbow abandon Amrita and go home. The only time Mary had shared her strength was when they’d been in agreement. Rainbow decided she’d done what she needed to become whole. She wasn’t going to sacrifice herself to Mary and risk letting down Amrita.

  She called the newspaper office, holding the notes she’d made from Forest Friends’ bulging files. An assistant journalist answered, and Rainbow asked if she could speak to Olivier Montagne, Serge’s contact.

  “He’s out this morning,” said the boy.

  “Can I speak to another journalist?”

  “They’re all out.”

  Rainbow told him it was important to warn readers that they were about to lose a part of their forest and precipitate the death of Druid Oak.

  “Already done that story,” said the boy.

  Rainbow could hear him chewing gum.

  “Not from the point of view of the trees,” she said. “I read your articles and none of them take the trees’ side. I’ve got a whole lot of information about the biodiversity we’re going to lose if they’re cut down. And I want to gather supporters. Surely you’ve got a bit of space for a short piece?”

  “I’ll tell Olivier. But don’t bank on it. Not today. We’re expecting film stars in Paimpont.”

  Rainbow silently cursed the film stars and said she’d call back that afternoon, when the assistant thought Olivier might be back. Then she took Melanie Brown’s card from her purse and rang her.

  “Rainbow! How’s your trip going?” asked Melanie.

  Rainbow could hear the smile in her voice. She explained how they’d arrived at Brocéliande and told her about the golf course project.

  “These councils,” sighed Melanie. “They only think about making money in the short term so they’re voted into office in the next round of elections. It’s despicable. How’s your travel log coming along?”

  “I’ve almost filled the book. Listen, do you think you could do a feature on what’s happening here?”

  There was a pause. “I really feel for you, Rainbow. I know it’s terrible, but this kind of thing is happening all over the country. All over the world, in fact. I wish I could help, but I need an angle. A ‘people’ angle. Readers need to identify with a person.”

  Rainbow remembered Trish telling her how her ecology group had only caught the media’s attention once they’d taken action, that it was the protestors who’d interested the public. No! Not telling her: telling Mary. She must keep that separation.

  “What if I get a group of us to set up a camp in the trees? In Druid Oak?” she asked.

  “Good for you. Do it.”

  “And you’d write something about us?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not very original, is it? Listen, I have to get back to work. Let me know if you come up with an original idea. I’m only a ten-minute drive away. In fact, why don’t you come and show me your travel log?”

  Rainbow said she’d love to, and would get back to her, but she knew her voice lacked enthusiasm. Melanie repeated that she was busy and had to go.

  Rainbow hung up. She didn’t need journalists. All she needed was to convince the council to stop. She and the protest group would demonstrate outside the Argoad council office. They could pile dead branches in the street and stop the councillors getting in – or, better still, out. They could imprison them until that Barateau man agreed to listen.

  She must gather the supporters, and for that she needed Druana.

  Eole scanned the article cuttings. There were reports on forestry groups, restored mills and the work of a local research centre. There were obituaries, election news, car accidents and open days. There was a photo of a baby.

  There were no adults in the black-and-white photo, and the baby could have been a girl or a boy. In a few seconds he would know his real name and the identities of his biological parents. He wiped his sweaty hands on his shorts and started to read.

  It was a small article, a call for information from readers. A baby boy estimated at a few days old had been discovered at the foot of a tree in a village near Paimpont. He’d been wrapped in a silk-bordered cotton tablecloth embroidered with leaves, and was now at the nursery in Chantepie. The nursery wanted the mother to come forward because her health was in danger.

  A ragged cloth with bumpy leaves and a silk edging.

  Eole could remember the familiar smell of the cloth, in his Paris bed, scrunched up beside Pooh Bear. He remembered the way he’d rub the silk to fall asleep. He could see the green holly leaves, three in each corner, arranged around a red berry that tasted soapy. He could feel the threads of the fraying stitches in his fingers.

  He’d been left to die. Itch.

  His mother hadn’t wanted him.

  There would be no Maman-B or Papa-B.

  He didn’t belong with anyone. Shuffle.

  He heard the chair fall over backwards and saw books scatter across the floor, but he couldn’t stop because it wasn’t him who was in control, and the sides of his vision were crawling inwards and the stairs tunnelled out in front of him, and he pushed away the flailing hands of fishy Mademoiselle Henri whose words flew at him like a murder of pecking crows and he was walking outside in the fresh air.

  But something was wrong.

  His ears hurt and Jesus Christ (who had perhaps existed, unlike God), his ears really really hurt and something big was happening and his feet stopped and he clasped his hands to his ears and all he could hear was screaming and he thought it was himself but no, no, it was outside in the air like an orchestra taken over by the devil except that the devil didn’t exist and the voices were screeching and twanging. And his brain latched onto the separate threads of the voices and understood the number ‘6000’ and then ‘5999’ and ‘5998’, even though it wasn’t exactly numbers he could hear, and he jumped on his bike and his feet pedalled to follow the counting, and by ‘1350’ whatever was in charge of him knew where the voices were taking him and there was nothing else left for him to do because he didn’t belong here or anywhere and so nothing had meaning anymore.

  And when the not-exactly-numbers reached zero he recognised the tree and his brain told him what he had to do and his mind knew he’d promised Rainbow he’d never do it again but his brain didn’t care about his promise. He dropped his bike behind a bush and took a long, deep breath.

  Chapter 33

  After her telephone calls and a mid-morning brunch, Rainbow cycled from Paimpont towards Druana’s house in Argoad. She glanced up at the menacing sky from time to time, worried about the Tree Slayer.

  On Wednesday, the storm had taken all morning to arrive. Today, the black clouds had arrived suddenly and a strong headwind channelled along the road, slowing her down. She was almost at walking pace, yet the treetops were only bowing gently, as if it were just a breeze. Somewhere in this forest, the One Tree must be sucking in the wind to protect its trees, just like the oak tree in François I park had done.

  A gust blew through a fire gap in the trees and her bike swerved into the middle of the road. She fought to control it. If she’d kept Eole beside her, he’d have blown this one back to where it had come from. But he’d promised to counteract any storms. Perhaps he lacked the strength from his home, hundreds of miles away in the Pyrenees – though his tree-slaying gale had ravaged the whole west of France, so this couldn’t be the case. There was plenty of power in his lungs.

  Was the wind due to Eole? Perhaps he’d remained in Brocéliande, traced his biological parents, and been rejected by them. No! He’d never have stayed here alone, and it would have taken far longer to find them. Or had the Tree Slayer sucked enough strength out of Eole to force him to unleash a gale?

  Above her, the storm clouds darkened. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed in the distance. She had to check. She dropped her bike on the verge and dashed to the nearest tree, a Douglas fir. It was trembling. She closed her eyes and concentrated.
>
  The restraint had evaporated. Fear and death emanated from the panicking fir tree.

  Could it be Eole? There was one way to find out.

  “Eooooooole! Stop!” she cried.

  The howling wind paused, then continued.

  It was him. He’d raised a storm and now the Tree Slayer would use it to destroy the One Tree.

  What could she do? Without knowing the location of the One Tree, she couldn’t go and help it fight the wind like she had done with the François I oak. She was powerless. She pressed herself to the fir tree and begged it to guide her to the One Tree.

  There was no response, no other feeling than unrestrained fear and death. It was in too much of a panic to guide her anywhere. She hugged its neighbour, and then the next tree along. Their response was identical.

  She could do nothing to help. She was useless. She was no more advanced than if she’d never arrived in Koad. In fact, if she’d vanquished the Tree Slayer by pushing Eole off the mountain, she’d have better protected the One Tree.

  But it was too late for regrets. The One Tree would die. She was about to fail her mission. What was the point in trying to campaign against the golf course?

  She picked up her bike.

  Whether the One Tree lived or died, it was wrong to cut down the trees for a golf course. Her gift was less powerful than Eole’s, and she was the weaker half of her cohabitation with Mary. But she could still fight for the forest. It didn’t require a powerful gift: only determination. Mary was determined. She and Mary had been the same person until they split, so shouldn’t they have the same character traits? She could match Mary’s determination. She could do this. It would be the phoenix to rise from the ashes of her mission.

  She straddled the bike and struggled onwards, standing on her pedals and forcing down each leg in turn to keep them moving. By the time she arrived in Argoad, the sparse raindrops had become a deluge.