Tree of Life

by J. F. Penn

But there were other photos that Martin had sourced from social media and intelligence reports. Aurelia in baggy jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, bare-faced and wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses at Gaia Insurgent marches in Brazil and other international locations. One picture even showed her in a crowd blockading the mining trucks of her own company. She stood on the edge of the group, out of range of the mainstream media outlets, careful to avoid notice. But no one can escape the phone camera in every pocket these days.

  Martin had also included evidence of financial transfers from Aurelia’s private accounts to eco-terrorist organizations. Morgan wondered what the Board of the Fidalgo mining company would think of Aurelia’s true allegiance. It would surely be enough to remove her from the company, and that was powerful information to have.

  She put the pictures aside and read about the incredible journeys of the Portuguese Diaspora and the other possible locations for the pieces of the Eden manuscript.

  One particular report caught her eye from a most unusual place. Truth it seemed was even stranger than fiction. She would have Martin lay a false trail to keep Frik off their scent for now. It would slow him down and give them time to find the next fragment.

  As Morgan read on, she knew that it wouldn’t be long until they left the luxury of this hotel. She reached over and dialed room service. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

  John Soane Museum, London

  Martin walked into the grand square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a little wet after his brisk walk from Trafalgar Square at the tail end of a rainstorm. He shook out his umbrella, grateful for both its protection from the weather but also for keeping his fellow Londoners from walking too close. The busy city was his home, but he preferred the quiet solitude of his office and control over his personal space.

  He stopped in front of a terraced house with high, arched windows, its white facade enhanced by partial columns in the Grecian style. Statues on the third level balcony looked out over the square with contempt for modernity, as if they could see back to when the painter JMW Turner came to call on the architect Sir John Soane.

  But Martin was not here for the past.

  Sir Sebastian Northbrook was the curator of the John Soane Museum and also its heir, although the fortune had been gifted to the nation in 1833, so he couldn’t touch the vast resources except to maintain the grand house and its collection.

  Martin had met Sebastian on the night Morgan searched the Grand Lodge of England for a piece of the Ark of the Covenant. He shuddered as he remembered the dense smoke and how the flames had lit up the night sky. Sebastian had risked his life to save Morgan and almost died in the conflagration, but somehow Martin had found the strength to pull him out.

  A few weeks later, Sebastian had emerged from intensive care and Martin visited him in the day ward. He felt responsible somehow, like a piece of his soul entwined itself with Sebastian’s that night. Since then, he had found himself walking over to the museum at odd hours to check on the hardy old man — and to pick his brain. While Martin had mastered the art of querying databases and linking together ideas across space and time, he still marveled at how one human brain could encompass so much seemingly useless knowledge and still pull out astounding facts or an opinion on possibilities that his own machine creations could not fathom. Sebastian’s unique perspective often helped with a conundrum, and he was also very well connected. Martin was in need of a new perspective on the puzzle of Eden, and he hoped his friend could help.

  It was out of hours and the museum was closed, so Martin rang the bell with a series of jabs, a code they had agreed on. Sebastian did not like cold callers, and Martin certainly agreed with that.

  A minute later, the door opened and Sebastian beckoned him in. His thin, angular frame seemed more gaunt than usual in his tailored Savile Row suit, his white hair combed into a neat side parting that he had likely worn since his early days at Eton and Oxford. But Martin saw beyond the exterior of the British aristocrat. Sebastian had a wicked sense of humor and a fondness for cognac that he only revealed to those he considered friends.

  “Come in, dear fellow.” Sebastian walked ahead of Martin down the hall. “I just put together a cheese platter with more than enough for two. We shall dine in the company of the gods.”

  The museum was a strange labyrinth of unusual treasures collected over John Soane’s career. The son of a bricklayer who rose to become a professor of architecture at the Royal Academy and an official architect to the Office of Works, Soane was knighted for his services in 1831. He had redesigned the interior of this building to house his collection and in the daylight, sun streamed in through light wells, reflected in a series of mirrors into even the most hidden nooks and crannies.

  Sebastian led the way to the gallery where a small round table sat underneath the watchful gaze of the lion-headed goddess Sekhmet. Casts of classical figures lined the walls, each a representation of an ancient god. They overlooked the pride of the museum, an Egyptian sarcophagus of Seti I from 1370 BCE, purchased by Soane when the British Museum declined it for lack of funds. The translucent alabaster shone under artful lighting, revealing traces of a carving within. The goddess Nut who ruled the sky and the night, protecting the dead as they entered the afterlife.

  Sebastian sat down at the table and pulled a perfectly folded napkin onto his lap, indicating that Martin do the same.

  The cheese platter was a thing of beauty. Three perfect wedges sat upon a Chinese circular porcelain dish inlaid with midnight blue engraving. Cornish Yarg wrapped in wild garlic leaves, Tunworth Camembert, and Stichelton blue lay next to an artfully arranged selection of crackers and a sliver of quince paste. Two glasses of port sat in the correct glasses next to dainty plates.

  There was no rushing Sebastian when it came to cheese, so Martin waited until they had eaten a little and toasted the health of the monarch before explaining why he had come.

  “The Garden of Eden,” Sebastian said, with wonder in his voice. “You truly think it might exist?”

  Martin shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. But there are archaeological records of ancient gardens in the Middle East. Perhaps it is not so far-fetched to imagine some ancestral Eden.”

  Sebastian stood up and walked to the edge of the gallery, his slim fingers clutching the edge of the parapet. By his rigid pose and white knuckles, Martin could see his friend was conflicted, so he waited in silence. That was the best way he knew for allowing people time to process. Sometimes he could sit in silence on his own for many hours, and he was patient enough to do it for a friend.

  When Sebastian finally turned, his jaw was set with determination. “There is someone who might be able to help. I haven’t seen her for many years but perhaps it’s time I returned to Paris…”

  As his words trailed off, Martin saw a trace of concern pass over his friend’s face. Whoever they would meet on the next step of the journey clearly had some hold over him, and Martin could only wonder what that might be.

  9

  Adana, Turkey

  As the sun reached its zenith, Guram entered the agricultural complex. He had recovered from his injuries and his mornings were once again spent in prayer and study. There was much to learn in his path through the ranks of the Brotherhood, but the Order was not just about books and learning, it was also about practical work and commerce. Today’s meeting could be lucrative indeed.

  He pulled thick gloves from his pocket, the leather well-worn and molded to his hands. He would never dare to enter without these and other protection against Her many ways of stinging, pricking or poisoning.

  People out there in the world thought nothing of sampling berries from hedgerows or foraging for mushrooms, boiling up strange leaves for tea without knowing that one mistake could kill them and their children. A crimson seed might stop the heart, an innocent-looking leaf brushing the skin might cause an eruption of blisters, tea brewed from bark might blind a man.

  Those who considered Mother Nature to be gentle and loving,
cradling humankind in Her bosom, did not understand all the ways She could kill. But Guram understood that the snake at the heart of the Garden was Nature Herself, betrayer of all that God wanted for man. She was here first, before Adam took his first step, and all who followed merely tried to loosen Her deadly grip.

  Guram walked to the corner of the garden where a corpse flower bloomed. He stood in front of it and breathed in the foul odor of a rotting body, letting his body steep in revulsion, revisiting his fear from the dark moments in Eden. This was the true side of Nature, and his hate hardened as the stench sank into his skin.

  The scent of flowers was to some a delight, but Guram understood that it was only a lure to attract insects to serve their purpose. The smell was a fetid miasma, a stink of fecundity. Some out there in the world found gardens to be pleasant places of peace and harmony, but they did not see the maggots devouring decayed flesh beneath the soil, the roots of trees reaching blindly out to tap into precious water, and beetles scuttling amongst leaf rot. Nature was crawling, creeping, wriggling, strangling death — and the Brotherhood existed to keep Her contained.

  When the Catholic Church had disavowed the Order and cut off their funding hundreds of years ago, the Brothers used their knowledge of the deadly side of plants to provide poisons, chemical weapons, toxins, and even assassination for hire. There were many who wanted to wield the deadly side of Nature against their foes and have the evidence disappear back into the earth.

  Over many generations, the Order purchased land and expanded their holdings, navigating the tangled web of international commerce, weaving ancient and modern into a thriving Brotherhood. These days, under a tangle of shell companies and not-for-profit corporations, the Order of the Ignis Flammae was wealthier than a small nation state.

  This agricultural complex on the outskirts of Adana, Turkey, was one of the most profitable. It benefitted from the large fertile plain of Çukurova that supported one of the oldest continually inhabited settlements in the world, once a regional center for the powerful Ottoman Empire. Millions of people lived in the region, so they had plenty of eager workers who would not ask too many questions.

  The Order had such agricultural land all over the world, where the Brothers raised crops that would serve their purpose before cutting them down, grinding them into pulp and using them to serve mankind as Mother Nature should always have done. The one plant they did not cultivate was the tree that grew in the Garden of Eden, a place protected by the Ignis Flammae for generations. The Brotherhood’s holy mission was to ensure that none would ever find it, for to liberate Nature from Her bonds would be to damn humanity forever.

  Guram looked out at the vast expanse of the estate, separated into different areas that controlled the eco-systems and prevented cross-contamination. By means of specialist glasshouses and terrariums, they replicated different environments and grew a countless species of trees and plants.

  One field was dedicated to cultivating ergot, Claviceps purpurea, a toxic fungus that grew on wheat and rye. It could cause seizures, nausea, gangrene and death, but could also lead to hallucinations, hysteria, and a sensation of skin crawling, all of which led to it being a possible trigger for the Salem witch trials sparked by young girls behaving in a way that could not be explained.

  The Ignis Flammae had used ergot through the ages to control villages throughout Europe, punishing them for sin by cultivating the crop locally. A mania would seize the people, sometimes known as St Anthony’s fire, as they danced to try and escape the burning of their flesh.

  One particular area of the complex focused on cultivating fungi. They had plenty of death caps, responsible for around ninety percent of all mushroom deaths around the world. Even a small dose could permanently damage the kidneys and liver, and the Brothers had regular clients for the crop. There was a special place for the hallucinogenic magic mushroom with varying levels of psilocybin. This particular trade had grown over recent years with the popularity of micro-dosing amongst the tech community after famous names indulged at the Burning Man festival in the Nevada desert. Guram smiled at the zigzag of history, how mankind had embraced and rejected natural drugs so many times over millennia, and throughout, the Order had been there to service the need as it arose.

  Officials had inspected the farms over the years, and most had been satisfied with a cursory look at the public-facing side of the monastery, but some had questioned the need to grow such toxic and dangerous plants. They fulfilled their destiny as fertilizer sooner than they might have expected. After all, the garden could be a dangerous place.

  Guram walked through a warehouse past one of the processing areas. Most workers were local men from villages surrounding the area. They had no idea where these packages would go, no inkling of the destruction that followed in the wake of the powders and infusions and bark shavings they sent out each day.

  There were other parts of the garden where the Order cultivated plants for pleasure. Smoky tobacco, peppery betel nuts, the bitter coca leaf, all purveyors of bliss and pain, profit and power throughout the world. The Brothers refined varieties to enhance their addictive properties, driving revenue into holding companies that owned vast shares in those organizations that peddled the resulting products to the masses.

  Then there were plants that enabled man to transcend the physical body. The woody bark of the ayahuasca vine, Banisteriopsis caapi, mixed with the potent leaves of chacruna, Psychotria viridis, could alter the mind so the seeker could experience God. But it was not the God that Guram knew, merely the trickster Herself playing with their minds.

  These plants could make a person feel that they were one with the world, and some emerged from such trances with a deep love for Nature, and a passion for preserving Her. She wound Her way into their hearts, disguising Her true purpose, which is why the Brothers were not allowed to partake. It was forbidden to draw closer to the Temptress without adequate protection in place.

  Guram was grateful that She couldn’t hide Herself entirely, that bad trips consumed some with tangles of dark creatures, hooked claws and razor fangs tearing at their consciousness. But still, they sought Her.

  He hated those particular plants and wished he could destroy them all, but he was a practical man. They were part of the Order’s income, funding their expansion, and he was ever committed to the cause.

  Today he had a returning client, a discerning buyer from England known only as Attercop. Guram knew that the man was some kind of broker for the aristocracy and he had once tried to find out more. But when he discovered that the man’s name came from the Old Norse and High German words for poisonous ulcer, and the Middle English for poison-head spider, he stopped looking. The less he knew about his clients, the better.

  Attercop stood near a small hardwood tree, bending his compact frame to examine the under-ripe green fruit, thin lips pursed in displeasure. He turned on Guram’s approach and the man’s unusual appearance struck the monk once more. His head was almost triangular, with a huge forehead made even more prominent by a receding hairline. His features all lay in the bottom half of his face, bisected by thick black glasses that couldn’t quite hide the pale cysts that grew around his eyes. As usual, he wore an impeccably tailored three-piece suit in elegant charcoal, utterly out of place in this area of the world. But Guram didn’t think anyone would question Attercop’s taste for long.

  “Don’t get too close,” he said. “That’s a suicide tree, Cerbera odollam. The fruit looks like a mango when ripe and the toxins from the seeds don’t show up in normal toxicology reports.”

  Attercop raised an eyebrow and then shook his head. “Too exotic.”

  “You have a particular… project in mind?”

  Attercop nodded. “The subject in question enjoys being out in nature. She’s elderly but extremely well protected. She controls a vast estate and her son has had enough of waiting. It must be a naturally explainable death.”

  Guram smiled. “Let me show you some options.”

  He wal
ked on through the garden to an area of raised beds, cultivated with some of their most popular specimens.

  Guram pointed at one plant with spiked blue flowers shaped like a hood. “Aconitum napellus, wolfsbane or monkshood. Its toxin asphyxiates by paralyzing the nerves and stopping the heart. Aconitine is so powerful that it formed the spit of the hell-hound Cerberus from Greek mythology and the Nazis used it in poisoned bullets.”

  Attercop took a small red notebook from his inside jacket pocket, along with a fountain pen of slightly tarnished silver. He made a few notes, then nodded. “What else?”

  Guram continued. “Do you know of the British journalist murdered by a puncture wound from an umbrella while walking across Waterloo Bridge in London back in the 70s?”

  Attercop nodded. “I believe he was a Communist defector murdered by the Russians. Ricin, wasn’t it?”

  Guram nodded. “Yes, the man died of multiple hemorrhages with almost every organ affected.” He pointed at a nearby shrub. Splashes of burgundy highlighted its leaves and prickly seedpods rose in bulbous globes. “This is the castor bean plant, Ricinus communis. It’s a laxative in small doses with the ricin removed and reduces inflammation when used externally. But a batch that still contains the ricin might be effective for your purpose.”

  Attercop leaned in to look more closely, careful not to touch the plant. “I couldn’t get near enough to the target for such a puncture to occur.”

  Guram walked around the raised bed to a low-growing, carpet-like plant with tiny yellow flowers. He pulled back the segmented leaves to reveal a small swelling fruit with wicked spines at its tip. “This is puncture vine, Tribulus terrestris. It’s strong enough to pierce rubber and even leather and easily penetrates bare skin.”

  Attercop smiled in a way that made Guram repress a shiver as he continued.

  “It can be used as a natural delivery system. Just coat the spikes and leave on a regularly used path, or perhaps in an area where someone might come in from the outside and take off their shoes—”