[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  Manningtree was where things might start to get rough.

  On collecting his belongings, the first thing he did was take a look over the Stour and inhale a deep gulp of English air. The manure ships were not in today and it tasted good; like fresh food. A few moments later he slung his bags over his shoulder and ambled his way along the thin path which edged the side of the forest toward the village, taking as much time as he wished. He had been here before, but that was over three years ago and whilst much had changed, much was also the same. Certainly the track with its encroaching swathes of gorse, nettles and mistletoe all seemed as refreshingly familiar as the air.

  In Manningtree, he booked himself a few nights in a tiny, grubby room at The Ale House and then spent his time just wandering, acquainting himself with some of the faces. Master William, still odd on his feet having, apparently been shot by a girl who lived within the village, was apparently still eyed with some disdain by his subjects but this was his parish; he had nowhere else to go. A few times, sitting with a tankard behind a grimy window, he caught sight of the girl herself; Prudence Hart. With most of the townspeople perpetually at some form of work and carrying loads back and forth through the square, she seemed the only one to mill in and out of the square regularly without doing anything much, save for chatter and bitch about all and sundry. The only thing she ever seemed to carry with her was an unjustified air of superiority. Apparently, she had been spared the cells at Colchester for her crime because she had accurately identified a witch and had merely been preventing the Master from protecting ‘the wretch’. Her release had been secured with the authority of an elder of the village: a man by the name of Endymion Porter. He had mulled on the matter awhile and, with the Master both incapacitated and seemingly in disgrace, had ruled that the girl could run free. It was wrong, on the face of it, but it was also complex. Provincial politics often were. When someone could hang for no more than wishing a neighbour’s pig dead, things rarely made much sense.

  Eli spoke with some of the locals, Rattler Tom included, for his tongue was very loose indeed when lubricated. He spoke about a range of matters and asked some questions, but not too many. The witch-girl was to be tried in Colchester the following week he learned and, if all were found guilty, she and three others were to be hung in this very square. Eli knew nothing of hangings and asked with interest about procedure, both within the courts and at the event itself. He found the whole system extremely fascinating and, at the same time, extremely sad.

  Tom and other Manningtree residents, in return, asked questions of him. Certainly, he was not the first traveller to land at the Mistley docks and spend time here, and nor would he be the last, but each was a cause for some chatter. He informed them that he had been working overseas and that he had skills he wished to put to good use. Now that he was returned to England he was seeking work in the military, he explained, perhaps as a guard. For the price of an ale and some company, he could talk for hours to any interested party that would listen about his time in Europe, a land they could only dream of, and the escapades he had enjoyed. Some of what he told them was even true.

  Mostly he just bided his time watching and waiting. Observing routines and, at the same time, seeing who among them seemed most observant of him.

  On the first night, as dusk began to arrive and the shadows started to yawn across the grass before turning in, he headed on what seemed to be an idle constitutional into the woodland at Furze Hill, taking with him a small unlit torch. As he walked, he could sense the world around begin to quieten; the birds, insects and animals also settling themselves in for the night. It was a clear evening and, little by little, every sound was extinguished, even the distant Mistley docks, leaving only a stillness which made him feel as though time itself was standing still; just for this evening.

  He managed to get lost on more than one occasion, taking the wrong track or simply veering from it completely in the untamed growth that constantly tried to obscure it, but not to any great degree. If anything, he found it funny. Eventually, just after darkness had arrived in earnest, he found his goal at the edge of the clearing - the old lady stretching up and out before him, obscuring much of the view. He removed some flints and tinder from his pocket and, laying the dry wood shavings down on an exposed stone, began to strike. Eventually, when the slivers were lit, he dipped the torch close until it caught and then turned and rammed it hard upright into the spongy forest floor. The tinder burned away within seconds, leaving only the torch itself to send flickering black shadows across the nodular surface he had come so far to inspect.

  She was a beast of a woman, of that there was little doubt. If she had indeed been an actual woman then she would have been broad shouldered, sour faced and would undoubtedly not suffer fools. She would have been a brutish matriarch with hands fit to offer a slapped behind when warranted or a good tight hug when the tearful came to visit. He smiled; it pleased him to see her in those terms. She would have made a very strong mother indeed.

  He placed his hands on her skin and felt the coolness of her bark seep into his fingers, then ran his hands around her expansive girth. Buds of new leaves sprouted on each of her meandering branches and that too made him smile. New life. Hell, she wasn’t doing bad for a 400 year old lady.

  He crouched down, trying as best he could to remain out of his own shadow and obscure his view, and surveyed the base. Interestingly, the very bottom of the tree, all the way around, ran true as it faded into the ground. There were no noticeable indentations and nothing to break the line. She had no groove cut along her base: she ran true. He pondered that for a while.

  When a small section of lighter wood caught his eye, shining the light of the flame back to him like an answering beacon, he turned to inspect it and smiled.

  There it was.

  He closed his eyes, slowly ran a single finger around its full length and took a long, deep breath.

  Finally. He was where he needed to be.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, July 13, 1645.

  Colchester Castle, Essex, England.

  Prudence sat on the floor, her legs crossed loose beneath her skirts, and merrily ate her way into a half-ripened monarch apple. This was not the finest dress she owned, the red one, but nor was it the most worn, her work dress. Given that she only owned three dresses, this pretty much made it the middle one. It was a little grubby, as was she from a hot and sweaty ride here, but today it mattered little. It was far better than Rachael’s and, if only for that reason alone, it would do just fine.

  Her face and the way she ate indicated that today was a very fine day indeed and that she might well have been seated on the small hill overlooking the Manor, dreaming of the Master inviting her into his circle and introducing her as the most beautiful girl for miles around. The sun might be shining on her back as an even brighter one beckoned her forth. It might be September already and her apple might even be fully ripened. There would perhaps even be a gentle breeze carrying words of her future in its arms, delivering them soft as lamb’s wool to her ears only.

  But she was not. She was actually seated in the midst of the most rancid and putrid filth that humankind saw fit to deliver upon its own. The floor on which she sat, despite there being a barrel fit for the task among the coal sacks which lay directly behind her, was the only clean section of floor she had been able to find and even then it had needed a sweep with a rag. The stench was so appalling that she had needed to smear cheap lotions under her nose just to ready for it and the moans of those around her would have been quite unbearable on any other day.

  But not today.

  Today Prudence was seated in the midst of filth, deprivation and squalor and looking at the most beautiful sight she felt that she had ever seen in her entire life. More beautiful than sunrise over the Manor or a rich red sunset the day before a spell in the fields. Rachael Garland; huddled in the far corner of a dark cell, her legs drawn close to her body and her face, arms and clothes covered in all manner of
ungodly smears. She had welts too; weeping sores scattered like autumn leaves across every inch of her skin. They varied from the still-weeping to the well-scabbed and her face looked as though she had already been burned as the witch Prudence knew her full well to be. In her hand, and against her chin, she clenched a string of wooden beads. It looked like a rosary.

  There were four others in the cell, though it had clearly been constructed for no more than three in total. One, an old lady, was having a complete and very detailed conversation, though it was hard to tell if it was with herself or the devil whose bidding had brought her here. As she did, she picked live maggots and grubs from the floor, squeezing them gently before biting upon them as one might a fresh-picked juicy berry. Another, younger than Widow Chatterbox but still far older than either Prudence or Rachael, was fast asleep on the floor next to the dunny bucket. Every so often she would cough, deep and throaty, and wake herself up before drifting back into sleep again. A third was laid close by, but was not making a sound. Or a movement. She was ashen faced and it would seem that she was quite probably already dead. Pox, plague or consumption - it was always hard to say. The fourth to share the cell, another filthy young wretch, sat in the opposite darkened corner to Rachael, her legs similarly hunched before her. Unlike Rachael, however, she did not rock back and forth or utter a single word, she simply remained completely motionless, her eyes fixed in a gaze upon nothing. She never moved a muscle.

  But Rachael did. And, as she rocked, her eyes darted along every inch of the straw, shit and piss covering the floor, narrowing and opening in time to the sporadic thoughts which saw fit to flit like midges through her mind. All the while she kept her mumbling constant, though it was low and hard to discern. Parts sounded to Prudence like a psalm she knew from her studies; ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ though other parts were definitely not. They seemed instead like firm answers to unheard questions, and she occasionally nodded vigorously. It was quite clear that, perhaps even more so than in the fields of France, Rachael’s mind had deserted her once again. Following her appearance in front of the magistrates, she had been confined to this cell for over five full months now and had not seen daylight or a washpan in all that time. She looked gaunt and pale, sores weeping across her face, arms like corn-rot and her hair was lank and matted with whatever it was that was now holding the straw in blackened clumps on the floor. As she spoke, her expression changed every few heartbeats. In the space of each passing minute she covered every emotion possible, like a town player practising his craft before stepping in front of a gathered crowd.

  Prudence had wanted to come to the castle much earlier, many times in fact, but Colchester was some ten miles from Manningtree and there were the seemingly endless vegetable harvests to be brought in. Besides, finding someone with a cart who might offer her the journey, for there was no way she would be making this journey on foot, was no easy task either. Jon Crawford, who made the route every Friday, would have no doubt brought her but he would have tried to get inside her dress before they reached the Tile Barn and not even a chance to scoff at the wretch was worth that. She had considered it, mind, as the day of reckoning drew ever closer, but had held her resolve. In the end it was Rattler Tom, still not the full shilling, who had offered her carriage. It had been spine-rattling, to be sure, but she had at least escaped the blisters. He said he would also return her if she was ready and waiting by the milepost come six.

  Plenty of time.

  She took another healthy bite and spoke with her mouth still full of flesh and juice.

  “They takes you to Chelmsford tomorrow,” she said cheerily. “The assizes are set. First day of the new week. I should think there will be quite a crowd. I shall be there. And your beads won’t save you.” She nonchalantly rolled the apple around in her fingers, as though idly searching the best section to bite upon next. “Do you know what is going to happen to you there..?”

  She pondered to herself, as though weighing all the possibilities of the events to follow.

  “No?” She said, answering herself. She shrugged, then a few moments later a firm and rather exciting thought clearly entered her mind. “Ooh, perhaps we shall make a game of it?” She suddenly looked quite giddy at the prospect. “Yes, a game. That shall be lots of fun!” She looked around the floor to her left and right and eventually found a flat piece of wood large enough for her new idea to take shape. Then a piece of coal, presumably fallen from one of the sacks. “I do like games,” she added. Then she widened her eyes and smiled with knowing pride. “And I plays them very well.”

  All the while Rachael just rocked herself toward a sleep that would not show it’s face.

  “There is to be...” she counted on her fingers, “...four letters,” she said proudly. Selecting the best side of the coal and then using it like a chalk, she made four horizontal markings on the wood and turned it so that Rachael might see. “See? You think you are cleverer than me but you are not. My studies are done and I can now read and write a little.” With Rachael not looking even mildly in her direction, she turned the wood back to face herself and stared almost lovingly at it. “So, each of these marks is a letter and you can guess the letter for me. Yes? It will be as a puzzle. But, if you do not guess correct the letter then I shall start to draw you a picture. So that you might see quite clearly what is to come knocking for you.”

  She placed the wood flat on her lap and looked to Rachael. “You may take your first guess,” she said. Rachael continued to rock back and forth, mumbling to herself as her eyes continued to scour the floor. Once again, it sounded like disparate bursts of the psalm she knew so well. ‘I shall not want. I shall not want’, repeated over and over. “What’s that?” Prudence said, cupping her ear in mock interest. “An ‘I’ you say? Oh, no, Rachael, there is no ‘I’. No ‘I’ at all. That is no good. No good at all. So, I shall have to start my drawing...”

  Using the coal she marked a clumsy vertical line on the wood, two smaller lines placed at around forty-five degrees at its base as though helping it to stay aloft. When the three lines were complete she looked at them with a warm smile, clearly extremely pleased with herself indeed.

  “Next guess?” Again she cupped her ear as though listening, but it was all for show. She was loving every moment of this and was ready to spin the yarn as far as it might stretch. She felt she heard the word ‘want’, with the ‘w’ especially exaggerated, and her face lit up. “A ‘W’ you say? She pronounced it as a ‘Wuh’. Yes, we have a ‘Wuh!’” She shook her head and then steered her expression to one of mock chastisement. “See? You are clever.” She shook her head. “But you are not clevererer than I.”

  She marked a crudely rendered ‘W’ over the first of her four lines and then looked back to Rachael. “Another guess..?”

  Rachael continued to mumble to herself, and with Widow Chatterbox also filling the air it was becoming increasingly difficult to make out so much as a syllable of what she might be saying. Prudence scorned in the old woman’s direction, but she wasn’t looking back at her either.

  “This will not do,” she said eventually. “You have all the time in the world, I am sure, sitting around here night and day. But not me. No, no, NO! I have many places to go, many many things to do and we must press on. I can see I’m going to have to finish this for you...” She started to draw on the wood once more, turning it occasionally in her hands and stopping periodically to admire her work. Eventually she seemed to be quite content with her swift creation.

  She turned the panel to the still detached Rachael. “See? Was ‘WYCH’! That was the word, but you were not quick enough or clever enough so now I have needed to draw all of my gallows in.” Above the badly written word she had turned the vertical line into a very crude set of gallows, all drawn in single line format with a long-haired stick figure suspended on a rope, the head tilted awkwardly. Though it looked like a five year old with broken fingers had drawn it, it was not a bad effort. At least, not in Prudence’s disjoin
ted mind. She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, not caring for an instant that there was still no-one listening to her words. “Do you know what a gallows are, wych?” she sneered. “Did they teach you that in the heathen lands? They are a crucifix for the devil’s helpers.” She smiled. “They are built to dangle those with no place on heaven or earth. And, when they judge you a wych, they shall hang you from one. Good. And quick. ”

  The apple was calling again, so she placed the wood and coal to one side, rubbed her hands on her skirt and picked it from her lap. Then she began to nibble gently at what remained of the core, idly removing all the remaining flesh. “There will be no-one to pull on you,” she added nonchalantly. “You have no kin. And think not of the Master. He is removed from his bed, that is true, but he is not able to venture from the Manor quite yet. He does ask about you, you know, but I shall not see fit to tell him. It is best he forgets about you soon, I think. But once you are gone I shall visit him more and help him get full-better. Then he will see that I was right to stop him. Yes. Yes.” She nodded, as if it was a given. “He shall see that I was right all along. He shall thank me for seeing the things that your spirits had blinded him to.”

  Silence of sorts fell and, for once, Prudence was at a loss as to what to say. There was the disjointed Q&A session of the Chatterbox, of course, with Rachael adding her own awkward bass-line, and a steady dripping of water from somewhere in the distance out of time with them both, but nothing else of note. It seemed as though Prudence’s song was coming to an end, and it made her a little sad, but she would see the wretch again soon enough. When she did, she would be just one small step away from dangling from the hemp and the cheers that graced it would become her symphony.

  She raised herself to her feet and smoothed some of the creases from her skirt. Then she approached the cast-black bars which served to keep the inmates firmly caged. Crouching, she said with mock concern, “You look as though they do not feed you well enough and I would hate for you to perish in so dark a place. All alone.” She smiled again. Darkly. “No, your end must be for all to see.”