[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  The smile few wider. “Here, take this...” She readied to throw the core in Rachael’s direction, then paused. Slowly, she reached her hand through the bars and rubbed it all around the stickiest patch of straw she could find, coating the pale flesh in black filth. Only then did she throw it, watching as it landed and bounced at Rachael’s bloodied and ragged feet.

  Widow Chatterbox did not miss the chance. In a flash she scurried on her hands and knees across the filth and picked it up before anyone else had the chance, holding it in two hands like a squirrel might hold a nut. Then she started to eat. In a matter of seconds it was all gone and she turned to Prudence with blackened eyes and teeth to see if there might be some more headed her way. Though it had happened right in front of her face, Rachael acknowledged nothing. The mumbling bass-line continued without ever missing a beat.

  Prudence scowled harshly, first at Chatterbox and then at Rachael.

  Sleeping woman coughed as though her body was now trying to throw out a lung, then faded back into gentle snoring. Prudence could see that she was painfully thin and had blood caked dry around her chin. She was headed for the winding-sheet alright. If the gallows did not get her within the next few days, the diseased air she had swallowed these months past surely would.

  Rachael also coughed. Deep and thick, like a man.

  Prudence looked quickly, narrowing her eyes against the gloom, and saw what she had hoped in her heart she would see. In amongst the welts, the weeping sores, the bruises and the filth, Rachael also had faint traces of dried blood around her mouth; blood that appeared to have run from her mouth. She did not have as much gathered there as the sleeping wretch, that was certain, but she had more than enough.

  At some point over the last few months, Rachael Garland had seemingly inhaled unhealthy quantities of a lethal bacteria: mycobacterium tuberculosis. It was a small, aerobic, nonmotile bacillus which had found itself a nice warm home somewhere deep within her lungs and made itself very comfortable indeed. Where she had inhaled, or how recently, was anybody’s guess. Such bacteria were not choosy. They were able to withstand weak disinfectants, not that Rachael would have been within spitting distance of any, and could survive in a dry state for weeks, if not months.

  True infection would have taken hold when the microscopic particles of bacteria had reached Rachael’s pulmonary alveoli, where they would have invaded and divided every sixteen to twenty hours; a slow rate compared with other bacteria which could split themselves in under an hour. The primary site of her infection will have remained in the lungs, probably in either the upper part of the lower lobe or the lower part of the upper lobe. There they would swiftly have won a very short and decisive battle against her weakened immune system and continued to multiply inside her like infantry storming a castle. Tissue destruction and necrosis within the only mechanism of pulling breath into her already fragile body would have followed soon after. Breathing would become laboured. Ultimately, it would come to an end.

  Not that Prudence knew any of this, of course. Or cared. To her, it was simply the first signs of ‘consumption’, and that would do just fine for her. Debilitating pain and night sweats were going to make Rachael Garland’s final few days on this earth just that little bit more special.

  She created herself a smile laced deep with pride, and wore it as such.

  It grew maliciously wider as she turned and walked away, her head held unworthily high.

  * * * * *

  “You get as you needed?” Hoy said, almost disinterestedly.

  Stephen Hoy was a podgy man with a hairy stomach protruding from his shirts and a permanent sweat across his ruddied face. His long brown hair was lank almost to the shade of black and his beard still had the remains of whatever he had eaten for yesterday’s breakfast deep within its fibres. He had been day-gaoler at Colchester for over four years, and looked as though he had not changed or washed his threadbare uniform in all that time. Stains occupied almost every inch of his shirt and tunic. There was no money in jailing the ragged and the poor and certainly no need of keeping appearances, so his superiors cared little. As long as he watched the one narrow entrance which led down to the cells, allowed only the authorised to enter within its confines and recorded all those who even attempted to visit, that was really all that mattered.

  “I did,” Prudence replied, with a similar air of disinterest. “We played a very nice game.”

  Without looking to her, and in a gruff voice, Hoy said: “You remember our deal?”

  “I do,” she said. Hoy turned and raised an expectant eyebrow. “I get to make my visit here without inclusion in your...” she continued, delivering the painfully unnecessary recap with a deep sigh. She flitted a slender finger, “...little book. And you, in return, get to feed the filthy little maggot you keep in your pants.”

  Hoy showed her his most expectant smile, dissected by a series of blackened and missing teeth. His hand had already moved down to his mildly-stained crotch and he began to stroke it gently, his member clearly arousing at the very thought.

  “I shall enjoy it,” he said salaciously.

  Prudence sighed. “I’m sure you shall.”

  “Perhaps you might wish to take some...?” he said, almost salivating the words from his mouth.

  Prudence looked him up and down, clearly disgusted by both his words and his very appearance. “Do you own a Manor?” she said. “Or perhaps mix with the gentryfolk?” Her eyes were wide and bright as though these were, in fact, genuine questions.

  Hoy looked puzzled. “No,” he said, pursing his lips. His oft-unworked brain cells were clearly still trying to piece together exactly where this might be headed.

  “Then that shall be your answer,” she said firmly. “Now go... Tup the bitch. I shall keep eyes for you.”

  His face, glistening with the additional sweat of expectation, looked a little offended but the thought of having his post monitored so that he might have himself inside young Rachael’s folds soon wiped it clean away. The malevolent smile returned. He looked like the fox that had cornered the most cunning hen in the coop and was visibly throbbing at the very idea.

  In an instant, like a dog chasing a quick-thrown stick, he hurried off through the narrow opening, clumsily unbuckling his belt as he descended the stone stairs beyond.

  “Do not take too long about it...” Prudence called after him, her tone firm, “...for I may buy a new dress today.”

  With the gaoler now gone, her voice lowered and she spoke only to herself. “I have a special occasion drawing near, see?” She shrugged to herself. “The Master himself may even attend.”

  Hoy would not be long, she reasoned. He was a starved hound and his seed would be out like lead from a musket. There would be time enough before six to head into the square and pick out the finest dress her funds and charms would afford her.

  She smiled. “And I should very much like to look my best.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, August 22, 2043. 11:39pm.

  5th & Alameda, Los Angeles, California.

  Sitting in an empty truck, parked up on the corner of West 11th and South Freeman, Manuel ‘Manny’ Tego bit into the double meatball sandwich he had just bought and breathed heavily through his nose in grateful thanks. It had been a long shift but he had finally gotten everything that needed to be delivered to his final destination. Most of it late. A quick bite to eat, much needed for a man of his size, and he would crank the electric motor back up again and set off home. That would take about half an hour - way too long to have to wait to fill his aching belly. Especially given that, as he lived alone, he might actually have had to cook something when he got there.

  As he chewed a single bite, one which was sized approximately twenty percent larger than his mouth was capable of processing with any decorum, he flicked the dash console to the tracking screen and then used his code to disable the device. He wasn’t supposed to, of course, but then neither were the thirty-eight other GlobalParcel drivers who did exac
tly the same thing every night. No point in having a ‘company vehicle’ if it was going to be tracked wherever you chose to take it during the night, was there? Besides, it was empty anyway, so who the hell would want to steal it? It was desperately underpowered and there was no joy to be had in riding the damn thing on his rounds so there sure as hell wouldn’t be any for a casual thief trying to drag race it around town of a night.

  He turned took another bite and then tipped his head back to the rest, closed his eyes and just chewed, letting the stresses of the day fall slowly away from him like sodden clothes. The streets were dark and empty now and it gave him just a few moments of much needed peace after struggling to make his way through a city ill-equipped for the number of cars it contained, for a company ill-equipped to handle the number of parcels it received.

  Yes, he thought, peace is good. Peace is what I need.

  Which he received for just a few brief moments until a sudden and very loud rapping on the window woke him up. He turned to see a lady, perhaps in her late fifties, trying to talk to him. She looked harmless, but he couldn’t hear her through the toughened glass so he flipped the switch and the window wound down just a fraction.

  “That man wants to talk to you,” she said.

  Manny looked puzzled. “What man..?”

  She pointed straight past him. “That man.”

  Manny spun around to see a man sitting right beside him on the passenger seat, a gun pointed directly in his face. The man smiled and flicked his eyebrows upward.

  “I need your clothes, your boots and your motorcycle,” I said, in a deliberately deep voice.

  “I don’t have a motorcycle,” Manny said, already quivering with fear. “Just the truck.”

  I winced and closed my own eyes for a second in disgust. Philistine. I leaned forward slightly and angled my head so that I could read his name badge.

  “Manny? Is that short for Amanda?” I asked. Manny shook his head defiantly. I smiled and winked. “It will be.”

  “You can take the truck,” Manny said, his voice extremely shaky. “Just… please… don’t kill me.” He was starting to sweat.

  I thought for a moment.

  “Tell you what, Manny,” I said. “I can give you a choice. I can either kill you, here and now, and take your truck or…”

  Manny nodded expectantly at the prospect of an impending alternative… “Yes? Yes..?”

  I pulled a small piece of toughened cardboard from my pocket. “Or, I can give you a thousand credits - that’s more than enough for a taxi home, by the way - then take your truck and your uniform and then have my friend Vic here…” I nodded back toward Victoria and Manny turned to see her smiling and waving through the glass like a grandma come to visit, “…drop it all off back at your house later tonight? And, now that you’ve illegally flipped off your little tracker thingy, I don’t think anyone need ever know, do you? Of course, we’d need an address.”

  “Are you for real?” Manny asked, still quaking.

  “Oh, I’m for real alright,” I said. “So… what’s it to be?”

  It was doubtful that no-one would pick up on this, Manny thought, but this was never meant to be a job for life so he sure as hell wasn’t about to trade his life for it. I guess he’d figured that out quick because he’d started removing his jacket before I had even finished the sentence. Fortunately for us, we’d managed to catch him before he spilled too much sauce down it.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Monday, July 17, 1645.

  Chelmsford, Essex, England.

  Po se. Cul. Ca null. Susp.

  Six words of death.

  For the clerk at the assizes, had it been required of him, the full text would have needed to read: “Pomt se non culpabilem super patrie juratam, et jurata dicit quod est/pabilis, et habet ratalla nulla. pro forisfactura, Ideo consideratum est per curiam quod suspendatur per collum quousque mortuus sh.” Literally, this would translate as “He (or she) puts himself (or herself) ‘not guilty’ on a jury of the country, and the jury says he (or she) is ‘guilty’, and he (or she) has no chattels for forfeiture, therefore it was decreed by the court that he (or she) be hung by the neck till he (or she) be dead.”

  As it was needful, so long as the indictments were well kept, for a clerk to put this record over the name of every person convicted by a jury and sentenced to death - in some form or other - it is not surprising that, like the life of the wretched soul it described, the description was swiftly shortened.

  * * * * *

  It was to be a busy day in the Chelmsford courthouse, and there was a merry pile of indictments for the judges to get through. So busy, in fact, that those found guilty would probably hold their breaths for less time waiting for a verdict to be delivered than they would need to hold them once the ladder was kicked.

  Just before sunrise, 5:00am on Friday 17th July, Rachael and the other three surviving suspects had been unshackled and unceremoniously bundled from the dark confines of Colchester Castle, squinting at a daylight they had not laid eyes upon for months. They were herded, wretched and stinking, into carts bound for Chelmsford, accompanied by Hoy and an escort. Twenty-four spine-jolting miles later, they clattered into the town which would ultimately decide their fates, with just a few already present to taunt them. On arrival, they were taken to the hellish Shire House prison where many other witchcraft suspects from the local area were already being held, and thrown into another similarly damp, cramped and vile cell. Many of those there passed the remaining time in strained conversation, desperate prayer or incomprehensible rant. Some, like Rachael, remained resolutely silent, measuring out what they imagined would be the final hours of their lives by recounting unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

  Later in the morning, a peal of bells and trumpet blasts filled the Chelmsford square as the Earl of Warwick’s cavalcade entered the town, flanked by pikemen liveried specifically for the occasion. With dark flowing locks and thick black moustache, Robert Rich, the Second Earl of Warwick, looked more like a cavalier than the russet-coated roundhead he was known to be. The people lining the streets today cared little about his appearance; they saw him only as a champion of their customs and a defender of their faith. Today he would be their judge as well. After donning his robes, Warwick then attended Chelmsford St Mary’s to hear a sermon. Magistrates, jurors and witnesses were still arriving, among them Matthew Hopkins and as many as ninety others bound to give evidence. The recognizance slips which recorded their obligations had been passed to the assize clerk, who had subsequently added names, places, dates and offences to his numerous bills of indictment. Finally, that same clerk sorted the prisoners - all but a few charged with witchcraft - into batches on a series of trial calendars. The completed file was wrapped in parchment ready for the grand jury who would be called upon to screen all cases to see if any could be dismissed prior to trial.

  For now, the hopes of every woman locked in the hellish confines of the gaol were pinned on this most slender of possibilities.

  By mid morning, the square in front of the Shire House thronged with people, all clamouring to secure a space inside. Most were disappointed and had to content themselves instead with the Chinese whispers passed back from those with an ear closer to the chamber itself. Those who had found a place in the gallery unwrapped bundles of bread and cheese and passed bottles back and forth, speculating like squawking crows about the witches waiting to be paraded before them.

  At 11.00am the town cryer called the court to order. The sheriff and clerks took their places in front of the dock with the grand jurors, mainly respectable county men, seated nearby. Finally, the six justices named on a commission from Westminster entered the chamber and positioned themselves on the bench, Warwick seated in the middle. Beneath their stockinged and well-shod feet lay a wide and colourful scattering of petals and herbs; an inefficient attempt at defence against whatever vile agues might be carried by those appearing before them. In amongst the vast array of books, papers and ink-pots were also noseg
ays of fresh flowers. Their scent, for now at least, filling the air around them. With all seated, the clerk of assize read the commission by which the court was convened, a register of magistrates was taken and the grand jury was sworn in. Warwick issued a formal charge reminding the jurors of their duty and outlining the offences they were about to try. On this day, not least because of Hopkins and Stearne roaming the surrounding lands, that was to include nearly thirty charges of witchcraft. Almost as soon as it had convened, the court then adjourned to let the jurors digest the thick file containing the bills of indictment, the witness statements and, in just three of the cases, the confessions.

  At a little after 2.00pm the court was called to order again and the clerk sorted the bills returned to him by the grand jurors. Where they had ruled that there was a case to answer the jurors had written the words ‘billa vera’ on the file - a true bill. On the rest, they had written ‘ignoramus’, or ‘we know not’. Only two of the suspected witches, Dorothy Brooke and Mary Greenliefe, had their cases postponed. As a result, they remained in gaol while the rest were ordered to their feet to be taken to the courtroom. It was very likely of course, given her condition, that Goodwife Brooke would be wrapped in a winding-sheet long before her case was given another date for trial.

  At last the clerk gave the order to bring up the prisoners - twenty-nine women suspected of witchcraft, plus various other malefactors. Among the motley bunch was an arsonist, a man who had tried (and failed in quite spectacular fashion) to kill his wife with a kettle and, along with a diverse collection of thieves and robbers, a desperate mother who had thrown her baby down a well. The first batch were ushered into the dock: Elizabeth Clarke of Manningtree, Anne Leech of Mistley, Rachael Garland of Manningtree, Margery Grew of Walton-le-Soken and Helen Bretton of Kirby-le-Soken. All had been ‘outed’ either immediately following, or in the months that flowed in the wake of, Rachael’s successful pricking. And all by Hopkins.