[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  “Exactly three hours?”

  I pursed my lips, thinking. “Make it three hours and…” I shrugged. I liked being my own God, “…twenty-seven minutes.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Friday, July 21, 1645.

  Colchester, Essex, England.

  There was something about the third man that Porter felt needed checking out.

  He stopped directly in front of him, leaned hard against his stick and looked him up and down, head to toe, cautiously and carefully. The man was around six feet in height and stocky, but without the overly-enlarged upper-physique of a bare-knuckle man like, say, Ravven. His dark hair was down to his shoulders but did not look un-combed and his beard, goatee in shape, was quite professionally trimmed. He looked remarkably fit and well for this age and time; too fit and well, perhaps, to not be out fighting for God and his country. Also, unlike the two Colchester guards, who had resignation in their eyes, or the other new guy who had pretty much nothing in his, this man’s glare had an intensity. A purpose. Riding along with it had come a rather intimidating degree of self-confidence.

  The sun was all-but ready to rise and it looked as though it might well prove to be a generally bright and clear day. There was some rain to be found on the horizon but it had used up all its red the night before and there was none left to be caught peeking over its low wall this morning. In the cold, still air of the last strains of night he was now inspecting ‘his men’ in front of the tall studded doors of the castle, briefing them in their duties before they entered its walls to remove the prisoners. The first carts of the Friday market were beginning to clatter along the dung-ridden streets from the outlying villages and, one by one, candles could be seen to be lit through grimy windows as the town started to come to life.

  He had asked for six escorts for the day and had received just four; typical. These were not hardened criminals, he had been informed - with no shortage of disdain - by Charles Longhorn, Governor of the prison; they were women. Starving, wretched and, more importantly, manacled women. And yes, they had each indeed been proven to be bewitched, but such dark powers relied on a healthy host and these women were far from healthy. So, one guard per prisoner, alongside Porter himself of course, would more than suffice. In fact, it could perhaps be perceived by some to be a bit of an extravagance.

  With a shortage of men himself, Longhorn had allocated two reliable guards from within his own ranks to make the journey and recruited two volunteers from within the town to make up the numbers. Porter had worked with both the ranked men before: Atkins and ‘Ravven’.

  Ravven was short for ‘Ravenous’, given that the only time he was not eating was when he was whinging about a lack of food. Atkins was a wiry young fellow and pretty much useless while Ravven was a brutish man and conscientious to the point of being a liability. As for the other two, the new recruits, both were ex-servicemen, or so he was told. One was a old soul, well into his sixties, with a massive limp and a girth like a ship’s cannon. He was known only as ‘Parker’ and, unless it involved a fight over a cake, Porter suspected would be neither use nor ornament in the event of a scuffle.

  The other was the third man...

  “Name..?” he said firmly.

  “Eli, sir,” I replied. I continued to look straight ahead and not directly into Porter’s eyes, offering true military respect. I knew that these were not military men; at least, not any more. In truth they were little more than the Home Guard, but I also understood that they still liked to behave as though each task offered to them was of some national or Godly importance.

  “And your family name, Eli...?”

  “Eloy, sir. It is pronounced E-loy.”

  Porter smiled. “Well, E-loy, what is your family name?”

  “Morelock, sir.”

  Porter narrowed his eyes and smiled again. “‘That is quite an unusual name.”

  “It was given to me by quite a remarkable man,” I replied, straight faced.

  Porter nodded, but did not seem particularly interested. “Glad to hear it. I see you have brought your own attempt at uniform?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both of the regular Colchester guards were dressed in the traditional brown leather tunic which came attached to their position. In the absence of any spare uniforms, however, though making at least a bit of an effort, Parker had chosen the only tunic he owned - which had little or no chance of ever being buttoned - and a pair of once-decent trousers. I, however, this unknown quantity, wore the deep russet of a military man.

  “And did they not have one in your size?” He looked to my sleeves and ankles, both at least an inch too short, then to the other guards who, to a man, were now smirking amongst themselves.

  “I had to take what I was offered.”

  Porter narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, why are you not at the wars, soldier?”

  “My service was cut short.”

  “Not as short as your trousers,” Porter mused, looking around with a wide smile a second time. He swiftly turned back to me, his face serious again. “And why was that exactly?”

  I swallowed hard, delivering my back-story just as I had rehearsed it. “I was... discharged, sir.”

  “Honourably?”

  I paused for a moment. “Not really, sir. No.”

  Porter looked even more suspicious. A glance to his right showed him that Ravven was already making fit to deliver a complaint. Ravven had a sermon he liked to deliver regarding weak links and chains. It became boring after the eighth or ninth time and Porter was not really minded to hear it again.

  “Hmm,” he said. “You carry your papers..?”

  I reached into the depths of my borrowed tunic and retrieved three dirty and crumpled parchments, crudely folded together. I handed them over. Porter studied each for just a few moments, threw in the odd raised eyebrow, and then handed them back, folded as before.

  He nodded, knowingly. “Hmm. I shall do you a service by not pressing you further on the matter. Save to ask if your conduct is to be dishonourable during your service today?”

  “No, sir. Not at all,” I said. “I am here to do only what is required of me.”

  “Excellent,” Porter replied. He glanced again at Ravven, who turned face-front once more but was clearly not best pleased. “We all have our past and sometimes we do well to leave it there.” That was clearly a dig at Ravven’s own ‘less-than-honourable’ discharge from armed service some ten years previously. Something to do with ‘accidentally’ piking a rank superior in the abdomen as Porter had heard it.

  “It is the future that matters, is it not?” He looked up, catching my gaze full on.

  “Indeed it is, sir.”

  “Then we understand each other. You shall escort Garland. She is the youngest of this wretched bunch. She is weakened and sick but do not let that deceive you. She is still the one they fear the most and, chained or not, I do fear she has some claws within her. You will need this...”

  He reached into his pocket and handed over a long, thick length of coarse material. It had been folded and crudely stitched but not before being padded with wool. It was to be used as a mask, so that I would not breathe any of the consumptious air the young girl’s body chose to expel. He paused for a moment, looking me up and down one more time and then, still dubious but clearly satisfied enough, he curled his ageing fingers tight around the lion’s head and continued his walk along the line like a Sergeant-at-Arms, speaking loudly enough for all to hear.

  There would be no carts today, he explained, so they should expect to return home with blisters. They must not consider themselves along this journey, however, only what this land and their neighbours would gain in return for their efforts. They would take the Harwich road through Ardleigh. At Lawford, however, they would not be taking the north road toward Brantham so as to approach Manningtree from the west, but rather they would continue along the Long Road to Mistley, so that those who had no day free of working the docks might see the procession. From there they would
enter Manningtree from the east. Gallows had been erected and the priest had been summoned from Lawford St. Mary’s. Both would be ready and waiting to do their civic duty in the main square.

  “You are each to be responsible for your own prisoner,” he said finally. “I have seen too many forced acts of distraction to be fooled by such trickery again. If you have an issue arise then that issue is yours and yours alone. I cannot spare men to leave convicted felons unattended, just so that they might put right your failings. These women are to meet the rope in Manningtree at midday and whilst you have a single breath remaining in your body you will ensure that that happens.” He looked to each man in turn, his tone changing noticeably. “But I will tolerate no disrespect to them. Not a word of it, and not a prod or a jab. These women were once your neighbours; your cousins, your kin. They will be treated as such on my watch. The gallows are to be their judge today, not you. Do you understand?”

  There was an answer from each man present, myself included, but it was ragged and half-hearted at best.

  Porter repeated, firmer this time... “Do. You. Understand?”

  All four of us said “Yes, sir,” in unison. It was still a little subdued, and barely to be classed as a rallying cry, but it would do.

  Meanwhile, the one thing that I had noted throughout the lengthy speech was that, beneath his rigid sense of duty, Porter actually seemed to have a heart.

  He never once referred to the women as ‘witches’.

  “Good,” Porter said brusquely. “Now... let us do what needs to be done.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday, August 23, 2043. 2:14am.

  5th & Alameda, Los Angeles, California.

  Having made it downstairs by the skin of our teeth, not that teeth have skins I don’t suppose, the lights to ‘my’ laboratory came on as soon as the door was opened. Milton’s didn’t, they had a switch. One to me. Slightly breathless, we were faced by a long console with a series of buttons and screens, one I knew very well, with a fortified glass window above which looked into the main laboratory. The lights in there were slightly more subdued and a little bluer in tone. Milton had not seen this lab before and he took a moment to look around, either to get his bearings or just to muse that my lab was so much smaller than his. Other than the console itself, the two ergonomic chairs-on-wheels we kept and a table which housed some currently redundant computers, the only other thing of note in the room was my own atomic clock mounted high on the wall. It currently read 2:14:39.

  Whilst I took a moment to look pensively into the lab itself, wondering just how the hell I had managed to find myself in this ridiculous situation of following D’Almas, Davies, Mason and Alison into the complete unknown, Milton’s eyes were caught by something resting on the console. Something small, but something he was clearly very intrigued by.

  “Oh, I say…” he said, slowly as though he was truly in awe.

  I glanced across, slightly suspicious. “What?”

  In an instant I saw what he had seen and stepped over, smiling. Goddammit, it was still here.

  “It was my grandfather’s,” I said, laughing gently at the Peace Dollar he was admiring. “His lucky coin. He gave it to me as a good luck charm before he passed. I had it in my hand when I learned about Rachael, so I’m not sure it actually wants to play ball for me though.” I smiled directly at him but even I could feel that there was sadness sewn within it.

  Short of my coin resting on the side of the console rather than being on the floor which, if memory served me correctly, is where it should have been, the lab as a whole seemed completely untouched since I was in here last; the day I had found out about Cardou. That was the day I had spun heads or tails and asked it to declare whether or not Rachael loved me enough to marry me - stupidly really - and then I had left in a hurry, completely forgetting about it. I never did see which side it landed and now, seeing it again, that pleased me. Whoever had been in and tidied this room had done me a favour because I no longer wanted to know. Not at all. The one thing I did know now was that none of this had anything to do with chance, or luck, or fortune. Even the things I was about to do were, in many ways, already pre-ordained a long time ago. They had to happen and I had to make them happen. All of them, on my own. Life was on me now, not on the flip of some stupid old worthless coin.

  “You do know what this is?” Milton asked, stressing the words.

  I shrugged, indifferently. “A 1922 Peace Dollar..?” For some reason, his excited tone had made me doubt the obvious.

  “Er, no,” he said, “It’s a 1922 Peace Dollar minted with the eagle standing on a sword.” He picked it up and admired it closely. “These never went into production. This… this must be worth a fortune.”

  I took it from him and took a moment to stare at it myself. I had never really bothered looking at it closely. To me it was just a coin and I felt my face crease. “Oh,” was all I could really think to say and it felt as lame as it sounded. I knew that it mattered little now and yet somehow I wished I had known. I suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that my grandfather might have known all along. Perhaps he hoped that one day, when I needed it the most and if I hadn’t already sold it, I might find out its true value too. Suddenly, I found that thought really quite cool.

  I grasped it tight and, turning to look back through the glass, I stared for just a few moments at the siberium sphere, this huge chunk of an ultra dense metallic element which hit the Tunguska region of Russia in the 1908 meteor event. It was still mounted in its titanium cradle, as it should be, the mechanical arm poised but retracted above. The red paper jumpsuit that Alison had worn was still laid on the floor. I had already decided that I would bin the jumpsuit and get a fresh one. I had no idea just how scary this journey might be, for me or for anyone else, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I’m casting no aspersions on Alison’s fear reflex, but a fresh, clean jumpsuit most definitely seemed like a damn fine idea.

  “So… we gonna do this thing?” I said. I tried to sound confident and raring to go, but I’m not altogether sure I really pulled it off. In fact, I know for a fact that I didn’t. “You and I both know that this is way too easy so far and that somebody, somewhere is going to know we’re in this lab,” I said. “With that in mind, I want us both out of here as quick as is humanly possible.”

  Milton took a deep breath. I suspect it was more on my behalf than his. “Then let’s do it. If you’re ready..?”

  I thought for a moment, still unsure, then winked and smiled. “Hell, let’s do it anyway…”

  * * * * *

  Barbara Scalise woke to both the piercing sound and the vibrations from her phone as it jittered impatiently on a pure white bedside table. It was loud, as it needed to be, and her mouth curled. She lifted the sleep mask above her eyes, collected the handset and checked the number on the screen. The name was logged as ‘KRTGS’ - KRT Global Security located in Building Three. She needed to take this.

  She sat up awkwardly and held the phone to her ear. Old style.

  “Scalise.”

  A pause.

  Very to-the-point, she said: “Whose code?” There was another pause. “When?” Another. “OK, flip all cameras in the building to pre-recorded feeds to keep the muppet on the desk in the dark, then send two of your best men across. Tell them to enter via Lot 5 using the null codes and then remain by the lifts on the upper level. They should do nothing until I arrive. Tell them that if he comes back up, they are to hold him until I get there. Just for now, I want him alive. Understood?”

  Another pause. “Good. I’m on my way.”

  Stretching her legs out of the bed, she smiled.

  Gotcha.

  * * * * *

  I had never had the opportunity to see just how stupid I looked in a jumpsuit. All the more reason to have avoided ever getting thrown in prison, I mused. Now, my change of clothes complete, I stood up straight, winced, and held out my hand to Milton. He took it and we began to shake. Then he stopped, suddenly, and I smiled.
I couldn’t help it.

  Peeling his hand away he saw that I had used my palm to hand over the Peace Dollar. He looked up at me, unsure.

  “It’s no use to me where I’m going,” I said, shrugging.

  “Wow,” was all he could say at first. “Are you sure?” I nodded. Looking down to the coin, he said “I probably won’t have a job after today so… you know… thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “From both of us, and for everything.” I meant it.

  “And you will say hello to Rachael for me?” he asked politely. I nodded again. He knew I would.

  I took a few steps backward, into the airlock, then took a deep breath and pressed the button. The half-pipe of glass rotated around me with a gentle swoosh and I was into the vacuum.

  Milton, meanwhile, moved back into his chair, swiftly flicked the lever labelled ‘ARM’ to ‘AUTO-POSITION’ and pressed a red button by the side. In the lab itself, I watched nervously and shuffled on my feet as the mechanical arm swung slowly down from the ceiling, took precise laser readings of the sphere and its position as a whole, then located itself accordingly. In the slightly colder and more dimly lit room of the two, it all seemed a little too clinical.

  He slid his chair along a little and looked up, shrugging and confused. Through the glass, I tried to speak to him, but it was obvious he could not hear me, so he just shrugged again. Thinking for a moment, I made a gesture with my flattened palm, as though it was flying away from my body. Instantly, I turned that same hand one hundred and eighty degrees and pulled it back toward me, sharply. Milton got it. He hit ‘ESC’ and ‘RETURN’ and a text box with a reading of 194 appeared on the screen in front of him. Carefully, as though breaking the code on an old safe, he turned a modern looking chrome dial surrounded with a gentle neon light embedded in the side. The power dial. If he was doing this properly, that figure was now increasing steadily until the screen read exactly 406.

  “Ready?” he said again.