Eden Chronicles Box Set Books 1-3

by James Erith

  A flash from outside made their heads turn towards the window. For a moment, lightning illuminated the shiny wet flagstones in the courtyard, and they could see the outbuildings beyond, glistening from the water. Inside, shards of blue light bounced off an assortment of metal curiosities on the dark wood-panelled walls.

  Now that Isabella was ready, she stood up, drew the curtains and returned to her position on the hearth rug.

  ‘Archie, for goodness’ sake stop reading and pass it to me,’ Isabella said. ‘Right, Bible quiz on Genesis, are you ready?’

  ‘Oh. So it’s the Bible you’re practising?’ Old Man Wood said, his deep, grainy voice blending with the storm outside. ‘Interesting choice. I can’t remember the last time—’

  ‘OK, quiet,’ Isabella said. ‘Question one on chapter two. Are you ready?’ Isabella gave Daisy a look as if to say, come on, concentrate!

  ‘When God made the universe, there were no plants on the earth and no seeds. Now, Daisy, is this true or false?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Correct. One nil to Daisy. Second question to Archie. What substance came from beneath the surface of the earth?’

  ‘Um, it’s er ... water, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nice one,’ Isabella said, raising her eyebrows and ticking her score sheet smartly. ‘You see it’s easy-peasy. So far, so good – one all. Right. Fingers on your buzzers,’ she said, glancing to Old Man Wood who leant forward in anticipation. ‘Who came first, Man or the Garden of Eden?’

  ‘The Garden,’ Old Man Wood said, rather surprised by his instant response.

  ‘You’re the judge, not the contestant,’ Isabella said scolding him. ‘And anyway, you’re wrong; it says here it was “Man”.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he replied.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ he added.

  Isabella sighed. ‘Well, that’s what it says here.’

  Daisy tilted her head. ‘So – is the Garden of Eden a real place? Can you actually visit it?’

  ‘No,’ Isabella sighed, ‘you can’t.’

  ‘Then, what is it?’

  Isabella leaned back knowingly. ‘This is the big question. No one really knows,’ she answered. ‘The Garden of Eden is a curiosity, a mythical place that if it did exist today archaeologists reckon it would be in Iraq.’

  ‘Where Mum and Dad are?’ Daisy said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ Isabella said. Their parents never seemed to give them any precise locations, simply because they were constantly on the move from one archaeological dig to another. But in the last postcard their parents said they were in Mesopotamia and the children had figured out that it was almost certainly in Iraq, even if the postcard wore a Jordanian stamp.

  Isabella spotted Daisy’s confused look. ‘Look, if there once was a place of lush green vegetation there’s nothing there now but desert and a river that swells during the rainy season. That’s why it’s a myth. OK?’

  It was Archie’s turn to look baffled, but Isabella continued. ‘The other way of looking at it is that the Garden of Eden is an allegory – a story – of how early man settled in the pasture-rich valleys of the area; also known as the paradise of the Garden of Eden. Carbon dating on bones and fossils tells us that man inhabited the Earth for literally tens of thousands of years before. So you might think of Biblical creation as a method by which the writers and storytellers start our understanding of God.’

  ‘Then it’s all made up?’ Archie said, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘I suppose,’ Isabella said. ‘It’s more than likely, but it depends on what you want to believe. Some people actually think that the world started at this point, some don’t. Science has shown us that life has been evolving constantly for millions of years. So it depends on your religious belief and how you interpret the story.’

  ‘What about the flood?’ Archie asked. He’d never realised how complex it was. ‘I’m sure I’ve read that a real flood happened.’

  ‘Good point, Arch,’ Isabella said, as she thought out her reply. ‘Flood stories have been recorded across different cultures – from Ancient Chinese to Aboriginal Australian, from India to the Middle East, so who knows, there might be something in it. Some experts reckon there was a meteor strike that created a series of tsunamis. Mum and Dad are basically experts about this – you should ask them.’

  ‘I thought they were archaeologists, looking for relics and stuff,’ Archie said.

  ‘They are, but in a way it all amounts to the same thing,’ she replied. ‘They’re trying to piece our history together. It’s the sort of stuff they’re mad about.’ Her eyes turned to the book. She wondered if she should ever have started this. And all she really wanted to do was tell them her stunning news. ‘Back to the quiz,’ she said, scouring the page, her finger tracing down the text. ‘Where in the Garden of Eden do the trees of life and knowledge live?’

  ‘In the middle,’ they said at once.

  ‘Correct.’

  Old Man Wood furrowed his brow and shrugged his shoulders, suggesting a dead heat. Isabella fired the next question.

  ‘What does the tree of knowledge represent?’

  ‘Er … knowledge,’ Archie said with a silly smile on his face.

  Isabella glared at him.

  ‘Alright – understanding – the clue’s in the name.’

  ‘Nope,’ Isabella said, ‘it says here in the text: “knowledge of what is good and what is bad”.’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘That’s the same thing.’

  ‘No it isn’t—’

  ‘Yes it is. Of course it is. You must have knowledge to understand what is good and bad?’

  Isabella thought for a while. ‘A bit dodgy, but I see what you mean. Half a mark.’

  Isabella fired in the next question before either could protest. ‘OK. A hard one. How many rivers did Eden divide into?’

  Archie and Daisy stared at each other blankly.

  ‘Two?’ Archie tried.

  No response.

  ‘Four or five,’ Daisy said, trying hard to remember.

  ‘Four,’ Old Man Wood said softly, as if not thinking. He scratched his bald head. None of this seemed right at all. But why did it feel wrong? Why did it throw doubt in his mind? ‘There are four rivers,’ he repeated, his brain in a spin. ‘But—’

  ‘Correct,’ Isabella said with a tone of surprise, ‘but please don’t answer – how are they supposed to learn anything?’

  ‘Sorry, just slipped out—’

  ‘And can you name any of them?’ Isabella asked.

  Archie stared at the ceiling rolling his eyes, while Daisy made an oooh-ing sound, as though it was on the tip of her tongue.

  Isabella took this as a “no”. ‘Neither of you has a clue,’ she said. ‘The first river is called Pishon, which flows around the country of Havilah. And if you’re lucky enough to be passing Havilah, you’ll find gold, rare perfumes and precious stones. I am so going there when I’m grown up.’ Isabella smiled. ‘The second river is Gihon, which flows round the country of Cush, the third river is the Tigris which flows east of a place called Assyria. The fourth is the Euphrates.’

  Just then, Old Man Wood exploded into laughter and long, deep guffaws echoed from his large, barrelled chest. As the quiz had gone on, fragments of memories had returned and his extraordinary dreams were at last beginning to make some kind of sense, as though he’d found a vital piece to the jigsaw puzzle.

  A thunderbolt crashed over the cottage. Isabella ducked and Archie and Daisy instinctively threw themselves behind the armchair, but Old Man wood stood up and roared with laughter as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Isabella, Archie and Daisy stared at the large man with their mouths wide open, their hearts fluttering. Had the man they loved so deeply finally lost his marbles? Was it his eccentricity or simply the effects of his great age?

  Suddenly a gust of wind shot down the chimney and blew out all the candles. The children froze as though darknes
s, like a thick cloak, had dropped out of the sky. As their eyes adjusted, the flames in the fire flickered with rich and vivid colours, the noise of the storm sounded louder.

  ‘Are you alright, Old Man Wood?’ Archie whispered.

  ‘Fine, my boy. Fine,’ Old Man Wood replied, returning to his chair and then leaning forward towards the flames. ‘Something smouldering in the back of my mind suddenly burst into flame when you were talking about those rivers,’ he said. His weathered, bony features were greatly enhanced by the firelight, and his eyes seemed to shine like the stars and his wrinkles were deep and filled with experiences. ‘It reminded me of … well, something from a long time ago, that’s all.’

  ‘Right,’ Isabella said, gathering herself, trying not to explode with joy. ‘Since there’s no light and you both did reasonably well, would you like to hear who the text was from?’ Daisy and Archie moved in next to her, trying to catch a peek at the screen.

  ‘It’s from Sue!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Sue? You’re kidding?’

  ‘NO! She’s alive!’ Isabella started dancing in front of the fire, punching the air. ‘In fact,’ Isabella continued, ‘it’s better than that. She’s with Gus!’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Yes way! Together they made it through the storm.’

  Archie was astonished. ‘But how? Are they in hospital—’

  ‘No, no, it sounds incredible,’ Isabella said, her voice singing. ‘I scribbled on a piece of paper about the boat and shoved it in Sue’s pocket. When Sue ran off, she bumped into Gus and persuaded him to join her and she found the note. They looted the shop, Gus built a shelter over the boat and, because of that, they survived! Apparently Gus has been nothing less than heroic. They’re out at sea and she just caught a fish!’

  ‘Blimey,’ Archie said. ‘That really is incredible.’

  ‘It’s brilliant news, sis,’ Daisy cried, and she hugged Isabella who was already hugging Archie.

  ‘And there’s more.’

  ‘What do you mean, more?’

  ‘Oh, so much more.’ Isabella could hardly stop giggling. She found herself blushing and pushed her siblings away.

  ‘What?’

  Isabella found tears welling in her eyes. ‘They’ve fallen in love.’

  Archie reeled. ‘No Way! Gus – are you sure?’

  ‘Gus, with Sue?’ Daisy added. ‘Never.’

  Isabella shook her head. ‘They’ve kissed!’

  Archie reddened just thinking about it.

  ‘They’ve been snogging?’ Daisy laughed. ‘Epic!’

  ‘Yup!’ squealed Isabella. ‘Snogging!’ she repeated.

  ‘Ooh-eeee!’ and the girls squealed in delight.

  WHILE THE JOYS of Sue and Gus’ love affair dominated the conversation, Old Man Wood quietly picked his way around the room and re-lit several of the candles. Then he slipped out of the room to do the same in the hallway and kitchen.

  For the first time in ages, his whole body fizzed with energy. It was as if a touch paper had exploded a great big memory-rocket right inside his mind and information had flashed in. It was almost too much to bear. He had forgotten so much – and yet so much still remained locked inside. How and when would he tell the children, and would they believe him? If they didn’t, then what? Would it ruin everything? The old man was swamped by questions.

  One thing had come to him with clarity. The answers to some of his questions lay with some special old friends who he needed to find – and fast. From what he had remembered, they might be able to fill in the blanks.

  Maybe, he thought, his time had finally come.

  ISABELLA WAS PUTTING the finishing touches to her text reply and the twins were discussing the revelation of Gus and Sue’s kissing, which Archie thought sounded quite disgusting.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how do you actually snog?’

  ‘OK, so what you do,’ Daisy replied in a very educational manner, ‘is put your lips together with your friend, shut your eyes, open your mouth a bit, poke out your tongue and swirl it around against the other one.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Archie said. His look of revulsion said it all. ‘And that’s supposed to be nice.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose,’ Daisy replied.

  ‘What if you start dribbling?’ he asked. ‘And what if you bash your teeth?’

  ‘You won’t—’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Daisy pouted her lips. ‘Cos I do.’

  ‘And anyway,’ Archie asked, ‘if you’re swirling away, how are you supposed to breathe? Isn’t it all just a bit uncomfortable and awkward and what if the person you’re kissing has bad breath, like Kemp?’

  ‘God, Archie, you’re so ten, aren’t you?’

  Archie frowned. How come Daisy knew all this stuff? ‘Have you actually done it?’

  ‘Might have,’ Daisy replied coyly.

  Archie eyed her suspiciously. ‘I don’t think you have, you’re telling me a big fat porky pie, lie.’

  Daisy winked at him with a smile on her face. ‘That’s for me to know, and you to find out.’

  Old Man Wood returned and coughed. The children fell quiet. ‘Time for bed. I’ll put the generator on in the morning,’ he said. ‘But would any of you like to hear one of my special stories?’

  ‘Oh yeah! But only if it’s got absolutely nothing to do with snogging,’ Archie said.

  Old Man Wood’s stories were fantastic tales full of heroes, magicians and witches, evil overlords and brutal wars. They nearly always contained adventures about Tree-men, who were always the bravest and noblest of creatures. The way he delivered them was like fire and ice blended perfectly together; his ancient face alone, full of wrinkles, seemed to express the meaning in the story. And when the stories were happy his eyes sparkled like the bright Northern Star. When they were sad, dark clouds cloaked his eyes and his wrinkles grew deep and long and the shadows from the wavering firelight dramatised the effect so much that the children would ask questions for days after, such as, ‘What happened to the Warlbist, when her husband gave in to the Floak?’ or ‘How did the Spurtle get its fur?’

  Daisy smiled. ‘How about the Iso story?’

  ‘We always have the Iso story,’ Archie whinged.

  ‘Because it’s beautiful and she is so incredibly cool.’

  ‘But it’s sooo girly—’

  ‘It’s an excellent choice,’ Isabella added. ‘Just what we need – as long as it’s only the beginning.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Iso story,’ Old Man Wood said, winking at the girls. ‘A story of love and friendship and derring-do! But afterwards, no questions, it’s straight to bed.’

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  OLD MAN WOOD AND THE FIRE

  Old Man Wood had always been old. His face was deeply lined by the journey of time; his teeth worn to dull stumps, his remaining hair random and straggly, his skin blotched and wrinkled. For this reason he was affectionately called Old Man Wood; because he looked as weathered as a rough piece of bark from a tree like an old birch.

  Old Man Wood studied his rectangular four poster bed which jutted out into the room like a big wooden box. He noted with interest the strange patterns and shapes of the carvings on every upright and beam and wondered if they offered any clues. He examined the three rectangular panels at its foot, showing live pictures of the children. Old Man Wood scratched his chin. If it hadn’t been for the panels he might never have found them … hadn’t that been a stroke of luck?

  On the floor lay five brown, dirt-ingrained rugs. Standing behind them stood a large wardrobe where he stored his few clothes and in front of the window sat a brown leather sofa. Opposite the door, an old metal fireplace with intricate scrolls saw regular activity during the colder months.

  Classical wooden panelling, made from many different tree species, covered the walls and it glowed with an unlikely variety of colour. How unfussy it was, how strangely beautiful; how well it suited him.

  Every night since the rain had begun he’d fallen
into a deep sleep and later woken, sweating and yelling, gripping his sheets until his hands hurt – his fingernails digging into his palms. And last night it was the same: blinding flashes, searing heat followed by intense cold. Goosebumps appeared as he thought about the spider; that horrible, ugly, white, ghost-like thing with a blue ring of fire in its belly. He closed his eyes but the snapshots refused to go away.

  Old Man Wood moaned. He stared out of the window at the dark early morning, with its dirty charcoal colours filtering through the grey clouds, and tried to make sense of it all. With nothing forthcoming, he frowned and stretched his arms out wide. Maybe he’d be better off in front of the fire in the living room with an early morning cup of tea. Might just fix my head and settle my nerves, he thought. He shuffled into the kitchen and boiled the kettle. With his brew in hand, he ambled into the sitting room, grabbed some kindling and a couple of logs and placed them on top of the embers. The fire smoked before a small golden flame danced nervously around the wood as it tentatively took hold. Old Man Wood sank into his armchair and stared at the fire, trying as best he might to understand the images in his head.

  He spied the local newspaper on the side table next to him. He read about a burglary in last week’s Northallerton News where a thief, on making his getaway, had slipped on a banana skin and fallen down an open manhole into the sewer. Old Man Wood chuckled.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye he noted that the fire needed a bit of a poke. A tune had jumped into his head and, feeling in a better mood, he reached out and grabbed the steel fire prong.

  ‘Whoooosh, hummmy, sshhhhh,’ he began humming. He didn’t know why, but the song felt etched into him like a tattoo and came with ease. As he sang, he reached out and prodded the burning logs, enjoying the way the flames danced and licked yellow and tangerine with greater intensity. He hummed the tune a little louder, with more vigour, liking how it blended seamlessly with the rhythms of the crackles of the fire. He turned it up a notch until his singing was coming from a place deep within him, the tune filling him with a kind of inner strength that began in his loins and spread to his heart and then out to his fingertips and toes.