‘Oh Yeah! Can you smell that? Fumes!’ he laughed. They were, at the very least, in the twentieth century. Entwined on the floor of the tree’s hollow with Florence, the memory of the transition was sweet. Then he remembered the woman’s cry and he patted the innards of the tree trunk, half expecting to see some grisly imprint there but the voice had gone and there was nothing to see except a raised lump or two growing inexplicably from the walls of the trunk but they’d severed their link with the yew and it was less disturbing now. His eyes adjusted to the dusk of the church yard. ‘Shall we find out then?’
Poking his head out, he was greeted by a blast of icy cold wind. ‘Brilliant. Not visitor weather. Come on, Florrie. Let’s find out what home looks like.’ She held out her hand and he pulled her from the folds of the yew tree.
‘What was that?’ she asked sharply. ‘A sigh? Did you hear it?’ He hadn’t but neither of them dismissed it as imagination, after Edward’s revelations. They were glad to be out.
They were brushing down the debris of their sojourn from voluminous skirts and felted jackets, when a rough voice carried across to them. ‘Oi! You two! That’s a protected tree there. You’re trespassing! Get out of it!’ and a man came in to view with a lively brown Labrador barking its head off and being held back with some restraint—although Florence’s experience of labradors made her think that it probably would only deliver a fierce lick. ‘I’m sick and tired of you lot. Think that it’s a joke to notch one up in there! IT’S PROTECTED! And it’s a bloody church! You’re not even kids for God’s sake! Get a room! You’re lucky if I don’t call the police—not that they’d turn up! They never do. Now bugger off!’
His rant finished, he was walking off even as he threatened them and they started to giggle like teenagers. Florence picked up her skirts, laughing as they sauntered down the path. She was fighting the weight of her outfit but Nat felt the thinness of no underwear in the stiff wind. With no idea which way they were heading, they slowed as soon as the dog’s barking became faint and found that they were at the lych-gate. The gradual realisation came to them that they were indeed home, no longer pursued by those who desired their death and where the threat of police was a welcome blessing. The dog-walker was toothless by comparison with the threat of the Witch-Finder General.
‘Nat . . . it’s over. They’re all . . . dead.’ She breathed and then her breath caught with a sob, thinking of Edward and Maggie. ‘Oh God. We were just with them and now they’re in the ground. Dead—for centuries.’
Nat clutched her fiercely, trembling with his own emotions. Yes. The loss of Edward and Margaret was painful but there was another bastard who was also rotten in the ground. Just bones now. They were truly safe.
‘Let’s go, Florrie. It’s cold and I want a hot bath and a pint of lager—in reverse order,’ he decided.
‘A hot bath,’ she sighed. ‘Which way? Where to?’ They had to know when this was if they were to find a place to stay—his place or hers.
They had talked about their return, about the consequences of their disappearance. How would their loved ones react when they suddenly re-appeared? How would they explain any of it? The more that they tried to find a way through it, the more impossible it seemed. Say they reappeared in 2000, how could Nat present himself to very elderly parents to whom he’d been lost for twenty-five years? They’d decided to play it by ear if and when they got here.
In fact, in order not to crumble completely, Florence had had to put her parents’ devastation out of her mind and resolve to accept her life in 1644. Now, she was open again to the pain that they must have . . . would still feel. How could she approach them? And then what if this was Nat’s time—she might not even have been born. How did that work?
The other issue that disturbed them was how many versions of them existed in this time—whenever it was? Edward had said that he’d never encountered another version of himself even thought he’d tried to find himself. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t make contact. He’d just missed himself; people weren’t sure where he was; he was travelling. He couldn’t even catch sight of himself. He began to think that this was a quirk of time travel and probably a very wise one. Edward thought that it would be unwise to confront oneself. How could you warn yourself about your own future without influencing it?
It was crucial then, that they found out what year it was as soon as possible. They were near the boundary of the churchyard and the lights of the town seemed miraculous. Sodium, Florence noted. Could be older ones or could be nearer to Nat’s time. Subdued with the thoughts of this after the excitement of their arrival, she placed her hand in his and they halted at the gate, pausing before that next step that would re-launch them into this century.
She felt Nat’s hold on her hand tighten. They were ready to go. ‘Wait. Enough of this!’ She lifted the heavy skirts and slithered out of the underskirts. She was left with her gown, which she took between both hands and ripped with all of her might, following the weft around the hem so that suddenly, it was a knee length garment. ‘You have no idea,’ she groaned. ‘I can’t wait to put on a pair of jeans, a T shirt and a bra!’ The excess material, she wrapped around her shoulders.
Nat grinned at her, thinking that she could easily be dressed for a ball. There was nothing he could do about his rough breeches and linen shirt because there was nothing but him beneath those as each draft of glacial wind reminded him. He’d been colder—and anyway, he was far too drunk with delight to care. The evening was bone cold; the sort of iciness that ate into you and made you want to keep moving at a brisk pace before you froze to the spot. They took pleasure in the ease of simple aggregate underfoot and it seemed strange not to be on rough ankle-wrenching ground.
Next to St Edwin’s, was a sizeable car park, built by the council to accommodate the number of visitors arriving to see the famous yews, rather than an expanding congregation. They tried to focus on any cars which might give them a clue about the year but only one was in sight. A large green Volvo, slathered in mud and somewhat battered, looked abandoned at the far end of the enclosure. And still it was an astonishing sight to them. Once, such images had retreated into their dreams and now they were jolted back. The car was so mud encrusted that it gave little clue as to its date; a classic—unfortunately.
They made to move off towards the lights of the town when the car door was flung open and a tall, older man battled his way out of it, his sandwich falling to the ground. He was still chewing and had to shout over the rising wind to be heard. ‘You two! Stop. I have. . . ’ His voice was carried away, even though he was using his hands to amplify his voice. He spat his mouthful out. Florence and Nat paused for a moment but, only catching some of his words and with the scent of hot baths and beers in their nostrils, they ignored him. They were practised in steering away from potential danger or confrontation but now this man was trotting towards them.
‘No. Really. You have to stop!’ he panted. No effect. The jog was causing him to be asthmatically breathless. He wheezed out his coup de grace, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘SIR EDWARD SENDS HIS REGARDS!’
It stopped them dead and only then did he stop to suck in some air and then, conscious that they were still in flight mode, quickly added, ‘I know when you are returning from.’ The oddness of the phrase made them turn around and look at him and now he’d jogged close enough to speak, still breathless, ‘Yes. I know. The yew. Time translocation. I have answers. I can tell you what has happened. Please do stop before I run out of breath entirely and collapse!’
And now they were transfixed.
‘If you will come with me, I can provide answers for you and help you. I mean you no harm at all.’ They still didn’t move. He thought for a second then added, ‘How does a hot meal, a flushing toilet and a sprung mattress sound?’ he said in exasperation.
‘Who are you?’ Nat was primed and taut, his recently acquired defensive skills firing. Instinctively, he stepped in front of Florence and she let him. Glad th
at he’d slid his blade into his boot, he felt the cold steel of it there now. The man held up a finger in the air, indicating that they should pause for a moment whilst he got his breath. He clutched his side. It gave them time to look around, reassure themselves that there was no one else lying in wait, and to assess this stranger. He really didn’t look like trouble. Fifty or so and clean shaven, with greying curled hair, his clothes were good, outdoor stuff—sensible. He wore hunter wellies and a warmly lined Barbour and Florence suspected corduroy trousers completed the picture.
‘Please. I’ve been waiting for you.’ Wheeze. ‘Someone always waits here when there’s a solar flare and we had Sir Edward’s notes—such as they were. We wait for any travellers who arrive. I have been sent to you. You are Florence Brock . . . and Nathanial Haslet.’ It wasn’t a question.
Still, they didn’t reply.
‘Well, of course you are! You’ve only to look at your clothing—your footwear. Ah,’ he saw Florence’s ripped off dress, ‘I see you’ve had enough of long skirts, Ms Brock.’ He smiled and they relaxed a little, and he managed to gather his breath. ‘We know about the trees, about the solar flares and ley lines and we know about travelling through time. Let us help you. You can trust me. Indeed, you have little choice. Of course, you can’t go home and it would be disastrous to contact the police.’ He was stating the entirely obvious—to him.
They looked at one another, having abandoned unconditional trust long ago, they were not about to give themselves over to a random stranger, waiting in a deserted car park in the middle of the night who wanted them to get into his car! No way! They tensed, ready to move quickly, their only reason for staying, the mention of Edward.
He saw that they were ready to flee and so he stepped closer and Nat strained.
Florence stepped into the light of the street light and said simply, ‘You’re a Taxane.’
‘Excellent. You understand. You can trust me.’ He was relieved. ‘It’s my job to know when travellers might arrived and to help them—help you. That’s what we do.’
Exchanging a glance, Nat gave him a curt nod whilst making his mistrust clear. He lifted his chin and asked, ‘What’s Edward’s daughter called?’
‘Margaret Cavendish. Born 1632, died . . . ’
‘No!’ shouted Florence. ‘We’ve just left her. Don’t tell us. Not yet.’
The man inclined his head and was quiet. Marissa would have handled that better.
‘Very well. Won’t you get into the car? It’s freezing out here.’
‘What year?’ Nat asked.
‘2017.’ He watched the surprise on both faces.
Samuel Richards watched the urgent whispering and gesticulations and the resignation as they came towards him. At least they’d listened. He had far more challenging first contacts than this but it seemed that their adventures in the past had taught them to be wary. The odorous young man was now invading his personal space and sliding a long thin blade out of his boot. He spoke in low, threatening tones, telling him clearly that if any violence were planned, there would be trouble. Everything about him suggested a seasoned practitioner in the arts of combat and Samuel was very quick to reassure him that no such scenario would occur. He’d once tried to calm a fellow with a long bow. It hadn’t gone well. Samuel took his hand off the taser in his pocket.
He ushered them towards the car, opening the back doors for them and standing well back, encouraging the lambs into the holding pen. Their nervousness was clear and he breathed a sigh of relief as they got into the Volvo as though it might turn back into a pumpkin.
Really, Samuel thought, it was probably easier to scoop up those who arrived from the deep past for, while they were seriously disorientated, they all assumed that they were dead and allowed themselves to be shepherded by the watchers who they thought to be either angels or devils—apart from the Druids of course; they were already straddling two worlds.
Sitting together in the back seat, felt strange, so familiar, propped up like nobility on the frayed leather. Nat leaned forward, over the driver’s shoulder, menacingly.
It was very unsettling to drive like that but Samuel accommodated their anxiety. It was the woman who spoke.
‘Smell the air freshener, Nat! Can you feel the engine? I barely remembered . . . ’ For a moment, the man’s threat over him softened and through the rear view mirror, Samuel saw him give her a tender kiss on the cheek. Then he caught the man’s eye and the threat was there again. Samuel broke his gaze away.
‘Erm, we’ve a little drive ahead of us and then the first order is food and drink, a change of clothes and explanations—or would you prefer a good night’s sleep first? Of course . . . ’
‘A shower!’ Florence sighed before she could help herself but it broke the tension.
‘A pint!’ sighed Nat, sensing himself relaxing at the thought.
Samuel laughed, ‘There’re warm blankets behind you. Can’t offer you the drink until we arrive but there’s a flask of hot coffee somewhere. Packets of biscuits if you’re starving. Get stuck . . . ’ but they were already availing themselves of all of it and it was bliss. They’d found the Jaffa Cakes. ‘Good. Yes. Well, it’s a fair drive to the house—couple of hours—and then we’ll get you sorted, eh?’
Nat and Florence were busy eating and drinking but jumped as he revved the engine, so he drove steadily over the muddy gravel, as if carrying a basket of eggs. His caution soon evaporated once on the open road, as they clutched the front seats, shocked at the speed of the vehicle on the tarmac. It felt terrifying to move so quickly. Samuel was hitting a brisk 45mph.
‘Sorry! I forget,’ and he slowed to thirty-five, grateful that it was late and he was annoying few other drivers. ‘Samuel Richards. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Florence . . . Nat,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Mrrrgmph,’ managed Nat, mouth full of Jaffa Cake. He watched his surrounding pass by. The changes were subtle but there. Motorway signs now flashed and were lit; the cars were sleeker and even this battered old Volvo had an electronic dashboard that fascinated him; it looked like an aircraft cockpit.
‘I’m taking you both to one of our transition houses. You’ll be quite safe and you can stay there for as long as is needed. Please, my dear fellow, would you mind just sitting a little further back, I’d hate to have an accident and you are making me very nervous. You might just use the seat belts . . . ’
Samuel watched Nat’s grin spread across his face and he heard him whisper to the woman, ‘Seventeenth century warrior!’ and she grinned back at him but he sat back anyway and wrapped his arm around her. Samuel had expected them to fall asleep but while they were quiet, they were brightly alert, their eyes taking in the sights of the towns and villages and looking at one another in delight once they hit the M1. He risked fifty.
‘Sherwood Forest?’ the woman asked, as the sign posts began to narrow down the options for their destination.
‘Yes. Our house is . . . ’ but he was drowned out by hearty laughter.
29
The Tree's The Thing
It was a pretty cottage, secluded and in the heart of Thoresby Woods. Florence recognised the type: once lived in by forestry workers, in the late 70s they were sold off, snapped up by the workers themselves, who quickly transformed them into quaint, desirable cottages, huddled in small hamlets in hidden parts of the Forest. Thoresby was particularly picturesque and Florence knew that by 2020 they were selling for a small fortune. They arrived at the cottage and stepped out into a clearing of rabbit and deer-grazed grass, springy with pine needles. She actually knew these cottages from a life before. Hidden in plain sight, she thought.
The comforting glow of lamplight was warm behind curtained windows as the car turned in. Samuel bumbled out, stretched, rummaging for door keys in jacket pockets. Nat was already out with Florence close by. Ready.
Once bitten, thought Samuel. Poor souls. What must they have endured to bring them to this? Then again, if he’d been transpo
rted . . . He was still scrabbling for his key when the front door flew open and light flooded over them. ‘Winifred!’ Samuel snapped. They heard a click. The cottage had escaped much renovation and the switches were still dark Bakelite things which occasionally produced sparks.
‘Sorry!’ a rich voice chuckled and the hall light was extinguished. Samuel was moving, gesturing for them to follow him in. ‘Electric light is a miracle of the modern age but we’ve learned that it’s a little disturbing when people first come to us—or return. We try to keep the light a little lower to make it more welcoming. If we think about it, we actually use candle light! Do come in.’
They heard the voice inside laughing again. Winifred waved away his sarcasm, stood aside and resisted the temptation to hug the new arrivals as Samuel led the way. Even from here, she could scent the distinct odours of a distant age. They followed, drawn by the warmth and the smell of food.
Nothing in the house was new to them; it actually was quite worn and yet everything was a miracle. Central heating burbled away, infusing everything with warmth. The sharpness of electric lights astonished them. And there was wall to wall carpet under their feet. It was like Christmas.
‘There’s lots of hot water if you’d . . .’ the woman began, with as much tact as she could muster.
‘A shower! Shampoo!’ Florence was transported by the possibility.
‘Come with me,’ smiled Winifred. She settled Florence in the bathroom, demonstrated the shower’s simple workings and piled luxuriant, thick bath towels on a stool. Florence goggled at the condiments: shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, DEODORANT!’ She was discarding her clothes before Winifred had left the room.
Winifred collected the garments and held them gingerly, ‘I’ll bring you fresh ones. Size 12? 36B?’ she guessed.
‘Anything. I just need . . . Ah . . . ’ and she’d stepped in to the steaming shower, actually murmuring with delight at the loveliness of it, insensible of Winifred’s questions. She could hear singing from another room. Seems that they had more than one shower.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 19
