Winifred carried the seventeenth century clothes with a mixture of extreme caution and fascination. She’d encountered that particular perfume before and it was no surprise to her. It was the lice that she was wary of. Vile little beasts! Her speciality was early costume and, once she fumigated these, she’d have a field day analysing the stitching and exploring how each piece was constructed. Each time, new information was gathered for the archive and sometimes shared discreetly with a source at the Nottingham Costume Museum. She could have been a professor . . . Ah well. It was still worth that sacrifice a thousand times over. Even being in this damned forest was worth it, although she’d be relieved to be back at the Enclave; the trees still terrified her. Winifred didn’t disturb Florence when she slipped the clean set of clothes inside the door, nor Nat when she delivered his. He wouldn’t have heard her anyway he was singing so loudly! Good voice; nice bum she thought.
Nat and Florence faced one another on the landing, newly outfitted in contemporary costume. Jeans for both and loose shirts and jumpers, almost unisex except that Nat was amazed by the effect of a bra on . . . his libido and Florence loved it.
Oh yes, she thought. Here I am. This is me.
Downstairs, there was activity in the kitchen where Winifred had set Samuel to stir a large pot of something pungent with spices.
‘I hope that you like West Indian? We’re never sure whether there’ll be visitors so I always make something that will keep—and he’s is a little bugger for my Tiger Bay Goat curry, aren’t you, Sammy?’ she teased.
‘Samuel. Well, it certainly clears the pipes, Winifred, I’ll say that for it.’ He leaned in and inhaled.
‘You know you love it!’ she cackled, ‘Sammy.’
They sat at the kitchen table and spooned in the magnificent stew, scooping up the gravy with chunks of bread, until they could eat no more and the warmth of the spices filled them.
Both Winifred and Samuel watched them carefully as they began to relax. Winifred saw how the man had re-opened the kitchen door and made sure that he was seated so that he could see into the hall and the front door.
‘Would you like me to lock the door? I understand your concerns but I can assure you that we will not be disturbed tonight. You are quite safe here,’ she reassured him.
Nat wondered if the implication was that at some stage there would be company. He considered and shook his head very deliberately, ‘No need but we have a million questions and we need some answers. OK?’
‘Of course. Explanations before a good night’s sleep then,’ Samuel confirmed as they wiped their mouths and sipped from the cans of Jamaica Red Stripe which Winifred had supplied from the fridge. She watched as Nat took deep swallows of the cold beer.
‘We need to know, to understand,’ said Florence simply. ‘We need to make some sense of what we’ve been through, of where we’ve been. What happened . . . ’
‘Then let’s go through into the sitting room. Winifred would . . . ?’
‘Already on it, Sammy. As always. Blue Mountain coffee on the way.’
‘Thank you. A real treasure, Winifred,’ he confided in them as she left the room and they heard a loud, ‘Ha!’ beyond.
The sofas in front of a spitting fire were comfortable, if a little shabby, ‘Winifred really is marvellous, you know. Her knowledge of costume is second to none. Senior lecturer in historical costume at The Courtauld. Gave it all up to be a Taxane.’ He was all pride. They smiled but very little of this was making sense yet.
And still, it was Winifred making the coffee, mused Florence.
‘My name is Samuel Richards and—Winifred Joshua—and we are Taxanes.’ He saw that the name did not surprise them.
Nat began to ask the first of his many questions but Samuel had anticipated him. ‘Please, try not to interrupt. I’m going to tell you everything that I think you’ll want to know. I’ll probably answer most of your questions but when I’m finished, ask any others.’ He saw Florence dig her elbow into the man’s side and there seemed to be tacit agreement that he could continue. ‘I’ve done this before. I think that you’ll find it helpful.’ They were attentive and silent.
‘Very well. The Taxanes are an ancient group of watchers who protect the timeline. It is our business to know about time travel through the portal of ancient trees and we are here to help and to guard. We are wholly unknown outside of those who need to know and we are an ancient and covert organisation.’ He paused, ‘Tell me Florence, in your time in the forests, were you aware of regular visitors to particular trees? Dog-walkers? Hikers?’ He saw the acknowledgment. ‘One or two of these people will have been watchers. They would visit an ancient tree at the propitious time and. . .’
‘No bloody watcher at my propitious time when I crashed into the Fat Belly Oak,’ Nat added.
‘No,’ he coughed. ‘Christmas Eve I’m afraid. Even watchers are at home then. It might interest you to know that we were on the scene shortly afterwards and tried very hard to convince a young constable that you must have wandered off after a concussion. To no avail, I’m afraid.’
‘My parents . . .’ Nat’s voice broke.
‘Naturally,’ Samuel responded kindly. ‘May I ask for your patience and I will come to that?’ He watched Nat and then continued.
‘The origins of the Taxane Enclave are obscure but by the time of Charlemagne, there are records of a group in Aachen, known to both the church and to the Emperor himself, and it seems that this group founded chapters throughout Europe. We strongly believe, however, that the ancient peoples, long before Charlemagne, were also aware of the phenomena but there are no formal records of that.
Nat began to wonder how long this lecture would last.
‘However, if you take the example of the Druids, it seems obvious from the monuments that they left, that they were very conscious of the power of Time in our world. Their response, of course, was unfortunate—human sacrifice.’ He shuddered. ‘The point is that we have existed formally for at least a millennia. We have extensive resources and assets throughout the world and a number of major sites where our archives are housed and where our training and de-briefing takes place.’ He took a pause; it was a great deal to take in.
Nat nodded, ‘You said, ‘Edward sends his regards’.’
‘Tell us—please,’ said Florence.
‘Yes, it got your attention, didn’t it?’ Samuel was rather pleased with himself. ‘I am sure that you know far more about him than we do and you must tell me all—later. We have his notes in our archives—many incomplete and some are barely readable as a result of the burning. There is little reference to names in them—a protection for those he loved we believe—but there is, amongst the material, an obscure reference to this month and your names. It appears to be a very specific inclusion. Together with the warning from the Futures Chapter, it was crucial that we intercepted you on your arrival. I was the duty Watcher when Mar. . . when we were alerted to your arrival. My colleagues will be envious of my good fortune.’
‘The warning from. . .?’
Winifred turned so that only Samuel could see her face and gave him the slightest narrowing of her eyes. This was not the time or place for that discussion.
‘The Futures Chapter sometimes warns us of important arrivals,’ she soothed. ‘Helps us to be at the right place.’ Samuel was quiet but Nat and Florence had other concerns.
Florence only heard the reference to burning. ‘They’re well? Not in danger?’ she asked nervously.
‘Oh, no, no, no.’ Winifred smiled. ‘We can tell you the date of his daughter’s marriage, children—or her death, if that would help you. Sir Edward himself . . . we have no record of what happened to him, I’m afraid.’ She saw the concerns on their faces.
‘I’m sorry. Of course, for you it has been hours. Forgive us.’
‘Will she have a good life?’ Florence thought of her friend. She was quite sure that Edward Cavendish would fend for himself.
‘A fulfilling and a long life. M
argaret lives to a great age and dies surrounded by her extensive family.’
Florence smiled at him, ‘That’s good then. Thank you.’
‘So, how did Edward’s notes come into your possession?’ Nat wondered.
Winifred was amused at Samuel’s irritation. His de-briefing lecture rarely followed his intended path.
‘Yes, yes. They were part of Margaret Cavendish’s library. She left specific instructions that it should be inviolate, protected for all time from the family selling it. In 1972, when the British Library was established, her descendants lifted the burden of caring for it from their shoulders and gifted it to the nation. Naturally, we have Taxanes among the Librarians in the British Library,’ he laughed at the absurdity of not doing so. ‘A great deal of time and money was spent in extracting them. They are most reluctant to release any of their books you know. A very generous donation was made and even then, they had the notes copied and checked by experts who assured the authorities that these were the jottings of a mere astrologer,’ there was distaste in his voice.
Samuel cleared his throat and picked up his theme, ‘If I may continue? Now that you have returned from your extraordinary adventure, you need have no worries. The Taxanes will support you throughout this transition and help you to rebuild your lives.’
Florence was astonished by the sheer smugness of it all. ‘An adventure! 1644— the middle of a Civil War. We lived there for a year, survived—were nearly killed—and you think that it’s been an adventure and that some bloody boy-scout secret organisation knows about time-travel and did nothing to stop us going, did nothing to rescue us? Have you any idea what it’s been like? What we’ve been through?’
What we’ve suffered, thought Nat. He thought that if Samuel Richards was wise, he’d pay attention to the quiet fury in Florrie’s voice. He didn’t.
‘I imagine that it’s been challenging—demanding even but fascinating. I envy you.’
She considered throwing her beer can at him. Winifred’s mouth twitched.
‘We were tortured, raped, and reduced to bloody slave labour. Starvation is not fucking fascinating!’
Samuel lowered his head. ‘Of course not. Forgive me. I spend my life dealing with time-travellers. You must forgive my envy of your experience. I’m know it must have been… harrowing.’
Florence and Nat saw the sincerity in his eyes and decided to let him off the hook.
‘It is our job to deal with the consequences of time-travel,’ Winifred contributed. ‘We have but a brief look through that window. Not all of us are granted that gift.’
‘Some bloody gift,’ murmured Nat.
‘We have one request,’ Winifred continued. ‘Since this is 2017, and Florence you travelled from 2020, you must be careful to say nothing to us of what you know of the world beyond our time.
‘What, not even about the President of the United States?’ Florence teased.
Winifred and Samuel groaned.
30
Magic Is Science Yet Unknown
‘It is probably best that you ask your questions,’ Samuel sulked, having abandoned his lecture. He had conducted countless first-contact encounters but only one other returner interview; it was rare. He listened to it all and when they’d finished, he rubbed his hand over his weathered face and blowing out his cheeks said, ‘So: you want me to explain the phenomenon of time travel. A phenomena of which contemporary science can only scratch the surface. You want me to tell you how the trees harness the energy that does this and finally, you need to know: why you? Have I summarised correctly?’
They looked at one another and then him—and nodded.
Samuel paused and sighed. ‘Can’t be done! I can’t give you scientific answers because we only know a fraction of what we need to—and we have the humility to acknowledge it.’ He enjoyed the surprise on their faces. A practised trick which never failed to amuse him.
‘I can tell you what we think we know—and when I say we, I do not mean those academics lacking in imagination! Science offers us hints and theories about the process and each decade the Taxanes understand a little more but it is still a mere scratch upon the surface of a complete explanation. We know—everyone in this room—that time-travel is possible. Understanding how this happens, is a work in progress.’
He took a gulp of his beer, ‘Let me tell you what we think we understand. Energy waves constantly pass through us, yes?’ He paused for them to agree. ‘Particles pass through the Earth—gravity waves, cosmic particles—solar radiation. Goodness, even the Higgs-Boson seems to be drawn to us!’
Florence squeezed Nat’s hand in a gesture that said tell you later. Nat guessed that there’d be a lot of that.
‘For most of the time, we are unaware of these forces, save perhaps for gravity, but occasionally, we are afforded a glimpse of this power if we keep our eyes open and our senses alert: the northern lights are an obvious example. Magnificent! We know that they are particles from the sun bouncing on our atmosphere but consider what our ancestors thought. Mystical! Magic! It’s simply our understanding which makes them so—or not. They say that magic is science yet unknown.’
‘Let us take the example of the Hadron Collider— turn of the century,’ he informed a confused Nat.
‘A what?’
‘Big Machine. Based in Switzerland. Crashes particles in to one another. Tell you later,’ Florence gave him a half smile.
‘The Hadron has been capturing some of these elusive particles and that project is quite at the limits of our scientific understanding. As each new particle is confirmed, we understand more and realise how much more we do not yet know. The truth is that there are some mysteries that physics continues to fail to explain: the exact origins of life on Earth; why the Universe is, what state death is . . . ’ he paused, briefly lost in his own thoughts.
‘Are you suggesting God?’ Florence ventured.
‘I am not. There are those of our order, however, who are sincere believers in the divine. The Taxane Enclave does not proscribe.’
Nat smiled.
‘Physics isn’t interested in how birds migrate across vast distances or how dowsers find water. It dismisses any phenomena which it can’t calculate or demonstrate. Physics laughs at ley-lines and the power of stone circles. It isn’t the fault of the scientists; they simply don’t have the matrix to give context for the exploration of such things and so they disregard it.’ Samuel Richards warmed to his topic, ‘Tosh cries Science. Time-travel? Magic and mysticism! Mathematics can explain everything. But how do you measure what lies beyond mathematics?’
Winifred rolled her eyes at Samuel on his soap box. Too late to stop him now.
‘With every passing decade, the more we think we know—and the more we must concede about the limits of our knowledge. This is as it should be but there is such violent resistance against anything which conventional parameters cannot account for—the same barriers which Galileo encountered; the known limits which Columbus declined to be bounded by, and the very same stubborn ignorance which Darwin battled against. For such an intelligent species, we are remarkable for shackling ourselves to what seems to be ‘known’ and fearful of, and antagonistic towards, that which is unknown and currently inexplicable. If we can’t explain it, it cannot be! Or it must be consigned to the work of some divine presence. We are restrained by our insistence on clinging on to our ignorance.’ His eyes shone with fervour.
‘Occasionally, of course, some enlightened scientist will suggest a persuasive insight which, momentarily, captures the imagination of thinkers because our instincts cry that it might be plausible. Gaia Earth hinted at a unified explanation—that the Earth tries to find a way to balance itself. And then idiots used that to justify and excuse our abuse of Earth’s resources and deny that humanity is responsible for climate change! When we are confronted with the clock-face of the existence of the Earth and our few brief seconds upon it, we find ourselves clutching at some sort of ancient memory but our span on the face of the
Earth is all too brief. We have but our ‘four score years and ten’ allotted to us, and it’s not enough for our minds to sweep away the mists of time. And so the scientists stop looking in those directions, wanting to know only that which they can prove with formulae. They stop looking at anything which Man cannot account for. The arrogance is staggering!’ he paused. ‘But the Taxanes have embraced those mysteries beyond one single generation.’ There was a sheen of sweat on his face.
‘The trees,’ said Florence caught up in his momentum.
‘The trees,’ he returned her smile with deep satisfaction and took a long swig of his beer.
‘They live so long that they bridge the briefness of our misunderstanding?’ said Nat.
Florence watched Samuel reassess his initial impression of the young man. Nat’s insights were no surprise to her.
‘Quite. Now let me tell you what science already knows about the trees. Recently, a team of researchers found that some ancient cedar trees in Japan had an unusual level of a radioactive type of carbon known as carbon-14.’
Florence had studied it, ‘The Fukushima Daiichi plant— 2011? There are still large areas of Japan which are uninhabitable in 2020.’
‘Really? Sad, isn’t it? Stop telling us beyond 2017!’ he reminded her. ‘The interesting point is, how the trees in those contaminated areas continue to grow.’
‘Mmm. I read a number of papers on it. There was a spike in levels of Beryllium-10 deep in the ice in Antartica. They’re created when intense radiation hits the upper atmosphere, suggesting that a blast of energy hit our planet from space—during the life-time of the trees. Thing was, the trees weren’t affected by the isotopes—even though they were drawing them in through the water table. No one understood it. Everyone thought that the radiation would kill them off. It couldn’t be explained.’
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 20
