Samuel lifted his hands. Point proved.
‘One thing was discovered: trees are one of the organisms on the Earth that can absorb these isotopes and utilise them for a purpose not yet understood by science. Interesting link with Bonsai growers. Some experiments around Bonsai releasing a healing . . . aura.’ She gave an embarrassed laugh.
‘So our ancient trees are a conduit to a power which we don’t yet get,’ suggested Nat.
‘Perhaps. Although I prefer not to use the term ‘power’—there’s a whiff of the supernatural there. While they’re growing they are connected with that energy—Time? Very well but what about when they’re not growing?’ he focused on Florence.
‘You mean logs—buildings . . . ’ Florence felt ideas begin to come into focus. ‘Yes. Their properties are different once they’re removed from the earth. The wood’s not growing but what about the energy?’
Samuel continued, ‘They’re not the only things on the planet, capable of absorbing radio active isotopes. Though not as long living and not as ‘rooted,’ he chortled, ‘we too, among the fauna of the planet, can absorb this energy—some better than others it would seem. The Taxanes believe it is this energy which travellers are able to utilise to travel along time ley lines which bisect the Earth. Sir Edward was correct. There is a link with solar activity but there are other factors.’
The room was lost in thought at the revelation of more questions than answers. ‘Have you any idea how valuable you both are? The time-travellers that we intercept are rare and often incoherent with terror. Many do not fare well in a world which is beyond their understanding. We have so many questions for you.’
Nat saw the pointed look Samuel gave to Florence.
Florence was thoughtful, ‘Edward spoke about hearing voices within the trees when he travelled. He said that he’d seen physical evidence of bodies. We think that we may have heard something too. What do the Taxanes know about that?’
‘Yes. It’s been mentioned by others. All we have is conjecture. We wonder if the process is only partially completed—the conditions aren’t quite right. Perhaps the energies are taken by the tree but the body is not transported.’
‘Are we talking about ghosts?’ asked Florence.
‘Perhaps. It would explain many things,’ Winifred was sombre.
‘Ghosts!’ Nat spluttered.
‘Such a misleading term,’ Samuel shook his head. ‘It may be the essence of persons who become trapped in the energy fields which flood the Earth.’
‘Ghosts,’ Nat said flatly.
Florence was tentative. ‘I have to tell you all that I’ve felt something from the wooden beams in old houses. I thought it was silly but now… My granny once hinted at it too.’
Florence’s acceptance encouraged Nat. ‘I heard a voice,’ he Nat. ‘When we came through. Heard a woman crying.’
‘You didn’t say!’
‘Seemed a bit daft. Thought it was just the effect of the process, you know?’ he looked embarrassed.
Florence blushed and nodded.
Samuel, oblivious to their discomfort, pursued the idea. ‘Then consider how lucky you are to have come through unscathed—in tact. Some don’t. Now, could you manage something a little stronger than beer?’
They nodded dumbly. There was a great deal to absorb and to be thankful for and Samuel poured generous brandies for all of them.
The room fell quiet until Florence asked, ‘Taxane. You take your name from the yew?’
‘As you will see when we take you to the Enclave,’ Winifred said. ‘Our yew tree is very special.’
‘Ancient?’
‘More ancient that you can imagine,’ Winifred smiled. ‘It is at the heart of us and it is . . . well, in another age, it would have been called magical.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. There are records of yews of five thousand years,’ began Florence. ‘Perhaps even older. Hard to tell when they pollard themselves and grow from their roots and layered branches. Tree rings don’t work for yews,’ she told Nat. ‘Endlessly mythologised—and highly toxic, the yew. Painful but quick death, yew berry poisoning.’
Nat grimaced. ‘I’ll remember.’
The evening mellowed. Food and drink had softened the edges of their anxiety and excitement and the flames of the log fire were mesmerising. It was a time for stories and mystery.
‘What’s next?’ Nat asked.
Neither of them missed the flash of a look which the Taxanes exchanged.
‘When you’re ready, we’ll take you to the Enclave and you can see for yourself.’
‘He means, what’s next for us—personally? Our families, friends, our lives?’
‘That, I’m afraid,’ Winifred sighed, ‘is far more difficult than time travel.’
31
Taxus Morte
Nat put his glass down firmly on the table. ‘Our families.’ he growled.
Samuel held his look but didn’t reply directly, ‘When did you leave, Nat? 1987?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s 2017. If your timeline had been uninterrupted, you’d be 63. As it is, I’m guessing that you’re 30 or so?’
‘32.’
Winifred tried to be kind, ‘How could you return to your family and friends and be 32? There would be no reconciling your youth to the passage of years. To them, you could only be a man of over 60. You’d be an imposter.’
The raw pain on his face confirmed that he’d understood. He asked the question he’d feared, ‘My parents?’
‘We have a data base for our travellers. Let me take a look.’
To Nat’s surprise, she opened a slim metal case. There was a screen and a keyboard. ‘A computer?’
Florence nudged him. He sighed. ‘Let me guess: you’ll explain later?’ He thought that they’d be a lot of that.
Winifred smiled and then her face fell, ‘I’m sorry Nat. Your father died in 1990—but your mother is alive.’ Nat was ripped apart. ‘She lives in a residential care home specialising in dementia care. I’m so very sorry.’ There was silence in the room. ‘Your disappearance remains an open case. A Chief Superintendent, Gary Timpson, never gave up on it. He’s retired now but it seems that he still posts about it—despite our best efforts.’
‘Dementia care? Do you mean she’s . . . senile?’
Florence took his hand again. ‘It’s not called that today. We know what diseases cause the . . . senility. In fact by 2020 . . .’
‘No!’ Samuel and Winifred said together.
‘But that’s what it means?’ he confirmed. It had happened to his great aunt. He remembered well—how afraid he became of her. He wondered what this policeman was sending through the post and to whom—the newspapers? Nat had often thought about the trauma that his disappearance would have caused to his family. No body ever found. No reason. No clue. He was grateful to Gary Timpson for remembering him. Perhaps he gave some comfort to his parents. He hoped so. He didn’t know how he’d even begin to mourn his father. In this timeline, he’d been dead for nearly thirty years; Nat had missed him for a year. At least he could go to visit his mother. What difference could it make now that she wouldn’t know him?
‘My parents are alive,’ said Florence. Her hand squeezed his, trying not to be insensitive. She knew they were. Knew exactly where they were in 2017.
‘Yes.’ Samuel managed but he didn’t meet her eyes.
‘Then I can go home,’ a sob escaped.
‘You can never go home, Florence. How would you explain yourself?’ Winifred trod softly but firmly. ‘You haven’t disappeared yet. Florence Brock already exists. She has a life.’
‘I’ll could find myself—tell myself what’s going to happen. Not to go to Sherwood. I’ll . . .’ she saw Nat’s face. He’d understood more than she.
‘It won’t work, Florrie. It can’t.’
Samuel took it up. ‘Even if you could, my dear, would you believe a doppelgänger on your doorstep telling such a tale? And Nat? He wouldn’t be here with you becaus
e you’d never meet in 1643. That’s not what happened. Don’t you see? This is what happens. You and Nat are here.’
Winifred rested a hand on her shoulder, ‘Believe me, the best thing is to accept . . . ’
Florence spun to face her. ‘How would you know? You’ve no idea what this is like, what’s happened to me!’
‘She does,’ Samuel said softly. He nodded to Winifred. ‘Tell them.’
‘I was a child, in the 1960s and on a school trip to Savernake—it’s often children you know. They’re endlessly fascinated by the trees. It wasn’t the teachers’ fault. They kept us together and watched us but during the picnic, I slipped away—a rather naughty child! I just wanted to get a closer look at the King of Limbs—wonderful name isn’t it? I slipped inside and . . . well you know. I wouldn’t have survived if I’d not been very young and small. When I crawled out of the tree, I ran straight into a group of women foraging in the woods. I was a kid. I didn’t pick up the clues and so I called out to them for help. They saw me and ran screaming. I was so terrified that I staggered around the woodland for a while searching for my friends and teachers. I came across the odd person and they ran away too, most of them crossing themselves. Once, I was narrowly missed by an arrow which embedded itself into the tree behind me. I heard shouting but had no idea what they were saying; it wasn’t friendly. After that, I kept away from people—it probably saved my life. How could I understand it? I was seven! Later, the Taxanes worked out that I’d probably gone to 1300 or so.
‘I was cold, hungry and terrified when I found myself back at the King of Limbs and because there seemed nothing else to do, I crawled back inside. The process reversed itself. I’d been gone for three days. The rangers found me after a massive missing child search. Everyone asked me what had happened and I told them. Eventually, I stopped talking—no one believed me— and that was when the Taxanes stepped in and told my parents that they could help. They offered my parents special counselling and a boarding school. I began the counselling and they began to explain what had happened to me. It was tricky for such a young kid but at least they made sense. My parents were relieved to see me return to normal and gradually, I was inducted into the Taxane Enclave. Of course, my parents knew nothing of it but my school had several Taxane teachers who looked out for me. I’m guessing that there were more of us in the school just like me.
‘Our records show that I was simply lucky to find my way back at a time when there was an extended period of solar activity over those three days. I went and returned within those flares.’
They’d listened to her story in shock. They’d barely survived as adults but to be a child! Unthinkable.
Winifred was sanguine, ‘Even today, we find stories in surviving texts—sometimes illustrations— an imp wandering the woodland—a black imp! Those three days of sighting me certainly made an impact on the locals. The woodland went from being a safe foraging place to one inhabited by spirits. I try not to think what they’d have done if they’d caught me.’
‘Jesus!’ croaked Nat.
‘No help there.’ She forced a small laugh. ‘There are however, some nice carvings in Salisbury Cathedral which scholars can’t seem to explain.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve seen them. Quite a good likeness.’
‘Shit!’ Florence saw the woman in a new light. ‘But you came home to your family. You can’t deny us that. You can’t stop us. We have the right.’ Florence wasn’t as confident as her words.
‘We can,’ Winfred sighed, ‘and we must. We have centuries of experience of rogue Taxanes—those who believe they can expose the truth. Florence, they never succeed. We have too many tendrils in too many structures for you ever to be believed or to succeed. You would face ridicule, be discredited as frauds. In this century, we believe that the crime of identify theft will work well for us.’
Florence had thought Winifred to be the good cop. She was wrong. The woman had a core of steel. ‘I can’t take any more in. I need to sleep.’ She held her hand out for Nat and they left the room and sank in to the depth of the promised sprung mattress, whispering together until they both slipped into oblivion.
Winifred and Samuel drank another brandy as they discussed how to handle their new charges, disagreeing in harsh whispers about the best course of action.
‘That won’t be the end of it I fear,’ Samuel sighed.
‘It never is Sammy. We must watch carefully.’
Despite the joy of a duvet and feather pillows, neither Florence nor Nat slept for long. Nat was tortured by the tragedy of his parents’ fates. His dad had died without ever knowing what had happened to him. His mother must have been destroyed by it. It was bitter. If they’d landed nearer to his timeline, would Florence have been in an easier position? Before her birth or being a small child? Either way, contact with her family would be equally bizarre.
Florence awoke at Nat’s restlessness, confused about what to do. She might disobey the Taxanes, test their resolve but would that mean that Nat might be lost in the past without her? She didn’t want that. There had to be a way to reclaim some part of her old life—the one she was intended to live—and still have Nat. The paradoxes were disorientating. Every path that she considered, meant that she’d lose Nat and gain nothing. She would at least see her parents though. They wouldn’t know that she wasn’t their 2017 daughter.
In the living room, the Taxanes faced a hard truth. It wasn’t hard to guess what Florence’s face had tried to hide.
‘You know she will, Winifred. Can you imagine the torment of this for her? Wouldn’t you?’
‘In a heartbeat, Sammy—which is why we must show her the impossibility of it—the danger. The man understands—but then his time line is old. Florence has family and friends who are still . . . fresh. She grieves the loss. Her wounds are raw. Samuel, we have no other option.’
‘But we will alienate her and it’s clear that she’s the key to the cataclysm that is to come.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Protocol Taxus Morte,’ he breathed.
‘I fear so, Sammy. We have no choice.’
It was a slow start to the new day. Nat was enthusiastic about the eggs and bacon and let Florrie sleep after her restless night. Winifred was adept at chatting while cooking but he made no mistake about her meaning. She needed him to know and to make sure that Florence understood.
‘It’s very rare, you know, what’s happened to you. Toast? Usually, our travellers are from the very distant past, totally traumatised and we have to contain them—literally! As Sammy said, it’s exceptional for them to fully adapt. We’re just too different you see. Occasionally, we have travellers from the near past and they’re much easier.’ She laughed, ‘I have a theory that it’s to do with the Jules Verne and H.G. Wells’ effect. Milk’s in the fridge. Eventually, they integrate, thrilled with their glimpse of the future. They generally embrace their new life with us and are welcomed. Most stay with the Taxane Enclave, finding comfort in their acceptance there and the fact that they are surrounded by those who understand what’s happened. It makes it seem real, you know.’
‘Mm.’ He did.
‘So, have you resigned yourself to a life here, on those terms, Nathanial?’ She drew up a chair and sipped at the hot, strong tea.
He finished chewing and swallowed.
She was patient.
He looked her in the eyes and saw that this was no simple chat. ‘When we were in 1644, I had to come to terms with it. Had to believe that that was my real life, you know? You can’t keep clinging on to dreams. That’s why Florence married Denzil Moorcroft—I got it. She needed to carve out an existence as best she could with what she had—and so did I. Hard to do, you know, having all of this amazing knowledge which is of absolutely no use there. Not many people here know how to sew a sampler to perfection or to do some damage with a sword. I came to terms with being there and I’ll do the same here—who I am where I am. I’m still a stranger here—still out of time—but I’ll adapt and there’s no real
choice is there? And I have Florrie.’
‘That’s good. And Florence?’ She was probing now. Florence had conceded far too easily last night.
‘Ah. That I don’t know.’ He paused, leaning forward towards her across the table. She didn’t move back. ‘Could you Winifred? Not see the people you love after years away?’
‘I don’t know but it’s not a choice, Nat. The timeline is a piece of string—taut—linear. But the solar flares do something to that tautness. They . . . slacken it for a moment and it falls into loops and crosses over itself—like a ball of twine.That’s when some of us travel. Then it snaps back into that thin line as soon as it can. It wants to be linear. It is being pulled into the future. Time is a very strong force. People are linear too, travelling along that piece of string until they die. Us? We can hop aside it—jump the gaps—but it fights us all of the way. Time wants to go in just one direction. So, Florence can’t choose, Nat. The timeline will protest about that sort of incursion and the Taxanes will do everything they can to prevent it.’
Nat was intensely curious about that but Winifred ploughed on.
‘Imagine, even if she were to be believed—and that’s very doubtful given the nature of the claim and our extensive network devoted to discrediting such announcements—then the whole mystery would be exposed. The world cannot be given access to the complexities of time travel. Those in power, cannot…’ she stopped overcome with the horror of the thought. She shuddered. ‘Persuade her, Nat. Make her see the reality that you have accepted.’
‘I won’t do that. I don’t make decisions for Florrie.’
Winifred slammed down her mug. ‘Nathaniel!’ Nat rather liked that she called him by his full name; his mum did that. ‘It cannot work. No one is capable of holding such a secret. We know this. The burden is too heavy and eventually she will tell someone who is near to her and that someone will want to know if it’s true. Someone else will re-tell the secret in a conversation and talk about the Taxanes will start to go viral. It was a nightmare before the digital age; it would be impossible to contain it now.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 21
