‘We are millennia old, Nat! We know these things. We have records of near exposures before and it led to mass slaughter. We can’t let that happen again. Secrecy is at the heart of our existence for good reason. You may find this difficult to believe but we are actually protecting the world.’
Nat was surprised by the vehemence of her response. ‘When you say you can’t let it happen again, what exactly does that mean?’
Winifred pursed her lips. ‘Extreme action. We have operatives who are skilled in such work.’
He blanched. ‘Assassins! You’d kill us!’
She laughed. ‘Of course not! You’re far too precious to us!’
He visibly relaxed.
‘No. Not you.’
‘Then who?’ Florence slipped in to the kitchen.
Un-phased, Winifred continued. ‘We have found that travellers develop a resistance to threats to their own safety. It seems that, having endured many life-threatening experiences they are somewhat more inured to risk.’ The warm kitchen was suddenly chilly. ‘Travellers and erstwhile Taxanes, are far more susceptible to the safety of their loved ones. They would do a great deal to keep those people safe—for the rest of their lives.’
Nat could barely grasp what she was saying. ‘A threat! You’d hurt Florence’s family if she revealed herself to them!’
‘Or you,’ Florence, standing by the door, saw it clearly.
‘It’s not a threat. It is a protocol that has already been enacted. We call it The Taxus Morte and it has now been applied to Florence’s whole family and acquaintance. And yours.’ She rose, standing less than two feet from Florence. ‘Florence Brock and Nathanial Haslet, I must inform you that should you attempt to contact your family or acquaintance or anyone who knows you, then someone, close to you, will die. You will not be able to predict who that person will be—that is part of the protocol, but I assure you, it will happen. That is the Taxus Morte.’
‘You can’t . . . ’ she was pale.
Nat’s hands formed tight fists.
‘We already have. As from last night, the Taxane Enclave has placed a discreet watch on those who know you—everyone—and we will know, should you try to contact any of them. Every media platform, every physical opportunity to interact is guarded. Believe me, we’ve had centuries to perfect this and we have almost infinite resources. I repeat, you will not know who our target is but someone you love will die. We have found that this is the most secure way of ensuring co-operation. I’m sorry.’
‘Bitch.’
She brushed past them at the door. ‘Process this. I promise you that in time, it will become easier and you will understand why it is necessary.’
‘So, I keep my distance, they never know and you don’t kill them?’
‘Yes. However,’ and Winifred tried to offer something, ‘If you wish, we can arrange for you to see your parents—from a distance—in supervised conditions. If you feel it will reconcile you to this situation. Make no mistake, Florence, they will lose you in three years’ time and they will be devastated but they will survive. That is really the danger time—the moment that you will be tempted to ease their suffering but we will be watching. You have no choice but to allow this to occur as it will, as it does, as it did.’
Florence’s mouth was dry. ‘Then that’s what I’ll take,’ she whispered.
Winifred wasn’t fooled for a minute and neither was Nat.
32
Heart Of Oak
Taxus morte changed everything. Samuel could barely meet their eyes and they saw Winifred in a different light. Despite the goat curry and teasing Sammy, this Taxane was as hard as nails. Florence found it hard to be in the same room with her. The woman was ruthless. Perhaps she’d faced her terrors as a child.
It was Nat who sought her out—alone. ‘I need to ask you something,’ he began.
Winifred cocked her head at him and listened.
‘Edward Cavendish,’ he said. ‘He’d stopped ageing. They were worried that one day he’d look younger than Margaret. And Florrie . . . her periods stopped.’
He saw the understanding dawn on Winifred’s face. She took up the thread. ‘And yet I have travelled and matured?’
‘Yeah.’ There was quiet hope in his voice.
‘Our records are sparse but those we have, suggest that children are not halted in their development once they travel. Those—like me—mature and continue to age. It would be too cruel for fate to freeze a person in a child’s body for all eternity, don’t you think?’
He did but that wasn’t the extent of his question and she saw it.
‘It’s not true that travellers attain immortality, you know. Sir Edward—you and Florence—you are ageing but it’s so much slower than the rest of us. Makes it seem imperceptible. You won’t live forever Nat; it’ll just be a very long time. Alcuin Colby is over nine hundred years old’
Nat’s eyes widened.
‘But you are right. There are physiological changes.’ She believed in the direct approach. ‘A mature traveller ages very slowly from that point. None of us—neither children or adults—ever have children.’ She saw the look on his face. ‘But you’d already guessed that.’
‘Edward thought so. Margaret isn’t his biological daughter. She knows too.’
Winifred was very still, ‘It is something that I mourn each and every day. Will Florence?’
‘She’s young. I don’t think that it’s something that she’s thought about yet.’
‘And you?’
‘Yeah. I will.’
They stayed at the cottage for two more nights—mostly sleeping, eating and showering with abandon. For Winifred and Samuel, who usually had to deal with travellers from the distant past, hosting two contemporary travellers was much easier. Usually, they had to physically restrain traumatised souls in mortal terror for their souls. For these, they drafted in experts in Tudor, Middle or even, Old English speakers. The experts tried to translate for the terrified souls stranded with them, who were generally crouched in the corner of a room. Such specialist linguists lived for these moments, hearing their studied language as it had actually been spoken and adjusting their concepts of it—and their accents—with barely contained glee!
Sometimes they managed to calm the visitors but usually they had to sedate them and transport them to the Taxane HQ’s containment facility. Here, the poor souls were allowed to resurface slowly and gently. For many decades, the Taxanes had housed them in a mock medieval suite of rooms but through painful experience, they found that this only prolonged the agony once the contemporary world was revealed. It only took a door opening onto a neon lit corridor to destroy the illusion and the sanity of the occupant. So now, their accommodation was cosy rather than clinical but it was contemporary. There was always a copy of the Bible in the room (King James, of course)—or another holy text—which helped to anchor some of them, even though they couldn’t read. And they had a range of religious clerics on call. The en-suite bathroom took a little practical training but once understood, was a favourite miracle with most of the visitors. Some, of course, never got the hang! Messy.
Nat had to become accustomed to the wonders of the computer and smart phone. He’d seen computers, of course. Had watched them churn out sheet after green sheet of lined and perforated paper packed with data but these book sized machines were beyond magnificent. The web! To be connected to everyone, everywhere, instant access to knowledge of all types. Images, maps, photographs, films! It was stunning. He wanted to lose himself in it all. Winifred gave him a tour of the web, even some very ugly and deeply embarrassing sites which disturbed him. She wanted to let him understand its many facets for good or evil. She also called up newspaper reports about his disappearance. The grainy photograph of his distraught parents appealing for information, broke his heart.
Florence demonstrated the smart phone—although the 2017 version lacked some of her favourite features. Nat couldn’t believe that Star Trek had become real. He read the conflict in her
face as she held it in her hand. She held the means to make that phone call. Dare she do it? Call the Taxanes’ bluff?
He asked her, ‘Would you?’
‘In a heartbeat!’
‘Then why . . ?’
She sighed heavily, ‘Because all of the numbers of people that I knew were in my phone and that’s smashed up in 1644. I never bothered to memorise a single one of them.’ She flushed with embarrassment and then saw his confusion. ‘Landlines—you remembered the numbers. My mum told me. But for my generation, there were very few still in use—mostly companies. Mobile phones though . . . well, everyone has one! You just don’t bother to memorise the numbers.’
‘Because the smart phone does it for you?’
Florence nodded.
‘Very smart!’
Florence was itching to get access to her social media pages but both Samuel and Winifred watched her carefully. As if he knew her thoughts, Samuel reinforced Winifred’s warnings.
‘Let me be clear, and do not mistake me, we have all media covered, Florence. We will supply you with a new mobile and a tablet but you will not be able to escape our specialist trackers. They are quite ruthless and very skilled. We have the resources to hire only the best and we have guidance from our future brethren about how to focus them. Do not put those you love in peril. Were you even to try to open a new media account, we would know. Don’t try to buy a new smart item; it will be taken as a betrayal and the protocol will be enacted. Our future Taxanes warn us of very little but such an action would be known of—and punished.’
Florence found no comfort in Samuel’s shamed expression and Nat watched the secret hope disappear from Florence’s face to be replaced by a simmering anger that he’d seen centuries before.
On the third day, Samuel announced that they were now ready to leave for the Taxane Enclave. Florence and Nat had become like children, sitting in the back of the comfortable Volvo estate, staring out of the window, reacquainting themselves with the world in daylight, as they remembered it as they drove through the city. At least Florence did. Nat marvelled at the changes: the huge amount of traffic; the people all walking and talking into, or tapping on, these smart phones; the number of takeaways, the slick trams, the animated advertising. It took a couple of hours—hours which were designed to allow Nat, in particular, to view the world in a new century. Florence’s spirits lifted a little as she explained aspects of it to him and Samuel filled him in on politics and world events.
‘Donald Trump!’
‘Yes,’ sighed Winifred.
‘And they elected him?’
Florence smiled, took a breath and was about to add something when Samuel and Winifred both shouted, ‘DON’T!’
‘We would be better not knowing,’ insisted Samuel.
Somewhere south of Nottingham, the land became flat. They passed into Edwalton, a respectable suburban area of large Edwardian houses largely occupied by university lecturers. It was a preserved place but unremarkable. Outside the village, they slowed, reaching a weather-worn and peeling sign at the gateway where stone gateposts had eroded to breaking point. ‘Arboreal Historical Archive’ it read apologetically. All had succumbed to moss and weather and the iron gates themselves had all but rusted off their hinges. Neglect and poverty, stated the entrance.
The pot-holed drive wound through the grass Savannah, dotted with roaming sheep, matted and shaggy, some of their damp backs green with sprouting grass. The only notable features were the majestic trees rising from this flat landscape. Single stately oaks punctuated the grounds together with massive greying beeches gracing the memory of lawns and an untamed blackthorn hedge created a living moat, reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty. Yews were brooding sentinels, lining the long driveway and, untrammelled by the confines of churchyard walls, they were vast and spreading, the ground beneath them desiccated as they sucked the life from it. As the house came into view, the trees ended abruptly.
‘Too much interference?’ suggested Florence.
‘Quite,’ Samuel affirmed. ‘It’s the roots. They cause noise in our monitoring process. The only alternative would be to prune them back regularly and we don’t feel inclined to do that. They have extensive root systems—it’s as if they’re drawn to our activities.’
‘When they dug the Suez Canal, they found an olive with roots that were 2.5kms,’ Florence said absently.
Nat gave her an impressed look.
She shrugged in reply as they drew up to the house which was singularly disappointing. Edwardian and clumsy, large rather than grand, multiple gables preventing any sense of symmetry, an attic floor with pokey windows and a central porch lost in the frontage, the ensemble lacked any charm of quaintness or quirkiness. All of the paint, which had once been black, was peeling, and the windows themselves were dull with dust and debris, devoid of curtains and with several cracked panes. If this building had ever seen better times, there was no hint of it and no welcome at its door. It was broodingly institutional.
They took it all in as they unloaded the car of their few possessions and followed their hosts into a hall. If they hoped that the interior would be different, that hope was quashed. A solid wooden staircase plodded up onto the upper floors with no grace at all, its wood unpolished and dull, and such furniture as there was, was heavy and honest, squatting on the unloved parquet flooring and serving no useful or decorative purpose. It was all brown. One or two grey people in muted clothes made their way from room to room, carrying papers and objects and they nodded to Samuel and Winifred, glanced surreptitiously at Nat and Florence, and continued on their way without speaking.
‘So let me show you your rooms first.’ Samuel was chirpy.
Climbing the stairs, every first impression was confirmed: carpets were threadbare, wallpapers peeled and there was the whiff of damp. It was no surprise when they were given small attic rooms, once intended for servants, with single beds, Nat saw. A chair and ugly wardrobe completed the accommodation and it all looked like it hadn’t had a make-over since it was first decorated in government peppermint. Grim. They trudged back down with heavy hearts following the perky Samuel, Winifred having disappeared almost as soon as they’d arrived, with their plastic-bagged seventeenth-century clothing, heading for the fumigation cabinet!
‘So! What do you think of our country retreat?’ Samuel was full of suppressed energy.
‘Very nice,’ offered Florence, trying for sincerity. Nat gave a weak nod. Their spirits were properly flattened. Samuel chuckled.
‘And here’s the library . . . And the gallery of objects . . . And our historical arboreal reference library.’ He marched them from forlorn room to miserable damp-smelling book store.
Really it was very thin, Florence thought. If this was the result of thousands of years of their collective knowledge, then they weren’t the power they thought they were. Hope sprang as she considered that they might not be as ‘all-seeing’ as Samuel had threatened.
‘And here’s the lift.’ They got into the small box with its creaking sliding door, concertina grill and wooden floor. Nat hoped that it was kept in better condition than the rest of the place. Samuel pressed the single button for ‘down’ and the workings of the dilapidated machine began to lower them on creaking cables which groaned with the effort. Surely, Nat thought, he can’t be showing us the cellar! The lift shuddered to a halt but the doors didn’t open. ‘Stand to the sides, if you please and hold on to the straps.’
The floor of the lift began to fold back on itself, leaving a ledge around the cab on which they stood and below it, a light showed a shining steel platform with well-lit hand rails. ‘After you.’ Samuel twinkled at their surprise. They stepped on to it and it descended. Suddenly, they were in a very much larger cabin with LED lights and a flashing electronic control panel. It showed 15 floors down and Samuel pressed 11. They were conscious of the sort of rapid speed, which accommodated their inertia and within seconds, they had stopped, the double doors swishing open and the world changed.
Winifred emerged from around the right hand curve. ‘Well! What do you think! Did we manage to fool you? Sammy loves to do that!’ She elbowed him in the ribs.
‘Oh yeah,’ Nat confirmed.
‘Excellent! That’s what we aim for. The world and his wife are welcome to visit our archive above and what they find is a dowdy house and a dated and mediocre resource that they don’t feel inclined to return to. We like them to leave feeling rather sorry for us. This is where the archive actually lives and where our work is done. Much of our accommodation is down here too—for those who prefer to be close to their area of study. Shall we head to the Old Reading Room?’
‘Lead on Macduff,’ grinned Nat and he held Florence’s hand as they walked on. Florence’s hopes of evading the Taxus Morte evaporated.
33
Static Electricity
Winifred walked quickly. She knew every sudden twist and turn of the eccentric corridors. Large root systems were exposed and cased in glass as part of the wall, very ancient tree roots preserved deep in the ground itself—some were fossilised; most had turned to coal. The sophisticated tunnelling and electronics, contrasted with polished oak doors which opened for them as they swept in to the Library. It was magnificent. Everything that it ought to be, drawing the eye up to the thirty-foot high ceiling and down to the tartan-carpeted floor. Where the walls were visible, the stone cave was exposed and crystals jutted out at angles. Bookcases were floor to ceiling and supported narrow walk-ways along them accessed by spiral staircases. Many of the leather bound tomes were huge but others no bigger than a pocket diary. The warmth of the room, inviting but not suffocating, enhanced by the scent of old paper, polished tables and comfortable chairs, invited readers to stay. At the far end, a seating area, with damask sofas, surrounded a mahogany coffee table groaning under the weight of tea, coffee, plates of biscuits and two cakes-stands, all awaiting their pleasure.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 22
