The Taxanes preened themselves. ‘Shall we?’ Samuel gestured and they sank into the seats, climbing out in order to reach the cakes. Nat needed no invitation to the lemon drizzle.The past had taught him to take food when it was offered or available for the taking. Samuel resisted.
‘This is just . . . !’ Nat spluttered. It wasn’t clear whether he was talking about the cake or the archive, ‘How deep does it go?’ he asked, spraying crumbs.
Samuel watched him devour the cake. ‘Well, we’ve taken advantage of some old mine workings, together with the tunnels that we originally built here—hence no open fires—too much coal. There are one or two larger rooms that are natural lava caves—although some are later—glacial. Remarkable what nature provides, eh? The House above is just camouflage, of course. Every couple of centuries, we rebuild so that it never becomes historically ‘interesting’. We always pick one of the duller buildings of the age and design it so that it’s even more unremarkable of its type. Saves it from being listed. I can’t tell you how many architects we’ve pissed off by insisting on ugly mediocrity!’ cackled Samuel. ‘We’ve been on this site since 1146, in one guise or another but it was in the Reformation that we felt the need to burrow. Catholics, protestants, reformers —Anabaptists! All of them required martyrs so we went down and hibernated! Imagine priest holes and then some. We already had the advantage of Nottingham’s extensive cave system. Later, we joined with the tunnels of the deeper coal mines.
‘Generations of miners’ families were in our employ and we paid well enough to ensure their loyalty—and their silence. In truth and in sadness, we had the pick of miners when the pits closed but have need of only a very few of carefully chosen men and women—for maintenance. We go down 15 floors and we think that’s about our limit—it starts to get rather warm but we can always spread our roots laterally!’ He waited in vain for the laughter and Winifred rolled her eyes.
Samuel coughed. ‘This cave was quite a discovery. We found drawings on the far wall.’ He pointed and they could see them in the distance. ‘Sadly, of course, we haven’t been able to share them with archaeologists but we believe them to be a similar age to those at Creswell Crags.’ They nodded, enjoying the cake and, with their mouths full, it gave Samuel his platform.
‘The even dry temperature soon offered itself to the keeping of our paper and vellum resources. Housed here are some very beautiful books but the most precious have to be kept in controlled conditions two floors down. Our oldest document is a tablet from Persia—the Zagros mountain region—which lists a number of natural features, considered to have had magical properties. Amongst these, are ancient cypress trees, from forests which disappeared after dramatic climate change in the Holocene period when we think many of the ancient forests were destroyed for human consumption.’
‘Cypress?’ managed Florence, taking a gulp of tea. ‘A relative of the Yew. Not a coincidence then?’
‘No. We think not. There’s no longer a marker for those trees—not even the geology shows where they were, but we do have this tablet which notes the mystical nature of them. There’s no recorded Taxane archive showing the arrival of Persian travellers I’m afraid. There simply weren’t sufficient records kept. However, it is our belief that long before recorded time, humans were inadvertently travelling through these conduits, who knows to where and when. There’s no reason to assume not.’ He paused whilst they all reflected on the fate of these poor individuals thrown through the portals of time with no understanding of what had happened and no one to help them there. ‘Now. Would you like the real grand tour?’
Florence was standing and brushing down the crumbs as he spoke. Nat followed—cake in hand.
For the next two hours, Samuel showed them the departments of the Taxane Enclave. They were enthusiastically hosted by Winifred in Fabrics and surprised by the smattering of applause given by the ten or so Taxanes who worked there. Nat and Florence were bombarded with questions about the comfort of garments, frequency of laundering (Florence was an expert here), and the range of fastenings, which they answered as well as they could, as first hand wearers of seventeenth century clothes, but they disappointed in their understanding of lace and the group gave a collective sigh, huddling into a heated debate about the use of urine as a cleaning agent, even as Florence and Nat slipped out of the room.
As promised, they were shown the temperature controlled vault, housing the most ancient texts and artefacts. There was the hushed tone of the museum here. Once in through the airlock, Taxane archivists hovered like hawks, wiping off the smudges of noses and finger prints that they left on the glass display cases, with irritated alacrity. However, they were generous with their explanations of what the objects were and where and when they had been found or brought back. Samuel was reverent, ‘Some of the rarest objects here, were already old, when they were brought through the portals. Take this small knife: it was made in 900c.e but came to us in 1200c.e. If you were able to complete carbon dating on it, you would find very conflicting evidence indeed.’
A whole floor was devoted to historical records: books, papers, newspapers were to be expected but Florence was genuinely surprised to see Taxanes pouring over Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and Instagram and others that she didn’t recognise.
‘You’ve no idea what people will try and post videos on,’ sighed Samuel. ‘Of course, this material has all been cleared by our Futures Chapter,’ he explained.
‘Can we see it?’ Florence suggested.
‘Afraid not. It’s by invitation of the Great Yew only. We mere mortals are not permitted. It’s a closed order. Protects the heart of the timeline you see.’ Samuel replied without looking at them.
At the end of a deep corridor, their way was barred by a seamless wooden door. In the rock, to the side, was a small alcove—looking rather like a bread oven—but there was no other markings on the wood.
Samuel lowered his voice, ‘The door to the Futures Chapter.’
Nat moved towards it and Samuel was quick. ‘‘Fraid not old chap. None of us are allowed in there—even if we could get in.’
‘Future Chapter?’ Nat looked hard at the smooth wood with no joins.
‘Futures! Highly specialised. Think of it as an order within our Enclave. It’s complicated. Why don’t we return to the Library and I’ll explain?’ he’d already begun to turn when Florence uttered a small cry and they turned to see her cradling her hand against her chest. ‘I . . . I touched the door. There’s a sensation running through it—like the wood in old houses . . . like the trees.’
‘Do it again,’ Samuel urged.
They watched as the wood began to melt, reconfiguring itself like a patch of oil on water.
‘Good God! It senses you, Florence. Come away. Please. I’ll explain it to you . . . in the library.’ He seemed nervous at her proximity to it.
Samuel poured each of them a small glass of port, drinking his down quickly. They were standing in the library near to the glass-covered cave drawings. Samuel gestured to them. ‘We believe that these people first entered these caves through that place—the Futures Chapter. Somehow, they entered the cave system and found shelter there. Even today, there is an access point far above although you’d never find it today.
Those who enter the Chapter, are time travellers with particular sensitivities concerning the time line. They are a self-contained sect who choose to live within—for life. It is almost unheard of for them to leave.’ He hesitated for a moment, lost in a thought of his own which made him smile. ‘The Futures Chapter is completely sealed—except for medical emergencies and then precautions are taken. We had an outbreak of plague there a few decades ago. No problem for antibiotics, eh?’
‘Yeah.’ Nat needed to understand. ‘So, why do these Taxanes agree to live in there?’
Samuel looked at Florence, ‘They are sensitive to alterations in the timeline. They can sense when an incursion has happened that ought not have.’
‘How,’ Florence began, ‘Through t
he wood?’
‘Sometimes but mostly through the ink. Gall ink.’
‘Made from oak galls.’
‘Yes.’
‘But why would they live like that—isolated?’ Nat thought that it was a perverse decision.
‘Because they have access to the future. You can’t pollute the present with knowledge of the future.’ Florence understood and Samuel nodded.
‘At the centre of the Futures Room is the Great Yew.’
‘In a cave?’ Florence didn’t see how.
‘I’m no expert,’ Nat interrupted, ‘but don’t trees need light to grow—and soil? We’re easily half a mile underground.’
‘You are correct but it has light—natural sunlight. A shaft brings sunlight into the cave—reflected by the crystals; it’s astonishing. We have illustrations—18th century.’
He fetched an oversized book from the maps area and some yellowed pages showed the Futures Chapter. The vast cavern had crystalline lined walls and in the centre, an astonishing yew tree, reaching up towards the narrow shaft of sunlight bursting through the cave’s roof. Another drawing showed walls lined with cave dwellings and man-made steps and over the page, an impossibly high waterfall tumbled into a lake around which figures in robes congregated. It was a village.’
‘Incredible!’ Florence exclaimed. ‘How old . . . I mean when were the caves . . . ?’
‘We’re not sure. Our geologists theorise that the caves formed during the last ice age and the yew seed was deposited here sometime then—over eleven thousand years ago.’
‘You’re actually saying that the yew is eleven thousand years old? Impossible.’ Nat snorted.
‘As impossible as time travel?’ Samuel countered.
Florence shrugged. ‘There are yews which may be as old. Impossible to tell because their tree rings aren’t like oaks—and the self pollarding thing… So these Future Chapter people, how do they get in there? That wood was solid except for the oven thingy.’
‘That is a simple hatch. Items are passed to and fro as needed. It’s rarely used. Its wood is also part of the living yew tree and opens to the touch of someone who is sensitive to the time line.’
‘Someone like me.’ Florence gasped.
Samuel nodded at her. He sensed Nat’s wariness.
They stared again at the illustrations which fluttered a touch as the distant library door opened and a figure walked towards them. Nat thought that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. A little taller than Florence with copper hair, braided into heavy coils around her head, her skin was milk-white and slightly freckled and her lips were blood red. She wore a long woollen dress in dark blue with sleeves that opened wide at her wrists. She beamed a smile at Nat but then focused on Florence who had watched both her and Nat’s face with interest.
‘My dear,’ Samuel breathed, taking her hand to his lips. ‘Florence, Nat, may I present the Lady Marissa du Bois, daughter of the Earl of Boissy and former lady in waiting to Queen Phillipa de Hainault, wife of King Edward III?’
34
Milk And Honey
Hell of an introduction, thought Nat, still entranced by the elegant figure before him although she had ceased to pay any attention whatsoever to him. Samuel’s face was an open book. He was smitten.
Florence coughed and moved forward, hand extended. ‘Lady Marissa . . . ’
‘Marissa,’ the woman trilled with a trace of a french accent.
‘Marissa,’ Florence returned and jumped as their hands met, as though an electric shock had touched her.
‘Your pardon. I am as you are. We try to avoid physical contact in the Futures Room. Most inconvenient, no?’ she grinned and Florence immediately warmed to her.
‘You escaped?’ Nat quipped.
‘I . . . left,’ Marissa locked eyes with Samuel and Nat saw that something wasn’t being said here. ‘I shall attempt to answer your questions. There will be many but first of all, may I reassure you that we do not—ever—imprison anyone in the Futures Chapter. It is a personal choice for those who wish to be there. You will not be press-ganged, I swear.’ She spoke to Florence, scrutinising her as she reassured her.
And now alarm bells were ringing for Nat. A strange reassurance, he thought.
Florence began to find the attention uncomfortable. ‘OK,’ she drawled. ‘ Wouldn’t want my life to be . . . whatever it is in there. I’m not a bloody nun.’ She regretted her flippancy when she saw the discomfort on Marissa’s face.
‘She’s not,’ Nat grinned.
She thumped him and was delighted to hear Marissa laugh loudly. ‘Nuns! But no. There was once a nun in the Futures Chapter,’ and she carried on giggling much to Samuel’s surprise, ‘but it was a coincidence not a requirement, I assure you.’
‘So why spend your whole life in seclusion? Sounds miserable to me,’ Nat provoked.
‘You could not be more mistaken.’ Marissa smiled at him. ‘The Taxanes who choose that life, are very special. We — they feel blessed. Some consider it a calling— profound work which speaks to the core of our role as Taxanes. The mysteries of the future can be seductive and our long lives allow the future to be revealed to us. It is miraculous. A temptation.’
Samuel cleared his throat. ‘The Future Chapter detects the incursions—deliberate or not,’ he said, ‘Once an attempt has been made to alter the timeline—even subtly and unintentionally—alternative events begin to appear and there are blemishes in the records which those such as Marissa, can detect. No major event has ever been undone and not happened but collateral damage around an event is dangerous. It seems that small changes are possible—an accidental death or a life saved—as long as they are not significant lives to the timeline. But others—preserved or prematurely killed—these changes are rejected. The small changes may be accommodated but the Futures Chapter spots them.’
‘What about the significant attempts to change things?’ asked Florence.
Marissa gave her a wry smile. The young woman already possessed the intuition that she’d hoped for. ‘They are rare but on occasion the disturbance of the timeline is such that an intervention is necessary.’
Nat challenged, ‘And Fate?’
‘We make no judgements, Nathanial Haslet.’ Marissa shot at him. ‘Our only guide is in the wrongness of the archive. You can have no sense of the level of distress we experience when the timeline is fractured. We are the tools of Time not its masters. We correct errors.’
Nat wasn’t convinced. It seemed to him that these people were taking on a mantle of judge and jury and it bothered him. It bothered him even more to realise that they acknowledged Florence as a potential recruit.
Florence was thoughtful, ‘So what happens when a traveller arrives from the future—here?’
‘It’s rare.’ Samuel admitted. ‘It seems that as the future progresses, our knowledge about the timeline becomes more precise and there are fewer accidents—people simply stepping into the trees unaware.
‘As soon as we suspect that the traveller is from our future, an incursion team is dispatched and the visitor is brought to the Futures Chapter. We Taxanes try not interact with that traveller—except for health and safety. We cannot risk being contaminated by future knowledge.’ He looked to Marissa.
‘ The arrival of a person from our future invariably coincides with a warning in the Chapter. We become most alert, watching the timelines carefully for changes. Once safely in the Chapter, the traveller is dispatched through the Great Yew, back to their own time with as little impact as is possible. I can say no more.’
Nat wasn’t easily satisfied. ‘So . . . I’m from your past—familiar territory for you—but Florrie is from . . .’
Marissa nodded, ‘Our future.’
‘So why haven’t you whisked her off into this Futures Chapter?’
‘Florence Brock is an exception. She is but a few years ahead of us—hardly significant.’
Nat’s eyes narrowed. Something wasn’t right about Marissa’s wide-
eyed innocence. Something was wrong. ‘Nah. Not likely. You knew about our arrival and they knew about her—in the past. What is it? What’s special about Florrie?’
Marissa shared a look with Samuel and a tacit agreement was reached. She sighed. ‘We do not know.’ She turned to Florence. ‘You are a mystery to us Florence Brock. We have been warned of your arrival by the Yew. A message has come from the future but we do not understand it. That is why we sent messages into the past—to find you there. In truth, we are afraid for you—and perhaps of you. You are connected to the future of humankind and we do not understand how.’
There was a silence which Florence finally broke. ‘Wow. Me. Never thought of myself as . . . dangerous!’
Nat cocked his head, ‘Weeelll. . .’
‘I did not say that you were dangerous—simply significant.’
Florence wasn’t so easily deflected. ‘Tell me. Tell me everything you know. Tell me how you know. I have the right to that.’
‘Indeed you do,’ Marissa inclined her head and hesitated. ‘It might be easier to show you. If you came into the Futures Chapter . . .’
‘Nice try. She’s not going without me,’ Nat snapped and Samuel lifted the corner of his mouth.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 23
