Eole freed her from the tree, accompanied by the contractors’ applause and whistles. Then he hoisted her towards the lowest branch of Druid Oak and passed her the chain.
“Get down!” shouted Madame Moulin. “That branch is weak. There’ve been enough accidents here.”
Rainbow swore at Madame Moulin and then grinned at the woman’s shock. It was empowering not to care what people thought of her. “Now go,” she said to Eole. “Quickly!”
Eole ran. Running was the easy bit, though he’d have preferred to walk slowly to give his brain more time to calculate the forthcoming task.
He’d never be able to do it. But he must do it. For Rainbow, for Druid Oak, which had been his protector when he was a baby, and for all the trees he’d hurt. He willed his brain to switch into planning mode again, to break Rainbow’s objective into parts and only tell him what to do as each part came along.
His brain was busy making its table of questions and answers, and didn’t respond. If only Eole could control it, he’d avoid this unnecessary calculating. But how had he done it last time? When he’d come out of the library this morning, his new planning skill had self-activated. The screaming trees had forced every thought out of his head, other than following the counting voices.
He had let go.
He ignored his brain’s calculations of possible dialogues, and listened to the trees’ wailing instead. The trick was to activate his senses and use them to turn his thoughts outward instead of inward. He studied the dark green leaves and needles of the trees beside the road, smelt the wet earth verges, and concentrated on the hardness of the tarmac under the soles of his boots. As he arrived in Argoad’s main street, a plan appeared in his mind, freshly presented by his brain and split into manageable parts.
The village was still full of cars. Now the sun was out, people were scattered over the street, leaning on car doors and smoking on the bar terrace. Some had cameras around their necks, and others were wielding video equipment.
The sight of them chilled the sweat dripping down his back. Don’t calculate, just do it, he told himself. He went into the bar and walked right up to the telephone in its cubicle at the far end of the bar without taking any notice of the barman’s “Hello, hello: Golden Boy’s back.”
The cubicle was empty. He took out Rainbow’s card, dialled the number, and asked to speak to Melanie Brown. When he gave Rainbow’s name, her voice went from frosty to tropical. And when he said the words ‘people angle’ and told her everything Rainbow had instructed him to say, she declared she’d be there right away (even though that was impossible). He put down the phone. There was no itch, shuffle and escape. He said thank you, not to God but to his brain, which was calm like Tintin and directive like Rainbow, but wasn’t either of them. It was one hundred per cent himself.
He looked around the bar. The journalists had gathered outside under the awning or come back inside. Before he could start calculating, he activated the second part of his brain’s plan: the most difficult.
“I’ve got a scoop,” he said.
The man and woman closest to him paused, glanced at him, and then continued their conversation.
He looked up at the ceiling.
“I’VE. GOT. A. SCOOP!” he shouted.
Silence. Everyone in the bar was staring at him. It was a scene from a nightmare. He quickly looked down at his feet. They were moving, against his control. No! This wasn’t part of the plan. They were taking him out of the door and onto the terrace and away from the nightmare. But this wasn’t a nightmare. It was real, and Rainbow needed him to tell the journalists. She believed he could do it, so he could do it.
He stopped on the pavement and turned around to face the bar. There was a bustle at the door and a tidal wave of people spilled out onto the crowded terrace. Eole stepped back to keep his distance from them.
“What’s the scoop?” “Who are you?” “Get on with it,” they said.
He cleared his throat. “The council are about to cut down the trees.”
A voice jeered that this was no scoop.
He mustn’t listen to the individual voices. He just had to talk, even if he wasn’t capable of the rousing speech Rainbow wanted him to make. He could only tell it as it was.
“The workmen are on the point of cutting down Druid Oak, which is a thousand years old, and the agreement was that it would stay but the council have broken the agreement, and Rainbow is chained to the tree to stop them but she can’t do it on her own, and she wants you to go and film what’s happening and tell everybody that it’s a crime, and also I’m the baby who was abandoned at Druid Oak and because of me and the girl Druana who died there last week, Rainbow says it’s a scoop and a people angle and you must come.”
There was a silence. Then the journalists’ voices rose in a babble and they weren’t speaking, they were shouting, and some surged forward and grasped at him and pushed microphones in front of his face and he was confused because the next part of the plan was to take them back to Druid Oak, not to do media interviews outside the bar.
He pushed them away and let his feet go and he was walking back down the road and he could hear footsteps behind him, and then he heard car engines start and then a motorbike overtook him and it was followed by a car, which stopped, and a rear door opened and his brain said this could be considered as an incidental sub-part of the plan and so he got into the car and now he was in a convoy of cars and motorbikes and someone was giggling and he realised it was him and that he’d done it.
Chapter 36
Chained to the lowest branch of Druid Oak, the key in her pocket, Rainbow tried to send the tree more energy. It was easier now her feet were off the ground, but Druid Oak still refused her help. It radiated gloom, death, and the demise of the forest. Her hope started to seep away, and she broke the connection. She must remain positive while she waited for Eole’s return: she was One with Mary. She could do this, as long as she didn’t think about Christophe’s desertion. Chris was Mary’s weak point and she missed him more than ever.
She began to sketch in her travel log. Below, Serge tried to persuade her to come down, while Madame Moulin threatened to get a ladder and pull her down.
Rainbow didn’t look up from her page. “Bring the mayor and I’ll consider it,” she said.
Serge and Madame Moulin conferred, and then Serge left in his jeep. Rainbow allowed herself a hard smile.
She was putting the finishing touches to her sketch of Christophe on his motorbike when she heard its engine. She looked up, her heart leaping in hope, and peered around the trunk. A car followed the motorbike, and then another. But the motorbike was green.
The rider dismounted. Car doors opened and men and women spilled out, some with cameras. Then she saw Eole. This must be the journalists. He’d succeeded!
She watched him walk in a straight line towards her. He didn’t look particularly pleased with himself; but then, he wouldn’t.
“Hey, good work, Eole!” she called down to him.
Eole felt fireworks of pride burst from him. He was sure everyone could see them. Would his elation cause spontaneous combustion? He didn’t care if he burst into flame because he’d succeeded one hundred per cent on his own, which meant he was ready for Toulouse university. Hestia would be proud of him. Tintin would have been proud, too.
“Yes, it was good work,” he agreed, and sat down on a tree root.
Rainbow skimmed her biodiversity notes while the journalists approached. Eole had done his bit. The rest of the campaign depended on her. She considered telling the journalists about her gift and the Koad mission, but the memory of Serge’s words about keeping scientific stopped her.
The journalists started calling out questions. Before she could answer, another couple of vehicles pulled up and the journalists turned to look at them, no doubt hoping for film stars.
The first car was Serge’s. A group of four people, one in a suit, got out of the second car.
“It’s Hugues Barateau!” sho
uted a journalist.
Like a flock of flapping vultures, the journalists launched themselves at the mayor. Barateau picked his way across the drying grass towards Druid Oak, barking answers at the journalists’ questions as he walked. Rainbow heard some questions about Druana, a few about the report on Druid Oak, and lots about the film stars. There were none on the mayor’s decision to build a golf course.
Madame Moulin came out of her cabin, followed by the contractors, and joined the mayor and his councillors at the foot of Druid Oak. Eole retreated. A surge of adrenaline pulsed through Rainbow. This was it.
“Now then, young lady,” said Hugues Barateau. “You’re impeding the course of a project which has been voted and accepted. Kindly undo that padlock and let everybody get back to work.” He turned to Serge and snapped: “The ladder.”
Rainbow could see the bald patch on the crown of the mayor’s head. A few strands of hair were brushed over it. He obviously cared about his image.
“I’ll happily come down,” she said, “as soon as you promise to leave these woods alone and build your golf course in the fields.”
“What a splendid idea. We hadn’t considered that simple option during the planning meetings.” His voice was sarcastic.
Several journalists tittered. The councillors laughed outright. Serge leant a ladder against her branch.
Rainbow ignored the mayor’s sarcasm and argued her case for the forest. Barateau countered every point. Before, she would have given up after his first rebuff, but her new audacity strengthened with each snub. She was almost thriving on his disregard, surfing on her adrenaline, and gave answers she’d never have dared say before accepting Mary. This was herself, RainbowMary, speaking. To her delight, she discovered she could be ruthless and sarcastic, and was capable of using a whole new range of responses.
Barateau, however, was an expert. His whole career was based on turning other people’s arguments around, and within a few minutes she realised the journalists and councillors considered her a spoilt brat.
It was impossible to change his mind.
He drew himself up for a final attack, his shoulders thrown back, index finger pointing at her, and paused. Cameras clicked.
“You say it’s a disgrace to cut down a few trees, but who are you to argue? You don’t even live here. The local population is satisfied. They’re very much in favour of the golf course. It’ll create new jobs and bring in more tourists. Now, I have more important things to do than waste my time with a petulant teenager.”
He thanked the journalists for coming and told them to return to Paimpont, since the film crew had no intention of coming to Argoad.
Rainbow swore. He couldn’t go yet! She hadn’t finished with him. She would climb down and follow him until he listened to her. Actually, she would punch him. Hard.
“Hey! Barateau!” she shouted. “Most of the locals don’t even know you’re going to cut down Druid Oak! So much for democracy!”
He didn’t bother to respond. Instead, he ordered Madame Moulin to climb the ladder and force her down.
She’d failed. But instead of wanting to curl up and die, she was angry. She contemplated throwing her bag down onto the mayor and knocking him over. She considered stretching a branch until it dropped on his head and killed him – except that he wasn’t worth a twig of Druid Oak, let alone a branch. Instead, she spat on his bald patch as he strutted away.
More vehicles were approaching. Horns tooted and several journalists jogged down towards the road to get a clearer view. She peered around the trunk, wondering if the film crew had changed their minds, and then gasped.
She had a full view of what was coming, unlike the people below her. A convoy of cars, motorbikes and vans took up the whole road. There were dozens of them. There were even some tractors at the back, with people hanging off the sides, their arms raised, fists clenched. Protestors! She didn’t know where they’d come from, and she didn’t care.
“Check this out, Barateau!” she shouted. “Here come your satisfied local population.”
The mayor said something to the councillor beside him and they hurried to their car.
Madame Moulin’s face appeared at the top of the ladder. Rainbow controlled her urge to kick it. She was RainbowMary, not just Mary.
“Don’t come any closer or I’ll push you off,” she said.
“That won’t help your cause, young lady. Which is lost, in case you hadn’t realised. I hope you’ve learnt a lesson today: idealism is for dreamers. Welcome to the real worl–” She clutched at the branch and yelped.
Rainbow looked down. Eole was standing at the foot of the tree, jiggling the ladder.
“It’s OK, Eole. I can deal with her,” she said. “Go and see what’s happening on the road.”
Eole let go just before the woman crushed his fingers with her heavy boots. The area around the base of Druid Oak had emptied of journalists and he heard a crowd of voices chanting:
“Bar-ra-teau, au ca-chot!”
The people wanted the mayor to go to jail, which would be a good thing, though totally illogical unless he’d broken the law.
The mayor’s car accelerated away from the lay-by, its brakes squealing at the corner. The horn blared. The people’s voices increased to screams. The car reversed and manoeuvred through a three-point turn, and Eole arrived just as it accelerated into the track beside him.
He jumped in front of it and spread his arms, like he did when herding a loose sheep back towards a hole in the fence.
The car stopped, inches from him. Its horn blared again. Eole stood his ground.
A journalist ran to the car and shoved a microphone through the passenger window, while another took photos.
“I think the locals have something to say to you, Monsieur Barateau,” said the journalist.
Eole watched the mayor’s tinted car windows slide closed. The photographer must have taken a good photo, because he smiled. Then the photographer and the journalist stood back from the mayor’s car and looked towards the barrage. Any second now they would leave. Eole would be stuck here. He wouldn’t be able to stop the mayor escaping and follow Rainbow’s instruction.
He had an idea. He didn’t stop to analyse where it came from, but walked around to the driver’s door and opened it. The councillor looked up at him with the frightened eyes of a cornered marmot. Eole ignored the man, reached in, and took the key from the ignition.
“Hey!” said the driver, and tried to grab it. He was too slow. Eole shut the door and pocketed the key.
“There’s no messing with The Boy Who Came Back,” said the journalist to the photographer. “Get a photo of him!”
Eole hurried towards the demonstrators. He needed to ask someone what was happening so he could report back to Rainbow.
He slowed down as he reached the corner. The vehicles had stopped in the road and doors were opening and slamming shut. People formed into a crowd and began to surge forward. He looked for the leader. Three men and a woman were at the front.
“Bar-ra-teau, au ca-chot!” came the cry.
He recognised one of the leaders.
“Bar-ra-teau, au ca-chot!”
The crowd swept towards him. They stank of sweat and red wine and beer and barbecued sausages. If he stayed where he was, he’d be swallowed up by it. But Rainbow needed him to warn her who was coming. He looked at the leader he recognised. If he’d been alone, it would have been easy. Eole hesitated.
In a second it would be too late. He stepped forward.
“Out the way!” shouted a man.
Arms reached to push him aside. He stumbled backwards before they could touch him, and the sea of faces surged past, heading towards Druid Oak and the mayor’s car.
Eole stood, transfixed. Two of the faces at the back were familiar. Three, if you counted Darwie.
Maman-A and Hestia were following the protestors. Darwie saw him and yanked at his lead. Hestia let go. Darwie raced towards him, his hindquarters dancing from side to side with s
weeping wags of his tail. Eole crouched down and hugged him, which made Darwie whimper and struggle to escape. Eole released him and settled for his usual light caress.
Hestia thumped him on his shoulder, which meant she was extra pleased to see him because it really hurt. He bumped fists with her and looked at Maman-A.
Maman, not Maman-A.
This was Maman.
How could he have intended to call anyone else ‘Maman’?
She stopped in front of him and traced the love-hug sign with her two hands. She kept making the sign, over and over again, tears running down her cheeks.
He didn’t make the sign back. Instead, he reached out and touched her wrinkled hands: the hands she’d laid on his forehead when he was ill in bed.
She froze, like a Pyrenean chamois when it catches a threatening scent on the wind. And his brain told him to do it and he didn’t stop to think about which arm should go where and he didn’t think about his lungs having all the air squeezed out of them or making Maman whimper like Darwie. He just put his arms around her and hugged her – and it didn’t even hurt and she didn’t whimper and he didn’t feel trapped.
“Thank you God for delivering my Eole safely,” she whispered.
Hestia cleared her throat and he let go of Maman. The word ‘delivering’ made him think of lambs, and lambs made him think of Hestia’s baby, which he wasn’t allowed to mention.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your abortion,” he said.
She raised her chin and looked at the tops of the trees, and he thought he could see tears in her eyes. But Hestia never cried. She probably had a speck of dust in them. Maman made the sign of a cross, and Hestia rolled her eyes, which was exactly what she always did when Maman crossed herself.
“Papa’s been great. You wait until you see him again,” said Hestia. “So how are you? We thought you’d be here when we heard they were demonstrating for the trees. It wasn’t Rainbow who fell off Druid Oak, was it?”
Rainbow! He’d forgotten his mission for Rainbow.
Tree Slayer Page 29