[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  Rachael looked up. Swiftly. Not to see William, but to look to the tree... ‘Old Knobbley’. Her eyes narrowed but for a few moments she still did not move. A full minute passed, her eyes creased in thought. Then, very slowly, she rose to her feet and walked over to him. When she reached his side, she too laid a hand across the tree’s gnarled bark and caressed it, gently. As though stroking a loved one. The scars she had borne in France were all but gone and behind them had lain a skin of beauty and innocence which was quite enchanting. Her sense of awe offered her an almost child-like air of purity and wide-eyed innocence.

  “’Tis a shame,” he said with a sigh. “Were our descendants to hear tales told from Old Knobbley, just think what woeful tales they may be.”

  Woeful tales. Descendants. That was it, she thought. At least she thought she thought. That was the answer. Hidden somewhere, deep in her mind; that was it. That was why William had brought her here. She realised that now. William had brought her to this place because William understood.

  “She shall outlive us all,” she said, softly repeating his words. And, for the first time in as long as William could recall, she smiled. Warmly.

  Slender, ragged fingers continued to follow the bark’s many curves with almost seductive attention. It became entrancing. Almost hypnotic. In this complex mass of shapes she could see now that there was an order; a defined pattern and controlled structure. The more she looked the more she saw. They walked hand-in-hand along clear paths which cut through the chaos. Inside her head her mind was a mess - she could feel it - and it seemed (as William himself had stated) that the rabbit was indeed chasing the fox around the tangled undergrowth of her thoughts. And yet, within her own chaos, she could also see recognisable paths, just waiting to be uncovered. Some already had. Paths of memory. Paths of knowledge. It was along these disorganised tracks that she had picked the flowers of the things she sensed, when William had asked her to.

  In the past she had wondered if on such walks she might actually have been asleep, if her memories had been little more than a sleepwalk through a field of dreams. She wondered if she truly knew anything at all and questioned - to herself - just how accurate her ‘predictions’ might actually be. Battles and dates, deaths and births. And yet words she had overheard, spoken by her employer, had suggested that almost all had been proven as truth. It was as though such events had somehow been taught to her subconscious whilst she had been asleep in the fields, battered and bleeding in the cold night air of France.

  But now, along that winding path of unwavering knowledge and fixed memories - one which she had yet to fully journey - she could also see a new, stronger bud rising. One that she had not been expecting to see at all.

  “We should all find a truth in Old Knobbley’s thick skin.”

  To her desperately unfocused mind, it looked surprisingly like the birth of an idea.

  FOURTEEN

  Thursday, August 20, 2043.

  West of Bull Run Peak, California.

  The Sequoia National Forest covers almost two million square miles, with elevations ranging from 1,000 to 12,000 feet. The park contains 1,500 miles of maintained roads, approximately 1,000 miles of abandoned roads and around 850 miles of trails. It also acts as home to a number of quite amazing species of trees. Jeffrey, Lodgepole and Ponderosa Pines; Red, White and Coast Douglas Firs form a stunning backdrop to every view and an amazing companion for every walk.

  Within the forest, however, no tree is more impressive than Sequoiadendron giganteum: the giant Sequoia.

  The forest received its name because within its boundaries lie no less than thirty-three groves of giant Sequoia. In 1847, so Rachael and I had learned from a way-too-smiley guide on our first visit, a German botanist by the name of Stephen Endlicher had named the coastal redwood trees Sequoia Sempervirens to honour the Cherokee Chief Sequoya - a man who had developed a phonetic alphabet of 86 symbols for the Cherokee language. Then, in 1854 a French botanist by the name of Joseph Decaisne had applied the same name to the giant sequoias, which are closely related to the coastal redwoods. It had stuck.

  Of the top fifty sequoias located within the park, General Sherman is classed as the largest. Standing 275 feet high and with a base circumference of over one hundred feet, Sherman is a beast, located just of the General’s Highway in the northwest corner of the park. Everyone who visits the park heads straight for the General. Everyone.

  Except Rachael and I.

  We’d seen the General once, of course, but despite being classed as the ‘largest’ of the sequoias, he is not (by any stretch) the tallest He just happens to have the greatest volume. The honour of tallest tree falls to ‘Diamond’, just north of of Mineral King Road. Diamond is beautiful. He looks older, wiser (if such a thing is possible) and he usually attracted a lot less traffic. Rachael and I would sit with our backs against his massive trunk and watch the sun set over the Atwell Mill River Trail below. One more day gone. At 286 feet high and with a base circumference of ninety-five feet, Diamond is eleven feet taller than the General. He just doesn’t share his circumference or his volume: the parts that people see and, therefore, the only parts they seem to care about. To us he was the biggest and the best but, beautiful as he is and tall as he is, Diamond is only rated nineteen on the list of largest sequoias in the park. He’s the tallest tree they have and yet he only just makes the top twenty.

  Rachael and I joked, giggling like schoolchildren, that given his name Diamond was probably the ‘hardest’ kid on the grove. The younger sibling who had needed to fight his way up the ranks, and fight hard. If there was ever a scrap, leaves flying everywhere, Diamond might not be the oldest of the sequoias but he would undoubtedly be the one at the front egging the Cost Douglas’ to come and have a go if they felt they had the cones.

  We called him ‘Big Red.’ After the drink that ex-boxer made.

  “Rachael was Catholic,” I said as Victoria stared out. “Not devout, like her parents, but it was definitely a part of who she was. She believed that Christopher watched over her when she travelled, that Dominic kept an eye on her at work and that Lorenzo would keep watch on her family back in France. We never really discussed having a family of our own, never even discussed marriage. Early days, I suppose, but I did always joke that one day I would get her a diamond. And I did. One weekend, whilst Rachael was working away, I took a long drive up to the park. I visited Big Red, found a suitably innocuous area that didn’t look like it was going to kill him and carved out a chunk. The rangers would have had my arse if they’d caught me, but I took it anyway. A big chunk. Back home I cut the wood down, shaped it and sanded it. As a present to Rachael, I crafted her a crucifix. From Diamond. It was crude because I’m no woodworker, but it wasn’t bad job either. Not really. Then I got her some rosary beads so that she could wear it as a necklace. A ‘Diamond’ necklace. It was the best I felt I could afford back then.”

  I smiled again. “She wore it, though.”

  “And you engraved it for her.” Victoria said. It sounded more like a statement than a question.

  “Engraved it?” I said, suspicious. “No, not at all.” I shook my head, a little defiantly. “I didn’t want to ruin it. I mean, sure, I could have had a professional engrave it for me but I didn’t want to spoil it and any attempt I made would have been poor at best. Besides, Rachael preferred simplicity.” I laughed gently to myself. “A Catholic who dislikes unnecessary decoration, now there’s a thing.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t engrave it?”

  I nodded again and my tone was firm. It wasn’t engraved. “Yes,” I said, “I’m sure.”

  Victoria’s face fell. Heavily, as though I’d just burst one hell of a bubble. “You need to see something,” she said, still thinking to herself. “I was kind of hoping you would recognise it. Now I’m not so sure. And that’s going to fuck everything up, Mr. Strauss. Just everything.”

  FIFTEEN

  Monday, October 31, 1644.

  Manningtree, Essex, England.


  The kitchens were as busy as a summer hive, despite the fact that elevenses had long passed. And well they might be; a visit from the king’s own envoys later in the day meant that preparations had to be made; good food needed to be readied and fresh breads and cakes needed to be baked. To that end, Mrs. Banks was now using thick, pudgy hands to knead even thicker, pudgier dough hard against the board, her pinny dulled with coarse flour as the other maids flitted like worker bees behind her.

  William sauntered in; a clear briskness to his gait. The late morning sun was streaming in through the window to the east, illuminating the flour dust that infected the air and, to his mind, it looked as though today might just turn out to be a mighty fine day indeed.

  Little did he know.

  As Florence looked up and wiped her brow, leaving the sheen of moistened skin to peek in patches through the flour, he paused for a moment and swiftly surveyed the other occupants in the room.

  “No Rachael this morning?” he asked, still looking.

  “She is away for eggs,” Florence replied matter-of-factly, returning to her duties. “Else the buns would be as firm as Chorley cakes and no mistake. She glanced upward, moving only her eyes. “You wished to see her?”

  William did his best to look nonchalant. “I though she might join me on a brief constitutional before my evening discourse, that was all,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You are the master,” Florence said, sprinkling more flour, “and we does as you says. But today would not be the day for it. Not if you were minded to ask me. Your guests will be here gone four and there is still much to do. I’m minded more of what they tell of many hands than I am of too many cooks.”

  She looked up and smiled warmly.

  “Of course, of course,” he replied. Florence knew her place in this world, as William knew his. They both understood that on certain occasions, and certainly within the kitchens, it was her chair which sat that little bit higher. There were tasks to be performed and she worked as hard as any to make that so. She could only do that without interference, no matter what quarter sauntered in and offered it up.

  “So...” he continued, looking slightly puzzled, “you allow her to venture into the village alone?”

  Florence turned the dough a final time and took up her pin. “Indeed I do, Master William,” she replied, no shortage of stern authority in her tone. “She may be a lost soul, but she knows where is home for now. There are tasks to be done and we must all pull our weight.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” He nodded gently, though he looked decidedly unconvinced.

  Surveying the room again; the hive in which Mrs. Banks was undisputed queen with its honeycomb of pots, pans, tins and utensils all laid neatly to hand, he noticed something amiss. Something out of place. Mary, the youngest of the maids, was not at her tasks. As he had entered he had noted her swinging the heavy pot frame over the glowing logs in the fireplace to heat the beaten copper kettles before turning and offering another few cranks of the mechanical spit jack to the left. A half pig was already skewered across the flames, its flesh sizzling nicely, but the brass weight was almost at the floor and the governor was beginning to slow. The handle on the engine needed a good many turns to lift the weight high again, but Mary could barely have had time to perform one full rotation and now she was gone…

  Instead she was standing close on to the window and staring out to the rear lawn of the manor, curling her face as though some unholy event was occurring on its turf.

  Walking gently over he said, “What is it, child?” before leaning forward and taking a leisurely look through the milky glass for himself. He relaxed. “Why, ‘tis only the boy. Away to your chores, Mary, I shall attend to him.” He thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Though I have to confess he does look in quite a state.”

  He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the approaching child then turned and walked toward the rear door. Florence laid down her pin with a slight sigh and followed a short way behind. She flicked her fingers at the others as she crossed the room, indicating that they should carry on about their business.

  ‘The Boy’ was, in fact, Thomas Lane. Thirteen, or thereabouts, and sharp as a button if buttons could be sharp. He had wanted for some form of gainful employment since he could barely walk, seeing how his mother struggled to cope daily with an offspring of four. Now, with his father away at the wars, he had found his way onto the Manor’s unofficial staff simply by offering to perform any worthy deed he could find or suggest and receiving the odd penny for his troubles. With no task he could perform today, short of the eggs which were being attended, they had not seen him all morning. They had expected that he might show his face a little later, around three perhaps, in readiness to lend a hand with the arriving horses.

  He was sweating heavily, as though he might have run all the way from London itself, and his normally wispy blonde hair clung to his forehead in darkened clumps. Whilst the ground was primarily dry and the sun was out over the Manor, it had rained not three days past and he had clearly taken no heed to avoid the deep puddles which still occupied the track ruts carved by carts and sliding hooves. His coarse brown trousers, still the length they had been when they were made (though he was not) were thick with dark mud and, as he reached the lawn’s end and took his breath, water dripped steadily from ragged ankle seams and escaped back into the grass.

  “What is it, Boy?” William asked, also reaching lawn’s end.

  Thomas’ breaths were deep and laboured and it took him a moment to condense any of them into words. “In the village, Master William.” He wheezed. “There is the most almighty commotion.”

  “The cause? An argument? Another altercation over monies, perhaps?”

  Many was the time that scuffles broke out in the village and occasionally William found the need to step forth and offer some mediation. Usually it was no more than late payment for a cow, or even less for a quart of milk. Sometimes there would be a ragged scuffle between the younger boys for the affections of the next available maiden. All were easily sorted and just as swift forgotten if the compromise was as fair as the maiden, or perhaps more so. It was rare, however, that The Boy felt need to run so fast and so hard without seemingly drawing breath, just to inform the master of such squabbles.

  Thomas could hold his small frame upright no more and he leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. He had to visibly steady himself in order to stop his tiny frame from falling over completely.

  “’Tis Prudence Hart, Sir. Her baby did pass in the night and she parades it now for all to see. In her arms it is, Sir, still as a dolly. Not a breath in it. It looks both blue and white... like snow.”

  William sighed deeply. The child has been weak since birth and it had not taken a seer such as Rachael to see such a sad event looming. No less painful for those involved, however.

  “A devastating loss indeed,” he said, his feelings clearly genuine. “The poor girl must be bereft. But why the commotion? The baby was too keen to enter the world, or so I am told. It has struggled well to draw breath this long. I suspect it comes as no surprise to the village that it has lost the fight and I am quite sure that Prudence will see it clearly when she calms..?”

  Thomas looked up, his hands still resting hard on his knees and droplets of water appearing steadily from his hairline. “Oh no, Sir, there is commotion alright. Quite horrible it is as well. Prudence did come looking for your Rachael I fear and, worse, did find her too.”

  It took a moment for William to swallow the ‘your Rachael’ comment. Too many in the village still saw the situation between himself and the stray girl in a light both unwarranted and unbefitting and a decisive end still needed to be put to idle chatter. For now, however, he let it pass.

  He turned, though not fully, to Florence standing just a few feet behind him. “Ask one of your maids to head to the stables and ask that Bewt be readied. Not Mary. She is friendly enough with the hands as it is and I fear it might take an hour for her t
o return.”

  “Yes, Master William.”

  Turning back to Thomas, he said: “What about Rachael? What does Rachael have to do with this..?”

  “‘Tis not that the baby did pass. No Sir, not at all.”

  “No? Then what..?”

  Thomas, still fighting to replenish the gallons of breath that had no doubt escaped him on what must have been a lengthy run from the village centre, looked back to the grass and took a good many deep and rasping breaths. His slender shoulders heaved up and down like those of a day’s-end ploughsman.

  Eventually, he looked up and, quite out of character for his position, stared his unofficial master clear and firm in the eye, one brow raised knowingly.

  “‘Tis that she says your Rachael did kill it.”

  SIXTEEN

  Thursday, August 20, 2043.

  West of Bull Run Peak, California.

  Back inside, Victoria had made more coffee and placed it on the threadbare carpet next to my equally threadbare chair. She had presumably chosen to get in quick before she lost the kettle and the stove again. Having laid the cups down she went back to the kitchen area, opened a high cupboard and removed a small packet which had been hidden toward the back of the top shelf. She tore it open with her teeth, then held the small plastic capsule contained within against her forearm until it clicked.