[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  Was it?

  Not when Grainger and his men had arrived in latest model high-powered electric Land Rovers. Two of them, both silver. Both were laden with the most advanced tracking technology available, numerous creature comforts, awesome sound systems (according to one of the guys) and, more importantly (as they would probably be needed at some point), a positive arsenal of the highest powered weapons these men-for-hire could lay their grubby little hands on.

  Standing with four of them at the edge of the ravine which ran down toward the lake, two just milling and two assisting the lone diver below, he looked up and around, across the lake itself and into the thick forest which filled almost every inch of the surrounding slopes. Nothing for miles. Just dawn rising over the trees to the east and darkness beating its retreat to the west. They really were in the arse end of the arse end of nowhere and he had to ask himself… why? Why had Strauss been tracked out here? Had he been picked up by someone? Had he flagged someone down? Stolen a tourist’s car? Or had he gone off on foot? If that was the case then just how far did he expect to travel in a wilderness such as this..? This lake was a good ten or twelve miles outside of even state park limits, so there would be no ranger huts nearby and nobody actually lived out here. Not any more. What there would be, however, is bears, snakes and perhaps even wolves. Since their reintroduction to the northern parks in the latter part of the twentieth century, grey wolf numbers had thrived and the subsequent culls had been less than effective. What hadn’t thrived, however, was the amount of food needed to sustain them. So, if Strauss had been stupid enough to camp out in these woods overnight, then a strong and hungry pack would be one hell of a dangerous thing to come up against.

  If that was the case then it was job done. But if not…

  Just how far could he actually have gone?

  He turned to one of the two men standing with him and held out his hand. The man handed over a small glass panel surrounded by a thin metal bezel. Grainger pressed a recessed button in the bezel to switch it on and began to navigate his finger over the glass. In under a minute he was looking at the latest high resolution satellite imagery of the area, a small spot indicating his own location and the ground in front of him still slightly visible through the glass. He started panning with his finger.

  After a few moments he stopped, narrowed his eyes and pinched to zoom. He beckoned over the man who had handed him the tablet.

  “What is this?” he asked, inquisitively.

  The man pursed his lips. The centre of the screen was focused in on what appeared to be the roof of an old tin hut. It seemed to be of a reasonable size, surrounded by old cars and a large amount of discarded junk.

  “Don’t know, sir?” the man said. “Old ranger hut? Abandoned cabin? Could be either.”

  Grainger turned in the direction the cabin should be, according to the map, and looked deep into the trees. Whatever it was, it was only about three or four miles away from where they were standing right now and it was most definitely a tree-lined avenue worth exploring. “It could be neither,” he said, still thinking. “So… what’s the quickest way to get us up there?”

  NINETEEN

  Monday, October 31, 1644.

  Manningtree, Essex, England.

  A dark cloud hung over the village, both literally and metaphorically. The literal one firmly hid the early-afternoon sun from view and cast the main square into innumerate shades of dull grey, whilst its more metaphorical counterpart simply stripped the colour from the moods of those gathered back toward ashen hues. The ground was still wet from the morning dew brought in from the Stour, but it had been merrily taking its journey back to dust before the clouds came. It remained soft underfoot and, with so many gathered, it gave the square the look of a dark squalling pond, almost all of its residents now gathered in huddles at its banks.

  William’s mare, Bewt, came to a sudden and skidding halt dead centre of this quiet squall, facing the lean-to from which Mrs. Fletcher would normally be seen selling her breads and eggs. The sudden stop curled up moist crusts of earth as dark as those on her most burned loaves and her chickens flapped their wings hard in response as though they might magically achieve flight. They soon went back to the altogether more serious business of pecking at a bare patch of dried earth in search of any seed which had strayed whilst the locals pecked hard at the latest piece of gossip that had seen fit to fall on their own barren ground.

  Whatever melée had occurred in the square had clearly long passed, but the inhabitants were still buzzing as hard as the kitchens at the manor - though this seemed more of a seething hornet’s nest than a busy hive of bees. It was not only a nest, it seemed, but one which had clearly been recently disturbed. Each disparate group was feverishly chattering and grumbling amongst themselves as William carefully surveyed them. Every house had emptied, including the house that had, until about eight years ago, been just that... a house. Then it had taken to selling home-brewed ales. Now, still without signage, it was known as simply... ‘The Ale House’. And, for the first time in eight years, it was empty.

  Every so often one of the villagers might leave their own group for another, swiftly passing along a juicy morsel that that either been gleaned or, more likely, invented just to spread the disease. It was something William had seen many times before and one he would probably see many times more and yet, within today’s version, was the one thing he had not expected to see... one which had never before reared its head.

  One by one, to a man and woman, the villagers either looked to the ground or turned away from him completely as he turned to them. None saw caught his eye. They did not approach him, as they so often did, but rather they shunned him.

  He swung his leg and dismounted in one fluid movement as the horse let out a long rattling blow and shook its head to fight the sweat. The dirt he kicked up as he landed released a fresh waft of dung and dunny from the earth, but he cared little. He stood and looked around, staring once again at each of the groups in turn. No-one claimed him.

  “What happened here?” he said, making sure he spoke loud enough for all to hear. No reply. Slowly, he led the horse by the harness and paraded in a tight circle, looking for anyone who might respond. Soon, his patience was thinned. “I asked what happened here? Where is my maid?”

  After an awkward period of silence, one in which he felt he was drowning like a witch in the squalling pond, his accusers watching on, a male voice from the rear of the crowd spoke, though even that was under a breath. It sounded as though it had said: “Your maid... or your maiden?”

  It was a stone dropped into the pool of silence and rippling sniggers quickly spread away from it.

  To his left as he turned, William saw yellow stains and beige and white flakes spread fine across the ground. He led the horse over and saw that it was precisely what he had taken it to be; the remains of eggs; at least a dozen. All were broken, a flimsy parchment bag still laid by their side.

  He could contain himself no more. “Speak to me!” he shouted. Firmly. “I am Master of this village and I demand that you tell me what happened here?” Looking once more around the crowd, the best he received in return was the most furtive of glances in his direction. If he swiftly caught an eye it was even now, just as swift, turned away again.

  “Your Rachael happened.” A voice said eventually. It was a coarse voice; old and well-used but also calm and authoritarian. It stemmed from directly behind him.

  William turned to see Endymion Porter leaning against a gnarled post, stick in hand. Porter was probably around sixty-two or sixty-three years old, with perhaps another five or six years of guesswork either side. He had a leathered face patterned with deep lines, piercing blue eyes, a long grey beard which he kept neatly shaped at all times and he walked with both a stick and a limp from days long past. It was suspected that Porter had fought in at least one war as it was also known that his right hand was scarred in its palm from those self-same days, possibly as the result of a misfiring flintlock. This was w
hy he chose to hold the stick in his right, they said, to adequately conceal the scarring and reduce the chatter. For as long as William had been on this earth, if the inhabitants of Lawton Manor were to be seen as the ‘Management’ of the village then Porter had been regarded as their ‘Shop Steward’ - the worker’s representative. A such, he carried with him no shortage of firm authority when needed and wore clothing which, whilst not even close to the calibre afforded by William and his family, was certainly of a better cut and condition than those of the average village resident.

  Porter was not, like all but a couple of his charges, a Manningtree native. He had reputedly spent many years travelling the European lands, and perhaps even further afield, before finally settling on their own dark corner of the globe to live out his remaining days. On his arrival he had brought to the village a calm and conciliatory tone, a strong sense of justice and an accent described by many in the village as ‘a strange concoction’, perhaps Germanic. He was known as a calm man, one who had never once needed to raise his voice in order to win a point and one who could use quiet words as powerfully as the most explosive of cannons in any grievance those who sought his intervention might bring to his door.

  Porter’s expression was knowing, as it so often was. Today, however, it seemed to suggest that everything William might want to discover was contained behind his blue eyes, but also that he might only let slip what he felt might be worth sharing. After a few moments he pulled himself away from the post and strode, still carrying his noticeable limp, toward the younger man who, for the first time in his life, seemed to have suddenly become an outcast in his own home.

  Usually, when William was struggling to find compromise between rivals, Porter was the voice of reason in a tumult of uneducated bickering which constantly came to the fore in times as stressful as these. With many of the younger men away fighting the battles, it increased the strain on those who chose to remain, along with the womenfolk, and making ends meet in the village and its environs was becoming an increasingly impossible task. The elasticity of time, resources and tempers was constantly fit to snap, it would seem, at less than a moment’s notice. All were constantly looking for something to allow vent to their bottled anger and, more often than not, for someone to blame...

  “They believe you brought a serpent into their midst and the time has come for it to be slain.” He surveyed the crowd, still keeping their eyes low and their muttering lower still.

  “Rachael..?”

  Porter nodded gently. “Rachael.”

  He turned to face William directly as the others looked on like a herd of roe deer watching two stags confront each other; the pretender finally facing up against the alpha. “Tell me...?” he continued, “What exactly did you think would happen when your brought such an oddity into this village? That they would... embrace her? Welcome her?” He shook his head ruefully. “You offered your maiden tasks you promised to Prudence and we all know how sharp a tongue there can be on that child. Sharp as any serpent she might come up against.”

  “I did not promise,” William said, “and I told Prudence as much.”

  Porter shook his head with a smile. “These people do not know promise,” he said. “Not even when the Lord their God offers one upon them. No... they understand one thing and one thing only... and you should know that.”

  “And that is..?”

  “Hope, Master William. Hope. Look at them... Their existence is merely that... an existence. The very suggestion of something better - a position at the Manor, perhaps - will always be seen as hope to them and the only true hope is indeed a promise... a promise of something better.”

  “I did not mean to upset Prudence.”

  “And yet you offered scant regard to her feelings, knowing that they are as fragile as any of the faiences you own? You see, I know and you know that you meant no upset to the girl. Prudence herself, however..?” He raised an eyebrow. “And... as you well know... what Prudence believes to be true will spread fast through the ears gathered here, and be seen as fact, long before a single day is past.”

  William gritted his teeth. “There is talk that Prudence believes Rachael to have taken her child’s life..? Is this correct? If so, I don’t see how...”

  “She was here yesterday, your Rachael,” Porter interrupted. “Eggs again. I fear Old Florence is at an age and thinks she has a dozen fingers. Well, Prudence did see her strutting; there past the shodding barn...” He pointed beyond the throng to a small cottage against which had been constructed the most basic of farrier’s workshops. “Happy she seemed and that is a rarity for your Rachael. Well, Prudence did take so ill to that. Took to voicing her woes upon her right fast. Plus, there are those who think that Prudence’s child was sired of a gentleman, if you know what I mean, and Prudence has ne’er once denied it!”

  William looked firm to the older man. “I have never...”

  “Again, I know that and you know that but, as I have told you many a time, Master William, you have much to learn about a village. You have your ‘diplomacy’ or whatever it is you call it and they have their voices. They are not kings or queens, nor dukes or envoys. They are the masses, educated only by the land. A harsh land. Now, I do not raise my voice if it can be avoided, those days are passed, but even I can see that such mildness sometimes does me few favours. He.. or she... who shouts loudest and most often in this village will most likely shout last and Prudence... well... she is a one for shouting. Yesterday, she took to shouting on your poor girl like I have never seen. Fair tore her to strips in front of all she did.”

  “And Rachael?”

  Porter pursed his lips and nodded in gentle admiration. “Did keep her tongue for many a lengthy minute, I should say. Kept walking forward as though Prudence were nowt but an odd sound on the wind.” He sighed. “There came a time, however, where she could take no more. Her own forked tongue needed to smell the air, I reckon, and... well... after a time she did let it out.”

  William narrowed his eyes. “Rachael spoke..? What did she say?”

  Porter laughed. “An oddness, that’s what she said. She did tell Prudence to leave her alone, of course, but soon after she did call her a ‘bytch’. Then she stopped, near village’s end...” he indicated the far side of the square from which William had just ridden in, “...and she turned. She did look her bonny nemesis right deep in the eye, ne’er a flinch, and she did say... ‘drop dead, son of a bytch.’”

  He pondered for a moment. “Drop dead, son of a bytch. Now... what make you of that?”

  A dark silence fell, even in William’s mind. It took longer for him to see the light than it should have done, but when he did it was blinding. Painfully so. He opened his mouth slowly as the truth began to dawn. “So... Prudence is a bytch and the son of the bytch should... die?”

  Porter raised his eyebrows, knowingly. “And... what do you know? Come daybreak the child has no more breath. ‘Tis as still as a June-day breeze.”

  William sighed deeply, then took a moment to survey the seething apathy he could feel closing in around him from the edges of the square. “So... what happened here..? Today..?”

  “Prudence did come into the village again, this time the child in her arms. I don’t think it had long passed away as it was not full blue. She wandered the square with it, tears filling her eyes, gathering all the sympathy she craved like she were begging for coins. Then, a few minutes later, your Rachael arrived and I guess she too must have edged close to see what all the fuss might be. Prudence curled her lip like a dog, or so I’m told, handed the child to Ma Fletcher and just set about beating on your girl like a banshee once more, screaming how she, Rachael, had killed it. She did not stop.” He pondered a moment, ruefully. “Not until she got her blood.”

  William panicked visibly at the mention of blood, his eyes widening. “Where is Rachael now...?”

  “Took away up the path like a startled fox.”

  “And Prudence..?”

  “Ma Fletcher walked her home. Ca
rried the child and gave her a shoulder.”

  “The child was already weak,” William offered lamely. “They cannot possibly think...” He narrowed his eyes.

  Porter snorted, though almost to himself. “They don’t think, Master William. They fear and they fret and they bite when they are prodded with an unjust stick. Rare is it that they think.”

  William looked to Porter with a firm eye. “But you will tell them..? You will do what you can?”

  Porter surveyed the village around him and pursed his lips slightly, deeper creases forming tight around his mouth. Gently, he waved his stick in the direction of the crowd. “I am not captain of this ship, Master William, and nor do I wish to be. That is, and shall remain, your position. As is all that comes with it. Me? I am but a lieutenant. So... if there is a mutiny to be had here, then it may be that I have to side with my crew, else I risk hanging from a gallowed mizzen myself.” He had never looked more serious. “Be assured of this though, Master William... I will, as I have since I arrived in this place, do one thing and one thing only..”

  “And what is that?”

  “What I have to do. For the greater good.”

  He smiled. It was a reluctant smile, but it was full of warmth and contained no shortage of what he suspected was soon-to-be-needed sympathy. Gently, he rested his free hand on the thick velvet covering the younger man’s shoulder, held it there for just a few seconds, then let it fall. Slowly, he turned, placed his stick firm into the ground and walked away.