[Sequoia]

by Adrian Dawson

  Everything.

  He simply could not allow that to happen.

  He picked up the main body of the pistol and slowly turned the finely etched metal around in his hand, admiring its beauty with the kind of eyes one might admire their own new-born child.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, without raising his eyes.

  Prudence looked confused. But then, if the subject matter did not relate directly to men, dresses or chickens, Prudence had a distinct habit of looking confused. “’Tis a flintlock..?” She said warily. Such weapons were in great abundance since the wars and so she had seen a great many. None so fine, mind.

  He shook his head. “Not a flintlock, my dear. This is a wheellock,” he said, admiring the great craftsmanship which had clearly been bestowed upon it. The handle, still resting on the desk, was as intricately carved as the body and both had been done with great care and attention to detail. The deep, sharp lines seemed to flow from one to the other as though they might tell a story, though Prudence could not make enough of the detail to know what tale it might try to tell or indeed hold enough real interest to care.

  “A Japanese wheellock,” he continued, softly. “This one was created by someone very special to me, and it is unique. The design is based on an earlier Portuguese model, but it has a level of precision on the dog, chain, wheel, pan and sear which is truly unsurpassed. See..?” He showed the girl the relevant areas but her interest now seemed to sit just a little lower down the rankings than outright boredom and she began to fidget once more. He continued, regardless. “The reason this one is so much more exquisite that those from the Portuguese lands is because this one was not produced in great quantity, but created as though it were the only one ever to be made. It was crafted by men trained as sword-smiths... men highly skilled in the delicate forging of iron and steel. Because of their inherent perfectionism, it was manufactured very slowly and with great care. Like the creation of love itself. It is a very, very precise piece of craftsmanship and it allows me to sail about as close to perfection as this world here might ever allow.”

  “Yet you tinker..?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not tinker, no. I do not possess the necessary skills to tinker with something crafted in so beautifully complex a manner.” He shrugged. “No, I merely remove the odd rough edge that might have appeared along the way and smooth along the inner workings. I may add a drop of oil where needed. I do this so that, when the trigger is pulled and an unstoppable chain of events is set in motion, everything happens as it should. As smoothly as its creator intended.”

  He placed the gun back on the desk, then shook his head slightly.

  “In the end, my dear, I think that is about all any of us can ever really do.”

  He looked back to Prudence, deep sadness creasing his eyes. She was leaning forward in her seat now, her hands fidgeting in her lap and clearly expecting good news. Typically Prudence, she cared little how he might be feeling by condemning another human being to almost certain death. Only how she felt. She wanted her answer and she wanted her money, just so that she might set about obtaining the life that she had long-felt was owed to her.

  Much as it pained him, he would not be disappointing her. Not today.

  His shoulders sagged under the yoke of responsibility and he sighed again. Deeper this time.

  “Send word to Hopkins,” he said, pretending to focus his thoughts back on the pistol. “Tell him he shall have his funds.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sunday, August 23, 2043.

  Manningtree, Essex, England.

  “You have less than three days,” Victoria said.

  I stood from the tree, turned and looked her full in face. I don’t think I have ever looked, or been, more serious in my life. “Why? Why three days?”

  She sighed, long and hard and her eyes fell. Whatever it was she was about to spill, she hadn’t wanted to. She probably knew she had to, at some point, but she really, really, really hadn’t wanted to.

  “As you know, there were two labs,” she explained. “Just two, and Cardou is gone. The sphere will have survived, it’s tough as nuts, but it will be a long time before it is re-implemented for anything to do with Sequence, if indeed it ever is. It could just be cut up and used for other things, like it was supposed to in the first place. Anyway, Rachael’s route is closed so you can’t go that way.”

  “Leaving the lab in L.A intact.…? My lab. So where’s the problem?” This was obvious. I knew this already.

  She sighed again. “At one minute past three, early Wednesday morning, you won’t have a lab, Mr. Strauss. In fact, given the way that siberium stuff behaves when it’s prodded with a stick, you very probably won’t have much of a building to put a lab in either. Cardou was last Wednesday, 3:00am. L.A. is next Wednesday. It’s fixed.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked. “How the hell could you possibly know this? I mean, Cardou was just an accid…” It hit me. Oh, God did it hit me. How could I have been so blind? “You…?” I said, shouting. “You did this? You killed Rachael…?”

  “Rachael is not dead.”

  “Don’t get smart,” I said. “Really, now is not the time to get smart. You blew up Cardou, and now you’re going to do the same to L.A.?” I took an astonished breath of realisation and started to pace around the clearing, muttering. About how that was why she had all this shit covering her walls, why she was so god-damned interested in every little aspect of everyone’s life and why somebody somewhere might want her dead. I paced for a long time, ranting, confirming and denying all the myriad possibilities and conclusions that suddenly chose to run through my head. I didn’t hear what she was saying over and over as she was talking over me, but she was saying something and she was saying it louder and louder.

  Eventually I stopped and took a deep breath.

  “I didn’t do it,” she shouted. For a brief moment, she sounded like a small child. Now that I had stopped rambling, her voice fell low again. “I didn’t do it. It wasn't me.”

  I turned to look at her again, speaking slowly. “Then who the hell was it?”

  She sighed. “My dad.”

  Silence fell again, my mind racing. How, when and what the hell for? Christ, the man had been dead for nigh-on thirty years.

  “He thought he was doing the right thing,” she explained. “And, do you know what, he was. Somebody needed to stop this. It can’t be allowed to continue because it’s just going to keep fucking things up, over and over and over. Who knows where it will end? It’s not right, any of it.”

  “So why now?” I asked. “Why now when Rachael was in there? Why not then, when he was still alive? Why the hell did he wait thirty years? Come to think of it, how the hell did he wait?”

  Victoria’s eyes looked left and right; anywhere but at me. It was the kind of look that said that I had missed something really, really obvious and, worse still, that it was now sneaking up behind me and still I couldn’t see or hear it. “There was no lab,” she said, slowly. “Cardou was just a field full of sheep and your shiny KRT building was little more than a building site back then. They hadn’t even built the labs yet. Besides, history can’t be changed. You remember that? Well neither can the future, not if it’s already been documented. Alison came back and she came back from your lab. Other people went back from Cardou. So these things had to happen and, only once they had happened, could the labs actually be destroyed.”

  “But Rachael..?” I said. Astonished.

  “It was three am, for Christ’s sake,” she said, stressing the words with everything she had. “He didn’t think anyone would be there. How could he have known? What else could he have done? He tried his best.”

  “So, what..? He just wakes up one morning and decides to plant bombs?”

  “Explosive devices,” she corrected, though God knows why. “He knew a kid, some kid named Kenny he had arrested a couple of years before and he had him build them. Super long timers or some such and fitted with those
really long lasting batteries your company keeps banging on about on the TV. But, do you know what? He was scared. Just like I’m scared and just like you’re scared and just like the whole goddamn world ought to be scared. He was scared that by destroying the labs he would somehow fuck something up. Make it so that something that was supposed to happen didn’t actually happen. He was a detective, for Christ’s sake, not a scientist. At that time, he barely understood the reports he had to file on a daily basis, let alone all of this shit. So he had Cardou blow just as your friend Alison left L.A. That way, if Klein and his Cronies weren’t actually dead then there was time for other things to happen, if required. Things that might need to happen. Klein and his team would get twitchy and panicky and speed up any other plans he didn’t know about. Plans Alison didn’t even know to tell him about because they weren’t even planned at the point she left. But Klein did die, didn’t he? As did Haga and Sherman and Kerr. All gone. But my dad didn’t know that. Not even Alison knew that. So he was playing it safe, that was all. He was a good man.”

  Truthfully, hurt as I did - and boy did I hurt - I didn’t doubt that for a second.

  “So what about you?” I asked. “If this is all so neatly sewn up, why the hell are you still involved? You just want out, so why did you come looking for me?” I pointed to the tree, to Rachael’s carving. “Why show me all this? Rachael is dead, there is nothing that can be done to change that and there is absolutely no mention, as far as I can tell, of anyone ever coming back to be with her, so it didn’t need to happen. Klein is a closed book, KRT is a closed book, Cardou is a closed book, and even Rachael, as far as you are concerned, is a goddamned closed book. The whole sodding library is closed on this and there is no sign whatsoever of it ever reopening.” I repeated my earlier sentence, carefully stressing the words this time. “So why the hell are you still involved? What the hell do you get out of this?”

  She was getting angry now. Angry and upset. She looked as though she was ready to burst into tears. “Me? I get what I told you I wanted, Mr. Strauss, right from the start. I get to know - to really know - that everything that should have happened did happen. And I don’t believe in coincidence, do you? No, of course you don’t because nobody really does. Not if they’re honest. See, I knew that Rachael was somewhere in the 1600s and that’s no coincidence, is it? I mean, it can’t be. It’s a message, that’s what it is. A very clear message. And when somebody sends you a message you have to listen. You do, don’t you?”

  “How?” I said, frustrated to hell. “How on earth is that a message?”

  She smiled. Do you believe that? She actually went and smiled. It was lame, I’ll grant you, but it was there. “Because this is where you take over. Like I said before. This is where you do the things that need to be done.” The smile fell in an instant and she looked at me very seriously, as though she was about to strike one hell of a tough bargain. “Rachael? Rachael is not your gift, Mr. Strauss. She never was…”

  “…Rachael is your reward.”

  THIRTY

  Wednesday, February 8, 1645.

  Manningtree, Essex, England.

  The long track which led to the formal doors of the Manor at Mistley was really little more than two deep ruts carved into a wide expanse of frosted grass. It was a treacherous ride on the best of days and so today, when they were sparkled with intermittent pools of ice, William ensured that Bewt stayed firmly between them. Clumps of hardened earth flew skyward in her wake and caused Novice and Thomas, some fifteen or so feet behind, to ride with both their heads low against the near-constant onslaught.

  What William saw as he approached his home made his heart feel heavier than it had ever done before. Since the time of Edward Waldegrave this house had been off limits to all but a few of the villagers, and only then when they came to work or brought with them an extremely severe grievance which Porter had been unable to solve to their satisfaction. To see so many gathered outside its doors now made William feel, deep inside that heavy heart, that local respect for his long-standing position was slowly being eroded. He must restore the order of things with swift word and firm deed, lest the whole situation grow completely out of hand.

  The crowd which had gathered was sizeable, even greater than William had dared suspect for the full length of the four mile ride from Colchester. He had been away sourcing a tradesman who might fix the tiles on the stables, for many had been torn off during a harsh January. There was perhaps one man in Manningtree who might have been fit for the task, but since that day in the square William had ventured into the village very little and sensed that his presence, even if carrying paid work in his hand, would still be an unwelcome sight. It pained him, as it had every day since. Just not enough, it seemed, to have yet done anything about it or to have laid salt on the frosty path which might have led the whole village back to normality.

  The results of that inaction were now gathered en masse in front of his house.

  Worse, he figured, they would not be leaving without taking the most vulnerable member of his staff along with them, kicking and screaming if necessary. That was what Thomas had told him, breathlessly as he caught him, the first signs of tears welling in his eyes.

  This darkest of plans had been kept, apparently, from almost everyone who inhabited the village, but most especially from The Boy. Prudence, Porter and the few who ran messages back and forth to Hopkins were all acutely aware of just how keen the young lad might be to please the Master with a tale he had heard tell.

  For an ordinary secret, keeping it under wraps would generally have proved an unenviable task. Village life was known to feed heartily on fresh morsels of gossip, but with the threat of devilry hanging like a dark cloud over each who became privy to what would come to pass, even the loosest of lips had managed to remain tight shut. Even Prudence herself had seen fit to bite down on the flicker of her own tongue. Young Thomas had gained his first word of what was to happen at the same time as the bulk of the village; when Porter himself had called a gathering in the square that very morning.

  Village archives would note that he told them, “It is agreed that the gentleman Mr Hopkins imployed in the Countrie for discovering & finding out of witches shall be sent for hither to come to Towne; to make search for such wicked persons, if any be here; and shall have his fee and such allowance for his paines & labour in that kinde as he hath in other places in the Countrie.”

  In other words, Matthew Hopkins himself would be arriving back in Manningtree before nightfall. Funds were in place and, whilst he did not mention her by name, it was clear that Rachael Garland was to be pricked. If she was found to be a witch then the village could expect to be rid of her presence soon after. He expected little resistance to the news and little resistance was what he received. One or two even cheered.

  Thomas hadn’t.

  As soon as the square had started to clear, Thomas had taken hard and fast up the track to the Manor to inform the Master, breaking his own record for the run. On hearing that William was doing business in the town, he had then begged and pleaded for Mrs. Banks to allow the stables to harness Novice for him. He offered few details, so desperate was he to make the journey. It was only when she had dragged from him the true intentions of the village, through a series of breathless gasps, that she had finally acceded. When he was away to the stables she had immediately wondered what she might be able to do with the girl. With nowhere to take her - for they both resided within the Manor - and few places to hide her that would not be soon laid bare, she found herself at a frustrating loss. In the end, she chose to not even prepare Rachael with words of what was to come. It would only make things worse. Instead, she just sat awhile in the scullery, closed her eyes without sleep and prayed that the Master would arrive back at the Manor some time before trouble did.

  Each time she caught the eye of the girl about her work, however, she felt a burning, not only from the fear which crawled and licked across her own face, but also of her firm belief that the young maid w
as able to read it.

  William did indeed arrive, Thomas riding hard in his wake, but it transpired to be just a few minutes after the nick of time.

  Sensing that Bewt was receiving no instruction whatsoever to slow, the side of the crowd which blocked his path to the main entrance swiftly parted, the horse finally coming to a halt a few yards from the door. It kicked up a barrel-full of fine stones just as Porter was leading Rachael outside by the arm. She looked terrified, but was offering little resistance. If anything, he mused, she looked slightly resigned.

  “Unhand her at once,” he said sternly, dismounting as he spoke.

  Novice drew to a clumsy halt some moments later but Thomas remained mounted, watching.

  “She is to be watched,” Porter said calmly. “Tonight.”

  “Watched? By whom? And on what authority?”

  Reaching William’s side, Porter paused his stride for a moment. He did not look directly to the young Master, but rather spoke into his shoulder. “Master Hopkins does ride in tonight,” he said calmly. “And the authority is mine. As it should be in an instance such as this.” He continued on.

  William turned. “Hopkins? Hopkins?” He laughed, though it was without humour. “My father knew that vile man when he would pee his undergarments. He’d do ‘owt for a penny then and has changed little from what I hear. So...” he curled his mouth and nodded, “...you see fit to authorise scant funds and use them to bring a money-grubbing charlatan into my village, just so that he can judge ill of my maid? To what end?” He turned briefly to Prudence, having noted her in the crowd. He was certain that he had seen her smile. “To add flesh to Prudence’s biases and lies? Or because you think it might make the sun shine on the fields once more? Perhaps that it might put an end to our winters once and for all? You know as well as I do that such things are sent to try us.”