by John Lilley
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hello sir, this is Jeremy. I’m just calling to remind you that luncheon is in twenty minutes.’
‘Ok thanks for that, I’ll be there.’ said Gene.
‘My pleasure sir,’ said Jeremy and rang off.
Gene replaced the handset: Shit. I’m not going to get that bath just yet.
As quick as he could he rolled off the bed and headed across to the bathroom where he stripped off and had a quick flannel wash at the sink. The towels were superb, he wondered what they were made from, definitely something superior to cotton.
Further down the hallway, Derek was sat in Harry’s room waiting for Harry to finish getting ready. He looked at the time on his link and downed the last of the whisky from the heavy crystal tumbler. Harry had not been what he had expected: shorter, hairier but a lot stockier, like how Derek imagined Tom, Harry’s younger brother would have been if he had not been killed. Their meeting had been awkward, to say the least. Although Derek’s anger over the kidnap often surfaced, he had stopped grieving for Harry, Tom and Diane a long time before. The whole thing had been a massive triple-whammy for him. The kidnapping had broken Diane; she had spent several weeks in a kind of zombie state, crying almost continuously, the two boys had been her life. She must have been heavily distracted three weeks after the kidnapping when little Tom managed to wander out onto the balcony. He had only been walking for a couple of days but had been pulling himself up onto the furniture for weeks. Diane called him her little caveman, he was so strong. The chair on the balcony proved to be a much too attractive proposition to Tom. From there he could reach the balcony railings. He didn’t make a cry as he went over and Diane spent a few minutes looking for him in the wardrobes and under the beds before the knock on the door came. They reckoned that he might well have survived if he had not landed head-first on the robot mower that was attending to the grass around the dorm. Diane went rapidly downhill from there. Derek got the call from his Mother when he was on his way back from work. He was on an MT train which had mysteriously been held at a red signal for over twenty minutes. The call explained why: they had found Diane’s mangled body on the track near their dorm. Derek blamed himself for many years; despite all the support he was given. This whole Cloudmaker/Harry thing had dragged it all up again, and on top of that, there was the business with Arthur. He was trying to be upbeat about the situation, but he was in a state of massive emotional turmoil.
51 RESOLUTION
The high-speed MT journey from Britannia to the edge of the great Welsh Forest was over too soon for John Blackhawk, he was really enjoying the ride. The train crossed the remaining land-bridge between what was Wales and England then skirted the coast before entering the Severn fjord. Passing what had been Welshpool, it headed for its terminus at the Cwmbran. The plan was that John would stay there that evening and then the next day cycle to the Nant Ddu Rangers Lodge in the Brecon Beacons, over 55 km away. Then from there, it was only a four-kilometre hike to the top of peak he was interested in. His deerskin outfit and archery kit did attract some strange looks from the other passengers, but he hardly noticed since he was too busy looking out of the window at the Welsh Forest. After two weeks in Columbia, three weeks on board the Cloud Maker and then a week in Britannia City, he was desperate to get back into the forests. He had not realised how exposed it had made him feel by leaving his native woodland.
As the train approached the terminus, John’s link chimed:
‘Hi, John,’ it was Harry. ‘Looks like you’re nearly at Cwmbran now. There should be a Forest Ranger called Peter Murray waiting for you on the platform. He will ensure that you have everything you need.’
‘That’s great Harry, thanks for everything buddy,’ said John. ‘I’ll call you if I’ve any problems. Otherwise, I’ll see you in a couple of days.’
‘No problem mate, see you,’ Harry’s image faded from the small screen.
The train was now at walking pace, and John could see a few people waiting on the platform. However, only one of them had no luggage with him, he was a tall heavily-built man with long dark curly hair and a beard that was turning grey in places. Sure enough, as John stepped off the train the man approached.
‘John Blackhawk?’ the man said. ‘Pete Murray, I’ve been asked to help you.’
He extended his hand, and the two shook.
‘Hi, yes, Harry told me to expect you,’ said John.
‘OK, follow me,’ said Pete as he led the way through the security gates of the forest wall to the bike racks on the other side.
John followed with anticipation. Pete suggested that John took the blue bike at the end of the rack.
‘Well, OK,’ said John, ‘but I’ve never ridden one of these things before. I think that Harry assumed that everyone has.’
‘Oops, sorry, time for a quick lesson then, ready for the 55-km ride to Nant Ddu tomorrow,’ said Pete with a smile. ‘Let’s put your gear in the lodge, we can walk up there it’s not far. Then we have a couple of hours to get you mobile before tea-time.’
‘Good idea, but I don’t drink tea either, only coffee,’ said John.
‘No problem, tea also means an evening meal around here, but we can get you some coffee, I’m a coffee drinker too,’ replied Pete.
After his bicycle riding lesson and meal, John accepted Pete’s offer of a guided walk through the forest around the lodge. Pete showed John over a sixty different species of wildlife during his brief introduction to the new managed ecosystem of the Welsh Forests. John’s appetite for information seemed endless. The conversation turned to John’s quest to find Pocahontas. His main concerns were the directions and what large predators he was likely to meet along the way.
‘Although the bears are out and about at this time of year, I’m sure you won’t meet them the way you’ll be going. The wolves are mainly in the south, so, up at Nant Ddu, they are somewhat scarce. You might see the odd Lynx as you climb to the higher ground, but they’ll not come near you unless you appear injured. The primates will not be a problem either unless you provoke one of the bigger species. The lemurs just like showing off, and you’ll probably have to shoo them away. It’s a complex structure we have here, but it does work. Perhaps the most virulent predator to remorselessly attack you will be the horse flies (Tabanidae). There are far too many of them. They’ve exploited a niche in our new ecosystem. We are working on something to predate them, but it’s proving difficult to squeeze it in. You won’t feel their bite, but it will swell up quite badly. Just make sure any exposed skin is covered with repellent and you should survive,’ said Pete.
‘How would you feel about me taking some game for myself?’ asked John.
‘I’m not sure why you would want to do that; there is plenty of food at the Lodges. Anyway, it’s actually illegal to kill any of the forest creatures unless they are attacking you and your life is in danger. Every creature in these forests is precious, the result of over 100 years of careful management,’ said Pete.
‘Wow, that’s telling me buddy, sorry for even suggesting it,’ said John.
‘Oh no problem, it’s a very different world over here, I do understand so don’t worry. It’s unlikely that you’d be interested in our more critical species anyway since in general, they weigh less than 30 grammes. Anyway, with that ancient hardware you carry, you aren’t going to bring down much,’ said Pete.
‘OK, see that song thrush (Turdus Philomelos) at 25 yards,’ said John pointing.
‘I see him,’ said Pete squinting at the bird.
‘OK, I’m aiming at that knot in the tree trunk just to the left of him, said John as he nocked, drew and fired an arrow in one fluid motion taking no more than three seconds. The bird flew away in alarm as the arrow struck the tree. They walked up to the tree, the arrow was indeed right in the middle of the knot and Pete was quietly impressed by the hunter from across the pond.
So this was what it was like way back when? Pete thought. Even allowing for the modern technology of John’
s bow, to be able to predate whatever they pleased meant that they must have consciously managed their environment far more than we anticipated. All this will need to be factored into the next review.
‘Fancy a try?’ asked John.
Even a big guy like Pete had trouble drawing an arrow through the 45 kg peak draw-weight of John’s bow. Once held at the anchor point the 75% let-off allowed him the time he needed take aim at leisure. The sight-pins were there, all he had to do was estimate the actual target distance and place the pile on the appropriate pin, easy? He fingered his first release and dropped his bow hand, the classic errors of a complete novice. The arrow porpoised into a tree three metres to the left of the one he’d targeted. John needed to use his bow to hook the arrow and retrieve it from its high position in the tree.
‘Probably a good case for you spending a day at the practice butts buddy before you lose any more of my arrows?’ commented John with a smile.
‘You’re dead right about that mate,’ said Pete. ‘Let’s go back to the lodge and try out my latest batch of cider from our wild apple varieties.’
The next morning, John meticulously checked every inch of his skin for horsefly bites. He had to conclude that he had no explanation for his blinding headache and acute sensitivity to daylight and even the slightest noise. The current intense dawn chorus and shafts of light from the blinds of his room in the Lodge were giving him severe problems. This was after an evening where after finally going to bed he has been unable to get to sleep for hours due to the hallucination of the room spinning the moment he closed his eyes.
Pete greeted him at breakfast with a knowing look. Forty minutes later they were cycling along the forest road towards Nant Ddu. John was wobbling slightly as he tried to master the gears and brakes, but he seemed to be a natural.
The track led into the surrounding forest where John was impressed by the variety of trees, many of them looked like smaller versions of the ones back home, but some he’d not seen before. In the parks of Britannia City, he’d seen many birds, but he was not prepared for the abundance he was now experiencing. A dozen entirely different calls registered from high and low within the forest. Fifty-five kilometres later they approached the cycle-racks at the Nant Ddu Rangers Lodge. They spent the evening sitting on the porch of the Lodge in the starlight and comparing notes on their respective forests.
The next day Pete took John to the bottom of the track that would lead him to the Pocahontas statue.
‘Well, enjoy yourself mate, your link will take you to what you are looking for, see you later,’ said Pete as he waved and turned back to the lodge.
John’s ankle was healing well and didn’t hold him back on the steep track. He was just walking slowly to take in all of the sights, smells and sounds. There wasn’t much that eluded the piercing gaze of his well-trained eyes. The wildcat (Felis Silvestris) thought itself safe, sat on the bough of a tree 10 metres overhead, but John instinctively separated its yellow/green eyes from the tree’s foliage.
The statue of Pocahontas was smaller than he’d expected: a life-sized representation of a small woman on a five-foot high plinth. John’s senses told him that she was facing west, which he appreciated. He used his bow to carefully place the amulet around her neck. The small pouch contained some soil and pine needles from the great American forests of his homeland. He stared at the statue for some time, the dark patina of the ancient figure contrasted enormously with the gaily coloured beads of the amulet. A sudden thought popped into his mind when he remembered the link training session he had had while drinking with Pete the night before; he would take a “selfie” with the statue. It would be something to show Chief when he got back home.
‘OK, don’t worry, I’ll be holding your saddle all the time,’ said Trevor.
‘You said that last time and look what happened,’ replied Ivan.
‘Hey, you just went too fast for me. Take it easy this time. One thing at a time, keep your hands off the gear levers, brakes and the bell. Let’s just concentrate on the handlebars and peddles. When you want to stop just stop peddling and put your feet down before the bike stops, OK?’ said Trevor.
Julie watched with amusement from her seat on the lawns of Trevor’s dorm. Trevor was normally good at this, but he was not used to teaching an adult, least of all someone as impatient as Ivan. She felt that if Trevor had adopted a more standard approach to the whole thing, then it might have gone better, but she did feel some of Trevor’s frustration at the lack of success.
Her sessions at the medical centre had been time-consuming but seemed to be doing the trick. Her knee had taken the implanted lab-grown grafts well, and despite being braced-up, she could already manage a good range of pain-free movement. Her temporary “holiday” back at Trevor’s had not been too bad after all. She did miss the forest, but not as much as she thought she would, and there was always plenty of fascinating work for her to do at the research institutes in Britannia City. The recent extremes of her excursion to central Europe had made her more appreciative of the limited amount of “Parklife” around the dorms. The discussions were still underway with the administration in Britannia City, but if all went to plan she would be joining Trevor and Ivan on an extended five-year mission to accelerate the reclamation project. Apparently, the Native Americans were also keen to get involved in this activity. She still could not believe that Trevor would give up his cycling to make the trip, why would he do such a thing? For her, the main deciding factor was the offer of a dropship trip to the American forests for further briefings. She still had not got over the videos of the Brontotherium and the Elephant bird; every zoologist would have chewed their own arms off at such an offer, wouldn’t they?
Philippe had been in a nervous state all day. They had all been for a meal in the visitor centre. Each branch of the family had brought along some wine, so most of the guests were now in a somewhat relaxed state, consequently their conversation became progressively louder and more French. Some of the other visitors were making disapproving glances towards his rowdy party. He could feel the questions going through their minds: ‘Who are all those crazy people?’ and ‘They’re talking some foreign language. What’s going on there?’
He felt like he was standing out more and more as his group got louder and louder. Before they began to draw too much attention from the other diners he suggested that they made a move to the tower, it was almost time for their booking anyway. Slowly, much too slowly and much too noisily for Philippe, his guests began to leave the canteen and headed for the stairs.
The short ride in the lift up to the observation deck seemed to amplify everyone’s rowdiness; they were all now in a party mood, that was certain. The observation deck easily swallowed up the forty guests. They all knew what the meeting was about and were in agitated conversation about what old Philippe had brought back from Paris all those years ago.
Philippe began to tap the small glass ornament he had brought with him to gain attention.
‘Mesdames et Messieurs’ he said as the noise died down. ‘Today is both a sad day and a strange day, sad because as we know my father Philippe recently passed away. Strange because we have all now heard about old Philippe’s exploits in Paris all those years ago. The old dog kept it all to himself until he was literally on his death-bed. I really don’t know any more than you do about what we’re about to see. All he would tell me was that he’d succeeded in bringing back something of great importance from Parisian history. Before he died, he got me to promise that we would have this little gathering, in this most appropriate place, to reveal what he’d found. Those of you who knew my Dad will know what a joker he was, so I’m unsure what we’re about to see, perhaps it’s an old piece of cheese? I really would not put it past him to have one last laugh at our expense. Now is the time that we’ll all see what that something is.’
The applause from his guests made the large knot that had gathered in his throat suddenly disappear, and he became excited about his mystery inheritance again.
‘OK folks let’s see what old Louis left behind,’ he said as he began to open the cylinder that his father Philippe had retrieved from the streets of Paris 25 years earlier.
The green top screwed off easily. Inside was a grey plastic bag that had been heat-sealed. The top of the bag yielded easily to Philippe’s blade. His audience gasped as he inverted the grey bag to reveal another yellow plastic bag that slid out to the disappointment of the crowd. Philippe’s fingers were trembling when he slid his knife into the sealed end of the yellow bag. He peered inside, and this time he could see what appeared to be a roll of old cloth.
‘Come on Philippe, get it out,’ shouted one of his family to raucous, drunken laughter.
Slowly Philippe pulled the roll from the yellow bag. The original container and bags had done the trick, and his father had resealed them well because the canvas inside had not become sodden, nor had it dried out. Once out of the bag it began to unroll slightly on its own.
‘Over here boy,’ said his uncle Henrie, ‘on the table’.
Philippe moved across to the table near to the lift entrance. He let Henrie hold the edge of the canvas at the end of the table and began to unroll it while his guests crowded around.
‘Slowly,’ said Henrie.
The first few centimetres revealed some strange landscape. It was definitely a painting, an old oil painting. Then the top of someone’s head emerged from the roll and then those eyes. Everyone gasped together. Philippe had stopped unrolling.
It could not be, he thought, his arms were now frozen. He remained motionless in the now utterly silent room for what seemed like many minutes. When his arms stopped trembling he continued to unroll the painting even slower than before. He just could not take his gaze from those eyes. They seemed to pierce through to his very soul. As he continued to unroll, it appeared: that subtle smile.