by James Erith
The memory of Cain’s betrayal, his alliance with the serpent, his ever increasing lust for power and his embracing of darkness made her shudder, as did the shock of her capture and torture and the agony of losing her eyes. She thought of the chaos and muddle when Eden closed and the magic that had vanished.
And all that was left was cold, desperate, endless emptiness.
WHY DID I DO IT?
Why had she offered herself as the ultimate sacrifice? Possibly because there was no alternative. Probably because it put an end to the conflict.
In the end, though, she had spent a life in purgatory so that one day there might be a fresh start for life in a new Garden of Eden.
While she mulled over these thoughts, several dreamspinners bound her leg with tough dreamspinner silks and gave her dream powders to soothe the pain. Soon, she knew, she would spiral off into a comforting dream. The dreamspinners would take good care of her – even if her injured leg made movement impossible.
She realised that if Eden could not be woken, she would be stuck in the Atrium forever, disappearing into dust, her heart the last organ to survive in this empty world.
As she drifted off, a curious feeling of hope washed over her: whoever had worked out how to get in to the Atrium of The Garden of Eden had discovered how to get out. No one had done this since the Great Closing.
Calm swept through her like a gentle breeze. The person who came – and went – must possess, she thought, truly great qualities – magical qualities that would solve the riddles to opening the Garden of Eden. Perhaps he or she would return with the other Heirs of Eden? From the depths of her heart she felt convinced of this.
Next time, she would be better prepared and ready for them. And it wouldn’t be long, she was sure of it.
Her heart began to glow like an orb of fire within her, blood pumping around her veins like molten lava. Her brain filled with a new kind of energy that brimmed with confidence, hope and desire. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in eons.
Maybe, she hoped, her sacrifice would not have been in vain.
Perhaps my story will be told after all.
SEVENTY-FOUR
UNANSWERED QUESTIONS
Mrs Pye followed Old Man Wood into the kitchen and quickly sensed there was an “atmosphere”. In no time she’d delved into her fridge and larder, but her heart was heavy and her movements pained and sluggish.
Archie noticed it first. ‘Mrs P, did you watch the speech?’ he asked.
Mrs Pye snivelled. ‘Aye. Worrying, I reckon,’ she sniffed, pulled out a white handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. ‘It’s … it’s that poor boy I feel for. Makes me come over all strange every time I see him, everyone waiting for him to wake up.’
Archie went in for a big hug and was rewarded by a squashing from Mrs Pye’s ample bosom. ‘Thing is, Mrs P,’ he said as he resurfaced, ‘we think that boy might be my friend Kemp. What do you think?’
Mrs Pye released him and rubbed her eyes again. ‘Well now, that be something.’
‘It’s amazing if it is,’ Archie continued, ‘I can’t believe it. Can you? I thought he’d be dead, like all the others.’
She burst into tears.
‘Oh, heck, I’m sorry,’ Archie said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Never you mind,’ she said, wiping her tears on her sleeve. ‘Every time I see his dear little face I get an upsetting feeling in me bones, that’s all.’ She dusted herself off and pulled herself as upright as possible. ‘I think,’ she declared, ‘that a special Mrs Pye sandwich is what you lot need tonight, followed by a slice of starlight apple crumble. Might have one myself too, you know – help get over this terribleness.’
And in no time, as she always did, Mrs Pye shooed everyone out of the kitchen. ‘Come back in fourteen,’ she said as she ushered them out of the door, and the children dispersed to different parts of the house.
MRS PYE TOOK her meal over the road, for she was too upset to see anyone. The three children and Old Man Wood ate their MPS sandwiches – pronounced emps – in virtual silence, aside from an occasional slurp or clatter of cutlery. An MPS was the abbreviation for “Mrs Pye Special”. It was a slice of French bread with layers of melted cheese, ham, tomato, and crowned with a poached egg. Mrs Pye insisted that it was washed down with Old Man Wood’s apple juice, which the old man had spent a lifetime perfecting, and which contained no less than nine different varieties from his very old and very gnarled apple orchard. He pressed his apples every year, always using the same, precise quantities of each apple variety.
Old Man Wood probably knew more about apples than anyone. He had a selection of twenty-seven ancient and highly prized apple trees in his orchard. Each variety was different and each tree bore fruit for a multitude of ailments and purposes: there were apples for headaches, apples for indigestion and other medicinal matters, apples for confidence, apples for energy, apples that were thought provoking and then there were apples that made the mind sharp or made it wander. Old Man Wood was besotted by apples.
When they had finished, a sense of calm filled the room. Archie, after licking his plate, broke the silence, ‘So, Daisy, what did happen to you yesterday that makes you certain this involves us and us alone?’
Daisy took a deep breath, closed her eyes and began to tell her story. As she spoke, she tried to catch their eyes but, whenever she did, both her siblings stared at the table.
‘It was huge,’ she said, ‘like ten Wembley Football Stadiums wide and, well, I couldn’t even see the top. It just went on and on forever. In the middle I saw a tree with no leaves and smothered in dust. So, thinking I might be dead, I walked off – only to tread on a skeleton … and the bones crunched under my feet as if I’d trodden on a pile of sticks,’ she said, trying and failing not to laugh. ‘It must have been there for years. Moments later, I heard this truly terrible noise piercing my eardrums. I panicked and ran round trying to find a way out. All around the edges were tunnels, thousands of them, some big, some small, but they were all blocked up. I ran and ran until I found a gateway with a couple of pictures on. I realised I’d seen the gate before – from my dreams, I think – and I figured that all I had to do was believe I could walk through it.’ She stopped and tried to gauge the reactions of her brother and sister.
Isabella, Archie and Old Man Wood stared at her in complete silence.
‘So that’s what I did,’ Daisy croaked. ‘I simply walked through it and found myself in a wet ditch. And here I am.’
Old Man Wood turned on her. ‘Daisy, you are a right daft fool!’ he said, the colour draining from his face. ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’
The children looked at Old Man Wood, astonished. He had never, ever raised his voice at any of them. He was clearly as startled as they were, if not more so.
There was an awkward silence.
‘Er … well, it was very exciting,’ Daisy replied, trying not to burst into tears. ‘I rushed straight back and found this shocking news about Kemp and the plague …’
‘Daisy, don’t you get it?’ Old Man Wood interrupted, and he moved round to her side, putting an arm gently round her shoulders. ‘You see, that person never saw the motif. He never worked out the way home. He died a horrible death all alone. That could have been you, my littlun. You’re not ready for that, yet.’
‘But I saw the clues,’ she argued, feeling a bit confused, ‘and it was easy, so parts of my dreams are true aren’t they, so I know it really exists … doesn’t it? It all adds up.’
FOR ONCE, Isabella was quite moved. ‘Right!’ Isabella said. ‘I think we need answers. Home from where, Old Man Wood? And how do you know it was a he who died?’ she demanded.
Old Man Wood looked rattled. ‘Oh, apples! I can’t remember,’ he answered, his face scrunched up and his deep wrinkles more pronounced than usual.
Isabella eyed him suspiciously and turned to her sister. ‘Look, Daisy, first off, I owe you an apology.’ She met her sister’s eye and sighed.
‘There are some strange wooden panels on the end of Old Man Wood’s bed that follow our movements, like TV security monitors, I’ll show them to you later. That’s how I knew you’d disappeared.’
‘Uh, really?’
‘Yes. And I absolutely promise you I’m not joking,’ she said and turned to Old Man Wood who waved a hand in acknowledgement.
‘That’s how I saw you sucked into the ground and, when you didn’t return, I ran off looking for you. And I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier, but there is a part of me that simply will not accept that these strange goings on are in any way real. Do you understand?’
Daisy nodded as Isabella continued. ‘You see, part of me cannot, and will not, believe all these peculiar things that are happening. That’s me, Daisy. It’s how I’m made, and there’s nothing you or Arch can do about it. My whole life has been built around reason and fact, cause and effect, and it’s very difficult for me to believe in anything else.’ She smiled at Daisy, noting her disappointment. ‘But if we’re to explore your fantasies, then so be it.’
Daisy half smiled.
Isabella turned abruptly to Old Man Wood. ‘Right, here goes. First off, Old Man Wood, we need answers because otherwise we’re going to end up in a lunatic asylum and you will be the first one in.’ She tapped the table with her fingertips. ‘What is the story of your bed, are the images in the cave anything to do with us, and why did Sue insist the rain is all our fault? We need explanations, we need answers, and we need them now!’
The children gazed at the gnarled old face expecting a spectacular response. But all Old Man Wood said was:
‘Mmm … perhaps. Oh dear, my little favourites.’
‘Old Man Wood, this is not helping.’
‘The bed is a bit of a mystery,’ he said. ‘But perhaps it’s time we found the riddles.’
‘Riddles! WHAT riddles?’ chorused the children.
‘The riddles to finding the Tablets of Eden.’
‘Like the ones Sue was yelling at us about?’ Archie said. ‘And the pictures in the cave?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘So this plague is something to do with us?’ Daisy said, her eyes glowing like lasers.
‘Well, now,’ the old man said, staring at the floor, ‘it’s been an awful long time.’ He opened his eyes wide, as if attempting to welcome the world into his mind. ‘That’s the problem, my dear littluns.’ And he rapped his knuckles on his head. ‘There’s nothing in here anymore. I just don’t remember.’
THE PROBLEM, as Old Man Wood kept telling the children, was that he really had forgotten everything.
There was nothing in his old grey cells but an empty void. But he knew he had to try, so he pulled himself together and, with Archie and Daisy in tow, headed upstairs to his room and began searching the large assortment of carvings hoping that something – anything – might jolt his memory.
The willow trees had told him that he himself had hidden the tablets a long time ago using complex magic. More importantly, he discovered that the tablets were a link to the rain and that the children were the Heirs of Eden, as he suspected.
But because the trees made the process sound so obvious and straightforward, he hadn’t deepened his questioning and now he regretted it. He wondered if he shouldn’t go back and talk to them again. But doing that meant he would have to think of the right questions and he didn’t know what those questions were.
In due course, he announced to the disappointed faces of Archie and Daisy, who had followed his every move, that he simply couldn’t find the riddles.
And, with this, he looked at the time, ordered the children to go directly to bed, dropped his shoulders and headed outside to check up on the cattle.
ISABELLA, fast asleep in the attic room, stirred. She rubbed her eyes and found herself staring at the old man.
‘Wake up, wake up,’ he whispered.
‘Whososse that?’ Isabella groaned.
‘It’s Old Man Wood, my dear,’ he replied, as softly as his coarse, deep voice would allow. ‘I need to talk. Come downstairs, if you don’t mind.’
Isabella slipped into her dressing gown and stumbled downstairs to the living room. A steaming mug of hot chocolate was waiting for her.
They sat alone, comforted by the gentle crackle of the fire and the pitter-pattering sounds of rain on the roof tiles. Old Man Wood’s face looked pained, his deep wrinkles prominent in the firelight.
‘What’s up, Old Man Wood?’ Isabella asked. She figured she’d better come clean about finding the panels on his bed. ‘Old Man Wood, um, I’ve got a confession to make …’
‘I know. I know all about your little … discovery.’ He glanced up, catching her eye, reassuring her. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how it works myself. But it’s how I found you on that ledge in the storm when you were coming back home after the football match.’ Old Man Wood scratched his chin and took a gulp of hot chocolate. ‘Strange things, Bella … are going on. I know you’re worrying yourselves stupid about it but I’m sure all will be revealed soon.’
‘But it’s so confusing,’ Isabella said. ‘I don’t know what to do – or what to believe any more. What’s happening to us, Old Man Wood?’
‘My dear child. You are like a blade of grass. One of many, un-trodden, fresh, pure. Hmmm. So pretty, neat and clever—’
‘Stop humming, and talking in riddles and tell me WHAT is going on?’
‘Things not so clear, eh. Rain. Endless … dreams … troubles? Have you all been … dreaming?’
‘Yes, you know we have,’ she replied. ‘Unbelievably vivid ones if you must know.’
‘About an old woman?’ Old Man Wood quizzed.
‘Yes,’ Isabella began. ‘How did you know?’ He didn’t respond. ‘Look, what exactly is all this about, Old Man Wood? You know, don’t you?’ She let the question hang and blew on her hot chocolate. ‘I think we’re going crazy even if the others don’t. I’m not convinced anything is real anymore. And, anyway, where have you been? Archie told me you’d been talking to trees. What good is that?’
Old Man Wood harrumphed.
She continued. ‘Without Mum and Dad here, we could really have done with your support. It was unfair and frankly selfish of you to abandon us.’
Isabella felt slightly foolish for letting it all spill out and an awkward silence hung in the air.
Old Man Wood’s furrowed brow seemed even deeper than usual. ‘Let me try and explain a little bit … Right, well, where to begin …’ he mumbled. He hadn’t expected her mini-outburst and his brain worked so slowly that he was unable to think of a response.
‘Have you had them too?’ Isabella asked.
‘Had what, littlun?’
‘Well, a dream, like ours!’
‘Oh yes! Many, many wonderful, strange and exciting dreams. Some sad, some terrifying, some exhilarating and some of well … of nothingness. Those are the worst dreams of all. Quite often I dream that I’m king of the most beautiful place you can imagine with a beautiful queen. These are fine dreams, young ’un. Then again once I was swallowed up by a large, terrifying, white spider with electric lightning bolts coming out of its middle.’ He laughed and his whole face lit up with his kindly character. ‘You know, little Isabella, dreams show you the things you desire or fear most in this strange life. They help you make choices.’
‘But these weren’t like MOST dreams, Old Man Wood, they were real. I’ve never felt anything like it.’ Isabella’s eyes lit up like candles. ‘There were dreams where I felt passion swelling in my chest like never before. I tasted tears of despair and joy. I saw terrifying scenes and odd creatures, conflicting emotions … more. And all condensed into small flashes.’ She sat back and ran her fingers though her hair.
‘You know, Old Man Wood, I could even feel my blood rushing through me, which was so wonderful … but totally alien. And there’s so much I can’t remember – you know how it’s all there, and then not there. And do you know the strangest thing,’ Old Man Wood raised his
eyebrows, encouraging her. ‘I even had a dream about stuffing myself with banoffee pie!’
Old Man Wood chuckled and pushed a log farther into the fire. In a low voice, just louder than a whisper, he spoke, his rich tones resonating in the dark room. ‘Look into the fire, Isabella. Tell me, what do you see?’
Isabella stared for a minute at the flickering flames as they danced out into the room.
‘Nothing … burning wood, I’m afraid. Why, is there something I should see?’
‘Perhaps,’ said the old man, sighing deeply, ‘but maybe not tonight.’ He uncoiled his large frame as he extracted himself from the armchair, yawned and stretched his arms out wide. ‘You know, Isabella, I believe you may have been given those dreams—’
‘Given them? Oh Lordy, not you as well—’
‘Oh yes, Isabella. You need to pay them due attention, young lady.’ He yawned. ‘The universe isn’t as black and white as you think it is. In the morning all will be clearer, but right now it’s best if we both get some sleep.’
He followed Isabella up the stairs to the children’s attic where he straightened Archie in his bed and rearranged Daisy in hers.
Old Man Wood made his way back to his room, sat on his bed and looked around at all the curious wooden panels. There, on the screens at the foot of his bed, were the children, fast asleep, their eyes shut tight. Old Man Wood ran his hand over the old wooden carvings and, as he did, they seemed to move and whisper and he felt twinges of familiarity that made his skin prickle.
He lay down, tired and worried. How on earth could he explain what was going on, and get the children to believe him, when he couldn’t recall anything himself?
But the thing that concerned him the most, was that the willows had told him there was very little time.