Eden Chronicles Box Set Books 1-3

by James Erith

  Something about seven days. Seven days to find these tablets? Was that it? If so, time was running out fast.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  NEW POWDERS, NEW DREAMS

  That night, no one in Eden Cottage dreamt.

  Gaia, the dreamspinner, knew Asgard had opened up a new source of spider web powders in Havilah. She was well aware that dreamspinners were flocking there. But she wanted nothing to do with these new powders.

  She made sure that the dreamspinners she oversaw produced simple, staple dreams from the spider web powders made from the spider webs on Earth.

  Her band of dreamspinners appeared disappointed, for the vibrations coming back indicated that these dreams weren’t as bad as the nightmares Havilah normally produced. But how could they know? Gaia thought, and she insisted that her dreamspinners worked faster, giving dreams to as many people as they could.

  She suspected Cain was behind this new dream powder source and anything involving him spelt trouble.

  PRIME MINISTER KINGSFORD climbed into bed. His limbs were tired and his mind fizzed with information. He studied the clock. Three in the morning. Damn. He was up at six and three hours sleep was not nearly enough. He needed to be on top form tomorrow. His head hit the pillow hard as he toyed with the huge death toll of storm and plague victims. He tried to put it out of his mind and thought of his family holiday in the sun as he fell asleep, the images of feet splashing in calm, clear Mediterranean waters.

  A SHORT WHILE LATER, a dreamspinner hovered invisibly above the Prime Minister, its long, opaque legs anchored beside the man’s face. The dreamspinner extracted tiny powders from its maghole and filtered a dream which the man sucked in with long, slow breaths.

  The dreamspinner wondered how this human would react to her new dream powder. She’d been told that this spider web powder was from the webs of a recently discovered arachnid found deep in the caves beneath the mountains in Havilah. And these powders gave dreams not too dissimilar to those of the Garden of Eden; stimulating and enriching, with a twist – an extraordinary twist – Asgard had claimed.

  It was a pity that the spider web powders from the Atrium in the Garden of Eden had ended. She had loved these dreams, knowing what joy they’d give. Perhaps these powders would do the same. At least the dreamspinners had a decent dream to give – and the excitement had been catching on everywhere. In milliseconds she was by their child, and when she’d given the little boy a dream she sensed a dog sleeping. She checked her powder stock and there was easily enough for at least a thousand dreamers, including the canine. This dream powder stretched a long way.

  She inverted herself back to the man, to see if his dream had begun.

  He groaned and turned in his sleep. Then he laughed. Now he flailed his arms.

  Excellent, thought the dreamspinner. Their dreams are rich, just as Asgard said they would be.

  She checked the vibrations of life in the area and flicked her legs time and time again, giving dreams until her dream powders ran dry.

  She’d missed several out, their sleeping patterns too erratic or their sleep too shallow, or where a dream had already been given. She would return in the next few nights, but right now her stocks needed replenishing, from Havilah, not the Garden of Eden.

  As the Earth rotated on its axis, as each country slipped into darkness, she would begin afresh on the other side of the world.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  CLUES

  Isabella sat in bed, running through her conversation with Old Man Wood the previous night. Her phone bleeped and she read it and re-read it before rushing downstairs. She found Daisy and Archie curled up on the sofa in front of the fire.

  ‘Look! Another message from Sue. What do you think?’ She handed Archie her phone.

  He read it out loud:

  Gus total hero. Now lost at sea. Have put out SOS. Supplies OK for few days. Boat holding together, just. Fish vile, but is food. U saw Kemp on TV? G saw K acting weird b4 storm with old man. Dunno how u “stop it” but stone tablets = v good, I think. Clues in pictures? Hurry. Phone dodgy. Hope near coast. Love u all S xxx

  Archie’s heart skipped a beat; Kemp acting weird with old man. That had to be Cain. So maybe he had joined …

  Daisy interrupted his thoughts. ‘So Sue thinks the clues are in the pictures.’

  Archie read the text again. Clues in pictures? ‘There’s not a great deal to go on. Do you think she means in the actual image of the picture itself – or within the frame of the picture, like a piece of paper stuck behind it?’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll need to study every picture in the house. Come on, Winkle, no time to lose.’

  Isabella stepped in front of her. ‘If you’re going to do this, do it properly. You need a process. If there’s no method it’ll be chaos.’

  ‘So you’re in?’ Archie said.

  ‘Only because I’ve got nothing better to do,’ she replied. ‘If you really think there’s something in this madness, I might as well organise you.’

  ‘Great, thanks, Bells.’

  ‘I’ll do upstairs and you two do downstairs.’ Isabella ordered. ‘Bring all the pictures into the sitting room and line them around the walls, starting from the door and working round the room. I’ll go the other way. Then at least I can catalogue them and return them to their correct position later.’

  Archie and Daisy hared off and before long an amazing assortment of oil paintings and watercolours lined the walls of the sitting room. Isabella flew around upstairs and emerged with several older-looking canvases and more importantly, they thought, antique-looking oil paintings on wood. They were so old the paint had cracked like a mosaic.

  ‘Look,’ Isabella said, ‘I found them in the spare room.’ She studied the paintings. ‘These ones must have a secret message on them. Old Man Wood … over here! Do these trigger anything?’

  Together they leaned over them, trying to see if there were a series of scratches or markings that might be clues, or if the backs had writing on them.

  Archie suggested that secrets were often added by invisible ink. He’d read stories where clues had been written in milk and that heat would show the markings. He tried his theory by placing the flame of a candle close to the canvas of a landscape oil painting. The others looked on in anticipation. All of a sudden Archie noticed a plume of smoke as the landscape burst in flames.

  Archie squealed but Isabella reacted fast, grabbed the painting, tore outside and threw it in a puddle.

  ‘Thanks, Bells,’ a red-faced Archie said. ‘I’m not sure we need to do that again.’

  THE MAJORITY of the paintings were of ancestors who bore an uncanny resemblance, Daisy thought, to a slightly younger Old Man Wood. The rest were landscapes or seascapes.

  For over an hour, they studied the pictures. Isabella decided that they ought to be moved into groups: pictures with water and pictures with trees in that corner, abstract pictures in another, still life oils on the sofa, portraits with people near the window and those with animals on the adjacent wall. But even when they’d studied them twice, there wasn’t a single distinctive element that they recognised from their dreams.

  ‘What about the carvings in Old Man Wood’s room?’ Archie said, his voice betraying his frustration. ‘Would you mind if we have a look? You know, a fresh pair of eyes.’

  ‘Be my guests,’ said Old Man Wood, and as a group they headed up to his room.

  ‘Look!’ Archie said, jumping on the bed. ‘The screens! We’re still on them.’

  It was the first time the twins had seen themselves on the curious panels.

  ‘How very cool,’ Daisy said as she pouted and tossed her hair. ‘They are awesome.’ She watched Archie admiring his spikes.

  ‘Basically, we’ve got our own TV channel,’ Daisy said. ‘I wonder if we can record stuff?’

  ‘Oh, grow up,’ Isabella scolded. ‘Stop admiring yourselves and check if there’s something in here. Daisy, you start over there.’

  The twins slip
ped reluctantly off the bed and started to inspect the carved panelling. But, although the gnarled wood and odd-looking animals and curious faces were intriguing, they once again came up with nothing.

  Isabella slumped to the floor. ‘This is ridiculous. How can we find what we’re looking for, when we don’t even have a single clue?’

  ‘I bet you,’ Daisy said as she scratched the carpet with her fingernails, ‘whatever we’re looking for will be right under our bums.’

  ‘The expression,’ Isabella sighed, ‘is right under your nose – not your bottom.’

  ‘You,’ Archie said, his dark eyes sparkling mischievously at Daisy, ‘should know that, cos you’re such a big arse!’

  ‘Hilarious,’ Daisy replied, screwing a face at him.

  ‘Come on kiddoes. No good hanging round here,’ Isabella said and she began to usher them out of the door.

  But as Archie scoured the room one last time, something caught his eye. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘Maybe Daisy has a point. Look!’ He pointed at the floor.

  ‘Where, what do you mean?’ Isabella said.

  ‘There. The rugs.’

  ‘Rugs?’

  ‘Yeah … look at them. They’re old, patterned ones. Persian or something, aren’t they, Old Man Wood?’

  The old man squinted at them, a look of surprise on his face.

  ‘So what?’ Isabella scoffed. ‘We’re looking for a picture not an old, mangy carpet.’

  Archie reddened a little. ‘But look carefully,’ Archie said, kneeling down where they’d been sitting. ‘There are marks on them. They might be part of an old picture. We shouldn’t write them off just because they’re not on a wall.’

  Isabella sighed. ‘Those marks are probably stains, right, Old Man Wood?’

  Old Man Wood shrugged and turned for the door.

  BUT NOW IT was Daisy’s turn to stare at the rugs. ‘Archie’s right. Surely it’s worth a look, isn’t it, Bells?’

  Isabella tutted. ‘They’re filthy – they probably haven’t been washed for—’

  ‘Ooh, I say,’ Daisy said. ‘There’s something on this one,’ she scanned it further, ‘and this one’s got a kind of tree in the middle … wow, maybe you’re right, Arch. What if these are the pictures?’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sakes. Fat chance,’ Isabella said. ‘You know as well as I do that those marks are years of ground-in mud and grime.’

  Daisy picked up one of the rugs and draped it over the end of the bed. Archie copied her and, in no time, the five little rugs were folded over the end of the wooden bed-end.

  The children stood back, only to find themselves admiring five grey-brown mats. But the faintest outline of a pattern where Daisy had been picking at the fibres with her fingernails had begun to show.

  ‘They’re disgusting little things,’ Isabella declared.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Archie piped up. ‘But I do know that the best way to clean a rug is to give it a massive whack.’ He grabbed one, threw it over his shoulder and slung it down hard on the bed end.

  A plume of dust exploded, filling the room. They ran for the door, coughing and spluttering.

  ‘Genius,’ Isabella said scathingly and she smacked Archie on top of his head. Much to her surprise and irritation a hair spike shot through the hole in her hand. ‘This is quite ridiculous,’ she said, ignoring Daisy’s laughter as she struggled to extract her hand. ‘Oh, stop it,’ she said, turning on her. ‘Come on, guys. Isn’t this a little bit desperate? I mean we haven’t even analysed all the picture frames yet.’

  Isabella shook out her hand and found her hand-hole shrinking back to its original size. ‘Sometimes you two really don’t possess a single particle of intelligence. We clearly need to look harder.’

  Old Man Wood gathered the five little rugs. ‘I’ll beat them outside and hang them out on the line. These little things could do with a freshen up,’ he said. ‘With any luck, the dirt will wash out naturally.’

  A LITTLE WHILE LATER, Mrs Pye waddled across the courtyard, her feet splashing in the puddles. She hummed to herself and then stopped and stared at the washing line. Five rugs hung like wet towels, muddy water dripping from each one. Had she forgotten them?

  She racked her brain. She was sure she’d brought them in a while back, dried them and replaced them on Old Man Wood’s floor. She tutted to herself and bustled over, removed them at arm’s length and placed them in a washing basket. She couldn’t imagine the old man suddenly wanting to clean them, so had one of the children …? But those children weren’t exactly forthcoming in the laundry department.

  Before long, she found herself scrubbing each rug in the old stone sink in the washhouse. She was amazed at the steady flow of filthy, dark water coming out but, realising the time, and without really giving it too much thought now that the generator was on, she gave up and threw all five rugs in the washing machine.

  Mrs Pye had never seen a material quite so light and so tough, and yet so extraordinarily filthy.

  When the wash came to its juddering conclusion, she hung the little rugs out to dry in two neat rows on the Sheila’s maid above the range in the kitchen.

  Mrs Pye was delighted with their spectacular colour. Each rug shone radiantly and felt soft and clean. She smacked her hands together in a moment of washing triumph and, feeling rather pleased with herself, picked up her bag and returned to her flat across the courtyard.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, the children were in front of the fire surrounded by piles of pictures that seemed to cover almost every square inch of floor. They’d inspected the antique ones over and over again to see if a message had been left on the back or if there was mystical writing or indeed if it simply rang a bell inside their heads.

  ‘This is hopeless,’ Archie said as he stroked a stiff hair spike. ‘We still don’t have a clue what we’re looking for and we’ve been at this for hours.’ He picked up a modern landscape painting which had hung in their parents’ bedroom. As he studied it, a sudden yearning to see them went through him and his heart stretched like the strings on a bow until his eyes watered.

  ‘I love this picture,’ he said quietly to Old Man Wood. ‘A house set by a vineyard, the sun going down. A distant fire, the colours of the vines. Somehow,’ he said, ‘it reminds me of Mum – lovely, calm and pretty, just like her.’ His bottom lip quivered. ‘And what I’d do for some sunshine right now.’ He sniffed and shut his eyes. ‘Do you know where they bought it?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Old Man Wood said, placing a comforting hand on Archie’s shoulder. ‘I’m certain that it came back from a holiday some years ago,’ he said softly. ‘It won’t be long before they’re back.’

  Archie turned it round so he was now looking at the back. There, much to his surprise, he found a picture postcard stuck with tape to the top and bottom corners. The picture showed a deep, crimson-red rose set on a white background. That was all. Archie gently removed the tape and turned it over.

  A typical red rose from the vineyards of Tuscany, was the description, and below it, in his mother’s neat handwriting, was the following:

  MY DARLING,

  I want you to know that we love you very much, and our hearts and dreams will always be with you.

  Best of luck, whichever direction you choose.

  Your loving,

  Mother and Father

  ARCHIE MASSAGED a spike which had gone soft. What a weird message, he thought. I mean, it’s lovely, but peculiar; “Best of luck in whichever direction you choose”. What was that supposed to mean? And why was it addressed to just “My darling” and not “My darlings”? It was as though it was addressed to him and him alone. Archie smiled.

  Maybe it was meant for him.

  Quietly and with his back turned to the girls he closed his eyes, kissed the postcard and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  ‘NO TIME FOR GETTING UPSET, young ’un,’ Old Man Wood said to Archie.

  ‘I know,’ he smiled bravely back. ‘What do you think we’re lo
oking for?’

  Old Man Wood stroked his chin. ‘It must be old, really old,’ he said, ‘perhaps with writing you won’t understand, so look for a strange script or peculiar scribbling.’

  Daisy tutted. ‘We have,’ she replied in a bored voice.

  Isabella groaned. ‘Are you sure it’s not on the wooden panels in your bedroom?’

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ Old Man Wood replied. ‘They appear to be stories, not instructions.’

  ‘And are you sure there’s not a wall painting behind your wooden panels —’

  ‘No, but there were some in the church—’

  ‘What about a ceiling painting?’ Daisy added, ‘like the Michael-whatshisface one?’

  Isabella laughed, although Daisy felt it sounded more like a scoff. ‘Michelangelo? Here in Yorkshire, by the moors?’

  ‘Yes, even here by the moors, Bells. Why not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Daisy,’ Isabella sneered, imitating her voice, ‘why don’t you search out with your eyes, man. Or are they not working?’

  Daisy fixed her sister with a stare. ‘Why don’t you go feel for it, holy hands?’

  ‘Will you two please shut up and get back to looking for the clues,’ Archie said. ‘Your bickering really isn’t helping. It’s giving me a headache.’

  OLD MAN WOOD slumped into his chair. He ought to return to the Bubbling Brook; the trees would know, but what would the children think? Then again, did it really matter?

  He lifted himself out of his chair, when he caught the familiar sound of pots rattling from the kitchen. No doubt Mrs Pye was fishing out saucepans, preparing tea. Was it so late already? A bit of nourishment to get his brain in gear was just what he needed to help him think of the right questions for those funny old willows.