‘Yes, Jenny. May I ask . . . ?’
‘Aye, girl. Ask away there’re nought here to laugh at thy odd sound.’
Florence quelled a smart reply, ‘Is there a tree named the Major Oak in the forest?’
‘The May Jour? I have lived within the forest all of my life and I know not of the name.’ Jenny was dismissive.
‘It is a great tree. Ancient and huge,’ Florence persisted.
Jenny halted and turned, ‘You hear me well Florence. I cannot tell where you hale from but know this: we women do not prattle about ancient great trees,’ she lowered her voice, ‘They are misted with magic and lore and no woman is fool enough to be seen to be meddling with their powers or keen to be around them, weaving that which folk call spells and the like!’ she was whispering. ‘They may have their secrets but it is most unwise to express a wish to know those mysteries in these parts. Am I plain with you!’
Florence nodded mutely; these damned people were obsessed with witchcraft but she’d had enough of their ignorance. She was tired and wanted her life back, ‘Have you heard of a man called Nat Haslet?’
Jenny put down the clothes she’d been sewing. ‘A man, is it?’ she scrutinised Florence’s face for what this man meant to her. She had questions too.
Florence saw that she would get no more information unless she gave something. ‘I . . .he . . . in the forest. He came upon me and . . .’ Florence found that she didn’t know how to describe the encounter.
‘Say no more child. Such men as roam the forest are a menace to decent women.’ So, it was with reassurance that Jenny told her that the name wasn’t known around those parts so she need never fear.
Florence tried not to show her immense disappointment. There was nothing else for it; she had to go. She wandered away in the middle of the day, when most were about their food, knowing that she had to find the oak again — or Nat Haslet. Whatever this was, Nat Haslet was right, he had the answers she needed and she would find him. She grabbed a loaf and a flask and was gone. She’d taken clothes, food and clogs from Jenny Bagnall, and it bugged her — these people had so little but she consoled herself with the fact that she’d worked hard for them so it was a fair exchange. She dismissed her concerns.
Florence had a plan. Aimless wandering hadn’t worked so she decided to walk in increasing circles, taking note of landmarks as she went. With any luck, she’d be home — really home — before darkness fell.
3
The Cock Pen
That’s it! The Major Oak. She wasn’t mad after all and she sank to her knees, shaking with relief. Standing so near to it, a sob escaped her at the promise of its familiarity. Already ancient, it was three hundred years younger and its canopy was broader and higher. The trunk and the hollow were narrower but easily wide enough to step into. Professionally, it was as she expected, knowing that oaks shortened with age, to prolong their life. The hope of it drew her in, the forest fading until her vision tunnelled so that all she could see was the velvet darkness of the hollow and the promise of an end to this lunacy. It was magnetic. She stumbled towards it, throwing aside the flask caring only for her escape.
She was almost inside it when a figure stepped out from behind the trunk, breaking Florence’s trance and blocking her path. It was not the man, Nat Haslet. She frowned.
‘Betty! I did not expect…’ Betty Hudson carried a basket half filled with mushrooms. ‘You have been foraging.’ Florence was desperate for her to simple go away but Betty said nothing, simply putting the basket down and stood between her and the tree’s hollow. Surely the old woman hadn’t followed her?
‘Aye, the mushrooms are easy to find but they are not my purpose this day.’
Florence heard the menace in the old woman’s voice. She didn’t understood why Betty didn’t like her but had put it down to simple xenophobia.
‘Sit down,’ Betty ordered, gripping her arm so forcefully that Florence was pulled onto a log.
She would not be stopped today, not when she was so close and not by the petty spite of this old crone. She was going into that tree. She shook off Betty’s grip and started up.
‘The great oak may well take you home, girl but perhaps it will take you to some other time further away from that which you seek. You’d do well to hear my words.’
Florence was immobilised as she heard the cackle.
Knowing that she had the attention of the young woman, Betty smoothed her skirts and found the right spot for the basket to sit, finally placing her hands in her lap, facing Florence who hung on her words.
‘Who the hell are you? What is this?’ Florence had dropped all pretence and spoke in her true voice. It felt very good. Similarly, the busy-body gossip, plagued by a snoring husband, also disappeared, and a confident woman with a knowing glint in her eye spoke back.
‘I am a Watcher. It is my life’s duty to stand guard over this ancient tree — this portal and watch for the likes of travellers such as you, Florence.’
Florence almost fell off the log and she clutched at Betty, ‘Oh God! Tell me. What’s happened to me? Tell me how to get back. I’ll do anything. Please. Tell me what you know. How do I get home?’
‘Leave me be! I cannot tell you what I do not know. I watch and I warn.’ Betty struggled resentfully out of Florence’s hold on her shoulders.
‘Warn me? Why? You know about the time travel. Oh God! You know. I’m not mad.’ She found herself laughing.
‘That’s as may be,’ Betty retorted seeing Florence’s uncontrolled emotions, ‘but I am certainly most fully in possession of my wits. What I know is that these trees are a manifestation of God’s great mystery. I know that they are as ancient as time itself and I know that sometimes, they spew abominations such as you into a time and place where you do not belong and where, left unchecked you may do great harm.’
‘Abomination! I don’t intend any harm. I didn’t want to come here,’ Florence was pleading with the woman. ‘All I want is to go home. Tell me! Please. Will this tree take me home?’ she knew that she was shouting.
Betty’s voice rose in reply, ‘I have told you. I cannot tell you what I do not know. I watch and I warn,’ she repeated. Betty started to collect up her basket, shaking her head, ‘In truth, I should not speak to you at all. When I saw you in the village, I was filled with shame that you had already reached God-fearing people before I knew of you. I was not watching well enough it would seem. And now I am reminded that I am but a weak vessel and have been tempted by speaking to one not of this world.’
Florence could see that she looked at her with a mixture of fear and awe.
Betty reassured herself, ‘Fear not. I am reminded of my avowed duty: I will send the message to my masters and you will keep your silence until they come for you. They will decide your fate.’
‘What masters?’ What was Betty babbling about? Was there a whole cult who knew about these trees? Could these people help her?
Betty indicated that she’d said as much as she was permitted and stood wearily, tired from her long day in the woods. She sighed, ‘I cannot tell you what I do not know…’
Florence was wracked with disappointment at the empty phrase and frustrated at Betty’s refusal to say more. The old woman had to speak and so Florence grabbed her and shook her so roughly that she winced. She wanted answers and would have shaken her to death for the information.
‘Leave me be.’ Betty’s scalded as she pulled a short knife out of her sleeve. ‘Aye, such creatures of the abyss must be guarded against and I will protect us from you.’
Florence stepped back from the blade which Betty wielded with such grit. Tears of frustration and desperation, encouraged by exhaustion, burst from her. ‘Betty, I don’t know what this is. I just want to go home. All of . . . this. It isn’t possible… This is not my time . . . ’ she was drained with the paradox. ‘I came through . . . but I can’t get back. Please. I live in 2020 and I . . . ’ but Betty screeched at her,
‘Tell me nothing of your time!
I must not know. The temptations are too great to know what lies ahead and I am a weak old woman near to her end. Do you think that I do not feel the pull of wanting to know what lies beyond?’
Florence heard the craving in Betty’s voice and she cried with frustration at Betty’s intransigence.
The woman relented a little, ‘Child, I have told you true and there is little more that I know. But I see the torment you live in.’ Thinking the better of it she said, ‘Sit, and I will tell you as much as I am able. Since we have conversed freely in the village, I suppose that it will do no harm.’
Florence dragged herself up from her knees to sit beside Betty. It was hard to control the sobbing now that it had been released but the old woman was patient and eventually, only a running nose remained.
‘Very well. I watch this tree — and only this. I am one of a history of watchers who have watched this tree from the beginning of its activity – I do not know how many before me. I live in this place and I am married to my husband so that I might complete this undertaking for as much of my life as I am able. It is a holy duty which ministers of the true church have confirmed to me as such. I have watched this tree for nigh on twenty years and never once…’ she shook her head in disbelief, wonder in her face, ‘You truly came through this tree?’
Florence nodded mutely.
‘By all that is sacred! I never thought to know…it is the fulfilment of my watch here. I have met no one else who has travelled thus. Are you angel or demon?’
‘Neither. Just a woman.’ Florence’s heart sank. Was this phenomenon so very rare that in all of Betty’s life, she had seen no others? It did not bode well. She looked up into the tree and heard it full of life, busy with squirrels and humming with insects. She thought of what Betty’s life had been and wondered. ‘Have you…tried?’
‘Once. I was young—before my girls were born and I thought that the world must surely be wider than this small spot,’ she threw her hand at the forest, ‘and so I stepped in, in defiance of my vow, and waited for what would come.’ She shook her head, ‘Nought happened except that I slept for a short while and when I awoke, it was to my own life, my own future and the children I bore — and to a husband who now has my whole heart — despite his snoring,’ she gave a wry smile, ‘I never stepped in again for fear of what I had to lose. I see how much you will have lost in your own life, child. It is written on your face each day.
And so, Florence, try the tree’s portal - I have no instruction to prevent you. It may hear your heartbeat and take you to where you desire. It may take you somewhere else. I do not know for I am simply a Watcher. If you wish to step in, I shall not stop you.’
Florence dried her tears and stood. ‘I must. My home is somewhere through that tree and I want it so very much.’
Betty inclined her head to the oak.
The cleft in the tree was almost as she remembered it — narrower than when she’d entered it but easily wide enough. She took a last look at the world, smiled at Betty’s anxious face and slipped in. It was surprisingly spacious with light from various nooks and crannies which opened out through the trunk into the fresh air, like small windows. Florence settled into the space and waited for the process to begin.
She sat there until the sun began to go down. She pleaded with the tree, bargained with God or whatever god lived in this tree. She screamed, she cried, she sobbed until she had no more tears. Why! What was tethering her here? Why hadn’t the tree taken her home?
Finally, she had a revelation that perhaps the transition had already happened and she’d not been aware of it, so with hope in her heart again, she scrambled out into the fading light but the tree had not changed and the branches were still young and vigorous, not held up by steel struts and Betty sat dozing, still sitting on the log. She woke the woman who focused and then sighed. She looked grey with exhaustion. Nothing needed to be said.
‘You must take me to these masters of yours, Betty.’
‘I cannot.’
‘You must. They will know how to return me. They can tell me…’
‘No, child. I cannot,’ Betty was drained, ‘I was brought to them as a young woman. They promised me that I would never starve, my husband would never beat me and my children would never want. In return, I vowed that I would watch the tree whenever I could and that should I discover a traveller, confused and out of time, I would send a message that would bring them. This I will do. Until today, I was not sure of the truth of you. But now! My message must be sent.
Each year I return the wood pigeon that they send to me for such purpose and a new one arrives. And each year my message says that there is nothing for them to know. But this year I have glorious news and they will surely come to release me from my vow. I am an old woman Florence and I need rest. Now, come. Help me. We will go back and my masters will come for you, I am certain. Never fear.’
Florence saw that the old woman looked drawn and grey. There was little else that Florence could do and as dusk fell, she and Betty came back into the hamlet telling the tale of how they’d had to hide for a while as a band of soldiers passed by. There was a frisson of alarm at this but no one suspected another tale.
Jenny noticed how long Florence had been missing, of course, and when she ladled out the stew, flavoured with a few of Betty’s mushrooms, the shadow of a frown crossed her face and she complained that she’d had to feed the pig and see to its bedding.
Florence thought that the next day might bring some form of retribution but that night, she slept well. Even though the tree portal hadn’t worked, she was comforted by the revelations in the forest, relieved to know that she wasn’t mad after all and that people would come who understood it all. How could a pig girl dream of such ordinary miracles?
She awoke to the dawn light full of hope. Today Betty would send her message and her masters would come and they would send her home. They would Florence away from these simple people, explain what had happened to her and answer all of her questions. They would know what to do for her.
She was just returning from the latrine when she heard the wailing cry from Betty’s home and knew instinctively to run towards it. Everyone was gathered outside where Betty’s husband was comforted by two neighbours, the men standing around him, hats in hands and heads bowed. Jenny was relieved to see her and to reassure her.
‘You must not take fault upon yourself, Florence. Betty knew that she was not long for this world. She was sore foolish to test herself so, wandering about in the forest indeed! Ah, but she was ever an independent soul and now the Lord Himself will have the joy of her stubbornness in his midst. We thank Him that her passing was so gentle.’ She registered the shock on Florence’s face. ‘She did not tell you? But sure, you would have seen the pallor on her brow? Now, you will help me lay her out. Betty has sewn a beautiful winding cloth these many months and we will do her honour by…’
‘Betty’s dead?’ Florence gasped.
‘She has passed, yes.’
‘She just…died?’ That small window of hope was closing. This couldn’t be.
Jenny was slightly irritated by her incredulity and by the abruptness of her questions.
‘You surely saw how ill she was? How she could eat so little and how she was wasted away? Why she wearied herself by mushroom gathering yesterday… and then an encounter with soldiers! This sickness has been upon her this many a month and she had made her peace with it. It is a shock for sure but a blessing that she went with no great hurt. Now, fetch…’
But Florence was running to the pigeon loft where a few birds were kept for meat when supplies were short. She had no idea which one was to be used for Betty’s message. The loft was full of carcasses. It was a massacre. A fox. She fell to her knees in horror. No message. No contact with Betty’s masters. No hope.
She dragged herself back to help Jenny wash and lay out Betty Hudson, Jenny being very gentle with her, mistaking her horror for grief. And Florence learned yet another new skill. It was a shocking and u
nexpected task, she who had never seen a dead body before and who now washed dead limbs and private areas with tenderness and respect, who dressed Betty in her Sunday best and wrapped her in the fine shroud which the woman herself had sewn. Betty Hudson, Watcher, who took the secrets that Florence was so desperate to learn, to the grave with her. She was buried in the small ground in nearby Budby where a chapel meant that there was consecrated ground. Her husband was distressed for a few days — as was proper. He was cared for by his friends, his daughters living too far away to travel it seemed. A few days later, he left the hamlet to find his family in his home town of Stoke.
After that, Florence had to take time to think out what she would do next. She was alone again. A single woman in a world where she had nothing and no one — except these kind people who had taken her in and the few possessions they shared with her. She remembered the terror in Nat Haslet’s voice as he hid them both from men on horses and she remembered his warnings. And so, she worked hard at blending into the background of the hamlet, taking the food and shelter, which was offered and demonstrating that she was grateful for it. After all, these people had no obligation to her and had little enough themselves but they were sheltering her and feeding her and for this moment in time, it would have to be enough. She needed a little time to decide how to proceed.
Florence slept in the Bagnall’s small hut, on a straw pallet, near to the hearth and next to the goat and her kids, while they slept in a loft open to the warm air of the fire. Privacy was not a consideration. She’d become quite fond of the goats — who were generally far better tempered than the sow — and who, although they nipped a little, farted less. She wondered what had happened to Nat Haslet.
It was obvious to her now that he too was like her: a traveller through time. His speech, his manners, what he’d said to her. He was a contemporary of hers, she was sure. She wished that she’d stayed with him but how could she have known? She was angry with him because he could have tried harder to make her stay, make her see what had happened and despite him saying that he’d find her, she doubted that she’d ever see him again. She came to the decision that until she found someone who knew a way home, if this was to be her life, then she would make something of it. She reassured herself that, given that she knew the future, she must have an advantage here; that had to be worth something and she’d certainly no intention of herding pigs for the rest of it! She sniffed her sleeve. Ugh.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 4