Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet (15 page)

‘These bookcases are no better, Quin,' Charlotte addressed the cat as she flopped into a recently emptied chair. ‘Got any ideas?'

The cat padded in a circle before settling down for a nap on the most precarious of the book towers.

‘I'll take that as a “no” then.' Quin just yawned in response.

With her head in another book, Charlotte didn't see Luned's tell-tale shimmering appear on the table beside her.

‘And what schemes are you planning now?' Charlotte jumped at the Undine's question.

‘Do you have to sneak up like that? And why do you always assume I'm up to no good?'

‘Because, generally, you are… and you don't keep the best of company. I saw you and Boris again the other day.' Luned shimmered into view.

‘You know, I'm actually trying to save your stupid tree and it would be nice to get a little appreciation for a change.'

‘When did we ask for your help, human? I must have missed that memo.'

‘You didn't, The Morrigan did – and she's a higher authority.' Charlotte was annoyed that had come out more like a question than a statement.

‘She is a law unto herself, which is very different,' Luned scoffed.

‘Well, this has been nice, as you will see I am nowhere near any Veshengo or the Nymet and I'm really rather busy…'

‘Just doing my job, human. You realise, the cat will help you if you simply ask the right question,' Luned said before melting away.

Charlotte laughed. ‘What do you know about the Nymet, eh Quin?'

The cat's ears pricked at the word and he lazily opened an eye and stared at Charlotte. After a deep stretch, Quin hopped from his perch, toppling the books as he went, and landed heavily on a nearby bookcase. Twitching his whiskers as if to say, ‘I meant to do that', Quin plodded along till he reached a shelf right in the top corner of the room. Charlotte hadn't managed to get anywhere near it yet due to the sea of books and boxes on the floor.

Quin cocked his head over the top of the bookshelf and meowed at Charlotte. Seeing that she wasn't going to follow him, he chirped as if to say ‘silly human' before hanging over the edge and swiping at a folder with his paw. After a few minutes Quin successfully caught the folder with a claw, and deftly sent it flying through the air to land at Charlotte's feet. She felt the tell-tale tingling she always got when she was about to discover something special.

Clearing a space on the main table, Charlotte opened the folder, pulling out yellowing newspaper cuttings and a book –
Local Legends of Brackenheath-on-Sea
by Peter Aherne. The hairs on her arms began to stand on end and she knew instantly the folder was a real find.

‘Good kitty.' Charlotte stroked Quin who was now standing on the table beside her, but he just shook her off, making it clear she had had all the help she was going to get, before wandering off to do much more important things elsewhere.

The book creaked with age as it naturally fell open to the entry for the Brackenheath Oak. Charlotte clearly wasn't the first person interested in its story it would seem. She settled down to read.

Charlotte rolled her eyes at the last line. She was much more interested in the intriguing ‘ancient evil'. It reminded her of the figure on the Egyptian stela in Paris burying the unknown object under a tree.

Charlotte lifted the top corner of the page which had been bent down. In the corner, a handwritten note in pencil read
‘The Echo'
under which was a strange-looking symbol: a horizontal line off which were two sets of bars and a tail that looked like… a root. A chill flowed down her spine – it was the symbol she had been seeing in her dreams since finding the stone and here she had proof it was somehow linked to the tree.

Charlotte had no trouble feeling the fear of the person who had put them there but could sense nothing of their meaning. She reached for the plaster mould she had made at the Nymet and rolled it around in her hands to help herself think. Tracing her fingers along the imprint she suddenly realised it mirrored the symbol. More proof.

There was an essay in the folder with an old-fashioned photograph stapled to it, the colours faded. Charlotte recognised the woman in the picture. The slim figure, boyish looks and red hair – it had to be a younger version of her mother. She must be about the same age as Charlotte was now and the date on the back read ‘
Jan 1993'.

Ella Stone was wearing a deer stalker hat and duffle coat as well as thick hiking boots against the cold judging by the snow that could be seen on the tree's branches. In spite of this though, the oak was in full leaf, acorns hanging in abundance from its branches.

What were the chances? Olly had told her the legend of the Evergreen Oak that bloomed in winter dated back to the 18th century yet here seemed to be photographic evidence it had happened since. Why not again? Still, there would be nothing unusual about leaves and catkins in May.
Then perhaps we need to engineer something even more unusual
, Charlotte thought. The kernel of an idea formed in her mind.

She read the essay through several times; there was a plethora of information about the age, history and legends of the tree, a bit on Nymets and sacred groves as well as reputed wishing trees and hanging trees in the local area. There was nothing, however, that explained the evil or the symbol. On the bottom it read:

‘History of the Brackenheath Oak by Ella Aherne and Irving Batterbee, 1993'

Tucked in the back of the file was another, even older photograph – black and white and faded around the edges. It showed a newly married couple posed under the Brackenheath Oak. They smiled at the camera but Charlotte could also sense tension and anxiety. A thought drifted across her mind. Grandparents, these were her grandparents. The realisation that her family belonged in Brackenheath left her reeling; but it was also oddly comforting.

*

A shuffling sound at the window made her look up to find Tar'sel climbing through the window.

‘What are you doing here?' Charlotte hurriedly tidied the file away.

Boris stepped out from behind Tar'sel and waved apologetically.

‘Boris! Aunt Clarissa will have your guts for garters if she finds you here.'

‘What are garters?' they asked in unison.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘Never mind.'

*

Charlotte sat and listened patiently as Tar'sel unloaded his horror and guilt about the condition of the Brackenheath Oak. She waved away his suggestions that his people must be to blame and that perhaps they only had themselves to blame for their predicament. She understood how he felt though; she couldn't help having similar worries over her parents' disappearance.

‘The Morrigan told me this was destiny so I guess it was inevitable. Blaming yourself over something you couldn't have changed is a waste of time and effort.' She comforted him in the best way she knew how.

‘You're probably right, and it doesn't change anything. Something still needs to be done.'

‘Just to play devil's advocate for a moment, what's the worst that can happen if we… I, fail? The world is left with one less tree.' Even Charlotte couldn't buy into her argument, she was becoming very attached to the Nymet.

Tar'sel looked at her in shock. ‘That in itself would be unthinkable.'

He couldn't imagine how anyone could be so cold about the death of another living being and he was beginning to think these Albion folk were not right in the head. Had his people really got it so wrong as to think one of them would be able to save the Nymet?

‘It's more complicated than that,' he continued, trying to keep his fears in check. ‘The Nymet truly is special – it holds the memory of an entire forest and without it that forest will vanish. As for your world, it will become weaker without the Nymet too. Not only does it cleanse the air, it maintains the magic in the very soil, magic which protects you from many unseen dangers. Do you understand?'

‘I think so. And you?'

‘For the Tree Weavers it's more immediate. Without the trees we die.'

‘No pressure then.' The truth hung heavy in the air. ‘Well, I guess what we need is some inspiration.' Charlotte rapped her fingers on Quintillian's file.

Time to see how everyone is getting on with their projects.' Mr Thomlinson beamed at them as he dumped a pile of paperwork and a briefcase on the heavy wooden table at the front of the class.

Sissy was first up.

‘The “Evergreen Oak of Brackenheath” is a famous local landmark, depictions of which can be found in various locations in the local area if you know where to look, including the local church and a number of the older houses. Perhaps the most beautiful example can be found in the old Wykenhall Manor (now a private school).

‘This is our main source for the local legend that tells of how the local population was saved from starvation during a particularly bleak winter and poor harvest. In spite of the season, the Brackenheath Oak bore acorns throughout the months and months of heavy snows and frost, ensuring their survival.

‘There are suggestions that this famous local oak is the same tree that stands to this day on the hill in Brackenheath Park.'

‘Very good work, Miss Pike, that was well researched. An excellent addition to our project.'

Sissy blushed, before mumbling something unintelligible and scuttling to her desk.

Sang stood up and signed about how her father learnt English under a tree when he arrived in England, Govinder narrating her story for the benefit of the rest of the class. Charlotte wasn't the only one that didn't need Govinder's narration, but she was impressed how quick and accurate he was. It was easy to forget that she had only been Sang's friend for a short time and she didn't have the monopoly on being good at languages.

Connor McNamara got up next and talked about the Celtic myth of the Hazel and Salmon of Wisdom while his sister Finnula told them of the fairy trees and how, in ancient times, when land was cleared, at least one tree was left standing to become the focal point of any new village. A place to meet and celebrate.

Olly talked about how the Brackenheath Oak had survived the Second World War and had been a place where local soldiers had married their sweethearts, which reminded Charlotte of the picture of her grandparents. Charlie discussed the humming sound that was sometimes heard near the tree, waving a copy of Peter Aherne's book as if for proof that he was not mad.

Mr Thomlinson congratulated them all. ‘You're up next, Charlotte,' he whispered as Giles finished his tale about the ‘Golden Rider', a notorious highwayman who was hung from the Brackenheath Oak until the earth swallowed him up. Charlotte couldn't understand why she was so nervous, she never usually had any problem with public speaking.

‘It's a load of nonsense,' Olly whispered in disgust. ‘There's not a shred of historical evidence there was ever a highwayman in this area.'

Charlotte smiled weakly. That may be true but she knew there was often a thread of truth in the wildest folktale and something about Giles' story made her feel decidedly uncomfortable. It reminded her of the ‘ancient evil' mentioned in Peter Aherne's book. She didn't have time to worry about it as Mr Thomlinson waved her to the front of the class.

‘My grandparents were married under the Brackenheath Oak,' she announced and all eyes were glued to her in expectation.

‘Now that is interesting, Miss Stone. How about you tell us a little more?' Mr Thomlinson encouraged her.

‘I don't really know much more than that. I only found a picture,' Charlotte lied.

‘OK, well, how did it make you feel when you realised you have family ties to this place?'

It had felt weird. In fact, it was something she couldn't put into words and she felt stupid as tears pricked the back of her eyes. Charlotte could feel twenty pairs of eyes boring into her; Giles and Wilbur were sniggering in the back but perhaps worse than that was the look of pity in Isla's eyes. The silence seemed to stretch on forever.

Only, it wasn't… silent. At first she thought it was the sound of her own blood in her ears from the flush she could feel creeping up her neck – but there was something musical in the sound. She began to forget where she was as the melody overtook her and the memories of the Nymet threatened to engulf her. Low, sad notes chimed… before it was gone on the breeze.

‘Charlotte, Charlotte…?' Mr Thomlinson was looking at her with concern. ‘Perhaps have a little think about that and come back to us with what you discover.' He gestured for her to take a seat.

‘Sir?'

Charlotte was grateful when Olly drew attention away from her.

‘Yes, Mr Batterbee?' Mr Thomlinson replied, distracted.

‘Sir, what if we staged an… “awareness campaign” in the local library… and outside the town hall during the debate. Dad always told me we have a duty to try and protect our local landscape… and it would make a great project for my political studies class.'

‘As long as you have everyone's permission I don't see why not. It could be a good learning experience on the processes of local government,' Mr Thomlinson nodded with approval. ‘I must stress, however, it would be in your own time, not an official school trip, and I couldn't attend with you – I can't be seen to openly show bias. As such, no uniforms please.'

*

The student common room was buzzing during the break. Olly and Govinder were formulating a plan for the campaign, and they had already enrolled half the class when Charlotte came in.

‘Your name's already on the list, Charlotte,' Govinder called over to her. ‘Olly figured you would be there come hell or high water.'

‘No problem. What have you got me down to do?'

‘Thought you could tell the story of your grandparents getting married, if you get anywhere with it; reckon my dad could help you there. A nice bit of local history to tug at the heart strings.'

‘Olly, do you think that's fair? We don't want to set Charlotte up for embarrassment, she's clearly not a natural public speaker,' said Isla with that look of pity again. Charlotte ignored it; annoying as she was, Isla meant well.

‘Maybe you two could put it to music for me to make it more emotional,' she nodded at Olly and Govinder.

‘We could do that,' Olly replied, ‘if you're willing to sing it.'

‘Maybe not then.' Charlotte grinned, collecting her bag from her locker and making for the exit.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Got plans of my own to make,' she winked before heading out the door.

*

It was a warm, sunny evening as Charlotte arrived at the Nymet tree and Tar'sel was already floating nearby.

‘You want to call off the guard crows?' he called exasperatedly from halfway down the hill, which was as close as the birds would let him. As soon as Charlotte appeared, the crows lifted off together and flew off towards the sea.

‘It's like they don't realise I'm a Nymet Draoi,' Tar'sel complained.

‘Perhaps it's because you're see-through.' Charlotte tried to placate him but he was still annoyed.

‘So what's your inspired idea then?' He changed the subject and Charlotte told him the story of the Evergreen Oak.

Tar'sel was clearly sceptical when she had finished. ‘I can't believe such a thing would have become a legend. That's not so strange.'

Charlotte smiled. ‘It is strange here, Tar'sel, Albion humans don't weave.'

‘But I don't see how it's going to help at this time of year. The tree is full of budding acorns anyway.'

Tar'sel wasn't so sure of himself now; he clearly had much to learn about the ways and environment of Albion, but he was relieved when Charlotte agreed.

‘But with you here we could create something unusual. What if the oak started blooming something it shouldn't?' Charlotte's eyes glowed with excitement.

‘What did you have in mind?'

Charlotte fell quiet. The idea had come from her mother's essay and Charlotte wished her family could be here to share the moment.

‘Roses are Mum's favourite,' Charlotte shrugged, as she wondered about the logistics.

Tar'sel beamed. ‘That should be easy, and I'm guessing it would be… unusual?'

Charlotte nodded.

‘What good would it do though, I mean… who would see it?' Tar'sel continued more confidently.

‘Leave that to me, we have a thing called “media”. They would certainly be interested in reporting such a thing.'

‘Me… diee… aa.' Tar'sel rolled the word around in his mouth. He had no idea what it meant but it sounded good.

Tar'sel did a circuit of the tree, inspecting every branch and twig, sucking in a breath at the sight of the charred remains of the heartwood.

‘She's pretty sick, we'll need to do some healing first, there's still a lot of pain there.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Can't you feel it?'

Tar'sel still couldn't get used to how backward these Albion people were but he tried to keep his tone neutral. He didn't want to insult Charlotte.

‘You have to tune in. Sense it here,' Tar'sel motioned to his stomach.

He showed her how to control her breathing and focus her attention on hearing the Nymet song. Charlotte found it surprisingly easy; the techniques were similar to those Mr Lei taught her in her karate lessons.

‘Someone has been doing healing already,' Tar'sel looked confused. ‘I can't quite work out the signature but there's definitely been some deliberate work done here.'

‘Perhaps it's The Morrigan…' Charlotte's sentence trailed off as Tar'sel shook his head.

‘I can't see that, there would be dire consequences if a member of the Shriven intervened – only happens in real emergencies, and when they do… it isn't pretty.'

Tar'sel didn't need to say any more.

Coming to a stop at the place where he started, Tar'sel closed his eyes and stood stock still for what seemed like forever.

‘What are you doing now?'

‘Sssh, concentrate. You have to break through the silence to get to the song,' Tar'sel chided her.

This was not the awkward young boy unsure of himself and his surroundings; this was an experienced and confident healer – a proper Nymet Draoi, unlike her. She did as she was told, but it was hard. She had so many questions.

She watched as Tar'sel began to chant a neutral, even tone, eventually knitting in other notes. When he started singing a rose song, flowers began to bud all over the lower branches, quickly uncurling their petals into full bloom.

Pleased with his work, Tar'sel stopped chanting and admired his handiwork but in moments the roses began to die and fall to the ground.

‘What's happening, why isn't it working?' Charlotte asked with alarm. The scene was uncomfortably close to her vision.

‘I don't know,' Tar'sel replied.

He didn't want to admit he had had difficulty drowning out the cacophony of sound that was plaguing Albion, besides, he was positive that wasn't the problem. The song of the roses had been true.

‘It should have worked in theory. Maybe the roses just aren't compatible with the Nymet, or maybe she's still too sick.'

‘Perhaps I have to do it,' Charlotte suggested, ‘being as I am from this side of the Dreamtime.'

Tar'sel agreed, guiding her through the process. ‘Once you start to chant, you have to keep going till the process is complete,' he told her. ‘If you don't you'll damage the plant. You can't go too far either though or the new growth won't have energy left to sustain itself.'

After hours of practice they were still no further forward and the sun was setting.

‘Maybe I need more practice.'

‘It wouldn't hurt, I guess.' Tar'sel felt the tell-tale tug at his chest. He smiled apologetically at Charlotte as he began to fade.

‘I can't work on the Nymet alone. When will you be back?' There was an edge of panic in her voice.

‘Hard to say. You know all you need though, trust your instincts and go with your gut. You shouldn't overthink weaving if you want it to work – for a beginner you've done well.' He smiled encouragingly. ‘Practise if it makes you feel better.'

*

Charlotte barely said a word to Clarissa as she came in the kitchen door and went up to her room. Her head was still with the Nymet. Sitting at her desk, she absentmindedly played with the picture of her grandparents under the Brackenheath Oak.

She had hoped this time would be different; that she wouldn't feel the sense of pain and loss that emanated from it, a contradiction of the happy smiling faces. She willed it to tell her more but she got nothing.

‘It doesn't work so well when it's family.' Clarissa stood behind her with a cup of hot chocolate and a roasted vegetable and hummus roll. ‘You need to eat something.'

Charlotte realised then just how hungry she was.

‘How's the project coming on?' Clarissa admired all the various books and pieces of paper that covered Charlotte's desk.

‘I have a load of information on similar circumstances… I'm trying to find a legal precedent to support our campaign.'

‘That all sounds very impressive and informative but people don't generally care for facts and figures, Charlotte. They are more interested in people and stories.'

‘Well, I'm out of those.' Charlotte sighed tiredly through a mouthful of food. ‘Olly is much better at that sort of thing.'

Clarissa leant over the desk and picked up the picture of Charlotte's grandparents. ‘You have one right here.'

‘I don't know the story,' Charlotte replied blankly.

‘Would you like to?' Clarissa smiled.

*

Luned found herself summoned to the ‘Hanging Gardens of Fargale' once again. She seemed to spend more time underground these days than she did when she lived in Agrimony. Malik and Davlin were deep in discussion in the meeting room of the comms room when she arrived.

‘If the worst happened, could you keep the comms room going?' Malik frowned as he scrutinised pages and pages of print-outs.