Darkwood

By J. Landon Ferguson

From the beginning of time, evil forces have plagued mankind. One particular dark entity, in the form of a giant tree, makes its way through the history of man, invoking evil, a faceless supernatural force that manifest itself in order to conquer the world at the new millennium.
Provocative and disturbing, this controversial epic novel reveals the weakness in man's ability to recognize and fight an invisible force, the dark side.
Can a single man defend and save the world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 7, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462834181

J. Landon Ferguson

J. Landon Ferguson, a previously published author, lives in the Rocky Mountains with his wife and daughter. Aside from novels and short stories, Ferguson enjoys crew chiefing a drag racing team and ornamental iron work.

Book preview

Copyright © 2006 by J. Landon Ferguson.

Cover illustration by Miss Jamey Ferguson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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33487

Contents

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART II

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PART III

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-0NE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Your Armor Is The Knowledge

Of Your Enemy

Special thanks for story idea to:

Craig May

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

At the dawn of man, in a place that would eventually become Avebury, England, sprouted a sapling, a small tree like no other in the world. High on a mound it grew in the shade of a thick and green forest of giant oaks, its V-shaped leaves struggling to capture a shaft of sunlight from the paramount canopy above. The floor of the leaf-littered forest remained musty and damp and relatively sparse of new growth, save for the little tree, an urchin in a sea of old and weathered giants.

Dark and enchanting, the forest had an air of mysticism, in a sense, primeval in its virginity, unseen and untouched by man. The magnitude of its serenity, due to the stately oaks, reached proportions of a wooded wonderland. Unyielding massive trunks surrounded the small and insignificant sapling, giving it little hope of survival.

In the forest lived a variety of animals, those that preyed on others and the prey themselves. This particular territory the little tree grew in happened to be the domain of a large and fierce cat, black in color with large incisors and yellow eyes suited for hunting at night. The big male cat moved stealthily through the vague shadows, its sleek muscles rippling, silent and stalking, like a dark vapor sweeping across the soggy forest floor, its presence forever portent. He was the king, a huge panther unequaled in speed and strength, unchallenged by any other animal of the forest.

The silence of the night broke with a scream and then silence again. The big cat’s jaws clamped the throat of a young deer tightly, depriving it of life-giving air, as the victim gave a last shudder and went limp. Dragging the carcass quietly, the cat came to rest beside the small tree with V-shaped leaves. There was something about this area the cat desired, a calling, as if he was being summoned, and at every eating brought his prey to devour in the same place beside the small tree. The tree offered the cat some kind of added sensual pleasure, a lust. Voraciously, the cat tore into the deer, spilling it’s ample blood on the thirsty soil, gorging down the soft tissue first and then the muscle, crushing the small bones in powerful jaws. At last the cat’s hunger had been satisfied as it trotted away, licking its lips, leaving the remains for later.

Thirstily, the roots of the strange tree sucked the blood from the soil, and in less than a day the remains of the deer disappeared as if they had dissolved into the ground like melting snow. In the days and weeks and months to come the cat continued to feast at the base of the tree that grew faster than any other in the forest. Once a flock of ravens spotted the shredded remains of left over carcass and swooped down to scavenge a free meal. The small tree proved ominous and instantly, the ravens sensed extreme danger, felt the pressure of an evil presence, and took to wing immediately. Not only did the tree grow straight and tall in height, but the roots spread quickly covering a greater and greater distance. The roots of the giant oaks, even with their powerful rootones, retreated and died away in the thrust of the oncoming growth of the new tree until one by one, the majestic nearby oaks toppled to the ground to decay and collapse into the musty loam. Season after season the forest opened up into a wide field around the strong and dominant tree that had reached towering heights. Now it grew wide with massive branches stretching over a large area, a perfect tree in all dimensions, colossal in size and strength, its bark black as pitch and courser than that of the gnarly cottonwood. Neither bothered by pestilence or parasite, nor by wind or weather, it eclipsed the growth of the now distant oaks, a towering landmark above a green countryside.

—0—

The first human to appear on the scene was that of Neolithic man. From the Middle East he came, stone tools in hand, agriculture his means. The first exploring group arrived in autumn to lay eyes on the magnificent tree and stood with mouths agape in a state of awe. Surely this was the most unnatural sight they had ever seen, a tree so immense and imposing nothing dared grow near it. Leaves were so bright red they looked like blood. The mere size suggested dominance and rule, and its strength, the ability to support such massive lateral limbs, had to be a phenomenon in itself. Upon closer inspection, the ground beneath the tree was bare of growth, not even a blade of grass, only a twisted confusion of old and gnarly roots half exposed, like long and bony interlaced fingers. The bark resisted the stone ax, sending it a glancing blow. Within minutes the men felt an uncanny presence, like a dark and looming force, as if they were under the spell of the giant tree. In their primitive and fearful minds, quickly, it was concluded this was no ordinary tree, but a spirit come to life. It had to be. What else could it be?

The huge tree with the leaves of blood in the fall served as a ritualistic site for the centuries to follow, with ceremonies of blood letting and other ritualistic worship. The first farming community knew the tree was a source of great power and only if the tree remained pleased would they prosper with their crops. During the years of drought and famine, obviously, the great tree god, had not been satisfied. The most important thing the community had to give was the gift of themselves, their own blood, their own lives in the practice of human sacrifice.

Some 2000 years after this first farming community was established on Windmill Hill, the descendants began the initial phase of construction with excavation of deep and wide ditches in a huge circle around the old tree. In primitive agricultural terms it was a massive undertaking, a beginning to memorialize the tree-like god, for they used the most basic of implements such as antlers and shoulder blades of cattle to create this massive ditch and bank which enclosed an area of nearly thirty acres. Begun in the Neolithic Age, Avebury was completed in the early Bronze Age with around 400 huge stones arranged in a circular pattern with circles in the center. These stones were megaliths, the heaviest weighing 65 tons, and were moved with ropes and human hands and beasts of burden, stones brought from Avebury Hills 2 to 3 km east of the monument.

Nothing was simpler than the monument’s plan of construction. It consisted of single stones, rough hewn as when dug from the earth, taken from the quarry and stood on end, arranged in a circle, each a little ways from the other. The enclosed area was consecrated ground, and in the center stood the massive black-barked tree, an enormous stone alter before it. No hammer and chisel had approached these great rocks, ornament and grace the builders cared not for. Carvings and inscriptions were missing from the stones as well, for they were the work of an illiterate age. The only quality the stones possessed was the one barbarians most appreciate, size, colossal size.

While the similar Stonehenge appeared to be the worship of the sun and the moon, Avebury seems to have been dedicated to themes. Strong sexual symbolism, and attention to elaborate funeral celebration marked the life and death important in Neolithic times.

The structure was that of an open temple, for these men had yet to honor any form of architecture which employed walls or columns or beams and ceilings. After all, the tree was magnificent in its grandeur size, uncapturable by man made structure, unapproachable by mere man who felt belittled by its huge mass. This grand temple is approached by two pathways which have sweeping curves for upwards of a mile, spacious avenues for the masses to move in comfort, comparable to those that lead to the great temples of ancient Egypt.

As century after century flowed past, the great tree saw new races and new cultures of man, the arrival of the Celtae and the Bronze Age, when Caesar and his legion set foot on shore, then the Romans departed and the Anglos and Saxons came to wash the land in blood. The tree saw the scepter of England handed over from the Saxons to the Norman, and the long line of great kings. All along the rugged stones stood like sentries hailing the magnificent tree, silent but imposing, irrevocable and enduring.

Throughout the centuries of man, all who saw the tree feared it and respected it, some worshipped it and some died for it, some prayed to it and some cursed it, but most memorable were the Druids.

Mistakenly, many attribute the stones as an effort of the Druids. Yet the fact remains, the Druids felt the same impact as others when encountering the open stone temple and the consuming tree. To them it was a god come true, a god present, and the grounds soon became their official temple of worship and human sacrifice. The more important the human, the more worthwhile the sacrifice, and the blood flowed from the alter onto the ground where it was quickly soaked up by hungry roots. High priests garbed in their long white hooded robes also acted as judges, condemning many to death for the sake of the god looming over them. It became ritual that one dare not touch the tree, for it was sacred, and to touch it was to commit ones life to it in the form of a bloody sacrifice. Most sacred of all were the sacrifices of young virgins in the dark of night, for the tree-like god had a strong influence of sexual demand sensed by all who gathered beneath it for these ceremonies. The tree had a consuming and devouring nature, not for just the flesh but for the spirit and soul of man as well, as evident by the strong influence of corruption that took place beneath it. As these acts continued, the tree grew bigger and stronger, not only in size and stature, but in its spiritual authority as well. It was truly evil.

—0—

With modern man came his works and discoveries, his tools and trades and skills, his Christian worship, his sophisticated ways, his advances in art and literature, yet his sinful ways and cruelty persisted in spite of these other achievements. After the disappearance of the Druids, Avebury was nothing more than a farming community trading with the other parts of the country for its livelihood. The tree and the stones remained only as a wonder as to how they really got there and who had put them there. Other than that, the only fascination was the huge tree. It was indeed big and all knew it was evil. For this reason, for many years it had been the hanging tree, where criminals swung by the neck until properly dead, then were left hanging as an example for any other misguided notions of wrong doing. Eventually the corpses would rot and fall to the ground, and then and only then were they to be removed and buried. This gruesome chore was the job of a single man who lived alone in a nearby stone cabin. He was the caretaker of the grounds around the tree and a small cemetery to the east. His name was Henry Miller.

Henry had always been a loner and lived a secluded life, primarily because of his appearance. Some called it repulsive, while others showed pity, but few were able to look at the face of Henry Miller. He was a short man, stout, and somewhat hunched from a life of heavy toil. His hands were wide and strong, his arms long, and his straight hair a deep black. These were features rarely recognized for the face of Henry Miller, hideous and deformed, resembled a sculptured nightmare.

Born a peasant, Henry had been placed in a cradle near a warm fire on a freezing night. The coals glowed bright red while his mother tended other chores, the baby sound asleep. Somehow the cradle tipped, dumping Henry into the fire face first. By the time his mother rescued him, the baby had suffered severe burns, his face entirely ruined. However, this was not the reason Henry’s deformity became so devastating, it was due to the long ensuing infection that followed. Since little was known about practical medicine, many of the cures attempted only added to the problem, cures consisting of homemade remedies that were certain to make the infection worse. After a long bout with a degenerating condition, Henry finally took a turn for the better, but by now, his face mostly eaten away, he looked like a monster.

Most of his life he had spent living with his mother, doing the masculine chores, the simple existence of the oppressive life of a reclusive peasant. Henry never knew of having any father, as his mother could only speculate as to who the father might be. In his years of growing up and living in a cottage, the only permissible way he could be seen in public was with his face wrapped in cloth, leaving only slits for his eyes to peer through, much like the garb of desert people. This by no means made Henry acceptable socially, only tolerable, for even with his face wrapped others were at the will of their fluid imaginations, enhancing the grossness that lie under the rags. When Henry’s mother died he sold the family cottage and moved further out, further away from people, near Avebury, into a small stone hut where he could see the big tree through a slit in the wall that served as a window. This was the simple life he desired, to live alone and unbothered, make do with what he could.

Never having had a friend, or anyone to talk to besides his deceased mother, Henry was the kind of person that lived a separate life in his mind. He fantasized mostly, pretending to talk to someone when there was nobody around, carrying on both sides of a conversation, sometimes arguing with himself. He had a keen sense of that unseen, primarily, the world of spirits, where he spent a good deal of time reckoning the spirits he had known, placing them in categories that fit into his neat little idea of their place in the world and in his life. For the better part, he saw them in his dreams, but felt their presence in his daily routine, and decided the spirits of the night were usually the naughty ones. Everyone knew the big tree was an evil thing, a hanging tree, and Henry never thought much of it until now, as he gazed at its magnificence in wonder. It was a living entity and it was present, but he felt much more emanating from the tree, like a dark and powerful force.

The nasty job of removing rotten corpses from the hanging tree had been the job of an old man known as Dylan, just plain Dylan, an old loaner who did odd jobs, mostly the kind of work others preferred not to address. Dylan was thought to be slightly insane and that was further supported by his front teeth, which he had filed to points, giving him a sinister look when he smiled. He had done this to ward off the evil that surrounded his work, hoping his scary teeth would protect him. For no reason the old man disappeared, which brought a representative of the community to the door of Henry Miller. He explained most politely, never letting his eyes approach the rag covered face of Henry, that the job was open, and he could earn reasonable pay, for removing the rotted corpses once they fell to the ground and bury them in the pauper’s cemetery—if he would like the job.

Henry was only about forty years old and was not getting any younger, his livelihood limited and his income disgraceful. As for handling the smelly old dead bodies, that did not bother him, he had done worse. It was the tree he feared, not knowing anything other than it had a strong spiritual persuasion, and it was not a good persuasion. He took a few steps and glanced away at the giant tree, which was a beautiful sight as far as trees go. He considered this offer for another moment, thinking how it would be nice to have a little more money for practical things he needed. Turning to the nervous representative, Henry nodded—he would do the stinking job.

In the past, Henry had witnessed the blood thirsty crowds attending the hangings, sometimes multiple hangings, and had watched the corpses hang for days and days, as the custom was, until only the rope remained. The old man, Dylan, would come riding up in his wagon, remove a ladder and crawl slowly up it, cut the rope, and then, presumably, tend the remains of the dead on the ground by loading them up and hauling them to the cemetery to bury. The job could not be that hard physically—if an old man could do it so could he.

Almost a month passed when Henry looked up from working in his garden. A crowd approached, obviously a hanging was about to take place. Two ropes were stretched over one of the huge lateral limbs as two men stood with nooses around their necks in the back of a big wagon. Henry could hear different men take turns addressing the crowd, each speaking his piece as public servant, whether it be preacher or lawman. Then the deed would be done, the horses whipped into a lunge, dragging the wagon out from under the condemned men’s feet. As they dangled and writhed, swinging back and forth, the crowd gasped in horror, loving every second of it. Soon the crowd dispersed, leaving the two corpses hanging like rotting fruit.

The story, as Henry heard, was the two men had gotten drunk and raped a girl, which was not so unusual, except this girl happened to be the daughter of a prominent man. Henry waited for the bodies to degenerate, until gravity did its work, then he would go do his business. Two days, three days, four, then five passed before Henry noticed one of the corpses had fallen. He was uncertain as to what to do. Should he just wait for the other to fall, certainly it would fall shortly, or should he go take care of the one and then take care of the other when it fell. He decided to wait and make one effort of the job, that would be easier.

It took another few days for the other to fall as Henry noticed one morning, it must have fallen during the night. Preparing his wagon, Henry did as old Dylan had done before him, brought his shovels and tool box and a ladder. He hitched up his old horse and ambled on over to the distant tree, the sun growing hot in the morning sky.

When Henry pulled up under the cool shade of the big tree he saw the remains of one of the corpses, sort of melted into the ground like corpses do when they rupture and loose all of their fluid. But where the other corpse should have been, there was only a pile of black and rotting clothing, no bones or decaying material to speak of, more of a big dark stain than anything.

Strange, Henry murmured, eyeing the sight. Now he was suspicious of tampering, someone had come and taken away the man’s bones, or what was left of him, and had left the nasty old clothing. The newly fallen corpse looked as if it were already half buried in the ground, sort of melded, like it had been on the ground for weeks. Something strange was going on.

Dismounting from the wagon, Henry removed his ladder and stood it up and cut the ropes, he would bury them too. He decided he would bury what he could find and nobody would know the difference, he would get paid just the same. After all, what else could he do?

When Henry took his shovel and tried to pick up the newly fallen corpse, he discovered it had somehow become tangled in the many fine roots next to the big roots running all along the ground. He pried harder, pulling up a tangle of roots which already seemed to be growing through the corpse. Curiously, he dug his shovel into the old clothing of the first-fallen corpse and discovered the same thing—it was matted with fine tree roots. Then it hit him.

Standing under the giant tree, just a speck by comparison, Henry felt the force of the spirit in the tree and realized it was just as big, just as powerful as the massive giant he stood beneath. Standing there, leaning on his shovel, his eyes on the mass of roots he had disturbed, he realized the tree was in the process of devouring the remains of the two men. More important, the spiritual impact he felt was strong enough to cause him to freeze in fear, like a frightened animal, to stop and listen. Of all the spirits Henry had encountered, either good or bad, they were incidental compared to what he saw in his mind’s eye now. What he experienced was something strong and authoritative and as he stood there, unmoving, he began to see it more clearly and his fear began to subside.

He felt its wickedness, it’s hatred, its consuming nature, its evil force, the absolute darkness it represented. The spirit, he new now, was the god of darkness, the god of evil, the god of bad. Yet, his fear quelled as his curiosity brought him closer to this spirit, searching for it in a fog, trying to recognize it in his mind’s eye. What he saw was as ugly as he was and ironically, he somehow felt a kinship, a sort of adoration for this spirit, as if it needed him and he needed it. Henry had never been needed by anyone before and this flattered him, lifting his mood. He tamped the dead men’s remains back like he had found them, using the back side of the shovel. It hurt his wretched face as he smiled, for he never smiled. The tree, and the spirit within it, he began to realize, was his friend, his only companion. The tree made his job easier, helping like a friend, and all Henry had to do was go bury some rope and stand up a wooden mark.

In the days to come Henry felt better than he had ever felt in his entire life, for to have a friend meant everything in the world to him, especially such a big and powerful friend, a spirit friend who certainly must be capable of performing powerful tasks. He thought about it constantly, often glancing at the lovely giant in the distance. During the evenings, as the sun turned clouds orange and brilliant, Henry walked over to the tree and meandered around under it, taking in the exhilaration he felt. He did this often and each time his feelings, or what was now becoming love, grew for the big spirit. Hangings came and went and Henry smiled as he buried nothing but rope, for the tree did all the real work.

Oddly, if it was not for his deformed face, Henry would feel like a complete man, something he never felt in his entire life. The tree never scorned him or made fun of him or turned away from him, but welcomed him and offered back great solitude. The power the tree had over Henry was the kind of power Henry adored as he spent more and more time in the evenings sitting under the tree, wishing more and more to grow closer to his wicked friend. At first, Henry had no way of recognizing a new feeling he had developed for the tree, one of sexual lust. All he knew was he liked the feeling and it attracted him to the tree, making him feel like a new man with a purposeful hunger.

As it grew dark one evening, Henry sat down and leaned against the massive trunk, his eyes closed, dreaming delightful dreams, the best dreams he had ever experienced. It was as if he were with a woman, something that had never happened and never would happen in his life. Yet the dream was so real that it was real—it was beautiful.

Henry was with a lover who caressed him and held him close, a lover who did surprising things and made him happy, a lover who was as full of lust as he was. Being a man of strong emotions, emotions that had forever been of unhappiness and oppression, emotions of sadness from the rejection and loneliness, and in knowing all of the depressing emotions, this made Henry quite capable of experiencing the grand emotions as well. For the first time his spirit soared in him, he flew freely, unafraid and unashamed. The flame of his life burned brightly as he took this powerful spirit who brought this joy to him and caressed it, held it closely to his bosom giving all he could give in return. The spirit seemed to joy in him, offering him an illusion of peace and solitude, one of grace and loving care as it held him tightly, a little too tightly.

Jumping awake, Henry was in an opiate-like daze, but he felt pain around his ankles and legs. Now dark, he groped and discovered it was as if he were entangled in vines and they grew tighter as he squirmed. He pawed at them as he quickly came out of the deep sleep. These were no vines at all, but the powerful roots from the huge tree he leaned against. With strong and course hands, Henry dug at the dirt, digging and digging around the roots that held him. He would dig his way out until he could stretch the roots and break them. Hitting something in the sandy loam, something that came loose, he ripped it free. Too dark to see, he brought it closer as he felt the rounded structure, his hands running nimbly over it. He hit something sharp, a row of sharp objects like a saw blade. Turning it over, Henry realized it was a human skull, not just any human skull, but the teeth were that of old Dylan. Had Dylan been lured in this same way?

Using the skull and sharp teeth in it, Henry tried to saw at the roots, but it soon became obvious all of his efforts were futile. What an absolute fool he had been, taken in, mislead and deceived. The evil spirit had preyed easily upon his main weakness, that of loneliness and a need to be wanted. Having been used in such a way made him feel weak and helpless as the wonderful love he had experienced now turned into a dark and wicked hatred. He was trapped like a fly in a spiders web with no escape. Exhausted, he leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk, the pain in his legs increasing from what felt like pin pricks as the tiny roots penetrated his skin. At first the trauma caused Henry to go into shock, where he gave his last effort in a panic, a sudden burst of wild undirected energy, releasing the anger at having been betrayed until he collapsed from the exertion of his fit. Then, like magic, Henry began to feel almost sedated, a pleasing feeling of comfort as he relaxed, the tingling most enjoyable. His eyes grew droopy as he slipped back into the wonderful dream he had been having previously, falling into a deep sleep he would never return from.

—0—

Hangings had come and gone and when the village representative came to pay Henry, Henry was not to be found. The man poked around Henry’s place, inside and out, even went down and inspected the tree—nothing. From the looks of it, he decided, Henry had wandered off, probably let the job get to him. With his hands in his pockets, the man shrugged and kicked at the dirt, irritated at the difficulty of having to find someone else to perform the disgraceful duties of such a morbid job.

CHAPTER TWO

Theodore Butler was a jolly, portly man with round red cheeks and a thin, red blade of a nose, his complexion reddened by his liking for fine brandy. Graying hair surrounded his bald head, his eyes were small and brown and quick, his sharp mental reflexes that of a problem solver, and now, Butler was the self made man who had scratched and clawed his way to the top. He not only owned a shipping company but also a ship building company. His timing had been perfect, for the trade industry with the New World surpassed all he had ever imagined in the way of business success. Headquarted in London, his businesses had elevated him to join that of the elite and very wealthy men of enterprise and recognition. Astutely, he had delegated the running of the companies to men he could trust so that he might have more time to enjoy his family, especially the company of his plump and loving wife who made him happy with seven wonderful children. At the age of 53, Theodore was quite content with the ability to fulfill practically all he wished for.

On this particular occasion, Theodore had insisted upon a little hunting trip with servants and a few close friends, primarily, his master ship builder, John Cane, who was an avid hunter and a remarkably good shot. Unfortunately, Theodore could not say the same, even though he carried a newly made Belgium musket, he was lucky if he ever hit anything. Two other friends had joined the hunting party, men of means of course, by the names of Frank Thatcher and Sir William Upman. All were of the idea that a hunting party was merely an excuse to get out and wander a bit, to splash down a toddy or two, and in general just have a good time.

The subject being hunted was questionable and depended upon what game might accidentally show itself in the course of a day. Theodore lead the group under an overcast sky in hopes of scaring up game birds, wishing desperately he could have another try at hitting his target. The weather was cool and humid, the smell of fall heavy in the air. Along the edge of a forest the hunting party moved, knee high dead weeds rustling in their path, creating enough noise to warn off any wary game.

We’ll never kill anything this way, Cane protested, the only real hunter in the group. Anything could hear us coming before we ever saw it.

Good point, Lad, Frank Thatcher agreed. He was a slightly winded from the morning walk, the oldest man in the group. Removing his hat, he ran his fingers through his curly silver hair. What ye say we stop and have a nip, warm the breast plate, heh? He patted his chest and smiled convincingly.

The others agreed wholeheartedly as Cane shook his head in dismay. The servants that followed squatted behind the group patiently, observant and ready to fill any request.

Removing a silver flask from his coat, Butler unscrewed the lid and held it up to the gray sky in a salute. Brethren, to our good health, then he took a mighty swallow.

So did the others and relaxed a moment, savoring the outdoors and quality liquor each carried. Butler sat down on a fallen log and took another swig and wiped a tear from his watery eyes. Where do you suppose we are? he questioned, addressing nobody in particular.

Sir William Upman spoke up. I’d guess we’re on the Isle somewhere, so we can’t be lost.

This brought a chuckle from the men, even Cane who caught himself trying to take the hunting trip too seriously. Cane was 37, tall with a grim face of sharp features. His blonde and wavy hair and deep-set blue eyes gave him an air of aristocracy, his mathematical mind clicked like a well-oiled machine. Often he was guilty of overly sober thought and found it hard to relax thanks to a nervous energy that ran like a constant electrical hum. Shrugging his thin shoulders, he realized it would be a miracle if they saw any game at all, much less killed any. What did it matter where they were? Being halfway lost, or misplaced, was half the fun of these outings, or it was supposed to be. They were more like little boys exploring a newly discovered neck of the woods.

The heavy cloud cover began to break and a few shafts of sun light danced through in beams of silver. Something caught the eye of Butler as he turned his round body to get a better look. Over a knoll he could see a round mound, flaming red in the sunlight. Good God! What on earth could that be? He stood, flask still in hand, to get a better view.

The others were curious by now and also stood to see what Butler questioned.

Looks like another knoll, except it’s red, Thatcher commented.

Neither Cane nor Upman could guess to the nature of the object either.

Let’s have a look, Butler said, tucking his flask away and marching toward the unknown.

The others followed in a quick step, single file behind the portly man as he grunted his way up the nearby hill. It was there he could see the giant tree in all of its red fall radiance. Would you look at that! he exclaimed. By God it’s a tree, the biggest tree I’ve ever seen!

Cane stood in amazement as well. He knew lumber and could identify all the kinds of trees, but he had never seen anything like this before. The thing was huge by any standard, the height staggering and the trunk a column thirty feet wide at the base, a mountain of a tree. The leaves had turned a vivid red like no other tree—it seemed to be on fire in the sunlight.

Well, stated Upman. I believe that’s a tree for the record books. It must be older than Methuselah.

Little did he know he was correct in his exaggerated statement.

Most curious was John Cane. Gentleman, we must have a closer look. He set out, his rifle over his shoulder and made a straight line drawing closer to the new discovery.

Once beneath the towering giant, Cane ran his hand over the deep-grooved and heavy black bark. It was more like armor plate than bark. He then bent down and picked up one of the fallen leaves and studied it closely. It was shaped like a fat V.

Don’t keep us guessing, what is it? Butler questioned as he came up, his tune more serious than before. His cheeks glowed from the brisk walk, his forehead beaded with perspiration.

Cane did not answer as Thatcher looked at the leaf he held. It was Thatcher who felt an uncanny presence and glanced around at the others to see if this eerie feeling was evident to anyone else.

I have no idea, Cane answered, speaking to Butler. It’s not indigenous to England, or even Europe, as far as I can tell. I’ve never seen anything remotely close. Kicking around in the leaves he came to another conclusion. It appears to be a hardwood but bears no fruit. Look, there’s no nuts or seeds of any kind. Strange indeed. Someone must have brought it from somewhere far away and planted it here. I wish I could see the wood, the way the grain runs.

Butler turned and cast an eye on the others, as if they had stumbled on to some great mystery. He noticed the megaliths and from where he stood could see they made a giant circle around where the men were standing. It dawned on him then that they were in some kind of shrine made by a primitive people. What are all of these large stones? he said, pointing. This looks something like Stonehenge.

Right you are, Upman said. We’ve walked all the way to Avebury. Imagine that.

Butler turned back to the tree and gazed up its tremendous trunk. If there was a hole cut in this trunk you could drive two teams and a coaches through it at the same time. What do you think, Cane? Is there enough lumber in this tree to build a ship?

Inadvertently, Crane dropped the leaf he had been focusing on and made a quick calculation. His guess was there was enough lumber in this one tree to build the main frame of the ship and plenty left over for other necessities. Aye Theodore, but I don’t know about the quality of the wood. That’s important you know.

How can we tell? Butler pushed. He was already developing ideas and he was the kind of man that made ideas become reality. For some reason he failed to recognize, the urge to build a ship out of this tree had struck him instantly, reaching him like a sudden loud noise, and as he tilted his head back to glance up at the towering giant, he folded his arms across his chest. Yes, he could see it clearly now in his vivid imagination, a ship of grand proportions skimming the waves of the high seas.

If I could get a branch from up there, Cane said, looking up, maybe I could tell a little more about it.

Butler took up his rifle and primed the firing mechanism. Perhaps I can shoot one down, he suggested. The others nodded and he put his gun to his shoulder, aimed, and fired.

The crack of the explosion echoed through the hills as a branch fell loose from high up and began to tumble down through the other branches, until it hit a bigger branch which broke loose and fell and that hit a bigger limb that fell. The men scrambled like chickens in a lightening storm as branches and debris fell from the old tree. Frank Thatcher was too old to be agile enough to scramble away. When he tried to run his knee gave out and he stumbled.

Look out, run! Cane called, ducking and running with his arms over his head.

A heavy limb fell across Thatcher’s back, snapping his old brittle bones easily. He moaned as the others quickly ran back when it was safe and picked up the heavy chunk and moved it away.

Upman rolled him over, squatted down beside him and looked closely into his face. Frank! Frank! Can you hear me?

The old man blinked, his face grimaced with pain. I think my back is broken, he sighed heavily.

Butler waved a hand at the servants who stood near. Quick, fix him one of the game gurneys. We’ll carry him back on that.

Kneeling beside Thatcher, Cane tried to encourage him. You hold on, Frank. We’ll get you out of here."

Stepping away so the servants could help the old man into the gurney, Cane turned back to the fallen debris. He picked up a small limb and flexed it—it was strong. The wood was reddish in color, something like rosewood, then he sniffed where it had broken off and made a terrible face.

What’s the matter? Butler asked as he had been watching Cane while the servants tied Thatcher securely to the game gurney.

It smells awful, like decaying meat, Cane answered.

What about the wood? Is it suitable for use in ship building? If it is, I’ll find out who owns this and buy this monster and we’ll build a ship from it.

I don’t know, Cane said. Get some of the men to cut and carry a few of these pieces back with us. I’ll make a study of it and you’ll get your answer.

Upman had been silent and watching all that had happened. He was suddenly overcome with a feeling that something was wrong while he listened to Cane and Butler talking about building a ship from the tree. He sensed the tree was more than just alive, it was calculating, watching them, manipulating them. It had tried to kill Thatcher because Thatcher either knew or felt something and it viewed Thatcher as a threat. These were crazy ideas from crazy feelings and he was not about to say anything about it. All he wanted to do was get going and get away from the cursed thing before something else happened. He knew, just like Thatcher, that what they were doing was terribly wrong, they were disturbing something that should be left alone.

—0—

In a plush London office, Theodore Butler sat at his big desk in a comfortable leather chair contemplating the recent hunting trip. Doctors reported Thatcher was going to be laid up for a while, but he should recover. It was hard for Butler to explain, but he was consumed with the astonishing tree he had discovered. He had spent many sleepless nights thinking about it, growing more and more determined to own it, to build a ship from it. His fleet of twelve ships had made him a very wealthy man since the successful colonization of the New World, bringing goods and people back and forth across the wide expanse of the Atlantic. What he had in mind was building the grandest, sleekest, and fastest ship of all, the flagship of his fleet, ship number thirteen. He wiped his constantly dripping thin red nose and wrote a message, his stubby fat hands scribbling the note in front of him. These were not the skilled hands of an artesian, yet build he did by employing the craftsmen needed to complete his dreams. The message was to John Cane, he wanted to see him immediately.

Over at the Deptford ship yards, Cane worked with one of the craftsman on a ship they had in dry dock. She was the Henrietta Marie, a grand ship indeed that had made many successful voyages. It was time for her to be cleaned up, barnacles scraped, and a few repairs and modifications made. She was not a ship he had built with Butler and Company, but a French ship the company had bought from the English government after she had been captured during the Anglo-French War. Cane had seen to her refitting to make a cargo vessel out of her.

Cane was never the type of manager to give orders from a desk; he was a hands-on man, right on the job helping and overseeing the men as the work was being done. A perfectionist, he was a difficult man to please and in general, the workers hated to see him coming, knowing he was going to gripe about something.

A messenger showed up and handed Cane the note. He read it, folded it up and stuck it in a breast pocket. Butler wants to see me, he said in order to excuse himself. He already knew what Butler wanted as he made his way back to his office—it was about the tree they had stumbled upon. That had been weeks before and in that time Cane had a piece of one of the heavier limbs cut into small planks, then he had it kiln dried. What Butler wanted to know was what he, John Crane, thought of the lumber as building material. John grabbed up the red board leaning behind his door to take with him. The results of his tests were not remarkable considering what the wood was to be used for.

The way John Cane saw it, almost any hard wood could be used, some preferable to others when considering strength, how the wood was to work with, the way the grain ran, how the wood handled kiln drying versus natural drying, shrinkage, and its ability to deal with moisture and salt water. All these things he knew and knew well. What concerned him most was his own ambition, which was not to be wealthy, or to own and run a company, or fame or any other kind of social elevation. He was a ship builder. More than anything he had a driving desire to build the most magnificent ship that sailed the high seas, a sleek and fast ship, a ship that by far surpassed all others in the technology of the day. This idea had plagued his thoughts for some time, as the ships he had built in previous years were practically duplicates of existing ships, using tried and tested designs. Budgets often cut into any notions of grandeur, leaving him little capacity to show his true skills. Now things had changed as Butler had become infatuated with this monstrous tree. Cane saw the situation as possibly the great challenge he had been looking for, a chance to achieve his dream of building the flagship for Butler’s fleet. It would take some doing, but he felt up to it as he eagerly hurried to meet with Butler.

—0—

Butler washed down a snifter of Irish brandy and it was good enough to warrant having one more. He coughed and wiped his runny nose with a silk handkerchief, then checked the time on a ship’s chronometer on his desk.

When a knock came from the tall walnut door in his office, Butler rushed to open it, anxious to see Cane.

Come in, come in, he announced proudly, closing the door behind Cane. His eyes fell immediately to the board in Cane’s hand, a hunger for good news evident in his manner. Butler circled his desk, careful of his bulk, removed the bottle of brandy and two snifters in hopes of a small celebration, the launching of a crusade to build a grand ship. He poured a shot into one snifter and then glanced at Cane. Care for a nip?

Far removed from any physical crutches, Cane shook his head. Not now, Theodore. He sat down across from Butler’s expansive desk, the short board across his lap.

All smiles, Butler took a good swig of the brandy, his eyes sparkling and his red face glowing. I hope you have some good news, he said amiably.

A vague frown hovered over Cane’s face, but his expression was always serious and this concerned Butler none. Cane handed Butler the dark board, his mood grave. Mahogany it’s not, he began with his analyses. It’s more like oak, or even hickory as I’ve seen from the new continent. It’s hard, very hard—tough as iron it is, dulls a saw in an instant.

Butler’s face looked somewhat quizzical. But that’s good, isn’t it? He ran his stubby hands over the board. It had been sanded and it was smooth and warm to the touch, something like teak.

Not exactly, explained Cane. As you’ll notice, wood that’s brittle tends to split when dried, just like a large slab or beam of oak. An iron band can’t even prevent it.

Inspecting the wood closely, Butler was impressed by it’s beauty, the way the grain ran was in a winding and angry pattern of deep red and black. The board emitted a vague putrid odor, but then again, so did fresh cut red oak. Dismissing the slight stench, he noticed a hair line crack in the center where the wood pulled apart from the drying process. Isn’t there something we can do? he questioned, fascinated by the board he held in his hands.

Yes there is, Cane clarified, his tone like that of a patient teacher. If laminated, which is costly, I believe this wood could make the strongest spars and beams ever made of any wood. Like a rope of many twines is stronger than a big rope of single twine, it’s the same principle. We can cut boards, then press them together under great pressure with huge vises using glue in between. Nothing could be stronger save iron. Cane watched the face of Butler, searching for any degree of doubt, ready to explain building the entire ship if need be. Theodore, it would not be profitable to build a common ship using this method, the budget would be … .

Holding up his fat palm to halt the conversation, Butler came to his feet. He placed the board gently on his desk as if it were a delicate piece of china. Obviously, he harbored a grand vision, his slight smile one of confidence and pride. Common ship indeed! he scoffed arrogantly as he walked with his short arms behind his back, his hands clasped tightly, his round stomach stretching his pants like a sail full of wind. Abruptly, he turned and addressed Cane, who was still sitting. Business has been good, I have the wealth to prove it. He paused, substantially self dignified by such a statement as he let it have an effect on what he was about to say. "I’m prepared to make this the biggest undertaking this company has ever dared. I want you to start drafting plans for a big ship, the swiftest ever built.