Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
My heart was exhausted; I felt as though there was a hole in my chest. I had been in such a high state of tension for so long that I felt drained.
I wished I could lay down on the moor and sink into it.
The full moon lit everything with a spectral glow. In the distance, an owl hooted. Another answered it. I walked to the circle of trees.
Underfoot, there was a soft covering of fallen needles from the trees, like a carpet.
There were seven trees, just like Aunt Bill had said. And at the westerly side, one stood taller than them all.
I went to it and laid my hand on its trunk. The bark was soft, a dark brown, like a close fur. The roots spread out, weblike, into the ground, merging with the roots of the other trees. I imagined them communicating in a silent parliament of wisdom, under the earth.
The trunk of the one I touched was wider than William’s shoulders.
Three of its thick branches had plunged back into the earth, as if they were additional veins through which the tree could suck sustenance from the earth.
I could almost feel the tree’s pulse; its life force, beating steadily under my hand.
If I thought about William, I would cry. Instead, I took out Evelyn’s journal and found the right page.
To enter a time line from the yew tree circle, one needs to go there on a full moon and enter into a dreamlike state and wait for the slip – the moment when everything slows.
In that moment, a traveller needs to embrace the biggest yew tree at the west side of the circle and chant out loud very clearly the place and time they would like to visit.
It helps to have written this down also and to grip this piece of paper tightly as you recite your words.
I reached under the skirt of a dark maroon cotton dress that I had borrowed from Nancy and balled up the cotton of my underskirt in my fist. Then, I ripped it.
I held up a strip of white cotton; Aunt Bill continued to inspire me.
I smoothed out the cotton and found a place in the earth where the mud was wet, then rubbed my fingertip in it.
I bowed my head and wrote the year I wanted to go back to on my scrap of petticoat. 2025.
I went to the biggest tree and embraced it, gripping the piece of petticoat at the same time.
‘St Nantes, 2025. St Nantes, 2025,’ I chanted aloud, self-consciously.
I repeated the chant, over and over. St Nantes, 2025. St Nantes, 2025. It was dark and cold, out on the moors in the middle of the night. I estimated by now it was in the early hours. It was quiet across the moor, apart from the owls, and my fevered repetition.
Nothing happened. What was I doing wrong?
I wished Nancy and Aunt Bill were still here. Maybe with more people, it would be easier. I thought suddenly about the people accused of being witches, in the past. I wondered if, in fact, they were trying to do something similar to what we were attempting.
I had been listening to the owls, distantly, as I chanted.
Suddenly, I realised that I couldn’t hear them anymore.
It was as if I’d slipped into a dream. I was reminded of that time before sleep, when my mind would start to form images. They were delicate, easy to dismiss – they would disappear like wispy clouds on a hot day.
I saw a sunset, striping the sky pink and orange.
I saw William and I holding hands, standing in a wooded glade: me wearing a white dress with flowers in my hair. Him gazing at me with a look of such tender love that it made me catch my breath.
I saw myself kneeling on a street, holding William’s bloodied body in my hands, screaming out his name.
My eyes fluttered open in shock.
It had been a horrible vision, nothing more. Yet I still felt enmeshed in a strange energy.
I was still there, at the yew tree circle, but everything had slowed.
On the horizon, I saw a man running in slow motion towards the trees.
I knew that he was coming for me. I knew that the man was Albert Trevarron, and if he caught me, he would have me arrested and thrown in gaol.
As I looked across the circle of trees, I saw the glitch. It was the same slippage I had seen before, in the rose garden. The juddering slip of two timelines, rubbing against each other like blurred negatives.
One moment, Albert was running towards me, and the next, the image of Trevarron House appeared in the centre of the trees.
Like before, when I had seen the overgrown meadow of Trevarron House appear through the gateway at the end of the rose garden, the portal itself now appeared in the centre of the yew tree circle.
When I looked beyond at the moor, Albert Trevarron was still running towards me.
But in the centre of the circle, I saw Trevarron House.
I had no idea why Trevarron House had appeared. Before, when I had travelled through time, the place had stayed the same, but the year had changed. I’d travelled from the rose garden in 2025 to the rose garden in 1755, and then again from 1755 to 1869. The location had stayed static.
Now, for some reason, I was being offered Trevarron House.
I didn’t want to go back to Trevarron House. I wanted to go home.
I couldn’t tell by looking at it what time it was, but there was no choice to be had. If I stayed where I was, I would be captured. William wasn’t here to protect me.
The time slippage was happening, and once it had started, I couldn’t stop it. There was a brief window of opportunity, and I took it. I plunged into the portal.
At first, I thought I was back in my recurring dream.
I was standing on the stone dais at the edge of the gardens at Trevarron House.
The sun was setting behind me, over the sea. But the dream was different: this time, it wasn’t tranquil.
The deep pinks and oranges that hued the sunset were dim and masked by grey smoke. I realised I was coughing. Acrid smoke was in my lungs, and all around me.
It wasn’t a dream. This was real. Now, I could see what I hadn’t noticed when I had seen Trevarron House through the portal at the centre of the trees.
Trevarron House was on fire.
*