JACK OF DIAMONDS

CHAPTER 21 The Lightninged Tree

It seems I forgot to put this up last night before I went to bed…my bad. But I was looking through my files last week and came across something I wrote about 4-5 years ago. It was a STAR WARS story, the start of a book IN THE SHADOW OF THE MANDALORE. It’s 100 pages exactly. So I thought maybe I should take a look at it. I’m still a STAR WARS fan from back in the day, when it first came out in 1977. I was 19…and I was hooked.

Writing a STAR WARS story and publishing one are two different things. There’s canon you had to follow. They’ve changed all that now. And then you have to find a time to set the story. I found a point in time where the timeline is…blank. That’s where I put the story. I have eight chapters. A few hundred words short of 47,000. I’m thinking of introducing it on SCI-FI Friday, just to see if it works. I know not everybody likes STAR WARS. Not everybody likes Sci-Fi/Fantasy either. I happen to like them. I’ve read STAR WARS books. Some I liked—most I liked—some I didn’t. This isn’t a note to tell you I’m stopping this, it’s just a warning in case you don’t want to read my take on a STAR WARS story.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming: here’s JACK OF DIAMONDS…

Photo by Gilly Stewart on Unsplash

CHAPTER 21

THE LIGHTNINGED TREE

The ride out to where Richard said the Lightninged Tree stood took a little more than half an hour. The road was worn ragged with the endless groove of wagons and carts that had passed by over the years; it was rough in places and the potholes were deep. It helped that most of the potholes were off to the side of the road, enabling Sonia to make better time than Nigel would’ve thought possible in an automobile. He could see her smile when she caught him looking at the speedometer. There were huge puddles that sprayed in mists that caught the sunlight.

It’s the type of road made for a motorcycle, he thought, looking out at the countryside.

The smooth, rolling hills of Devon were a palette of vibrant colours, with the morning sun standing bright over the hills. There was a muted haze hanging low in the distance. Endless acres of farmland appeared, separated by a hodgepodge of hedgerows—looking almost as if ribbons of green bunting had been randomly tossed into the distance—while a small stream—a rill, Nigel smiled to himself, remembering the word from some obscure poem he’d read as a child—passed through and around the trees, following the lay of the land. He looked up at naked aspens swaying in the gentle rhythm of a breeze coming up from the south, pushing the few clouds in the sky, northward.

It’s beautiful countryside, he had to admit.

As much as he wanted to go to the city, there were times when the countryside called out to him when he was on his motorcycle. There’d been moments when he’d pull over to the side of the road to simply look about as he drank cold tea from a thermos, and enjoyed a bowl of his pipe. Willows grew wild, their tentacled branches scraping the ground with the frenzied trauma of a wounded animal.

He was grateful that it was still warm enough to have the top down, and wondered how Richard was faring in the backseat, baring the brunt of the wind and the spray of the larger puddles she hit. The smaller tributaries and streams had flooded. There had been too much rain over the last few days, and he could see large, flooded pools in the distance, winking in the morning light. There were places where the water was still a threat, with fast rolling currents of water eating away the rocky banks.

“It rides nice,” Nigel said over the roar of the engine and the splash of the puddles. He’d wondered if she’d heard him when Richard spoke up.

“And you say your father bought you this car?”

“He did. It was a gift, so to speak,” she said, turning her head and talking over her shoulder.

“What does that mean? ‘So to speak’?” Nigel asked.

“He’s a doctor. Having a nurse—slash—daughter, was a dream come true, for him. But then the War came, and by the time it ended, I’d had enough of nursing. I’d served on the Front, at the Battle of the Somme, my first week there.”

“His Lordship’s son died there,” Richard said with a trace of sadness.

A respectful moment of silence passed, unannounced, but not unnoticed.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Nigel smiled.

“What was it again?” she teased.

“Ha!” he mocked. “A fine detective you’ll make, when you can’t even remember a simple conversation.”

“Touché,” she laughed. “But no. I was sick of it all. I think he understood—my father, I mean. When I came home, I stayed in my room for five days. I never came out. For anything. I had to sort things out in my mind. I saw horrific injuries. I could take that. I could see a man come in, holding his guts in his hands, but I couldn’t handle sitting at their bedsides and holding their hands while they called out for their mothers before they died. That was hard for me.”

“I can see that it might be,” Nigel nodded.

“Can you?” She looked at him for a long moment before turning her attention back to the road. “After I came out of my room, I told my father I was done with nursing. He seemed disappointed, but, like I said, he’s an understanding man. He asked me if I was thinking of going into teaching. I thought he meant being a school teacher, but he said, no. Nursing.”

“But that’s not getting out, is it?” Richard said, leaning forward.

“That’s what I told him—”

“Take this trail up here, Mum,” Richard said, eagerly pointing to the right. Sonia veered off the road following what looked to be little more than an animal trail.

“The trail seems smoother than whatever that is they call a road,” Nigel laughed, and Richard sat back in his seat, saying, “Won’t be far now.”

And it wasn’t.

They topped the hill and Nigel could see the tree in a small lea, sitting behind a hillock where the hedgerow bisected it. The tree was well weathered at the point where the lightning had struck it some years ago. It appeared ancient with its gnarly, twisted branches, and split trunk. It had started out as an oak he could see, but now resembled something he’d call Gothic.

Somehow seems to suit the house, he thought; well, that’s what Charlie would say.

The trunk had been struck by lightning before Richard was born, he said—probably even before his father’s time. What leaves were left on the tree were brilliant with colours, Nigel saw, and he watched the topmost branches rippling in the light breeze. The tree had to be centuries old for it to have survived a strike like that, he thought. The ground was covered in dead leaves that seemed to lay peacefully at ease in the leeward shadows of the hills around them.

“Stop here,” Nigel said, holding his hand out, as if for emphasis and Sonia hit the brakes. Richard pitched forward, banging his head against the back of Nigel’s seat.

“Are you all right?” Nigel asked, turning to look at him.

“I’ve had worse, lad,” he laughed, rubbing his scalp hard. “I don’t know how many times I’ve been kicked by a horse—none in the head, thank Christ—so something like this is nothing to concern ourselves with.”

“I’m sorry,” Sonia said, trying to suppress her laughter. “I didn’t mean to. I forgot you were back there. I just reacted.”

“It’s quite all right, Mum,” Richard smiled.

“Just wait here a moment and see what you notice,” Nigel said, looking at Sonia as he stuffed his pipe and lit the bowl.

She looked up. “I can see a bird.”

“Very funny. And the tree? Do you see the tree?”

“Yes. I can see it.”

“And what, exactly, do you see?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What’s that you say there, lad?” Richard asked.

“That man. What was his name? The man who came riding in on the horse?”

He looked directly at Sonia.

“Artemis Spencer.”

“You remembered that, did you?” he teased.

“He was a fine looking gentleman,” she laughed. “I made a point of remembering his name.”

“A point of it?” And Nigel laughed, turning to look at her.

It was almost as if he was seeing her for the first time. Or perhaps he was no longer seeing her as Special Constable Nazar? He still couldn’t believe how attractive she was. Undoubtedly beautiful woman. Her blonde hair had fallen out of its bun and hung over half of her face. It was an alluring pose, he thought, and he even allowed himself a moment to envy her husband. Nigel thought a man had to be very understanding to allow his wife the opportunity to pursue her dreams.

“I doubt Mr. Nazar will appreciate the competition,” he smiled.

“Believe me, if he were still alive, no man could turn my head,” she laughed.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know — I mean, of course I didn’t know. How could I? We’ve only just met. I mean, I mean, what I mean is — ”

“Oh leave off, lad!” Richard said with a shake of his head. “Or should I get you a shovel, so you can dig yourself a deeper hole?”

“I did rather botch that up, didn’t I?” he said, dropping his head and shaking it as if he was playing the conversation over and over again in his mind.

“It’s fine,” Sonia said, opening the door, about to step out. “It’s been eight years.”

“Stand on the running board,” Nigel said, looking down and making sure he had firm footing.

“The running board?”

“Eight years?” Nigel asked.

Richard made to stand up and Nigel turned to look at him. “You’ll have to remain here. I’m sorry Richard, but this is a Constabulary matter.”

“Don’t you need me to look at the hoof prints?”

“That, my dear man, is exactly my point,” Nigel said, looking out over the low field. “It’s that very point I’ve been trying to make about Mr. Artemus Spencer.”

“And what’s that?” Richard asked.

“That he lied to us,” Sonia said, shading her eyes and looking down at the tree.

“I’m sorry?” Richard said, looking at her.

“There are no hoof prints,” Nigel laughed. “He was never here. The horse was never here.”