A Tale of Three Trees
From the Journals of Aemilia Ilan Ubhal
PREFACE
Since the beginning of Time, or perhaps since the Original Sin, one the questions begged by Mankind has been "what was the root of all evil?" This episode is from the journals of a young woman who believed to be that root.
Through painstaking work by select scholars her journals have been translated from various languages including Aramaic, Latin, Greek, French, German, and Gaelic. In fact, a recent discovery of her earliest journals were written in Ancient Hebrew. After centuries hidden in the decaying Archives most have been recovered from digital storage by data-archaeologists. In addition, it is presumed some hard copies are still hidden or buried in various parts throughout the Earth. The search is on-going.
The Root of All London - 1906
The Apothecary tasted a small sample of lithium for its purity when he heard a thump at the front door of his shop. Instantly, a woman stumbled inside like a tree in a high wind had crashed through the wall. Her coat and dress were wrinkled and weathered; her hair like a bird's nest. Her eyes and head darted about the room.
Appalled at the sight he exclaimed, "You cannot barge in here like—"
"Please sir! I need your help," she pleaded.
He exclaimed an additional scold as he began to thrust her from his shop. But her fatigue overwhelmed her, and she collapsed to the shop floor.
She begged, "Do not judge me by my appearance," she slowly gained some composure, "I assure you I am not—" she couldn't bring herself to say the word, "—what you think I am," she finished with some indignancy.
After a brief stutter he appeared to realize an error, "I – I do apologize. It was quite unkind of me to think—," he seemed to stop to avoid further embarrassment.
The woman nodded in acceptance as she pulled back the hair from her eyes which revealed the face of a young woman – lost and bewildered.
"I am Dr. Osian Wren," he said, then took off his jacket which revealed a silver chain draped to his pocket-watch. He waited politely for her to return the exchange of names, but she was silent on that account. Slowly, she began to rise to her feet. He offered her assistance to the front counter, but she shrug it off. He ignored the breach of etiquette and instead, carefully hung his jacket on a nearby coat rack. He turned back toward her and gazed with intense interest. A few tears struggled to remain behind the dam of her lids. Her cheeks were flushed. Her head hung low whenever her hands trembled which she attempted to hide. At least he was successful when he motioned to take her coat which became neighbors of his jacket on the same rack. There was slight improvement after he offered her a seat.
"You cross your legs like my little niece," he said wryly.
She ignored him as if the remark had hit a frozen wall of ice.
It was in a small room. A nearby table, the posts and the oaken walls gave a smell of sulfur, absorbed from last night's work. The strength of the building had yet to comfort her fragile state. The shelves were immaculate in organization – small bottles with small bottles, large bottles with large bottles and sizes in between were all with their own respective size and categorized alphabetically. The order had yet to displace the chaos which haunted her, "This doesn't seem to be your day; now, what is troubling you?" he appeared confident in his delivery, "miss?" he asked an inquiry for her name.
She struggled as if she had nearly forgotten her own name. She took a breath, then a short one, "Aemilia – Emily," she stated and quickly altered her answer in between her trembling lips.
"Emily," he began to reach out to shake her hand but did not want to startle the fawn who appeared she may bolt at any sudden movement; instead, he smiled as he gently clasped his own hands together.
It was a cold and dry Wednesday as the sun shone through the front door and a series of windows glistened off each bottle the sun could capture – but the chair was cold. Warmth eluded the chair. It was absent of a cushion like the other chairs. She felt the warmth of her host's voice as he spoke her name – with empathy, but the pending answers inside her were cold – and they could not find an exit. Her heart did not pump the warmth her mind needed. She was cold. With her left hand she pulled on her chestnut brown hair like a low hanging branch when it scratches the dirt below. She stopped – and placed a strand over the olive skin of her forearm. She stared intently at it. The stare became blank. She searched for just one emotion to give her courage but two surfaced – guilt and fear. She began to rock and moan.
"Darkness," she said when he repeated her name. She closed her eyes and opened them again; she targeted her gaze to the left, then to the right, as if she played hide-and-seek with the darkness.
"Interesting. Please expand," the Apothecary asked. He got up to light a fresh candle and to poke the fire. The air had yet to improve throughout the streets of London, especially since the River Thames stirred a frigid air down Rotherhithe Street. Before returning to his seat he checked the scuttle for the quantity of coal – it was low. He then returned his attention to Emily. He noticed her stare intensified but this time on the newly lit candle.
"Light," she responded in a wanting tone. She thought about the darkness and how it entered the light. She envisioned the light until it was divided by the darkness. The same darkness which broke the perfection of space and time – the cosmic crime.
"Yes," he said. But before he could continue his eyes opened wide to the next set of events – an iron-horse smashing its way through the front door might have been preferred.
Darkness returned to her eyes. Immediately, Emily jumped to her feet. She cried out a howl, a screech as if she were in labor, deafened his ears. She trembled as she was knocked about from one wall to another, and again her body tossed by an invisible force from here to there about the shop.
"Bloody hell!" the Apothecary yelled as his eyes widened.
Her green dress tore from the edges of shelves, counters, and the sole table in the room, but nothing robbed her physical modesty. She collided with various objects throughout: a mortar and pestle on one end of the room fell with a thud, whilst scientific equipment of glass exploded from the violent scene. One of the small window panes shattered upon an encounter with her shoulder. Incredible patterns of dance – if it could be interpreted as such – continued to jostle her body about until it finally came to rest on the floor. This entire disruption lasted between half-a-minute to a minute. Like leaves settling to the earth after a strong wind, assorted items – napkins, herbs, and ash, and note paper – came to rest. Emily swung back her disheveled hair. She looked up at the Apothecary with restrained breath. She quickly collected herself and before she reached a standing position she was headed toward the front door.
"Miss. Miss Emily," he said carefully not to exacerbate this already odd visit. He called her back a second time. She sat as if invisible hands had carefully placed her back into her original chair. With only his attention on her, he sat once again opposite. They stared at one another. She occasionally avoided his gaze. His child-like curiosity overrode any fear which would have driven off any neighboring youth, or perhaps a person of low courage. He apologized for his profane outburst previously, and asked, "What – just happened?"
Without an apology of her own she spoke only two words, "Birth pangs."
The Apothecary echoed her words with a questioning tone and provided a follow up question, "What do you mean?" he held up his hand like a Bobby on a street corner. "Wait. Let's start from the beginning." The sudden movement startled his guest, but her demeanor was quite the opposite compared to earlier – she stood like a tree. Not a statue, which does not move at all. But a tree has branches and leaves which sway.
"No!" she screamed. She sat and shivered from the cold which now invaded the room. "Not the beginning," she cried with a decreasing volume of exclamation.
The Apothecary stood, "A nice cup of tea will do you good," he said. Her silence was sufficient to provide him an affirmative response, "If you'll excuse me," he stepped into the back room and began to boil water. He utilized this moment to allow her to think. She saw in his face that no one would believe him even with the burglar-like evidence strewn about the floor. He returned with the tea in short order. "Drink this," he said, "it will calm you."
She took the cup and saucer. It was hot to the touch, which engaged the blood in her veins – a small reminder she was human. She took a gentle sip. Her dark eyes mirrored in the surface of the tea. The reflection stared back and wavered with the imperfection of her hand – she trembled like a leaf. She continued to stare at the tea. She looked at the Apothecary who seemed as if he couldn't surmise if she were too embarrassed to maintain eye-contact or was indifferent to the strange encounter. She looked away. Soon, her eyelids began to waver up then down as if she struggled to lift a heavy weight with her frail lashes until the same weight dropped her head into a sleep – the tea cup and saucer joined the disaster about the floor. Before gravity stole her from the chair her host carefully caught her in his arms. With a grunt and a huff he lifted her, then carried her to a small room behind the shop and gently placed her on a single bed. She was in and out of consciousness. He turned for a blanket and draped it over the female form which was at one time at war with the walls and shelves of his shop – she needed peace even if it was brief. He closed the multi-glass-pane door.
He stopped in front of the doorway and assessed the damage with a changed expression to restore it to its former fastidious allure.
The bell above the door jingled, which meant another customer. "Sean," he greeted his friend.
"Osian," he stood in wonder, "What the bloody-hell happened here?"
"Ah yes. Well I—" Dr. Wren ignored the question, "a little more snuff?"
Quizzically Sean replied, "Sure," he paused to look about the store, "And this?"
"Don't worry about it my friend," he avoided the question and changed the topic, "Anticipating another long night Sean?"
"Until two," he replied with facetious enthusiasm, but mostly observed his friend. "Stop by for a pint later," he paused, "You seem distracted."
"Will that be all?" once again he ignored the question.
He slowly left the shop as Dr. Wren ushered him out.
Dr. Wren stole a quick peek into the back room. Emily was still and soon drifted off to sleep.