“And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves...”
‘To the Lighthouse’ - Virginia Woolf
“’Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness’ be buggered,” Paul Metcalfe muttered to himself as the rain intensified and soaked through the turned-up collar of his leather jacket. He stepped into a muddy puddle, cursed again and turned around, calling peevishly: “Bootsie, where are you? Come on, we’re going home, you stupid dog!”
There was no sign of the animal but from a distance came the excited yelps of the latest in the long line of Metcalfe dogs; a boisterous year-old black Labrador who had yet to mature into his official name of Wellington and was invariably called ‘Bootsie’ by his adoring family.
Still muttering, Paul retraced his steps until he found a gap in the high hedgerow where his dog had obviously pushed through.
He began to regret this ill-thought-through walk, which had been intended to give him time to think about his current dissatisfaction with his new posting. As a colonel in the World Army Air Force, he was obliged to go wherever they sent him and do whatever they ordered, but he felt that this posting – however temporary they promised it would be – was definitely not what he wanted. His commanding officer had explained that it was a good career move to gain administrative experience, but the prospect of being a desk-bound soldier held little – or rather, no – appeal. He knew himself well enough to understand that it was the physicality of soldiering, as much as the adrenalin rush of danger, that made the WAAF an ideal career for him.
He realised that if he’d really wanted time to reflect and consider, he should have left Bootsie behind but going without the dog would only have made his mother anxious. She was already worried about what he intended to do and had started questioning him about what he thought was wrong in his life. As an only child, Paul was used to having his every move scrutinised, albeit by a woman with the sense not to interfere too overtly, but he was a fully-grown man and sometimes he just wished his darling Mum would remember that.
He called and whistled for Bootsie, but in vain. The yelps grew fainter, and he had the impression the dog was moving away from him. Carefully trained by General Metcalfe, Bootsie was normally well behaved, but he was still young enough to chase squirrels or rabbits, while developing selective deafness to his masters’ orders. A young dog running loose across agricultural land was both a danger to livestock and in danger from justifiably protective farmers.
“Damn stupid dog,” Paul grumbled under his breath and, with a sigh, began to scramble up the high bank to the gap in the hedge, his feet slipping in the mud. He pushed his head and shoulders through and screwed his eyes against the driving rain, but there was no sign of the dog.
“Here, Bootsie, good boy! Come here, Bootsie! Wellington, come here this minute!”
He wriggled through the gap and down the steep bank on the other side…
…the unexpectedly steep bank.
He slid further than he’d expected and consequently landed heavily on a mossy patch of greenery, slightly winded by the fall. Scrambling to his feet he was more concerned with the damage to his jeans and jacket than in noticing that the rain had stopped.
When he did look up, he was astonished to find himself in a wooded area. He hadn’t been this way for some years, but in front of him was a grove of tall, elegant trees that must’ve been there for decades.
Frowning with bewildered surprise he took his bearings and, on turning around, was puzzled to see that the gap in the hedge was not visible from this side or from so low down. Still, he had to find Bootsie before he tried to work out how he was going to get them both back onto the lane. He started calling and whistling while walking towards the trees, supposing that the dog had found a rabbit warren and was probably digging his way to the Antipodes in his eagerness to catch one.
As he moved into the grove, he became aware of the springy texture of the rich loam beneath his feet, the damp, fecund smell of the earth and the spectacular play of the late autumn sun on a panoply of leaves that were a patchwork of rich oranges, reds and browns.
“Now this is what Keats was talking about,” he thought, “and I’m with him on every word. I’m so glad it’s stopped raining. Now, where is that stupid dog?”
Bootsie had stopped barking, so Paul strained to hear any movement that might give him an indication where to start looking. He called again, and there was a brief answering bark from further in the glade, so he moved towards it.
Suddenly, in a distant shaft of sunlight he saw a figure watching him.
“Hello,” he called out, raising a hand in greeting. “I’m sorry to disturb you; I’m just looking for my dog. He shot after a rabbit, I’m afraid. He’s still young and I should probably have had him on a lead. I do hope he hasn’t done any damage?”
The figure approached slowly. It was a tall, slender woman with long, nut-brown hair and large, hazel-green eyes, set wide apart in a heart-shaped face. The dress she was wearing was of an indeterminate colour that seemed to flow from the fresh green of spring leaves to the rich ochres of the autumn as she moved, which she did without making any noise.
“Hello,” Paul tried again. “I’m Paul Metcalfe, my family lives in Longwood Abbey, I don’t know if you know it? It’s a few miles that way.” He pointed vaguely westward.
For a moment he doubted she would reply, and when she did, he was slightly disappointed that her voice did not match her exotic appearance. It was a rough country burr and surprisingly deep for such a slender woman.
“Welcome, Captain.”
“Actually, I’m a colonel, not that it matters… Thank you, Miss… eh?”
“Caïssa.”
“Miss Ka-is-sa. Have you seen my dog hereabouts? A black Labrador; he got through the hedge.”
“Balach Math is safe. Do not worry.”
“His name is Bootsie; well, Wellington really, but he answers to Bootsie – when he answers at all.”
“His name is what he calls himself,” she corrected him. “In your tongue, that would be ‘good boy’.”
Despite himself, Paul smiled. “Yes, I suppose that’d make sense to a dog, and he really is a good boy, most of the time. May I take him home with me?”
“Certainly, once we allow you to leave.”
Paul frowned. “Allow me? I beg your pardon, but how are you going to stop me?”
Caïssa met his anger with a faint smile. “The portal opens only when we will it; unless we do, you could climb the bank forever and never reach the lane.”
“I see,” said Paul, although he was bewildered and confused by this strange woman. “And how long do you think you can keep me here? I have an important job to do and people who are relying on me…”
“We know this, Captain. We have watched you.”
“We?”
“Look around you.” She gave a slight wave of her hand.
Warily Paul turned and saw innumerable other ‘beings’ of all shapes and sizes and colours, blocking him from the path back to the hedgerow. Acknowledging that the situation appeared to be ‘checkmate’, he bowed his head politely towards them. Politeness never hurt…
“Why have you been watching me,” he said to Caïssa, “and who are you?” he added, as an apparent afterthought.
“We need your help, Captain, that is why we have watched and waited here for you to come to us. It has been many of your mortal years, but we have no fear of time. We are the Woodlanders, although mortal men have called us many names over the millennia. Perhaps you have heard of the hamadryade, or as you might say, the Dryads and the Oreiades?”
“Something rings a bell,” Paul remarked, even more convinced that this was some kind of elaborate practical joke for Halloween. “But if you know me, you’ll know I gave up on the Classics many years ago.”
“Come.”
“Why should I? You say you need my help, if so, what kind of help?”
“Follow me.” She turned and began to move deeper into the glade.
“Where’s Bootsie?”
“Waiting for you. Come.”
He followed her reluctantly, keeping one eye on the following crowd of ‘beings’ who shepherded him onto the narrow path and prevented any possibility of escape.
Caïssa led him down a gentle slope to a hollow where the branches of the surrounding trees arched overhead, forming a living ceiling. He had been familiar with every part of the landscape that had been his home since he’d been born, and he was sure he’d never seen the place before. His unease grew. Yet, as he emerged into the open space, to stand beside a small central hearth where red embers glowed brightly, Bootsie bounded over, almost knocking him down in the enthusiasm of his greeting.
“Down boy, good boy… good boy,” Paul said, patting the dog fondly as he tried to calm him.
“That is why he thinks his name is Balach Math,” Caïssa explained, with the flicker of a smile.
Paul smiled. The woman did not look threatening, just weird… the whole thing was weird really; quite beyond his experience and almost beyond his imagination. For a brief moment he wondered if he was actually dreaming.
While they had been talking, the other dryads had brought three tree stumps, two carved into seats and a third as a table. On this they placed two pitchers of fresh water, two stone goblets and a bowl of nuts and berries.
“Please, Captain, sit and refresh yourself,” Caïssa said, taking one of the stools and reaching for a goblet into which a servant had poured water. “Let me explain.”
“I wish you would,” Paul remarked, as he sat and took the other goblet.
“I am Caïssa, and some of my friends consider me a leader amongst us.”
“And I am Colonel Paul Metcalfe, of the World Army Air Force, as you must already know.”
Her fleeting smile crossed her lips again. “There is much we know about you, past, present and future, that you would not understand. But listen: we, the Dryads, have for millennia cared for the living trees and plants of this world. In the ancient times, we did occasionally visit the mortal world but we no longer care to do so, since mankind became so destructive.”
“So, I am in your world, is that what you’re asking me to believe?” He felt sure he was beginning to understand what was going on and did not trouble to hide his enjoyment. Whoever was orchestrating this elaborate role-play – and he had a pretty good idea who amongst his fellow officers that might be - had obviously gone to great lengths and it would be a shame not to play along.
Caïssa gave a slight shrug. “You have come through a portal from your world, and if we allowed you to go further, you would reach our world.” She shook her head with a wry smile. “But I do not think that even you, with all that Fate will bestow on you, would survive there for long, Captain.”
“But you say you need my help. How can I help you if I can’t survive in this world of yours? And how can you exist in mine?”
“Consider: our world exists because of yours. It is hard to explain, Captain, but the trees and the grasses, the plants of all kinds, on land and sea, have part of their existence in our world, yet they thrive in your sunlight.” She paused and her voice betrayed deep sorrow as she added, “Or they did.”
“Go on,” Paul encouraged, expecting to be given a series of tasks to perform in order to be freed from his ‘captivity’.
Caïssa’s expression clearly showed that she disapproved of his levity. “Mankind has not treated the Earth kindly. You pollute and burn and destroy in the name of your own greed and ‘convenience’. To continue to do so will be a slow and protracted death for all living things. Yet, we have hope that Mankind will see the errors of their ways before it is too late for them to turn back.”
Paul nodded. “People have been protesting about pollution and deforestation and the climate change it results in, for decades. You have to admit that things are not as bad now as they were.”
“We know, and that is why we continue to hope. We have no power to threaten mankind, nor would we want to, but understand me, Captain, we would not lift a finger to save mankind from itself.”
Still playing along, Paul drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I think I can see your point of view; perhaps I can even agree with you, to some extent. But I still don’t see what I can do to help.”
“A few days ago, you received a letter making you an offer you must not refuse.”
This was an unexpected turn in the conversation and Paul felt a sudden surge of irritation at the dictatorial tone of her pronouncement. “Now hold on, “he snapped. “I don’t take careers advice from any New Age tree-hugger.”
“Listen! We can see …” Caïssa sighed and started again. “To say we can see the future is not true-”
“You don’t say,” he interjected.
“- But we can see what dangers lie ahead for all those souls we are responsible for and the threats to our world. The time will come – and it will come sooner than you can imagine – when alien beings threaten this planet. Spectrum will become a vital part in the fight against them. The Mysterons, for that is their name, will threaten to eradicate all life on Earth. Not just Mankind – everything. You will stop them.”
Paul was now wide-eyed with astonishment. “And how will I do that, exactly?”
“By becoming one of them you will gain an extensive knowledge of their psyche and some of their secret power will be yours.”
“What, like Spider-Man, or something?”
“I know nothing of any spider man. You, Captain Scarlet, will become indestructible.”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Okay, a joke is a joke and I can see the funny side of most things; but that’s just plain silly.”
“It is no joke. You will have a lifetime – many lifetimes – of suffering before the Mysterons are defeated. We pity you.”
She sounded so genuine in her concern, that it alarmed him. He emptied the goblet of sweet-tasting spring water to cover his unease, failing to register the look of satisfaction on Caïssa’s face as he did so. He put the goblet down carefully and said:
“I had half a mind to accept the offer to join the new Security organisation, but you’re making me think I’d be crazy to do so.” Caïssa’s secretive smile was making him more uneasy still, so he continued to question her. “Who – or what - are these Mysterons? I’ve never heard of them. They sound like a bunch of terrorists. I’d never join them, for sure.”
“It is not up to you. Fate will make you their agent of destruction, but Fate - and friendship – will set you free from them.”
This had gone far enough, and Paul’s good humour was dissipating fast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about or what you think you’re doing.”
Caïssa rose from her seat and spread her arms wide. She did not seem to be speaking, yet something down in Paul’s very soul resonated to a deep, primeval voice. Around him the trees in the grove began to quiver and dance, swaying as if in a strong wind, yet the smoke from the embers continued upwards and did not deviate.
Paul got to his feet, his instinctive fight or flight response setting him on high alert, although he didn’t know where the perceived threat really lay. A storm of leaves began to fall all around him until he was ankle deep in them.
Suddenly, Bootsie came and stood beside him, his tail wagging happily and the fact that the dog showed no fear or alarm did a lot to calm Paul’s nerves. It was the one comforting thing in the whole crazy experience.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the leaves stopped falling and the sensation of sound faded. Caïssa moved closer and he felt himself rooted to the spot as she looked deep into his eyes. He was held by her gaze for long enough to make his eyes smart from the failure to blink. When, suddenly, she looked away, he felt strangely bereft.
“Know this, Captain: The Dryads and all that we are guardians of: the trees and the bushes, the grasses and flowering plants of hill, dale and mountain ally themselves with you. The sea grasses and the mighty kelp forests ally themselves with you. While you live and Spectrum fights on, we will watch over you and with what power we have, we will seek to shield you from the Mysterons. They will seek you but even with their superior power, they will never get close enough to take you. It is all we can do to screen you and your companions from their malevolence.”
“Wonderful,” Paul made little effort to hide his growing scepticism. “Now, if you’ve quite finished this little charade, I would like to go home with my dog.”
“And so you shall. Just retrace your steps and climb the bank.”
He hesitated. “Nobody’s ever going to believe this, are they?”
She chuckled. “Do not worry; once you cross the portal, you will not remember this meeting, so you will have nothing to tell them about. And you will never find this place again, because, in your world, it does not exist.”
“That’s not as comforting as I think you hoped it would be.”
“We will continue to watch you and do what little we can to protect you. And we do this because you are our last hope, Captain Scarlet. Farewell.”
She turned away and moved swiftly and silently deeper into the glade. The other Dryads flowed after her, paying Paul no heed at all now they had accomplished their mission.
He stood watching until the last of them became indistinguishable from the woodland surroundings. Then, snapping his fingers for Bootsie to come to heel, Paul turned and marched quickly along the narrow pathway. The hedgerow looked to be miles away, but when he glanced at the dog beside him and then back to the path, he found that he was almost at the foot of the bank. Shaking his head, he scrambled up through the gap, calling Bootsie to follow.
As he emerged from the gap, the cold rain hit his face and he slithered down the other side to the lane. Bootsie jumped down and raced away, barking happily. Paul started to go after him, then stopped and looked back for a moment to the gap in the hedge – or, rather, to where the gap had been, for there was nothing there now but a solid tangle of hawthorn and brambles.
“Either I bumped my head when I went down the bank or it must’ve been that Welsh rarebit I had for brunch. Mum said the cheese was going mouldy…”
In the distance Bootsie was barking again.
“Now where has that stupid dog got to?”
He raced after him, back to Longwood and the comforts of home.
***
Later that evening, Paul sat before a roaring log fire with a cup of tea beside him and Bootsie snoring contentedly at his feet. He watched the flames dancing around the logs and suddenly felt a strange pang of guilt.
Next to him on the arm of the sofa, lay the letter that had caused him so much doubt. He was still uncertain of what he should do and whether he would come to regret not doing it. The WAAF had been good to him, and he’d achieved a lot in a relatively short space of time. His father was proud of him and had every confidence that his son would rise higher in his chosen profession. That was the obvious route to success, recognition and military greatness. But he had a nagging suspicion it was also the route to conformity, boredom and stultification within a decade.
“Spectrum,” he said, to the oblivious dog. “It sounds like it might be fun; what d’you think, Bootsie, Old Man? Shall I give it a go?”
He sat on in silence for some time while his tea got cold, and the logs burned down to embers. There was a sharp crack as the final log split and crumbled in a shower of sparks. Then, all of a sudden, he knew what he had to do.
He glanced down at the dog who was now staring back up at him, his tail thumping gently on the carpeted floor, and smiled, saying softly, “You know, Bootsie, I rather think I will.”
The End
Authors Notes
My thanks go to Caroline Smith for answering a last-minute plea for a beta-read. Any remaining mistakes are my own. The Inspiration Fairy came late, and she is in desperate need of chocolate, but this is what it brought as a peace offering. I haven’t written anything for over a year, so I hope this at least kept you entertained.
Thanks also to Chris Bishop for the most amazing website there is!
Happy Halloween!
Marion Woods
4th to 8th October 2021