Unearthing

Allin Bookman’s office steadily grew more dim as the afternoon faded. Set in the north wing with just a few thin windows, the light was eerily sparse compared to the rest of the estate. He sighed heavily as he leaned back into his square leather chair, setting his readers atop the many scattered pages on the desktop.

He was in his mid-sixties. A round man of average height with a Garibaldi beard that had turned unruly. This, combined with his lined features gave him a rather weathered look, not unlike an aged tree stump.

The walls were mostly covered by floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books – many of which he had written himself. He was proud, but he was also tired. The one thing that had kept him going these last few weeks was meeting Grace Harper, an icon – in his professional opinion – of the next generation.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Sir,” came Madam Hedera’s muffled voice through the heavy wooden door. “Are you in there?”

“Come in, come in,” Allin replied.

“I am sorry to intrude but I have left our guests to explore the grounds until dinner. I must say, they are all quite eager to meet you.”

He beamed. “And I, them.”

“I must ask again, but…” Madam Hedera hesitated.

Allin’s eyebrows rose, expectantly.

“Are you sure the girl can help us? That she is the one?”

“It must be her.” He said definitively.

“I admit she is full of energy, but she doubts herself. I fear that with the limited time we left–

“Seraphina, we have done all we can. If it is not her, it is not meant to be. We must place our hope in Grace Harper.”

The caretaker sighed, then turning, closed the door. His eyes followed her out of the room.

That is one formidable woman, Allin thought

He first encountered Madam Hedera at the 26th IHC in Toronto, a memorable introduction. Their paths intertwined once more two years later in Austin, at the American Society for Horticultural Science. Over the last 19 years, they had become regulars at nearly every significant conference, a testament to their shared dedication. Recognizing her exceptional skills, he had swiftly extended an invitation for her to join his team.

She always held an air of regality and gave others a sense of commandment. But most importantly, she’d kept him in check through their joint careers. And that had made all the difference.

The doctor pushed in his oak chair and descended the study’s small staircase. He soon found himself in the interior courtyard gazing upon the majestic pine for the second time that day. The atrium was his favorite area of the entire estate. He felt a sense of connection here. Safety.

He likened the view to a Honey Super.

Much like the arrangement of a bee hive, there was a brood nest and an upper region used for excess storage. Living vicariously through the tree before him, he felt in touch with the forest below. It had always been a source of inspiration.

Trees are good rememberers, his father used to say. They store hundreds, sometimes even thousands of years worth of memories.

Whenever they had discovered a tree stump on their many long hikes together, young Allin enthusiastically counted each and every ring. They’d spent hours discussing the many courses of history the tree had lived through.

That was why Dr. Bookman had taken great care to build this sanctuary. This particular pine was a rare find this far North of the coastline and derived from the same family of the world’s oldest living tree. Though still a cultivated specimen, this tree was incredibly unique and never ceased to inspire its owner.

However — as of late — the more frequently he visited, the less supply he seemed to discover. He felt a greater calling to simply sit and enjoy the view rather than study its many intricacies. A sign of old age...

The Bookman family were not the first owners of the estate. It had changed hands several times in fact, never reaching its full potential until the horticulturist had taken over in the 1990s.

It had been nearly 33 years prior to that that architect Roland E. Harrington had set out to build his forever home. After a hiking trip had gone awry, Rolland (who preferred to go by his middle name, “Everett”) found himself standing at the top of a hill gazing upon a glorious view:

A massive pond reflecting a crystal blue sky surrounded by thousands of trees. It had felt like stepping into a dream he’d spent years trying to remember. Each time he searched, it faded away… then all of a sudden, he was standing right inside it. He fervently pledged to return and build his penultimate creation.

He had arrived home to share this discovery with his wife who was apprehensive at first.

“You’re less than 2 years away from retiring. Do you think this is such a good idea?”

“Ellie, I have been waiting for this moment for so long. It will be our forever home, we can grow old there together.”

“Grow old? You’re already old, Everett!”

Less time, still, was left for his heart. No more than 3 months into construction, Rolland developed coronary artery disease and passed away. His family abandoned the project, leaving a small clearing around a particularly old-looking tree and a pair of stone benches near the water…

The scene remained mostly untouched, despite the many attempts from various organizations to restore and build a protected environment.

It was not until late 1989 when Allin Bookman encountered a “for sale” advertisement while reading a local newspaper in the Apiary diner nearby. It had taken nearly a year to clear the unkempt land and stabilize the soil to begin planting. He had intentionally designed the majority of the house second, feeling it just to give nature the first say. This had still left a considerable area for the building itself, which allowed his team to establish headquarters for their research and take up residency.

What they had not planned for was finding a hundred-year-old clock tower right in the middle of their maple forest. There had been no indication in all the legal papers, nor any mention of it by locals. It was simply just… there. One of Bookman’s researchers had quite nearly stumbled into it, as it was so densely covered with foliage and storm debris.

The residents had done their best to restore it to its former glory – and were mostly successful, save for 3 doors they were forced to leave sealed.

Jeremy and Grace stepped into the luscious forest, full of excitement. Every bit of life, large and small, seemed to glow around them. Just outside the clearing, they found a path guarded by more bamboo-crafted light fixtures. The forest floor was covered in a thick layer of moss and a heavy wood fragrance consumed their senses.

“I can’t get over how fresh it feels,” said Jeremy, inhaling deeply.

“It’s decomposition,” Grace explained. “As leaves, twigs, and other organic matter fall to the forest floor, they begin to break down, releasing organic compounds and producing that earthy smell.”

“You sound like Hank Green.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just kidding,” he squeezed her close. “Tell me more.”

“Ok well, technically there’s a couple things we’re picking up on. The thicker smell is probably a combination of the trees and the mushrooms over there.”

She pointed to a patch of yellowish-orange chanterelles gathered around the base of a Douglas fir.

“Then the more musty stuff is coming from the moss and the ground. It also must have rained recently, because that tends to brighten up all the colors and smells as well.”

“You never cease to amaze me.”

They walked hand in hand, stopping every so often to pick up a fallen fern leaf or look up at the magnitude of the canopy above them. It felt like one enormous room furnished with dozens of tightly interwoven ecosystems, each layer an entirely unique world. The diffused light from the forest ceiling sparked a sense of mystery around every corner, making even ordinary things seem unfamiliar.

Suddenly, a branch snapped in the distance. The couple froze.

“What was that?” Jeremy whispered.

“It sounded like it came from over there,” she pointed toward a small clearing less than 30 yards ahead.

Then they saw it.

Grazing low and almost completely camouflaged by its environment, a thin deer sniffed around, twitching its ears as it went.

Grace elbowed Jeremy in excitement as they crouched behind an azalea bush. “LOOK!” She breathed heavily.

“I see, I see!” He said again, fearing they would scare off their new visitor. The light streamed down slightly brighter in this new clearing, illuminating a web spread between two trees. Rays of orange lit up the brown hide of the creature below as it munched on a few pieces of bark. Then, unsatisfied, it bounded off into the distance.

It seemed an abrupt ending to a picturesque scene.

“She was so pretty,” Grace said, longingly.

“‘Nothing gold can stay,’” Jeremy quipped and they carried on.

A while later, they stopped to rest near a gently flowing stream. They set down the bags Madam Hedera had given them and took out the bottles to replenish their water.

“We should probably head back soon. I want to freshen up before dinner.”

Jeremy nodded. “You know what’s funny? I could have sworn I heard a bell ringing last night. Did you notice anything?”

“I thought that was a grandfather clock or something.”

“But it seemed louder like it was coming from down here.”

“Maybe from one of the small towns nearby?” Grace offered.

“I don’t know… Anyway. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

“Well, he is retiring so whatever I come up with should be a tribute to his career.”

“Right.”

“One angle would be to make it look like an old English garden in honor of Dr. Bookman’s roots.”

“I thought he was American?”

“He is, but he spent 7 years in London working with the Kew Gardens. That’s what rocketed his career. “

“Wait, Kew as in the Royal Botanical Gardens?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Woah this guy is the real deal.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying! I’m glad to know I’ve infected you with my love for plants.”

“Botanophilia Bliss.” Jeremy stated.

This completely derailed the conversation.

“Botano–wha?” Grace asked, confused.

“Botanophilia. It’s Latin. ‘Botanica’ and ‘Philia’ and then bliss because–“

“Now who’s nerding out,” Grace laughed.

She was just about to continue when they heard it.

A faint gong.

Grace whipped her head around and the two stared at each other.

“I was literally just saying,” Jeremy mumbled.

“Yeah I know I was here 2 minutes ago, too.”

“So you heard it? Where’s it coming from?”

As if on cue, the sound rang through the forest once again, this time much louder.

GONG

“It’s on the other side of the creek!”

They hurried across a fallen tree to the far side of the stream. Pushing aside handfuls of leaves and branches, they encountered a thick wall of hemlock trees. After a few fitful minutes, during which Jeremy scratched his hands more than once, they finally saw it. Looming almost sixty feet above them was a beautiful stone clock tower – like an abandoned castle perfectly entombed within the heart of the forest.

Grace and Jeremy stood, dumbfounded.

“Why would anyone build a clock tower in the middle of a forest?” Grace said.

Jeremy thought hard. “We’ve got to be miles away from the house. And Madam Hedera said the only other homes were further south.”

“That they know of…”

“This is crazy, for sure.”

“Wanna go in?” Grace said, starting toward the base of the building.

“Babe! We can’t just go in there. It could be abandoned and dangerous…”

“Oh c’mon. I’ll protect you.” She grabbed his hand, pulling him forward.

“Still feels like trespassing…” Jeremy said to himself; Grace’s attention had already landed on this new target.

A set of wide stone slabs led up to the entrance of the clock tower. Oddly, it was a rather small door for such a large construction, likely designated as a service entrance. Grace grabbed the cast-iron handle and pushed.

It didn’t budge. She tried again, this time pushing as hard as she could.

“Locked.”

Jeremy’s interest was piqued. “Let’s try together.”

The couple pushed hard and eventually heard the wood creaking against the stone floor within.