The Ancient One (37 page)

Aunt Melanie nodded. “Almost as much of a kick as I get from owning a pack with a genuine arrow hole in it.” She swiveled slightly to reveal the prominent stitches in the material of the blue day pack. “Awfully glad it wasn’t you instead.”

“So am I,” Kate replied.

Abruptly Kate halted. She stood again at the edge of the clearing, facing the towering grove of redwood trees. Upward they climbed, like columns supporting the dome of the sky. A rush of reverence filled her, along with a whisper of peace she had not felt for a year. And something more, something strange, almost like a sense of gratitude lingering among the boughs.

Then, in the center of the grove, she saw the stump. The rest of the massive tree had been removed, so that its remains jutted out of the ground with unnatural severity. As Kate moved closer, she saw several small signs affixed to the stump. One of them, positioned to face the trail, read:
Height: 363 feet. Circumference: 27 feet. Weight: 513 tons. Age: 1,423 years.
On the face of the stump, signs marked particular tree rings on the cambium or heartwood. Said one:
Charlemagne crowned Emperor, 800 A.D.
Said another:
Norman conquest of England, 1066 A.D.
Then, moving outward toward the bark:
Eruption of Brimstone Peak, 1452 A.D.; Fire scar, 1583 A.D.; Declaration of Independence signed, 1776 A.D.; Severe fire scar, 1810 A.D.; Earthquake damage, 1847 A.D.
Last of all, at the outer edge of the trunk, was this sign:
Felled by loggers, 1992 A.D.

Turning to face Aunt Melanie, Kate asked, “Is this what you meant by a surprise? These signs?”

The white head moved slowly from side to side. “Look again.”

Scrutinizing the stump once more, Kate noted the intricately drawn rings, some so close together they could barely be distinguished. She scanned the thick band of ridged bark encircling the wood, the burly roots at the base. Yet she could not find anything that could have prompted Aunt Melanie’s interest.

Suddenly she noticed something else. At the far edge of the stump, lifting its tiny head skyward, sprouted a single young seedling. It stood barely a foot tall, yet its branches were lined with new-growth needles, no less green than a pair of shoelaces she had once worn.

She glanced at Aunt Melanie, who smiled at her gently. Then she stepped over to the seedling and bent lower to touch it. Running her finger down its length, all the way to the delicate, hairlike roots, she could feel both sturdiness and suppleness in its fibers. The young redwood held itself with unmistakable dignity, seemingly aware of what had stood before on the same spot.

As she straightened up, Kate caught sight of a small, rust-colored owl resting on the lowest branch of a neighboring tree. He studied her with wide brown eyes above flowing whisker-feathers, looking for all the world like a great-great-great grandson of Arc. The owl fluttered his wings slightly.

Then, from another direction, Kate heard the sound of an owl hooting deeply, richly. It hung eerily in the air, like the call of a distant flute.

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