CHAPTER 1.  Coming Home

PARIS, May, 2138

The meeting room was empty, except for the grey-haired man at the head of the long, polished, sustainably-managed certified teakwood table. Dr. Cyrus Feldman was taking his time, closing down his laptop and gathering his papers, as he tried to get a firm grip on mixed feelings of anger and relief. It had been his last speech before the Directorate, and it hadn’t been different from others that had taken place at that same meeting room in the Parisian headquarters of the COEP, the Convention Environment Programme, during his long years of duty.  

In fact, it hadn’t been the Convention Environment Programme when he had started working there, a lifetime ago, but the United Nations Environment Programme, but since the Convention had replaced the United Nations Organization, the old programmes had simply changed the organization’s name…and that was the only resemblance left, Dr. Feldman thought with the bitter taste of defeat on his lips. Stop it, he chided himself, you had your last chance, and it went as expected, you’re too old to have hopes of changing anything, not in your last stand…  All in all, it had been a very collected last stand; he had joked, he had showed terrifying figures that did not frighten anyone now -except for the fact that they were twenty years old at their youngest and still amazingly accurate- and even had indulged in the wicked pleasure of introducing an indigenous, mythological tale about the end of the world, something he knew the President of the Directorate disliked with the same passion he granted to honest scientists, dutiful technicians and responsible bureaucrats.  

They had listened, and nodded, and showed surprise, and even amazement at the right moments. They had been properly chastised by the blindness of their predecessors and had accepted guilt in the most careless and disrespectful of manners. “We don’t care”, they seemed to be thinking, “it wasn’t our fault and now there is little we can do, just look ahead.”  Only, there wasn’t much “ahead” left to look to, and that was what enraged Dr. Feldman, for they hadn’t understood, they hadn’t learned and they did not intend to change anything. Blindness had taken the world to this dire situation, and blindness would be the end of it.  

“Shit!” He hit the table almost reflexively. He had promised himself that he would take it calmly, but old habits died hard, and he was a fighter, above all other things. He couldn’t help tears of frustration welling in his eyes as he looked around for the last time, taking in the walls that had witnessed so many lost battles and opportunities, so many sterile debates and so many agreements based on general consensus rather than on common good.  

“Cyrus! You need help? “  

Dr. Feldman turned around slowly. He was in no particular hurry to face this Secretary General -and former long-time friend before politics and career, the current Secretary General’s more precisely, came between them, but there was no way he could ignore him any longer.  

“I’m old, but I can still take care of my things, Mr. Secretary.”  

“Of course you can, my friend,” the other agreed jovially, entering the room with the satisfaction of one who has downed the biggest prize in the flock without risk or effort, the satisfaction of the vain, Cyrus thought with resentment. “It was a wonderful speech, Cyrus, very moving indeed. I could see that everybody was touched by your passion, as usual, but still I wonder at how you manage to stir emotions in these soulless officers, you old fox!” he laughed, winking his eye conspiratorially, “you think you could disclose the trick to me?” he joked, as he slapped Dr. Feldman on the back. “It’s a shame that you finally chose retirement, Cyrus,” the Secretary added more soberly, “It’s a true loss for our organization. Your voice is respected everywhere, and I’m sure that your legacy will be of the utmost importance for all of us. We are facing difficult times, but your example will help us choose the right path, my friend!” He looked up expectantly, as if awaiting the ovation that usually crowned his speeches.  

Cyrus considered a cynical answer briefly, and then settled for an old-style confrontation.  

“I didn’t see many handkerchiefs, Mr. Secretary,” he said acidly, “ And I don’t think that my voice is respected anywhere…if we take into account that my voice is rarely heard nowadays…” That had hurt, Cyrus raged as he closed the old-fashioned briefcase in which he carried his notes. When his voice had become too uncomfortable for politicians, they had silenced him in the most effective way, by hallowing him and labelling him as the “most respected expert in the field”. Soon, he found out that he could talk to hardly anybody and about anything: the dramatic changes in the world ecosystem equilibrium, the wrong policies, the necessary adjustments and the mounting risks, everything was banished from public information, labelled under “experts say” and filed in “restricted access” or “not general interest”, while the trend-makers and public communicators ranted relentlessly against the prophets of catastrophe.  

“But you must be glad,” he added scathingly, “for as my figures are proven true, it will be good for you that I’m retired and out of the limelight, so you can explain to the world how you knew this years ago and why you did nothing to prevent it!”  

“Oh, come on, Cyrus!” the Secretary was as resilient as the best politician, Cyrus noted not for the first time, “you’re being too harsh! You know, as well as I do, that we did not have a way to know whether your figures were right or wrong, we could not change the whole lifestyle of the world based upon… FIGURES!” he said, warning him to let the matter lie. But Cyrus was a fighter, he had been one all of his life, and he wouldn’t concede defeat easily, even if there were only the two of them in that fight.  

“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Secretary, first, it wasn’t the lifestyle of a whole planet, but of a quarter of its population, and second, it was never a choice between returning to the Stone Age, as you liked to present it, and doing NOTHING and let the hell come to us, which is exactly what you, what WE have done, NOTHING! to prevent what now is looming. I was in Eastern Africa in the 1980s, (1) John, with your grandfather,” he said in the tired voice of a man who had seen more than a hundred years or erosion, deforestation, famine and bad political choices, and had lived to tell the tale. “And we knew then, we knew that it was no natural cause that had turned the monsoon away for a decade. How many people have died in those man-made hells since then, only god knows, but we are doubly guilty, John, because we didn’t stop it then, and because we let it come to this!”   

“Excuse me…” a soft voice and a knock at the doorframe interrupted the outburst.  

Cyrus, though, was at full steam now and he paid no heed to the intrusion. “And let me tell you another thing, Mr. Secretary, they’re not “soulless officers” but good men and extraordinary scientists that have been burned out by the greed and inefficiency of most of you, bureaucrats and politicians! “ he gasped for air, but, too stubborn to concede defeat before his last word was said, he continued in a hoarse voice. “And this is my trick, since you asked, I believe in what I do, that’s how I impress them! What the hell are you doing here!” he raged then at the intruder, who waited patiently at the door.  

“Oh, I had forgotten!” the Secretary turned a friendly smile to the stranger, “please, forgive me, Mr. Silverstone, do come in!”  

“Silvertree,” the stranger corrected in an even, beautiful voice, as he stepped into the room with graceful, fluid movements.  

Cyrus had noticed him among the audience, a tall man with long silver hair, loosely braided and strangely brilliant against his impeccable tweed jacket, a stylish raincoat neatly folded over his lap. It was not his hair what had caught his attention, though, but the glitter of his grey, steely eyes.  

“Silvertree, that’s it. Dr. Feldman, this is Mr. Silvertree, who showed great interest in meeting you, he is president of a great company, and a big donor to the COEP,” the Secretary added in the mellow tone he used when he wanted to flatter someone.  

That tone of voice had, too, the effect of turning Cyrus against whomever it was directed, a simple precaution born from years of experience, so he eyed the stranger with immediate dislike and shook his proffered hand without enthusiasm.  

“Greenwood Great is a Non Governmental Organization, Dr. Feldman,” the stranger said pleasantly, “we have been investing in forest protection for many a year now, among other activities,” he added. “I would be very honoured if you agreed to visit some of our projects and give us your opinion…”  

Cyrus was tired, and the feeling of “been there, heard that” was almost overwhelming now. Another eager, enthusiast, zillionaire philanthropist intent on saving a planet that had been condemned without trial years ago. “I’m sorry, Mr. Silvertree, but I’m retired, as you may have heard today. I do not take part in projects anymore. You can ask the Secretary to send any of his assistants in the Ngo’s area, or you can call the COEP University, forestry department, to find an advisor,” he said gruffly, “I’m going home.”  

The stranger seemed undisturbed by his grumpiness.  

“And where would that be?” he asked in his calm manner, genuine interest showing in his grey eyes.  

Cyrus looked at those bottomless grey eyes and stood still for a moment, holding on to his briefcase as a myriad of emotions hurled inside him. “Home is a time, not a place,” he wanted to say, ”A time when Susan and little George were alive, and we believed that we were doing what was right!”  Images of the many houses that had harboured him along his long and wandering years flashed in quick succession in front of his eyes, leaving behind the same old feeling of emptiness. He blinked twice, and turned his eyes from that compassionate silver gaze. “That, sir,” he said in a polite but cold tone, “is none of your business.“ He turned to pick up his own raincoat from the rack beside the window. It was pouring down with a vengeance over Paris.  

“I found your mythological reference very fitting,” the stranger said in his calm voice, “the end of the world heralded by the return of the darkness…very fitting, indeed…”  

“Scientists call it `global dimming’ (2)“ Cyrus said flatly.  

“I know you do,” the other answered playfully, holding his briefcase while Cyrus put on his raincoat. “I know that you said in your speech that it was a Yámana myth, (3) but I was glad to read in the abstract that it is actually a selk’nam myth...”(4) he added, a glint of mischief in his serious eyes.  

“And I’m glad that there was at least one person who was actually listening, among such a select audience. I actually misquoted the reference purposefully…you brought a small ray of light to my last speech, it was my pleasure, Mr. Silvertree,” he said, a bit warmer this time, recovering his briefcase and shaking again the stranger’s hand,  “I’m sorry I cannot be of any assistance to you, though. Now, Mr. Secretary…” And without waiting for further comment, he retrieved his briefcase and strode away from the office and then the building without looking back.  

Dr. Feldman walked three blocks down the street form the Convention headquarters to the old building where he lived when in Paris, heedless of the rain. Spring in Paris was not what it used to be, but then, the sea level had risen quite remarkably in the last years, due to the slow but constant melt of the polar cap, and the North Atlantic Drift had slowed its speed, (5) causing snows to be a common occurrence in mid-May, as well as in mid-July, he thought with dry humour.  

“Dr. Feldman!” a youthful, warm voice dragged him from his thoughts as he entered the old building. Claire, the young concierge, was welcoming him with her usual smile. “How did it go?”  

“Oh, fine! They brought champagne and we drank to the good old days,” he joked, ”seriously!” he claimed, smiling in spite of himself at her reproaching looks. “As expected, child,” he shrugged, “ It was a parting speech. Nothing relevant can come from that…”  

“You can never tell,” she said, with her enthusiastic optimism, escorting him to the elevator, “you cannot tell when or where you can make the difference for anyone,” she added, patting his arm comfortingly, “at least that’s what you’ve been telling me all these years!” she added, winking at him.  

“Well, child, at least you do know,” he smiled gratefully, “for you keep making the day for this old man!” he added, stepping into the elevator, and welcoming his first moments of solitude in the day, as the doors closed silently in front of him.  

When he had been offered to be among the first persons to undergo life-prolonging genetic treatment in the early years of twenty–first century, he had agreed out of duty. He felt he had a responsibility towards the world, as the most renowned climate and environment scientist of his time, and as such, he had consented, accepting the binding terms of the operation, which meant that he could talk to nobody about the treatment or its after effects. It also meant that he was alone. He had already been, when he decided to go through the procedures, for Susan had died more than twenty years before that, with their only child, in a plane crash. At one hundred and eighty, now, he was hopeless and utterly alone, for none of his colleagues or friends could follow the path he was treading, his desperate fight between acceptance and resistance. They said it was because he had already been old when he underwent the treatment, and that had only worsened the natural melancholy of the old age. He did not know. At times he felt that he had been granted a painful knowledge, and he felt alternatively aggravated and grateful for it. “Longevity is not for those of human race,” he had once written down in his personal journal, the only place where he could make such statements “for it brings along an unbearable burden of understanding that breeds unbearable grief and compassion”  

The elevator stopped smoothly and he walked ten paces to his door, closing it behind him and hanging the keys on the rack, a white-tail deer antler, gathered in a northern forest many autumns ago, beside many other keys that opened different doors around the world, some now lost forever under the waves. The raincoat went to another makeshift rack; a chestnut stringer salvaged from a forgotten railway line that connected two now abandoned villages. He let the heavy laptop and his briefcase upon a side table, beautifully carved with the Dogon’s Nommo archetype, (6) and picked up the correspondence from the ancient quern (7) where Claire usually left it for his perusal, and gave it a distracted eye as he walked towards the kitchen and took out the tablecloth.  

The doorbell caught him by surprise, standing in the middle of the kitchen, curiously studying the intriguing envelope he had found among bills -some governmental companies insisted on printed invoicing, in spite of the strict regulations against paper consumption- and some restricted publications that held, too, to that ancient and energy-inefficient way of distribution, to his unashamed pleasure.  

“Your dinner, Dr. Feldman,” Claire smiled, picking the table cloth from his hand and walking to the kitchen with the familiarity of a routine, yet lovingly undertaken task. “The cook sends his congratulations, it’d seem,” she said conversationally, laying the table with an easiness born out of practice, “onion soup, your favourite!” she said cheerfully, “And rye bread... and…look! He’s sending a bottle of that wine you praised so much…is everything all right, Dr. Feldman?” she asked worriedly, at the perplexed look in his eyes.   

“Do you happen to know how and when this came, Claire?” he asked evenly.  

She eyed the envelope and nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. This morning, short after you left, a messenger delivered it by hand. I noticed because he insisted to have it delivered on your door, we had a bit of an argument, there…” she smiled briefly. It was almost impossible to have an argument with that sweet creature, as Cyrus knew from experience, having found himself many times in the receiving end of her caring nature. “I noticed, too, because it’s a most unusual envelope, a beautiful one,” she added thoughtfully. 

“Yes it is, “Cyrus nodded his assent. “Thanks again, Claire, and good night!”

Beautiful indeed, he thought as her footsteps faded and the door slammed shut. He fingered it with care and then settled it aside as he sat and had dinner. It was made of virgin paper, an almost extravagant luxury in those times, but he wasn’t able to identify the fibre that gave it that grey, almost silvery appeal. The handwriting was elegant, artistic, and he needed not to see the “Greenwood Great” signet on its back to connect it to the mysterious stranger he had met that evening.  

He finished his dinner with a silent toast to “Le Fournil”, the restaurant that had catered for his meals for as long as he had owned that apartment, carried the empty plates and glass to the sink and went to sit on his favourite armchair to savour a glass of his favourite brandy while pondering that unexpected riddle.  

Cyrus Feldman’s Parisian home looked very much like an ethnological museum. It was full of strange artefacts, textiles and devices gathered around the world in his long years. Most had been gifted to him by grateful residents, co-workers, or beneficiaries of his relentless work as the most renowned geoscientist of two centuries. And most held memories of peoples, of projects, of betrayals, of unexpected victories and foreseeable defeats. Pieces of wood, rocks, seeds, pottery, textiles, delicate handcrafts and hand-made tools piled up in his home and were the true repository of the memories and life-long personal, professional and spiritual experiences that made up what Dr. Feldman was.  

J.S. Bach weaved his tireless, humble, dutiful and sublime trade around him. He lit up a couple of candles and a side lamp, and let the night invade the rest of his living room. He leaned forth and picked up a lost-wax cast metal letter-opener, a gift from a brave half-Dogon smith who had tried –and briefly succeeded in his effort- to revive the ancient blacksmith tradition of those millenary people of western Africa.  

“Dr. Feldman, should you reconsider and accept visiting our project, please contact the number below.  

C.Silvertree  

55362659

It was too dark to make out anything clearly, but Dr. Feldman was almost sure that the ink was hand made, too.  

As he turned the envelope again in his hand, delighting in the soft touch of that unknown material, two photographs fell from it. He picked them up carefully. Mr. Silvertree could be seen in both, standing in the midst of what looked like an encampment. The buildings showed a stunning resemblance to various types of indigenous buildings that repeated themselves around the world since the Neolithic revolution. “Another theme park of lost civilizations,” he thought with distaste. But then, there were the telltale implements of sun and wind powered engines, and the light, round antennae for satellite communication, and, above all, there were children, with happy, carefree smiles upon their faces, surrounding the tall, fair faced, smiling person he had just met that evening.  

He shut his eyes and tried to recall his impressions of that man. All he remembered was the sense of calmness, peacefulness that surrounded him. “We’ve been investing in forest protection for many a year, now, among other things”, he had said. And then, he had known that he would be refused, and had made sure to pique Dr. Feldman’s curiosity with that splendidly wrapped, cryptically devised message.  

Cyrus dozed off in his armchair, assaulted by nightmarish dreams of starving children in the countless camps of hunger he had seen along his years. Faced with the most uncertain environmental future, human birth rates had started a slow but steady decrease in the last decades, no matter what the Convention said. It was out of their control. It was just happening. And the sight of those happy children, growing up in what looked like an almost natural environment had moved him more than he had expected.  

First thing next morning, he was dialling the number written on the bottom of the exquisite note, and forty-eight hours later he was flying first-class to the utmost south. The fact that they had managed to obtain the permits and tickets in such short lapse was sign of the tremendous wealth and power of the organization.  

Dr. Feldman had had enough experience with power in his life to know that, most of the times, the greatest power and influence were wielded by unnoticed, self-effacing people, the likes of that mysterious Mr. Silvertree.  

Two days, a brief rest in a luxury hotel in Buenos Aires and four airplanes after leaving Paris, he was flying over a dense canopy of trees, approaching American continent’s new southern border, since Tierra del Fuego and the northern part of the Beagle channel had been drowned in the first assault of Antarctica melting.  

“Look, Dr. Feldman, down there, can you see it?” The pilot, a young woman in her mid thirties had been thrilled to meet him. Although he didn’t like to acknowledge it, he was a living legend, not because of his four Nobel Prizes but because of his birthdays, the abnormal amount of them. He shook his head and then braced for the landing, gripping his backpack tightly to prevent it from hitting the cabin’s ceiling as the small aircraft suddenly dipped, nose first, into that sea of green. The landing track appeared out of nowhere, and with a deft hand, the pilot landed smoothly and taxied the aircraft to a stop right beside a wooden stool Dr. Feldman guessed would replace the ladder.  

“Welcome to “New Future”, Dr. Feldman.”  The silver-haired man stood by the airplane with a greeting smile.  

Cyrus Feldman breathed in the fresh air and looked around with delight. Autumn was well in and the battle of colours was still as boisterous as he remembered, larches and beeches competing in different shades or red and brown against the perennial varieties of southern beeches, which remained stubbornly green throughout the winter. His host waited patiently by his side, a knowing look upon his face. “I hope you find this an appropriate retribution for that tiring trip,” he added, extending his long hand and picking up his backpack.  

His voice, Cyrus noted, sounded even richer and stronger here. He nodded, then, fixing his look on that intriguing man. “Yes, it was,” he answered carefully. “It is amazing here,” he added, “the forest seems to be more alive than the last time I was in this area…”   

“Maybe it is,” his host answered, and then a playful smile shone openly upon his face. “But, come, please, you must be tired, and we still have an hour’s drive up to the encampment… is this you package?”  

Cyrus walked beside him, towards the wooden structure that looked like hangar, warehouse and office. Two men were checking the airplane’s cargo and another talked with the pilot, leaning casually on a battered jeep, his broad back turned to Cyrus, and his golden mane loosely tied back with a bark strip, Cyrus noted automatically.  

“Qullqui!” the pilot addressed Silvertree in a pleading tone, “He says that I must remain here for at least four days! I cannot do that!”  

“Lest you have brought your own fuel, Anka,” the blond man said in a low, powerful voice, “I don’t see any other possibility. Unless, of course,” he added, mirth resounding in that deep throat, “that you want to sail north with the fishermen… “  

“I’ll wait here, Sach’a, thanks,” she said angrily, “ take care, Dr. Feldman, it’s been a pleasure,” she smiled and walked to the hangar, walking gracefully. The blond man turned and smiled broadly. ”Oh, you’re here! how was the flight?” he asked with an open grin, moving aside to let Silvertree put Cyrus’s pack on the back of the jeep, beside the solar panels.  

“As always, I’d say,” Cyrus answered a bit tiredly. Those moments were always the worst, hosts trying to be polite and forcing tired and bewildered visitors to exchange common pleasantries when they only wanted to be left alone for a little while and feel free to yawn and stretch and even swear out loud.  

“Dr. Feldman, meet “Greenwood Great” co-founder, co-president and long time friend Mr. Greenwood, also known around here as Sach’a, forest, in an ancient Andean language,” Silvertree smiled.  

Cyrus extended his hand, studying the man in front of him. He looked younger than Silvertree, except for the eyes, which were deep grey and bottomless, as his friend’s. He smiled widely and boastfully; he seemed always in movement and expressed constant activity in his broad, muscled body. Even in rest, he looked like a force of nature ready to happen over anyone or anything that disturbed him, a lethal force barely restrained.  

His strong handshake and raucous laughter only served to confirm Cyrus’s opinion, and his sudden fondness of the man.  

“So Quillco, the silver one, said,” he winked at his friend, “Welcome home, Dr. Feldman, “ he rumbled, “we’ve been waiting for you!”  

Looking around in that autumn mid afternoon, as the jeep gasped up a steep mountain path flanked by welcoming trees, Dr.Feldman thought that, strange as it might sound, Mr. Greenwood’s words had ringed true. He felt as if he were coming home.    

TBC

A/N: I hope it’s clear that Mr. Silvertree is Lord Celeborn and Mr. Greenwood is Lord Thranduil. It wasn’t that difficult, after all, ;-)

Environmental threats: It is not my intention to cause alarm, but to explore some scenarios that are possible, though not probable, from a scientific point of view. Although this first chapter may seem a bit “scholarly” the rest have few to none footnotes.

Notes:

(1) Eastern Africa. A persistent drought during the 60’s and 70’s caused a devastating famine in this area. You may remember the hit “we are the world, we are the children…” which was the pop music community answer to that humanitarian catastrophe. The drought, though, wasn’t entirely due to natural causes but to changes in air currents brought about by pollution.  Today, Eastern Africa is undergoing another monstrous famine -not that things have been much better in the meantime; mind you- Deforestation and soil destruction are also to be blamed.

(2)”global dimming” The amount of solar light that reaches the earth surface has been decreasing in about 10% globally in the last years, due to air pollution, too.  The BBC released an interesting documentary early this year, although it’s been a well known, if little mentioned, fact for some years now. You can found an interesting review of that documentary here. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/sci/tech/4171591.stm

(3) And (4) Yámana and selk’nam are two extinct, indigenous peoples of Tierra de Fuego, the great island in the southernmost tip of South America. The selk’nam’s cosmology has a prophecy of a time of “global dimming” when darkness will return, and the women will come out of the sea and regain the power. They also associate that time with the end of the world. (Ooops!)  

(5) North Atlantic Drift, or Gulf Stream, is the warm stream responsible for Western Europe’s mild climate, among other things. Should the North Pole ice cap melt significantly, because of global warming due mainly to greenhouse effect, it would not only cause the sea level to rise spectacularly in some coastal places, but the Gulf Stream to slow down its pace, too, which would result in temperatures and climate in Western Europe dramatically falling down.  

(6) The Dogon are an interesting ancient western African tribe, whose origins are unknown but traced almost 5000 years ago. Their cosmogony is awesome, as it is their astronomical knowledge. They were talented blacksmiths too. Their Nommo archetype is a kind of amphibian creatures that came from the star Sirius and brought the origin of living things.  

(7) Quern, a stone hand mill used to grind grain.