It’s a lush mess of dark-green, splattered over mossy gravestones. I jump from my van, sighing to see the mighty yew tree uprooted and split by last night’s gale. A fallen giant. Its limbs are still groaning from its fall, and the giving up of its secret. The woman in an anorak standing by it must be the excited vicar who called me. She is younger than I expected. Toothy, bespectacled, hair in a messy bun. Just like me.
I reach for my toolkit, announcing myself and my credentials. The vicar shakes my hand vigorously, her voice as breathless as it was on the phone. She hopes that she has proof of St Arnulf. I try to calm her down, although, of course, I’ve always longed to make a big breakthrough—to turn dust into new history.
Clouds are edged away by a shy silver sun. I kneel by the twisted carcass of the yew. The sap smells refreshing, but it doesn’t quell the bitter taste in my mouth. I have seen many ancient skeletons, most of which showed obvious signs of suffering, but this one is pure horror. How does a person become part of a tree? Well, it is a yew, a shape-shifting, regenerating yew. Or, as the fibres hint—yews.
I start with what can be seen of the skull embedded in the heartwood. I clear dust with a tiny brush. I pick up fragments with tweezers and put them into small plastic bags. I move down to the ribs and arms. I suppress my hands’ urge to shake as I notice the way they are broken. Pinioned on two fragments of rib is…can it be? I breathe deeply and reach for a magnifier to check. My eyes haven’t deceived me—there is an unmistakable fish-head.
The vicar peers over my shoulder. With a gasp, she raises her hands and shouts, “Thank you, Lord, for resurrecting your martyr Arnulf to us—”
“Please!” I feel rude for interrupting, but I’m alarmed by her certainty.
“The fish is a symbol of the early Christians!” she protests.
“And it may be significant, but it may not—”
The hope and faith in the vicar’s eyes draw me in. I see a humble man, a fish carcass tied round his neck as a mark of ridicule, being bound and crushed between yew saplings by drunken pagan raiders. Perhaps I’ll find traces of the rope! No. I stop myself. I am a scientist. All I can record now is crushed bones.
“I’m sorry, Reverend.” I hope that will cover my rudeness and my rebuttal.
She nods, but her eyes still glisten with the rapture I wish I could share.
“I’ll call specialists to recover the trunk. We’ll work on this in the lab. I’m sorry—it will take months…” I pick up a torn twig and smile at her. “Why not take cuttings and sell them? One way or another, your yew can claim a miracle.”
