We snaked through the undergrowth of ferns tangled with saplings, pioneering new pathways across the forest floor. The sun above peppered down rays of gold and crimson, and bright white leaked between the towering redwood and pine, forcing us to squint. Under the canopy, the air was cool and wet. It was a refreshing contrast to the dry heat we’d left an hour before: it was the height of summer.
“We’re so pleased,” our guide Erika explained, pointing out a night camera bound to one of the trees. “The pine martens have been doing really well — we introduced them a couple of months ago from the Wye Valley.”
Erika pointed out the tracks of roe deer and badgers, and, a little further, fox poo.
“The forest feels alive,” I said, looking around and breathing in the stench of pine.
**
The forest was truly a feat, the culmination of a decade of research (built, of course, on the shoulders of everything that had gone before). Stretching a thousand acres, the forest stood on what had been brownfield only two years before. An intensive programme of careful planting, guided by an expert team of landscape architects and algorithms, had created this paradise. And the jewel in its crown, indeed its very pillars, were the ancient trees — that had been planted only last year.
**
Experiments in cloning ancient trees had started years before, tickling the prospect of one day making ancient anew. The breakthrough of the first petri-dish ancient redwood had excited conservationists, governments and businesses alike, and funds had since poured in for further research.
But while these clones were remarkable, we were left with the same age old problem: that ancient forests were ancient precisely because they’d taken so many centuries to fully develop. While being able to propagate their genetic value was undeniably exciting, the grail lay in being able to bring forth their future while reigning time still. Ancient forest was untouchable by law because we knew we couldn’t replace the rich diversity of life it supported.
**
Fast forward a decade, and painstakingly nervous flirting between biomimicry and 3D printing had fruited an answer.
The experiments had been overseen by international developers HomesRUs, whose great risk in its investment had been rewarded by the first successful printing of a seven hundred year old redwood in Shropshire, United Kingdom.
**
And no sooner had this redwood, duly named Ancestor, been erected, that the HomesRUs shareholder price doubled. Much needed homes could now be built where bulldozers were previously banned, and HomesRUs held the patent to their compensation.
**
Our new home, Number 14, was the fifth on the left of Fairee Cove Lane.
Although brand new, over the years the house builders had learned that buyers preferred their homes to evoke a sense of place, and so Number 14 sprung from the box with fully weathered veneer and ivy growing up the wall.
We would now sleep when the old forest was once awake, and would be awake when it had slept. In the early days, we heard the twit-two of the lingering owls in the darkness. But, despite perches built-in for their purpose, after a few weeks they had gone silent.
I had visited its replacement forest as a shareholder. I had been given options when I put down the deposit on the house. New Ancient Forest, planted a thousand miles to the North where house prices were sufficiently lower, was to be held in ownership by the new homeowners to help secure its existence in perpetuity. The contract specified that we could only destroy it by consensus if net gains in biodiversity were achieved elsewhere; presumably by planting another new ancient forest.
**
“What are you doing?” I questioned my son Eddie, who I caught one evening emptying the biscuit tin into a canvas bag.
He looked at me with love and fear.
“Layla is hungry,” he eventually replied.
He’d spoken a few times about Layla, the new friend he’d made at the end of the garden who wore bluebells in her hair. There was no girl named Layla in the neighbourhood, so I assumed this was in his imagination; perhaps a cry for attention with the move to a new place.
**
As the months passed, we settled into Number 14. It was a great location, just a short train ride from the city.
The development grew, as was the insatiable thirst for new homes, and became indistinguishable from the other settlements it inevitably merged into. And, with the spending of time, it bore a new leisure centre, zoo, cinema, schools and shops.
We became just another node of suburbia, our sense of place strengthened by monthly newsletter updates about the pine martins and beavers in New Ancient Forest.
**
“Why couldn’t they just build the new houses on the other side of the forest?” Eddie asked me one day on the way back from school.
“Well,” I started. “They’d already built on the other side of the forest. This was the only space available.”
“If there’s no space left, maybe we shouldn’t let so many people have houses.” He looked thoughtful. “Or we could have moved to Scotland — my teacher says there’s lots of space there.”
I laughed. “Oh Eddie, but it’s so cold up there! And anyway, Mummy needs to work. I can get to work easily from here. What’s brought this up, eh? You shouldn’t be sad about the forest. We have New Ancient Forest, remember? Maybe I should take you to visit in the spring.”
**
And as soon as Pandora’s box had been singed open, news came every day of the planting of ancient forest, and, once trade regulations had caught up with the invisible hand, the plantations of ancient forest.
**
The house had been a better investment than I had foreseen. Once we realised that we could sustainably harvest our ancient forestry, we were quick to pocket additional income. Lengthy dining room tables fashioned legally from our wisest trees had revolved into fashion. The more contiguous the years, the higher the price paid. But we realised this would be short-lived as, soon, new ancient forests would be available to all.
**
“Layla said the animals starved,” Eddie blurted out one evening while beading his spaghetti hoops onto his fork.
“Who’s this Layla?” I jolted, lowering my voice as soon as it had raised. “Eddie, I know you’re sad, but it’s great that we’ve built a new and better forest for the animals. This forest was already being starved — developments were being built all around it, trapping the animals in. The new one is so much better.”
“My teacher says we don’t understand forests, not really.” He replied. “She says we’re selfish and only think about ourselves.”
I was angry that his teacher had been so impartial. “Eddie, this isn’t selfish. Lots of people work really hard to make the new ancient forests as good as they can be for the animals. They only build where they’re absolutely sure they can replace nature — it’s the law.”
He stared at me blankly, his suspended fork dripping tomato sauce onto the table.
“They’re better for people too. People need homes to live in, Eddie. And lots of people around the world are now making better incomes for themselves, lifting themselves out of poverty. Because we can replace the forest. It’s a wonderful thing.”
**
We didn’t make it to New Ancient Forest that spring, because a string of project deadlines meant I couldn’t take time away from the office.
But we made it the following summer.
“See, Eddie, aren’t these trees wonderful?” I cried, looking around me. It was a clear day and I relished the fresh air.
“They’re sad,” he replied bluntly. “And the animals already starved.”
“Eddie, the animals hide when we come out. Or they appear at night. They’re being clever; they’re not dead.”
**
Chained to the earth, I couldn’t move. The wind blew up dust. The wind's breath dug up more and more dust. I was too thirsty to cry out for help; my wistful lamentations only strengthened the breeze. Until finally I was naked and shrivelled under the sun.
And that was what I remembered of my dream as we slept in our timeshare lodge in New Ancient Forest.
**
“The trees have gone grey,” Eddie pointed out the window the next morning as we ate breakfast in the lodge.
I looked and saw that the trees did indeed appear grey. The world often appeared grey in the morning, so I went to the tap and splashed cold water over my face.
“What does Layla think?” I asked as I went to pour myself some coffee.
“Layla isn't here,” he replied. “She died.”
**
I stood outside our new home; a crumbling cottage in the Highlands.
No-one went to prison, because you can’t imprison a company.
HomesRUs was no more.
The new forests had all shrivelled to dust, because they hadn't factored in the mycelium, which had never taken hold.
And our dissolved ancient forest enterprise had forced us to sell our home.
**
And Eddie spoke no more of Layla or sorrow, but instead ran with his arms open to the wind.