Memories of Ancient Futures

By Steve Wilkinson

Can the greatest conspiracy theory of all time be something far more than what it was said to claim? Is the greatest treasure ever discovered by man, somehow linked to the same famous event? Drawn on the walls of an ancient cave. Written into the pages of an unpublished book. Buried within the culture of a forgotten tribe. Hides the secret to mankind's survival. Many predict the future is already written. But in order to move forward, they must first go back. Only a message placed into a stone bottle,cast into the dark ocean of time, can offer humanity one last hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244236519

Book preview

Memories of Ancient Futures

Memories of

Ancient Futures

Copyright by Steve J. Wilkinson

First Printed: 27/10/2019

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Other Books Available from Steve Wilkinson

Swords of the Pious:   Red Wolf

Blood Moon Prophecies   Book One: Blood Raven

Blood Moon Prophecies   Book Two:Rise of the Serpent

Blood Moon Prophecies   Book Three: The Last Serenade

Kindred – Part 1: Blood and Sweat

You X Two: Fiat Lux

Rare: Beyond the Great Spirit

Sleeping Through

Acknowledgements

There is nothing as noble,

There is nothing as hard,

There is nothing as brutal,

There is nothing as complete.

It is one of the most admired traits in anyone.

Honesty.

I would like to thank all those who continue to support me and read my attempts at trying to write a story.

Good or bad reviews, I respect everyone’s honesty who takes time out of their lives to read what I have to say.

I can honestly say,

I Know My Family Love Me

&

Writing Fuels me.

I confess to sometimes being overly honest.

Finding the balance where honesty becomes insulting can be difficult when seeking to speak the truth.

Honesty is the opposite of balance.

Thank You.

Prologue

It was a sultry hot sunny Friday afternoon in early September. Deep in the heart of rural Dorset, life was peacefully slowing lazily towards the forecasted beautiful weekend to come.

Parked in a layby, next to a pretty beach tree edged village green, a tall old lorry tried its best to hide from the powerful autumn sun. It was now approaching the mid-afternoon of 2.55pm, illustrated by the lorries shadow touching the low dry-stone walls boarding the grassed village centre.

The ancient, rust-white British Leyland lorry, which housed a large privately funded mobile library, was a welcome site across the entire region it was set up to serve.

Converted from an old mobile horsebox, the 8.5 tonner was painted predominately off-white apart from the rear doors, which were oddly coloured an awful lime green, splitting across the truck diagonally.

Covering most of the counties of north Dorset and the south Wiltshire villages, plus several smaller towns in Somerset, the old lorry provided a much-loved pleasure to those who were unable to get into the last remaining city libraries.

The lorry driver looked to be impossibly old, supporting a full white beard, a large round stomach and red floppy peaked cap adorned with a huge Red Indian feather. It was often joked with local children that this was what Father Christmas did as a summer job, which seemed almost plausible to any that set eyes upon the jovial old man.

Pulling up into local public car parks, or main village squares, the old driver also doubled as the mobile librarian. For some reason known only to the old man, he always felt a need to change his hat into a brown, black banded fedora when sitting behind the library desk, almost as if the hat indicated he was in uniform.

For as long as anyone could remember, this round friendly man provided a public service, with no reward. The library was not council supported and there were no obvious signs of sponsorship across the lorry’s paintwork. It seemed to be totally funded, stocked and administered by the good-natured old man who worked to keep everything up to a very high standard.

It was never late. It was always on time.

The rows and rows of books onboard the lorry were a complete mixture. There were shelves of classical fiction, historical tomes, reference books and true-life stories, something to satisfy everyone’s taste. Entire volumes of great authors were listed in alphabetical order, some names known, whilst others were unfamiliar to anyone.

Most looked to be very old, traditionally bound hardbacks, many first editions or limited prints. There were several huge map books, showing every location on Earth together with entire encyclopaedias sets holding up to 25 volumes placed in numbered order together.

Throughout the entire length of the lorry, there were two narrow corridors, with eight stacked shelves carefully constructed from floor to ceiling. There was enough room for hundreds of books to be stored, all carefully held in place with wooden lip bars to stop them falling whilst in transit. For an old truck, it was incredibly clean both inside and out, not a cobweb or dusty shelf anywhere.

A squeezed narrow doorway with three hinged wooden steps had been cut into to side of the truck near to the front cab, allowing direct access into the mobile library.

Just inside the door, a narrow desk that looked more like a pub bar than a front desk, traversed across the entire width of the lorry. Four tall wooden stools permanently screwed to the floor, provided a place for readers to soak up and preview their chosen material as they waited for the old librarian on the other side of the bar to ink stamp out the loaned literature.

The majority of people who used this service were either house mums or the elderly, some of which struggled with the steep steps to get inside.

The library had been resident next to the central green of the village of Hempton since the sun had risen on this September morning. Every second Thursday from 08:00am until 3.00pm, it was always here on time.

Today, inside strangely cool lorry, a distinguished looking woman in her early sixties had been sat in the library since 12pm. Sitting at one of the tall stools, she had a pile of books on the bar ready to sign out.

For the two hours, the woman had been reading in silence, seemingly lost in one red covered book. Several people had come in, picked their books and already left in the time she had been sat there, but the grey haired lady seemed oblivious to all that walked around her.

It was now 2.58pm.

The old driver behind the bar-desk coughed politely to try to get the women’s attention. Stacking a pile of returned books noisily onto the wooden desk bar, the sound echoed within the narrow space.

Happily, for the old man the subtle messages worked.

Gathering her four other books and making a mental note of the page she was on, the silver haired woman smiled across to the librarian whilst she stowed her reading glasses into her handbag.,

Sorry, I did not realise the time had gone by so quickly. she whispered over to the librarian, who was already inking his trusty oval date stamp.

Time can move very quickly when you lose yourself in a good book. Something that captures you, takes you beyond the written words on a page. the librarian said, stamping the inside pages of the four loose books handed across to him.

The lady held the fifth book she had been reading in her hands out ready to be stamped.

Retracting his heavily gold ringed fingers, the Librarian snapped his oval stamp back,

I…don’t stamp that one. It is precious to me. the librarian stated calmly.

Oh, I am sorry is this book not for borrowing, I found it on the desk here. It is very interesting, I would very much like to finish reading it. There are a number of things in this book that would help in my research. the woman stated, gently wiping the strange red leather cover with her scarf.

For a long moment the librarian just starred at the pictureless front cover. Looking up to the slightly shocked lady, he sighed and smiled,

Of course. Everything here is for all to read. Just bring it back with the others once you are finished with it. You will find it a fascinating read probably making very little sense. It is unusual as it is an unfinished piece of work. he stated through invisible lips, lost in the mass of white hair.

The old woman seemed pleased. Ignoring the old man’s comments, she spoke again,

"Thank you. I will be sure to look after it. I have never heard of the author or this title before. It says it is a factual account, yet everything I have read so far strikes me as pure science fiction. I know my husband will also love this book. He has several rare edition HG Wells books that are amongst his favourites.

This feels very similar in style, almost as if the author was recounting his memories. Yet, there are places I have never heard of, wars I cannot remember, names I do not recall. And as for the pictures…

Can you tell me if you have anything else by this author?" the lady asked, placing the books carefully into an oval wicker basket.

The driver looked down as if guilty and shook his head.

The woman nodded her thanks and began to leave.

Reaching over to swap his fedora for the floppy red peaked cap, the driver followed the older woman carefully down the three steep steps outside the lorry. Quickly, he lifted the stairs on the two hinges and folded them neatly into the narrow doorway inside the lorry. Closing the door, it clicked and locked, ready for transport.

The woman was already walking away towards the village green.

Thank you, I hope you enjoy the books. the old driver called out, walking towards the high cab driving seat.

The woman stopped and turned, waving to the mobile librarian as he awkwardly climbed into the cab of the old lorry.

As she crossed the grassy village square, the tall mobile library nosily pulled out of the layby and made its way slowly around the centre green. Three times she could hear the driver struggling with the old clunking metal gears, as the British Leyland accelerated away. Reaching the short drystone wall on the far side of the green, the lorry turned out onto the main road.

Painted upon the vehicles rear doors, a sudden realisation of the words printed in red, across the lime green tailgate seemed to strike her as a bit of a co-incidence.

Looking down into her wicker basket, the book she wanted her husband to see, gleamed up at her as the golden edged font on the red leather cover glinted in the evening sun.

Memories of

Ancient Futures

–A Message for Our Time–

Checking the back of the lorry once more, she squinted as the truck headed out into the sunset road heading west. The words in red were fading fast from the distance her eyes could focus upon through her round glasses.

Regional Mobile Library.

Privately Owned Collection by E R Hallow

Checking the cover of the book, she looked for the authors name. The author was not printed on the cover, but the same name was printed on the first paper page inside.

As a scientist for over 40 years, she had a memory for remembering small facts that most would miss. Her husband had nicknamed her as the Miss Marple of Science years before.

Written as a work of truth and fact by: The 3rd Hallow.

The lady was sure this was no co-incidence.

Had the librarian been related to the author or even written the book inside her basket?

It would at least explain why it was so precious to him. In her mind, she made a mental note that to ask the driver when he returned to the village in a couple of weeks.

Closing the cover, she needed to stop herself from sitting on the village bench as something else caught her eye. Placing the basket on the floor she lifted the book out to make sure her eyes were not giving false information.

As she starred at the first page, written in a tiny font at the foot of the page, something she thought to be a misprint seemed completely wrong. How this had got through the publisher or any serious editor was beyond her.

It was of course an error; she was convinced of it.

Closing the book, she knew her husband would find this most amusing as he loved to find obvious blunders in written texts.

Walking out across the village green, she made her way back to the little chocolate box cottage she now called home. Tonight, her husband would be home after his weeklong trip away with friends in London.

Planning the night to come in her head, in an hours’ time she would collect him from the train station. She had already booked them both into the local pub for a meal, as he loved the steaks and ale they served.

Opening the cottage door, she placed the basket into bottom of an old coat rack just inside the narrow hallway, out of site from her husband’s eyes. Turning quickly, she needed to push the stiff old front door closed tight and lock it as it had a regular habit of blowing open in the wind.

After their pub meal, when they both got home later tonight, she would present the strange book to her husband who would no doubt be delighted and fascinated, taking no time to find his favourite chair with a night cap ready to read and study her strange local library discovery.

She would let her husband read it before talking to him about the recent trip she had just come back from in France.

There was an impossible but obvious link to France inside this strange book that did not need the skills of Miss Marple to decipher. She had always loved mysteries. But this was beyond anything she could attempt to solve without her brilliant husband’s help.

Dry Season- Dated: 10-10-9335- 7th Dome Heavaan

Chapter 1 – Never Plan to Far Ahead.

Doctor Jacob Phillips never considered that after a long-distinguished career in archaeology, when he retired with his wife in their early sixties into the chocolate box, thatched cottage in the country, in less than a year his wife of 40 years would die so suddenly.

For the past 10 years his beautiful wife had spent her home time carefully planning their happy retirement to complete perfection. Saving very hard, they were going to enjoy their later years to the full.

Holidays, cruises and a full programme of activities were meticulously created, making sure that every minute would not be wasted. Both academics in the world of ancient manuscripts and archaeology, they were now ready to take the rewards of success and a well-deserved rest.

In a wicked twist of fate, only six months after moving into their dream lazy country life, all plans were scuppered in an instant.

On the way home from the local village pub, late on a summer Friday evening, a drunken driver had mounted the pavement in a white van and hit them both into the road.

Doctor Hillary Phillips had mercifully died instantly from her terrible injuries at the scene. Jacob had been badly bruised but had suffered little in the way of any lasting injury.

After only six months of reaching retirement, his precious wife was now laying buried in the local churchyard, missing everything she had planned for them both.

For the past year, Doctor Jacob found himself looking endlessly out of the window of his idyllic country cottage surrounded by lonely silence.

In his busy career, he had lived in some of the biggest cities on Earth, all which came with unique sounds that kept them alive.

Still in mourning from losing his wife and best friend, only the repeated voices of Radio 4 kept him company through the endless hours of despair and loneliness.

With no children or near relatives, life seemed bleak. Retirement was proving to be much harder than his work life had ever been.

Visits from friends were becoming less frequent. At first, old work colleagues and people Jacob and his wife had become friendly with over the years were ringing and visiting him almost daily. But these visits were now limited back to occasional weekend or evening phone calls, as August took many of them away on holidays and family gatherings.

For an academic he was used to being alone, but without his wonderful wife to come home too, loneliness had taken on a whole new meaning.

For late August it was unseasonably cold, so much so that many had even considered turning the heating switch into the on position. Winds, rain and constant grey clouds gave no consideration to the charcoals and Barb-B-Q’s sitting waiting inside garages and sheds. The forecast was nothing to write home about either, it was looking to be a washout summer.

Jacob had never been one to feel the cold weather, nor was he bothered about extreme heat.

During a distinguished career translating old manuscripts and deciphering symbols and hieroglyphics on the sides of countless antiquities, his work had taken him to all the four corners of a round globe.

From the freezing cold Hjemmeluft Kofjord of north Norway studying 7000-year-old rock carvings, to the Southern shores of a baking India, working on walls of Sanskrit inscriptions from the 11th century, Jacob could tolerate the most extreme conditions the planet had to offer.

But, today inside his traditional old cottage he felt nothing at all. Watching the raindrops inch down the kitchen window, the blurred view of the village green beyond was a million miles away from the life he once knew.

The click of a kettle behind, snapped him out of his continual daydream. Walking over to an already prepared coffee mug, he poured the water into a mug and stirred the instant powder to mix. Taking the mug back to window, the warmth of the heat through the china cup was welcoming.

Two years before on the same day in August, he had awoken in Egypt, sleeping in a tent near to the temple of Karnak. The temperature had been 37 degrees even before 10.00am. Outside today, the thermometer barely was touching the 10 degrees mark, this was Britain in all its type casted glory.

For the next 20 minutes he sat and watched the quiet village go by. Two BT vans were parked a short distance away with two engineers sat in each, all munching happily on sandwiches. Whatever fault they were ere to fix was obviously still a problem as neither van showed much sign of wanting to attend the BT green box during the deluge.

Finishing his coffee, Jacob took the cup and left it in the single sink. Something he would never have been able to do with his wife alive. As he walked away to the hall, he smiled as her words echoed in his mind,

Rinse your cup out Jacob or put them in the washer. It only takes seconds, she whispered from a distant part of his mind.

Walking towards the old wooden coat stand, he lifted his long blue raincoat off the hook. Next to his coat, Hillary’s grey mackintosh sat motionless. During the last 5 years it had been the base of many jokes between them as Jacob had teased his wife whenever she wore it.

It is like being out with a member of the Gestapo. Jacob would tell her as she walked with him.

Buttoning his own coat, he had no choice but to face the weather and walk over to the local shop. There was very little coffee left in the cupboards and apart from two tins of tomatoes, three sticks of celery plus the remains of a wholemeal loaf that really should have been thrown out yesterday, there was nothing in the house left to eat.

Jacob was no cook, so much so that he avoided event cutting bread if possible. Everything seemed overly complex and needed perfect timing to create a meal that was edible. In Jacobs life, perfection was only achieved after weeks of painstakingly working with teams to understand what once had been written for the ages, cooking was a harder skill to master.

Opening the door, the wind and rain struck harder than he first thought. He was about to walk out when he realised, he needed a bag to carry whatever he could buy, to bring back to the cottage. Stepping back into the warmer hallway, he looked around for something suitable.

The only item that seemed to fit the bill was an old wicker basket that was wedged into the lower shelf of the old coat rack. Reaching down, he pulled the old basket free.

Walking back to the kitchen he needed to empty the items within first.

One of his wife’s old headscarves was left over the top of the contents, seemingly hiding or protecting whatever she had left inside. As the scarf came away, Jacob was surprised to see five books piled together.

The top book looked like something he would read. The other books looked more like what his wife would choose as there was an old religious text, a book on cooking jams and a story about a woman who built a new life in the country.

Opening each of the books in turn, he was suddenly struck with the fact they were all library books. All but the first book had a date to be returned in late November last year. The date the ink stamp revealed sent a chill down his back. Each of the four books were showing the exact day his wife had died and a date for return a few weeks later.

These had been collected only hours before she lost her life.

There was an oval marking indicating the library they were from which Jacob did not know, so it would be difficult to return them easily. There were several local libraries in towns away from the village, but as far as Jacob knew they were not members of any of them.

It also occurred to Jacob that as the books were so overdue, there would be an incredibly high fine to pay so it was probably easier just to keep them and wait to be chased.

The fifth book looked to be a science fiction book, but the title was not one Jacob had seen before. Lifting the cover, this book was not stamped in any way, so Jacob could only imagine it had been purchased.

Hillary was constantly looking for small gifts for Jacob, it had been something both had done for each other across their 30+ years together. Turning the book over to read the synopsis there was little to give away the plot of the pages within.

The cover was not a traditional glossy hardback. It seemed to be covered in a dull red leather, almost animal like in touch. In the dull kitchen light, the gold edged letters that gave the title its unusual name pulled Jacob in to know more.

He was about to sit at the kitchen table when a crash in the hallway diverted his attention.

As he had left the front door slightly open, the wind had finally caught hold of his wives Gestapo coat, ballooning the jacket and knocking the whole lot to the ground.

Jacob rushed to pick up the long six-foot stand, together with two other coats that had fallen to the floor. Quickly he pushed the door closed and returned everything back to how it was.

Smiling, he walked back to the kitchen to collect the empty basket,

Alright Hillary. I am going. he said openly into the air.

Taking the basket, he walked over to the door and stepped out into the rain. If his wife was watching down on him, she was making sure he did not procrastinate as he tended to so often do,

You can never do anything without being told twice. Hillary reminded him.

Carrying the empty basket into the driving rain, Jacob walked out, past the BT vans where the engineers sat warm eating their sandwiches and staring at mobile phones.

Reaching the tiny village shop, dripping wet, Jacob was forced to turn back and start the whole trip again, as his wallet was still in the cottage, something he knew his wife would always ask him to check every time he left the house.

Chapter 2 – Never Miss Breakfast.

On the other side of the world, Ray Stevens was already awake. Looking at the clock from his motel bed, the digital readout on the display rudely announced that in San Antonio, New Mexico, the time was only 4.00am.

The Rio Grande bed and breakfast was well away from the inner state I380, yet he could still hear every car and truck as if it were outside the window.

Sitting up, he reached for his glasses, as he could see little past the end of the bed without them. The room was not as dark as he liked for sleep. With thin cotton curtains hanging limp across a far too large window, the streetlight on the sidewalk outside beamed through the material as if they were not there at all.

For $45 a night he had hoped for a little more, as the signs claimed for silent rooms with views of the river. These rooms were obviously not in the block he had been shown into, although he knew the river was close due to the number of mosquitos hanging dead from the traps on the ceiling.

Mercifully, this was only going to be his accommodation for a one-night stop, as he would spend the next few days in a recommended hotel 150 miles further east.

Flying into Albuquerque from New York at lunchtime yesterday, he had hoped to be at his booked destination by sunset. Sadly, due to a mix up and strike action in the car rental company he had not left the city until 6pm.

After queuing from two accidents and road delays, driving the first 100 miles, he was already too tired to complete his journey.

There was no real pressure driving him to be in the hotel tonight, so he stopped early to get a meal and rest up.

Sitting in his bed after less than 4 hours sleep, Ray wondered if he should have kept driving anyway as clearly, he was not going to get much rest tonight.

Turning on the bedside light, it was far too bright for the function it needed to perform. Ray moved into the bathroom to obey the call of nature, the third trip into the en-suite facility within the last three hours. Whatever local beer Red-Horn was last night with his meal, it had gone straight through him.

Taking a shower, the water pressure was depressingly weak. It barely got faster than a dribble, with a control that was either ridiculously hot or freezing cold. Rinsing his bulky 5’8" frame, the towel folded ready to dry him was far too small for what he needed.

Dressing and packing up his large zipped backpack, the clock had only made its way to 4.45am.

It would be too early for breakfast to be served.

Reading the card inside the room, it claimed to serve:

A delicious selection of pancakes, eggs and coffee to satisfy every taste. Ray was not so certain he wanted to sample any of this, but his $45 had already covered this cost.

Never miss breakfast., his mother had drummed into him from a very early age. Ray Stevens had never been one to dis-obey his mother.

Sitting at a narrow dressing table, he fired up a little laptop he always carried with him. To his surprise the Wi-Fi in the room was excellent, fast and instantly connecting from the code given to him from reception.

As the screen fired into life, he was faced with a word document he had been working on for his latest documentary.

For the last few years, Ray had taken a role researching for a TV programme that specialised debunking conspiracy theories. It had taken him all over America, talking to some of the strangest people he had ever met. Now into the second season with another series already promised by the network, the programme had drawn enough viewers to budget both web pages and blogs that allowed sponsors to advertise and draw good revenue.

Ray was good at providing the background information for stories. After twelve years working within investigating journalism for three major news teams, this role was turning out to be by far the most enjoyable.

Three months ago, the TV network had approached him to find out if he had wanted a chance to present the show as much of what was discovered came from his sole research. It seemed the current presenter had tried to re-negotiate his pay when figures of the programme’s success were clearly giving the station a very good income.

Ray had politely declined. At 42, he did not have a face for television and had not desire to stand in front of any camera trying to sound interesting.

Happily, the network had been extremely reasonable with Ray’s answer, which at first seemed very understanding of them. Ray had later found out that the original presenter had gone back to the TV executives with cap in hand, pleading for his old job back on the same rates, after a new venture offered to him fell through.

Fact from Fiction was a weekly Friday night prime time show. It was getting considerable interest from both Netflix and Amazon who were said to be waving huge cheques for broadcast streaming rights.

Ray looked at the paragraphs he had written on the plane from New York.

Reading back the introduction, he needed this story to present a very new angle to an existing well know myth.

This week, the remit was to cover one of the biggest conspiracy theories the world had ever known. Debunked and reopened many times before, there was never any conclusive end to this story.

For the last 72 years everyone who had ever quoted or referred to conspiracies had at some time spoken of the New Mexico incident.

Ray’s brief had been straight and simple, yet it was turning out to be the hardest stories he had ever covered in this field.

Any new angle or evidence would be very difficult to find as most was already public knowledge or hidden so deep that the military intentionally remained mysterious. There was already enough material to host three tv programmes going over the known stories and sworn statements. There had been nothing new to add since the Beason and Dew case was dismissed in 2015. 

Ray began to sift the internet for photos and reports of the local area. On every Google search around the word he typed, the place his destination would take him to later today filled the screen with the same intrinsically linked story in the local newspapers after the war that had led to a worldwide phenonium.

A black and white headlined reminder of July 7th, 1947 was undeniably the biggest conspiracy of them all.

Tomorrow he would start his own investigation into the well-trodden ground.

Ray was here by invitation, after a strange phone call he received two weeks ago claimed they wanted to speak with him personally. The call had become difficult as the person was convinced the call was being monitored.

Taking down an address Ray agreed to meet the person on the end of the phone in person as it seemed to work well with the piece he needed to write. After the call, they had taken to communicating by a secure Twitter account.

Ray would begin his new research in the heart of the place where modern day conspiracies were born.

After mediocre pancakes and coffee, Ray would travel the remaining 154 miles into the small town of Roswell, New Mexico, famed for the flying saucer crash and aliens remains.

Chapter 3 – Unexpected Interest.

After purchasing two expensive chicken breasts and a bag of basmati rice, Jacob was already well into preparing his featured cooking dish.

Sadly, it was the only dish he knew how to cook properly as throughout his married life, Hillary had catered to his every need at home, with hotels, restaurants and friends feeding him on the many trips away.

In the kitchen, the smell of curry hung heavy throughout the low ceilings of the old oaked beamed cottage. This familiar odour would remain long after the meal was eaten as it always did, lasting a few days as it had inside his last home in South East London, no matter what air freshener his wife tried to use to clear it.

But in all his years of cooking this single un-elegant dish, she had never once complained. Hillary loved Jacob cooking for her, as it was such a rare treat.

Since the accident, his featured dish was now becoming a twice a week regular event, preparing enough to last 2-3 meals. Cooking for one was something Jacob needed to learn living life as a widower. The only other place he could get a meal cooked for him was the local pub, but it was still far too raw for Jacob to visit the nearby Red Rose public house, as it meant passing the place of the accident.

It was dark outside and late into the evening; the rainstorms had not yet eased. In fact, there seemed to be signs that the winds were strengthening as the two oak trees in his garden creaked under the constant gusts that tested the huge branches.

Jacob’s rare trip into the village shop today had been longer than he expected as the little old Indian lady behind the till, who seemed to be there morning, noon and night, was keen on starting a conversation. Although she was comforting and very genuine in her concerns of Jacob’s wellbeing, he still thought that it was more out of finding out about him to pass onto the