The Spirit Tree
Paul Leighland MacLaine

 

the spirit tree

a short story from the collection:
the tales of socrates dancing
by
paul leighland maclaine


A small boy was living with his Aunt and Uncle on their farm. The boy’s parents had been killed while driving down to pick him up after a holiday. They swerved, losing control of their vehicle, one of those old, open-type cars, and left the road. The front wheels jammed into an irrigation ditch. The force with which they hit the channel threw them both from the vehicle and into the path of a large oak tree. The boy’s mother struck the oak, three feet from the base, her neck snapped cleanly. She dropped face down to the earth. The father also struck the tree, shattering his skull and falling, instantly killed, next to his wife.
  
They lay together under the oak until a neighbouring farmer, returning home, heard the sounds of horses in distress and crossed the meadow to investigate, thinking that one had somehow become entrapped in a fence or had escaped.
  
The scene that greeted him was far from what he had imagined. He knelt next to the couple and observed the blood and dirt caked to their faces. Removing a picnic blanket from the wreckage, he pushed them closer together and in doing so allowed the father’s arm to fall across his wife’s nape. To anyone observing from a distance, they might well have been just resting together under that oak tree. He covered their faces and left to alert the local constable.
  
News of the demise of his beloved parents shattered the boy and he wept, inconsolably, for days. As the tree was situated within the boundaries of the Uncle’s property, and the boy was now in his custody, his uncle decided to bury the couple where they had died, beneath the great oak. This would allow the boy to be close to his parents and visit the grave whenever felt the need. After seeing his parents buried beneath the branches of the very thing that had killed them, the boy was unable to come to terms with the Uncle’s decision. He became sullen, trapped within a malady, un-breaking for weeks at a time.
  
During the night he would dream his mother was calling for him. He would rise from his bed and stand next to the window. He could see the great oak under the moonlight. One particular night, after the voice had again beckoned him to visit the graves, he had gone to the window to stare at the oak and was struck by just how beautiful it looked under the cleansing light cast by the full moon. Any resentment he had harboured toward the tree instantly vanished and he quietly hurried to dress. He tip-toed down the stairs and ventured out into the fresh night air.
  
The recently ploughed paddock was somewhat difficult to traverse. He was forced to stare at the places he would be placing his feet, so the journey appeared to be taking much less time than it actually was. He arrived at the base of the small rise of ground surrounding the great oak. The moon dipped its face behind clouds and the light disappeared from the paddock, leaving only the silhouette of the tree before him. He suddenly felt cold and afraid and alone. He turned to obtain a bearing on the farmhouse, but with the moonlight now dulled he couldn’t make out its shape. A capful of wind animated the branches and leaves of the great oak and he felt a drop of rain crease his cheek...then another and another until a drizzle fell steadily from the sky. His clothes were damp, heading for wet. It would have taken too much time returning to the farmhouse to avoid a soaking, besides he didn’t know exactly where it was situated. The breeze prompted the oak, making the leaves whisper.
Shelter here, under my branches, William.
I mean you no harm. This is where the spirits reside.
  
William trod a path up the small hill to the base of the tree.
Walk round and climb into my heart.
He moved, circling the tree, until his fingers brushed what seemed to be a natural foothold. He placed the toe of his boot into it and pushed upward. His fingers located another similar formation and another. He slowly scaled the great oak, one careful step at a time. After some minutes had elapsed and realising that he had no conception of how high he had climbed, William looked to the ground hoping to verify his position, but it was too dark. He found himself wishing that he had remained warm and resting under his blankets. He wished that his mother was still alive to pull him tightly to her and tell him everything was fine, or that his father would again rub his fingers through his hair and call him a little man. Memories forced tears onto William’s cheeks and again the leaves whispered to him in the darkness.
Not far to go William. Keep going. Don’t stop to look down.
  
He moved his fingers across the bark, found the next toe-hold and continued to climb. He’d lost track of the time. His arms and legs started to complain but he continued on. He rested for a moment, located the next step, placed his foot into the niche, and pushed forward and upward. His fingers slipped on the wet bark and...
suddenly he was falling.
He pin-wheeled his arms, kicked his legs, but neither reflex slowed the decent. He brushed a branch, scraping his cheek and making him howl in pain. He came to rest with a thump in a soft bed of leaves. He touched his cheek, allowing the acid on his fingertips indicate both the position and the severity of the cut. He reached out on both sides and ran his fingers through the cool dry foliage. The clouds shifted across the sky revealing the bright moonlight and the world into which he had toppled became visible.
  
He was deep within the trunk of the great oak. A room-sized hollow so wide he could stretch to his full height, extend his arms above his head, and still was unable to place his fingers or boots against its walls. He wormed his body from side to side, making a hollow in the leaves. He placed his head upon his arm and drifted, exhausted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  
He was woken by birdsong. The sweet melody was to his ears strangely familiar, dwelling inside his head and, just for a moment, it became the sound of his mother’s singing. To hear her soothing voice, to have her so close, exited his beating heart. He opened his eyes.
  
The first object they recognised was the form of a large caterpillar, crawling slowly over a green oak leaf not twelve inches from the tip of his nose. He placed his finger in front of the insect, effectively blocking its path. The caterpillar bumped into the obstruction and reared up to inspect the nature of the impediment. It quickly arrived at the conclusion that this barrier posed no immediate threat, and proceeded to crawl directly over the top. Its many tiny legs ticked the boy’s finger as it crossed, but he held his hand steady not wanting to panic what was such a determined creature. The insect cleared what must have seemed a significant hurdle and continued its journey across the easier to transverse leaf, leaving behind a silk string attached to the finger. The boy lifted his hand closer to his face to inspect the nature of the thread. He rolled it between his fingers, found that it was so finely spun it had a thickness indeterminable by the sense of touch. He fantasized how soft robes constructed from the fibres would feel against his skin. He became a great king, knighted three, brave, armour-clad warriors and, after a fiery battle with broadswords, married a beautiful princess from a far away land. Later, with the assistance of his court magician, he resurrected his parents from the earth surrounding the great oak, all whilst wearing beautiful red and blue robes made of the finest caterpillar silk.
  
The insect reached the wall and attached itself securely to the bark. The boy moved to a position where he could observe the caterpillar’s cocoon construction. He watched as the silk line wound round and round, concealing more and more of the insect’s body. Suddenly he became aware of the ramifications his absence might be having on his Aunt and Uncle, who must by now have discovered he was missing and be beside themselves with worry. He took in one long, last look at the progress of the caterpillar and started to climb from the oak room.
  
He reached the opening and was struck at how high his midnight climb had taken him. He was at least thirty feet from the ground. He backed down the first section of the tree, his feet locating the footholds like it was the fiftieth time he had ventured up into the tree: not the first time he had descended. In a matter of minutes he was standing at the base looking up into the great branches, anticipating the next time he would visit.
  
Running across the field, his feet padding into his buttocks with a gentle thlap, thlap, thlap, he heard his Aunt’s voice calling his name over and over. He returned her call and, after he had crossed a small rise about a hundred yards from the farmhouse, he saw her figure running over the ploughed ground to greet him. She held the corners of her long dress between her fingers to avoid it dragging across the earth.
  
When they came together she covered his dirty cheeks with large, wet kisses, caressed her hands across his smiling face and pulled his head to her chest. He felt her tears of joy tapping onto his hair as they hugged.
  
She ushered him into the farmhouse, pointing him in the direction of the bathtub near the open fire. His Uncle entered. His face bore the marks of a man annoyed at losing an entire morning’s work. He removed his cap with a single wipe across his head and opened his mouth to voice his disappointment, but William’s aunt shot him a steely look the likes William had never witnessed. He guessed his uncle had seen it rarely too, as he simply nodded, wiped his cap back onto his head and retreated outside to catch up on the neglected morning chores. There were some things best capable to a woman’s hands and no one knew this better than his uncle. Suddenly he stopped in the doorway and turned.
‘You’re a good woman, Dulcie, I could have done no better for a wife and companion. Your father named you well’
Then he left without time for a reply.
  
The last comment was one he often used and, to William’s aunt, it was just as good as ‘I love you’.
  
Dulcibella Armstrong had been named well. Her father taught Latin for over fifty years at the local school before the flu epidemic cut short his life. Dulcibella had been an only child and her father had chosen for her a Latin name meaning, sweet fair.
  
She placed a number of kettles on the wood stove and, once the water had come to the boil, emptied them into the cold water contained within the slipper bath. She stripped William, helped him in, and started to wash his back with a large bar of soap and flannel. He told her of the adventure with the tree, how he had fallen asleep. He did not tell her about the room within. He wanted to keep that a secret. He asked her if she minded if he want back to the tree. She replied that he could, but preferably not at night in the middle of rain-storms.
  
He chattered like a monkey all during the bath. She smiled warmly at him as she dried his body with a huge, soft towel, rubbing his face briskly, saying, ‘This bit is still wet’, rub, rub, rub, ‘this bit is still wet’, making him giggle and his cheeks rose. She dressed him, prepared a big breakfast of egg and sausage, and watched at he hungrily devoured it all.
  
After she had finished her fussing and had set to fixing some lunch for her husband, William entered the pantry and removed a large, empty, glass jar from the box-full reserved for pickling and relishes. He washed it, dried it and popped holes into the lid using a hammer and a large nail.
  
Later that afternoon he set out, jar firmly grasped in both hands, for the great oak.
  
At its base he opened the top few buttons of his shirt and paced the jar inside. He squirmed as the cold jar settled against his warm flesh then moved to the oak, placed his fingers into the first tree-rung and started to climb. He was careful not to jostle the jar and break it. As it had been that morning, his hands and feet found their way easily. Soon he was back inside the tree room.
  
He crawled to the place where he had last seen the caterpillar. The insect had now completely disappeared, left in its place was a round sleeping-bag of tightly-woven silk and twigs. He placed the jar on some leaves next to his knee and prodded the cocoon with his finger. It moved, but only because of the probing. He placed an eye to the wrapping.
Perhaps it was dead?
Perhaps it wrapped itself up to die like the funeral men had done to his parents bodies before placing them into boxes. He felt overwhelming guilt, having paced his finger to block the insect’s way. If it had been dying, the effort expressed to overcome a boy’s obstructiveness must have been considerable.
  
He guarded the insect’s resting place like a knight would watch over his beloved king, but it was getting late and he had caused a fuss once already that day, so he decided to leave, promising he would return the next day to continue the vigil.
  
That night, as his aunt was tucking the sheets tight round his body, he asked her if she knew anything about caterpillars wrapping themselves before they die. He chose the moment carefully because he was fearful that his uncle might have laughed at his question. He knew that his aunt would not make him feel foolish. She understood the question, and also the question it concealed.
‘The caterpillar is changing,’ she said, ‘First it’s an egg laid by a moth or butterfly then it grows into a grub, eating all of your uncle’s lettuce leaves and driving him nuts. It’s trying to get as fat as it can for the time it spends asleep in its cocoon where it changes into a moth or butterfly. Then it has babies of its own. A lot like your mother and father. They had a baby – that was you.’
‘Will I have an egg?’
A warm smile stretched across her face, stopping just short of a laugh.
‘People don’t have eggs, they have babies and you won’t have them, your wife will.’
‘How come you don’t have any babies.’
Her smile dimmed and the rims of her eyes reddened and wetted.
‘I have you and I wouldn’t want any other little boy or girl more. People thought you to go to boarding school after your parents died. I told them I wanted you here with me. Your uncle and I love you as much as if you were our very own little boy. Do you like being here with us?’
He nodded.
‘Well, that’s settled then. Here you will stay where I can cook for you and care for you and love you.’
‘If I’d been with them, would they have lived?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Families are supposed to be together. If I had been in the car, would God have taken them away to live with him?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that, but if I ever find out I promise I’ll tell you straight away.’
She kissed his forehead for the longest time, brushed her fingers over his eyes to close them and left him to sleep.
  
Every day he ventured back to the tree, hoping that this would be the day that the butterfly emerged from it sleep. And each day he returned to the farmhouse confident that the next day would be the right day. And, as time is inevitably revealing, the day did come.
  
He found the cocoon split and empty and his heart sank at the thought of missing his friend’s emergence into the world. He had so wanted the creature to see who had been standing watch over him as it slept. He felt something brush against his cheek and to his surprise, flapping round the oak room was a butterfly. It was the size of his outstretched hand and its wings were painted with the brightest colours the boy had seen.
  
So exited was the boy by the miraculous transformation from sticky grub to graceful creature, he grabbed the glass jar and unscrewed the lid, hoping to capture it inside.
He stopped.
Something was wrong. He placed the jar on the floor, gathered some leaves, pulled the remains if the cocoon from the tree wall and placed them inside the jar. He decided to leave it there as a kind of home. William thought he might stay the night in the tree. He had forgotten the distress his last disappearance had caused. His concerns centred solely on the butterfly.
  
The air became decidedly chilly. There was a storm due. He must have nodded off because the next thing he was aware of was a tickling sensation on his cheek. He opened his eyes. The butterfly was flapping close to his nose. He watched as it flew out of the tree. William grabbed the jar and followed.
  
The climb from the tree was punctuated with him almost falling and breaking the jar. Finally he reached the ground and started to search for the butterfly. It hovered above his head for a second and flew directly into its glass home. William had the feeling it wanted him to take it home so, after taking stock of the condition of his passenger, he raced back to the farmhouse, up the stairs to his room and slammed the door behind.
  
He held the jar, containing the now very distressed butterfly, and gave it a guided tour of his surroundings. His uncle called him to help with some chores. After they’d finished those he washed up and had his tea. William did not return to his room until it was time to go to bed. His aunt caught sight of the jar and went to look at the butterfly. She commented on how beautiful it was and asked William if he thought it was right to have it trapped, seeing how it was able to fly and be free. Before he could explain that the butterfly had wanted to come to his place, she’d left him to consider her question.
  
William imagined himself screwed tight into a jar. How he would feel if his ability to hover and flap round was confined to six square inches of space. He thought it right to return the butterfly to the tree first thing the very next day. Nevertheless he liked that the insect’s presence allowed his secret place to be with him inside the house, especially near his aunt, because when she was near him the sensation was identical. He could feel her love for him, but wasn’t sure if she could feel his in return. And that final thought occupied his mind before he drifted to sleep.
  
Something woke him. He opened his eyes and squinted into the darkness. A flash of white light lit his room to the brightness it possessed during the daytime. A boom of thunder scared him to snuggle deeper within the blankets and sheets. He looked to the jar sitting on the sill, but could not make out the shape within. He contemplated rushing over to grab it and returning to bed where it would be safe for undoubtedly if he was frightened by the thunder and lightening, the butterfly would be more so as this was its first storm. Another flash lit the room and for a second William could see into the jar. He could make out the green, oak leaves and brownish cocoon...
and also the brightly coloured object lying dead next to them.
  
A chill coursed through his body and, despite the additional blanket his aunt had placed upon the bed the night before, his skin goose-fleshed.
  
William threw open the covers and raced to the jar, grabbing it and unscrewing the lid. The insect lay against the side as still as the cocoon had been inside the tree. He tipped the jar, releasing the body into the palm of his hand, where it lay while William’s tears splashed round its wings. That he had killed something reminded him how he had felt towards the tree after it had taken the lives of his parents. The greatest fear he would ever experience suddenly swallowed him whole.
Had he killed the tree also? Had taking away part of it done the same thing as taking him from his parents?
  
He looked out of the window, but couldn’t see anything in the dark and the rain. He quickly placed the butterfly back into the jar, screwed back the lid, dressed and ran out into the rain towards the great oak tree. Perhaps if he was quick, replacing the things he had taken, he might save the tree?
  
His little feet pounded across the ground, his lungs gasping and pulling at the cold night air. His clothes started to swell with water. Another terrific flash of lightning struck the hill near the tree and the thunder that followed was so loud William’s ears rang, but he didn’t stop to take cover, he didn’t stop to let his aching lungs recover and he didn’t loosen his grip on the jar. He could just make out the silhouette of the tree and estimated it would only take a minute or two to get there. There would be another couple of minutes to get inside and everything would be returned to normal.
  
Two more flashes illuminated the sky. One struck the fence running next to the road, making it glow and spit and crackle. The other exploded through the top branches of the tree, sending wood and leaves crashing to the ground. With a mighty crack the oak split in two. One half plummeted to the ground almost hitting him. The other half burst into flame. He dropped the jar. It smashed, its contents spilling across the earth next to his feet.
He cried, ‘No...no...no,’ over and over and over into the night. He screamed the words until his voice popped silent in protest, allowing him only to open his mouth and release silent rushes of air from his lungs. He fell to the ground and wept. Wept at the consequences of his actions. He wept until he felt the blanket his uncle was carrying wrap around his shoulders and his feet lift from the ground as he was hoisted into powerful arms and carried back to the farmhouse. If he had stayed in the tree that night he would be dead. His friend had died so he could live. William understood the greatest lesson of life - sacrifice.

  
An eighty-seven year old William recalled this childhood episode one Christmas eve while sitting on the porch of the farmhouse he had inherited, and looking out to the place where the great oak had once stood. He had never ventured back to the tree to see what remained. Not long after the storm, his uncle reduced it to a stump with a saw.
  
William spent many afternoons sitting at the graves of his parents and eventually his aunt and uncle who joined them some twenty years later. They died two days apart from each other: first his Uncle from illness, and then his Aunt for no apparent reason at all. But William knew.
  
Three things occurred as a direct result of that night. William and his wife were never married though he always referred to her as such. He never lectured his children on what they should do with their lives and he had never planted another tree on the sight where the great oak had stood. There were other things...little things, but in short he never took another living thing from the place in which he found it.
‘Grandfather, grandfather...where’s grandfather, daddy?’
  
He rose from his chair and adjusted the red, silk smoker he had received for Christmas. He returned to the warm kitchen, joining his beautiful, princess wife, three brave sons, all of who had just enlisted in the army, their families, and his grandchildren.’

 

 

Copyright © 1991 Paul Leighland MacLaine
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"