Original Story - The Tree

Image of old olive tree by liggraphy on Pixabay

Emma paced back and forth, her skirt brushing the lavender bushes laden with blue flowers, courted by buzzing bees. With each turn, she stopped and stared at the house but still no sign of Percy.

“Patience, my dear,” said the woman from her seat on the wood and iron bench. “He said he would be here, and he is a man of his word, is he not?”

Emma looked over her shoulder at Beatrice and frowned. Her former nurse, now her chaperone and companion, still had her head bowed over her book, no doubt her bible, for she didn’t seem to read anything else.

Turning to face her, Emma, once more, took the letter from her pocket, her brown-eyed gaze taking in Percy’s words. He’d written that he needed to speak to her on a matter of utmost importance. “He’s going to speak of marriage, Beatrice, I’m sure of it.”

“If Master Percy is going to speak of marriage, it is your father he will be speaking to, not you,” said Beatrice, her attention still on her book.

Thrusting out her lower lip, Emma scowled at Beatrice. There were times she resented the woman’s straightforward, sensible nature. For once, why could she not simply relent and let Emma indulge in her daydreams? “Maybe, maybe he wants to see me first to secure his courage.”

Beatrice raised her gaze and her brows and fixed her with a look of doubt.

Refusing to let Beatrice spoil her mood, Emma lifted her skirt slightly to step and turn in a dance, imagining it to be her wedding dance.

Stuttering to a stop, she exclaimed. Percy, tall handsome Percy, came striding towards her. Warmth suffused her body and her heart beat that little bit faster. She held her hands firmly behind her back to stop herself running to embrace him.

Beatrice got to her feet and inclined her head at the young man. “Master Percy.”

“Mistress,” he said with a quick nod.

Emma’s smile faltered. Percy always greeted Beatrice with the affection one would show to an older aunt. She glanced at Beatrice, whose expression remained neutral, as she moved a little distance away to allow them a modicum of privacy yet remained within earshot.

Percy stood facing Emma, seemingly unable to meet her gaze. When he failed to offer any greeting, she said, “I received your letter.”

“Emma.” Squaring his shoulders, he finally looked her in the eye. “This. This will be our last meeting.”

She stared. Had she misheard him?

“I could not put this in the letter. You deserve to be told, not have to read.” He paused, swallowed hard before continuing. “My father. He is close to finalising a very profitable arrangement with Lord Norbury. Understand, he’s had to fight hard against the competition.” His gaze flicked away then returned to her. “But, but there is a condition. Norbury has a daughter and–”

“No.” Emma shook her head. “What has his daughter to do with us? I do not care for this arrangement. My father may not be a lord, but he is of good standing–”

“Emma,” he said with a grimace. “Your father and mine are not in the same business. Lord Norbury is.”

“I do not care. What of us? Our love?”

He hung his head. “I have no choice. I am his only son, and I must do my duty. I am sorry,” he finished softly.

She wanted to shout, what good was being sorry when he was breaking her heart. Balling her hands into fists, she was ready to beat them against his chest when he raised his head.

His eyes sparkled as tears filled them. “Emma. I have no right to ask, but I hope, one day, you will forgive me.”

Unable to move, she could only watch as he walked away, his body stooped as if bearing a heavy burden. Even after he’d disappeared into the house, she remained where she was.

“Oh, my dear child.”

Flinching as Beatrice’s voice cut through the silence, she turned her tear-filled gaze to the woman.

Beatrice’s brows were drawn together, her arms out to embrace her heartbroken charge.

But Emma stepped back. “No. It’s a mistake. He didn’t mean what he said.” The sight of Beatrice’s pained expression only served to annoy the young woman. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your pity.” Her voice rose along with her distress. “He’s made a mistake. I’ll make him see he’s–”

“Emma.” Beatrice’s quiet yet firm tone was at odds with her obvious sadness. “Master Percy has had to make a difficult decision, choosing duty over his love for you. It is not always the case that parents must sacrifice for their children. Sometimes, sometimes children are called on to do the same for their parents.”

Silence followed her words, which only served to fuel Emma’s resentment.

“Come,” said Beatrice, reaching out to take Emma by the hand. “Let us return to the house.”

“No.” Emma pulled away. “What is there to do in the house? Sit and read? From your precious bible, no doubt.”

“Emma–”

“I do not care for duty or sacrifice. I will speak to Percy, and I will make him realise his mistake. And you cannot stop me.” She started to walk to the house, intent on ordering the butler to ready the coach for her.

Beatrice took hold of her hand, stopping her. “Be sensible–”

“Leave me.” She wrenched her hand free. “Go to the house and leave me alone.” As Beatrice reached for her again, Emma pushed her hand away, snatched the bible from Beatrice’s other hand and flung it away.

Caught off guard, Beatrice tottered back while trying to reach for her bible and fell on her side.

Remorse battled with Emma’s anger. But, instead of helping Beatrice, instead of apologising, she turned and started to run towards the parkland stretching away into the distance. Lifting her skirt, she ran as fast as she could, ignoring Beatrice calling to her. She ran past the stream, past the well-tended trees and shrubs, towards the wilder, untamed trees past the boundary of her father’s land.

Heedless of branches whipping against her, snatching at her hair, Emma ran. Sobbing loudly, it felt as if her heart, thudding painfully against her chest, was about to splinter into a million pieces.

Her foot caught on a thick root, half-concealed, and she fell, sprawling. Lying where she’d fallen, her weeping gradually subsided, but she made no attempt to move. Finally, she pushed herself up and sat leaning against the tree whose root she’d fallen over. She lifted her skirt and wiped her face.

Getting to her feet, Emma looked around and realised, in that moment, how gloomy her surroundings were. Nothing seemed familiar. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be back with Beatrice, back in the comforting surroundings of her home. Slowly at first, then more urgently, she retraced her steps.

Certain she’d been walking for long enough, she stopped, wondering if she’d run from home in a straight line. If so, shouldn’t she see some familiar sight by now? “Could I be lost?” she said out loud, trying to ignore the clenched feeling in her belly.

As she stepped past a tree, Emma jerked to a stop.

A pale little girl watched her.

“You startled me,” said Emma. Her attempt at a smile failed. The way the girl regarded her, silent and with no emotion, only increased her nervousness. “Do you know the way out of this place? Do you know the parkland, the one by the–”

Still silent, the girl turned and started to walk.

Not knowing what else to do, Emma hurried after her. She tried to engage the girl in conversation, in vain. As she walked behind her, lifting her skirt out of the way, her frown deepened for the girl’s light blue dress and the way she wore her hair were so unlike the little girls Emma knew. A ragged tear, edged in rust-brown, in the back of the girl’s dress only added to Emma’s puzzlement.

Hugging herself, she looked around and stopped. She was sure they were deeper in the wood. “I do not think this is the way.”

The girl stopped and turned to face her.

“I will try and find my way.” About to turn away, she hesitated then said, “You must be lost too, and afraid, like me. Why don’t you come with me? We can find our way back to the parkland together.”

Still silent, her expression still without emotion, the girl continued to stare at her.

Unnerved, Emma stepped to the side and hurried away. And abruptly stopped.

The girl now stood in front of her. And smiled.

Emma screamed and ran. Looking over her shoulder, she could see the girl following her, still smiling. When she looked again a third time, the girl was no longer there. Slowing, she stopped and looked around, but couldn’t see the girl anywhere. Only then did Emma realise she was in a clearing in front of the most hideous tree she’d ever seen.

With its gnarled, mottled black bark, it appeared dead, the branches devoid of leaves. A cloying stench of something rotten drifted over her. The air felt thick.

The overwhelming quiet was broken by a scraping sound. As Emma stared, barbed roots slowly unfurled from the tree and writhed towards her. Whimpering, she tried to run. Fell back, tried to scramble away.

In the distance, she heard a dear, familiar voice calling her, and she shouted, “Beatrice!”

“Emma, child, where are you?”

Roots crept up Emma’s skirt, entwined her legs, bit into her flesh. She screamed.

“Emma, I’m coming, I’m coming.” Beatrice’s voice sounded closer.

“Beatrice, hurry. It’s pulling me. Beatrice, please.”

A gaping maw opened at the base of the tree. Roots wrapped themselves around her waist. She cried out. Fighting to twist around, Emma frenziedly clawed at the ground.

“Good lord.” Beatrice stood, wide-eyed, her bible clutched against her chest.

“Beatrice. It’s pulling me.” Emma reached out with her hands.

Dropping her bible, falling to her knees, Beatrice grabbed hold of Emma’s arms and pulled as hard as she could.

Emma screamed, tears streaming down her face. The roots tore at her flesh, her legs, her waist.

A sudden shout burst from Beatrice. She let go of Emma’s hands, grabbed the bible, and leaned over the crying woman.

Not knowing what Beatrice was doing, Emma realised the roots had loosened their hold on her. But she still couldn’t free herself. Then Beatrice’s firm voice sounded over her.

“In God’s name, get back, you spawn of evil.”

Slowly, the roots unwound themselves from Emma and slithered back.

Then Beatrice had her arms around a sobbing Emma, cradling her. “My child, oh my child,” she said tearfully. “I must get you home. I will get your father–”

“No.” Emma clung to her. “Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. I’ll walk, I can walk, I will.”

Beatrice kissed her on the head, got to her feet and helped the young woman stand.

With Beatrice supporting her, Emma forced herself to walk despite the agonising pain. When they were away from the clearing and the tree, Emma, her voice shaky, spoke. “What was, that tree, how was it real?”

“I don’t know, my dear. I know there are evil things in this world but that.”

As Beatrice tightened her hold on Emma, she welcomed the firm grip. They carried on in silence a while longer until Emma remembered. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you took your bible, what happened? Why did you shout?”

Beatrice didn’t answer, she simply shook her head.

Emma stopped. “Please, Beatrice, I want to know.”

A shudder escaped the older woman. “I saw a little girl, she had an evil smile. She pointed. A root, like a dagger, came flying towards you. I had to stop it and the only thing I had was my bible. Instead of your back, the root hit the book. The girl stopped smiling. She looked angry but scared also.”

“That is when you called on God?”

She nodded. “That is when I knew it was demonic.”

They carried on in silence.

“Oh, Beatrice, your bible.” Emma came to a stop, loath to even glance behind her. “It’s –”

“Yes, it’s still there,” she said quietly.

“But it’s your –”

“That bible has been with me many years, but I can replace it. I cannot replace you, my girl.”

Emma leaned against her, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry I threw your bible, and I’m sorry I pushed you. I didn’t mean for you to fall. I didn’t mean–”

“Hush, now. Your heart was breaking, and I should have known better than to deliver a lecture.”

It occurred to Emma in that moment, she’d forgotten what had sent her into the woods in the first place. The remembered pain of losing Percy snatched her breath away. Yet, it was tempered with the realisation of how close she’d come to, possibly, losing her life.

“See,” said Beatrice, “we’re near the parkland. Soon, we’ll be home. After I’ve seen to your wounds, I will tell your father to destroy that tree,” she finished firmly.

Nodding, Emma knew, despite the pain in her heart, she would survive this heartbreak, she would survive anything for life was too precious to take for granted.