Richard was an over-thinker, that’s why his boughs and branches were curled erratically and so close to his trunk: he couldn’t decide on the direction of growth. His stunted appendages, all cluttered and clustered around him, obscured his view. Thus, he only ever partially grasped the goings on of the woods, and in his half-knowledge there was a darkness: he always chose the most unhelpful and fearful point of view. It had been a long time since the people of the forest had tried to talk him down from whatever terrified drama he was riding on. They had exhausted their capacity for trying to make him see sense. Nowadays, they observed him from a distance, and resigned to accept him as chaotic and panic-ridden. There goes Richard, they’d say, talking up the devil from the deep. Richard was alone in his unhappy corner of the forest, and only the young and
This here tree is a special tree. It does not have a formal name, but the Society of the Ladies of Blackheath Common told me they call it the Droplet Tree. The Society has lore which dates back centuries, the most important being that only the most dedicated early risers have a chance of encountering the Droplet Tree, as the sun takes the droplets once it gets high enough over the horizon. After which, the Droplet Tree becomes indistinguishable from other trees; the magic is broken. According to the Society, when the early morning walker encounters the Tree, and should they take the time to pause and wonder, they will find a different scene reflected in each and every glassy bead suspended from its branches. Each walker’s set of scenes will cut across a particular emotion. So, for instance, when Betsy first encountered the Tree, her scenes were a scattering of
The lace on this tree is dying because you don’t love it enough. Seriously, when was the last time you went into Alice Holt Forest to tell this tree how beautiful it is? Don’t lie, I know it’s been a long, long time. People say you shouldn’t anthropomorphise, but they’re wrong. Trees, like humans, need to be loved. They need to know they are wanted, valued, and adored; they already know they are needed, even if most humans seem to have forgotten that. It’s not just trees which need to be loved, it’s a feature of all matter; a simple fact of the universe. It’s just more apparent in certain types of species. We recognise it in humans because we recognise it in ourselves. In turn, it’s easier to see in our furry friends because of proximity and what we read in their eyes. Likewise, we know our pot plants need
There is a lot of lore around Yew trees, but I can assure you that it’s mostly mistaken, only ever part-right, the consequence of the world seen through half-opened eyes. The only thing the lore makers have gotten right, is that Yew lore is different from the lore of other trees. All tree species have their specific magic, power, and meaning. People who are much more learned than I will tell you that Yews are associated with death and rebirth, and therefore eternity. They will tell you that Yews represent timelessness and the intelligence of the night. The Yew, they say, protects us against evil, which it very well might, but only through its true function. The Yew is associated with death for two reasons: because it is toxic, and because it makes a remarkable longbow. However if you follow time’s arrow, you will find a very different meaning for the
Harry was electric, at least, that’s how he liked to think about himself. Sometimes he felt himself sizzle up to the sky, like the devil had stuck a fork in his roots. Other times he fizzled and popped with energy like a disco ball in the centre of a room. He was the centre too, even though most of the humans walking in Hackhurst Downs didn’t notice. Somewhere a snigger: ‘it’s not only the humans, you know.’ A side-eye of lichen; Harry concentrated on his ray beam curled boughs thrusting upwards to the sky. There was no-one pointing as hard as he was to the heavens. He’d got the power! Julius the tree spirit sighed. It was just like Harry to forget about him, forget about the bargain they had made long ago. It was his own fault: he’d known Harry was an egomaniac when he made the pact. He’d just