The Wood From The Trees
Some time ago, I prepared an entry for the BBC's End Of Story competition, wherein entrants were invited to complete a short story begun by one of eight renowned authors in 1,200 words or less.
Even having chosen the story that most appealed to me -- Dryad by Joanne Harris, an unlikely tale about a woman falling in love with a tree -- I found this a tough task given the breadth of the story, but nonetheless did the best I could in the time and space available. I didn't make the shortlist, but thought I would present the final version I submitted here, representing the first time I've made any of my fiction available on-line.
I don't claim for a moment that my ending stands up alongside Joanne's, but present a link to the entire story from her website too. As the BBC website teases, the story presents, "an unhappy marriage, a lonely woman, and a very unusual love affair - with a tree. But is the woman mad, or misunderstood, and what happens when her husband realises something is wrong?"
( Dryad -- The Beginning )
I drew breath to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. Admitting this truth to myself was one thing but I was unable to speak of it, even as the sense of epiphany welled up and threatened to overwhelm me. I exhaled slowly, deeply, a sigh somewhere between bliss and resignation.
I turned away from Stan's penetrating gaze and only then did I find my voice: soft, polite, but firm. "Follow me."
Stan obeyed as I trailed back down the garden. My eyes were on the ground at first but as I drew closer and felt his presence, I raised my gaze to take in his awesome silhouette against the moonlight, gaining then in confidence with every step. I walked right up to his side, wrapped my arm around his trunk and turned back to face Stan.
"You're having me on," he glowered derisively. "I said I want to know who he is."
At this I merely traced my fingers back around the trunk, tenderly caressing its familiar texture. Stan's eyes darted to watch the movement, and I was momentarily ashamed to flaunt my passion in front of him. Then I placed my arm back around his body, nuzzled my face into his bark, savoured his sweet, earthy scent and the sensation of his skin against my own.
"You're either joking or mad." Stan met my eyes with his for a few seconds more and then their intensity seemed to fade. I'd never been more serious about anything in all our time together, even he could tell that. He turned and walked back to the house in silence.
In spite of this confrontation, all I felt was relief and certainty. Alone together again, I slid slowly down The Beech's hard body and he caught me between two aged roots that cradled my form perfectly. He allowed the soft summer breeze to play through his thick foliage, hushed me to sleep. And there I stayed until morning, utterly at peace.
I suppose it was Stan's lack of imagination, his palpable inability to understand me that led him to call the doctor that very next morning. Times were different back then, and so it was I came to spend a little over a year in a mental hospital. I closed down, can't remember much of my time there. I can vaguely recall images of bare, whitewashed corridors and my insensibility at not being allowed to walk alone in the grounds. The thought of seeing The Beech again was the only thing that kept me honest, even whilst outwardly projecting a lie of supposed normalcy. I learnt what was expected of me, how to earn my freedom.
I remember that bleak, dark late-October day vividly. I'd headed straight for our old neighbourhood. In the time I'd been away, Stan had escaped our marriage with his honour intact, fled to that semi taking Daniel with him and started a new life. The home I had known now belonged to someone else, but I knew The Beech could never give himself over to another so blithely.
I'd approached the house anxiously, oblivious to the autumnal debris that blustered about me, and snuck into the side alley full of anticipation, my stomach spinning somersaults. But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. The Beech was barely recognisable, a hollow shell of his former self. Where once he was straight and true he was now bent and broken as if suffering a terrible weight. Drained utterly of colour, his limbs were skeletal and bare. The sky behind him seemed so empty. I turned tail and ran, and never returned.
That winter was the loneliest I've ever endured. Then one day the following Spring I found my way here to the Botanical Gardens, and this young fella caught my eye." She motioned to the tree in front of us with an expression that I fancied approached maternal pride. "There was just something about him that reminded me of my Beech. I wondered if perhaps they might be related, and so I began to spend time here with him. I've never dared touch him, never gotten that close. But I just like to make these little sketches. It helps me cope." Her face fell then, darkened. "Stanley died a bitter man, years before his time, still only able to comprehend dead wood that he could fashion to his short-sighted designs. Daniel blamed me, perhaps rightly so; we don't see each other anymore.
But I have to believe The Beech at least understood these things are out of our control. For all his serenity and silent strength, he'd evolved to depend upon me as I had upon him. And the strength of that bond had only revealed itself in our cruel, destructive separation. I hope he understood. Trees are, after all, much bigger than we are, and so much more forgiving." She paused, smiled wistfully. "Still, as they say, to everything a season."
With this she looked across and placed the palm of her hand over the sketchbook as though in blessing. "I want you to keep this," she said plainly. She wouldn't take no for an answer, despite my protests, so I acquiesced and simply thanked her, both for the sketches and for sharing her remarkable story. She thanked me in turn, and added, "There are a few empty pages; those are for you. Just remember: always be true, no matter what."
It was only a few weeks later that I read under the Announcements in the local paper of her death. I couldn't summon the wherewithal to attend the funeral, but Josephine's story and advice only gained in poignancy for me in the times that followed. My marriage to David lasted a few more years until it became painfully evident that our daughter's arrival was only delaying the inevitable. Eventually neither of us had the strength to sustain our mutual lie and we divorced. I remarried several years later, to a man with the kind of soul I now recognised I needed: resolute, strong, considerate. I've known happiness that never seemed tangible with David.
It was around the same time I donated the bench to the Botanical Gardens, with specific instruction as to its manufacture and location. I still come here every now and then, whenever I feel the need to slow down and take time out. I always bring the sketchbook with me, read its intricate studies like one might a journal, learning the secret truths buried within.
I never did fill those empty pages, never considered I could add anything of value. But sometimes I'll see a young man or woman walking alone nearby, seeking shelter from some storm or other, and I'll recognise an expression in their eyes: an echo of a younger version of myself. If I can reach out to them I'll ask them to join me, show them Josephine's sketchbook and tell them about her one true love. Some leave bemused, others intrigued, but I like to think that in their own time it grants each of them a context within which to view their lives with a renewed sense of hope.
Something to fill the empty sky.
( Dryad -- Joanne Harris' Story In Its Entirety )
Even having chosen the story that most appealed to me -- Dryad by Joanne Harris, an unlikely tale about a woman falling in love with a tree -- I found this a tough task given the breadth of the story, but nonetheless did the best I could in the time and space available. I didn't make the shortlist, but thought I would present the final version I submitted here, representing the first time I've made any of my fiction available on-line.
I don't claim for a moment that my ending stands up alongside Joanne's, but present a link to the entire story from her website too. As the BBC website teases, the story presents, "an unhappy marriage, a lonely woman, and a very unusual love affair - with a tree. But is the woman mad, or misunderstood, and what happens when her husband realises something is wrong?"
( Dryad -- The Beginning )
I drew breath to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. Admitting this truth to myself was one thing but I was unable to speak of it, even as the sense of epiphany welled up and threatened to overwhelm me. I exhaled slowly, deeply, a sigh somewhere between bliss and resignation.
I turned away from Stan's penetrating gaze and only then did I find my voice: soft, polite, but firm. "Follow me."
Stan obeyed as I trailed back down the garden. My eyes were on the ground at first but as I drew closer and felt his presence, I raised my gaze to take in his awesome silhouette against the moonlight, gaining then in confidence with every step. I walked right up to his side, wrapped my arm around his trunk and turned back to face Stan.
"You're having me on," he glowered derisively. "I said I want to know who he is."
At this I merely traced my fingers back around the trunk, tenderly caressing its familiar texture. Stan's eyes darted to watch the movement, and I was momentarily ashamed to flaunt my passion in front of him. Then I placed my arm back around his body, nuzzled my face into his bark, savoured his sweet, earthy scent and the sensation of his skin against my own.
"You're either joking or mad." Stan met my eyes with his for a few seconds more and then their intensity seemed to fade. I'd never been more serious about anything in all our time together, even he could tell that. He turned and walked back to the house in silence.
In spite of this confrontation, all I felt was relief and certainty. Alone together again, I slid slowly down The Beech's hard body and he caught me between two aged roots that cradled my form perfectly. He allowed the soft summer breeze to play through his thick foliage, hushed me to sleep. And there I stayed until morning, utterly at peace.
I suppose it was Stan's lack of imagination, his palpable inability to understand me that led him to call the doctor that very next morning. Times were different back then, and so it was I came to spend a little over a year in a mental hospital. I closed down, can't remember much of my time there. I can vaguely recall images of bare, whitewashed corridors and my insensibility at not being allowed to walk alone in the grounds. The thought of seeing The Beech again was the only thing that kept me honest, even whilst outwardly projecting a lie of supposed normalcy. I learnt what was expected of me, how to earn my freedom.
I remember that bleak, dark late-October day vividly. I'd headed straight for our old neighbourhood. In the time I'd been away, Stan had escaped our marriage with his honour intact, fled to that semi taking Daniel with him and started a new life. The home I had known now belonged to someone else, but I knew The Beech could never give himself over to another so blithely.
I'd approached the house anxiously, oblivious to the autumnal debris that blustered about me, and snuck into the side alley full of anticipation, my stomach spinning somersaults. But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. The Beech was barely recognisable, a hollow shell of his former self. Where once he was straight and true he was now bent and broken as if suffering a terrible weight. Drained utterly of colour, his limbs were skeletal and bare. The sky behind him seemed so empty. I turned tail and ran, and never returned.
That winter was the loneliest I've ever endured. Then one day the following Spring I found my way here to the Botanical Gardens, and this young fella caught my eye." She motioned to the tree in front of us with an expression that I fancied approached maternal pride. "There was just something about him that reminded me of my Beech. I wondered if perhaps they might be related, and so I began to spend time here with him. I've never dared touch him, never gotten that close. But I just like to make these little sketches. It helps me cope." Her face fell then, darkened. "Stanley died a bitter man, years before his time, still only able to comprehend dead wood that he could fashion to his short-sighted designs. Daniel blamed me, perhaps rightly so; we don't see each other anymore.
But I have to believe The Beech at least understood these things are out of our control. For all his serenity and silent strength, he'd evolved to depend upon me as I had upon him. And the strength of that bond had only revealed itself in our cruel, destructive separation. I hope he understood. Trees are, after all, much bigger than we are, and so much more forgiving." She paused, smiled wistfully. "Still, as they say, to everything a season."
With this she looked across and placed the palm of her hand over the sketchbook as though in blessing. "I want you to keep this," she said plainly. She wouldn't take no for an answer, despite my protests, so I acquiesced and simply thanked her, both for the sketches and for sharing her remarkable story. She thanked me in turn, and added, "There are a few empty pages; those are for you. Just remember: always be true, no matter what."
It was only a few weeks later that I read under the Announcements in the local paper of her death. I couldn't summon the wherewithal to attend the funeral, but Josephine's story and advice only gained in poignancy for me in the times that followed. My marriage to David lasted a few more years until it became painfully evident that our daughter's arrival was only delaying the inevitable. Eventually neither of us had the strength to sustain our mutual lie and we divorced. I remarried several years later, to a man with the kind of soul I now recognised I needed: resolute, strong, considerate. I've known happiness that never seemed tangible with David.
It was around the same time I donated the bench to the Botanical Gardens, with specific instruction as to its manufacture and location. I still come here every now and then, whenever I feel the need to slow down and take time out. I always bring the sketchbook with me, read its intricate studies like one might a journal, learning the secret truths buried within.
I never did fill those empty pages, never considered I could add anything of value. But sometimes I'll see a young man or woman walking alone nearby, seeking shelter from some storm or other, and I'll recognise an expression in their eyes: an echo of a younger version of myself. If I can reach out to them I'll ask them to join me, show them Josephine's sketchbook and tell them about her one true love. Some leave bemused, others intrigued, but I like to think that in their own time it grants each of them a context within which to view their lives with a renewed sense of hope.
Something to fill the empty sky.
( Dryad -- Joanne Harris' Story In Its Entirety )