The Voice in the Tree

“Much was different in the old days, children. They say that monsters lived among us, abundant in the wild like wolves and rabbits in the woods. They say there were ghosts too, and fairies in the treetops and dragons in the clouds. Magic was in the air.”

The old man paused and scratched his snowy beard. He saw that his tale was having a dull effect on his audience.

“Magic,” he reiterated with emphasis. “Warlocks performing spells that would make your skin crawl. They worked their evil in the forest beyond our village, enchanting trees to capture wayfarers and sending ghouls by night to kidnap children for horrifying experiments—”

“Oakson!” came a voice interrupting the storyteller. “What have I told you about listening to that nonsense? Come here.”

A boy extricated himself from the dozen children seated around the storyteller’s porch and hurried over to where his father waited. The rugged man’s brown hair and eyes were the same as every other lumberjack who lived in the village, as was his outfit of brown trousers, green tunic beneath a leather vest, and boots the colour of soot.

“I’ve an errand for you. A letter for our cousins in Wood’s Garden; it must be delivered at once.”

“What’s wrong with listening to those stories?” Oakson asked.

“They’re hogwash, every word. Monsters and magic don’t exist. Such things distract you from reality and what’s important in life,” his father lectured. “Now, away with you!”

Oakson set off at a run. He hurried along the road, weaving through a host of colourful characters, because the town was bustling. The storyteller said it was a small place compared to the great cities he’d travelled to in his youth, but on some days it felt crowded.

Oakson ran down the street, hardly remembering to keep a firm grasp on the envelope he’d been charged to deliver, and sped past the uniform wooden houses. His own house stood at the end of the row, practically beneath the shadow of the nearby forest.

“Hullo!” Oakson called, coming upon the door. No one answered, but he’d expected no less. His mother was busy with her furniture business, and his sisters were probably out buying shoes. He took a basket of blueberry muffins from the kitchen (there was nobody around to tell him no) and then headed into the wood.

The forest today reflected the cheerful atmosphere of the village: birds sang in a chorus of voices, squirrels flitted along branches, and the wind softly tousled the leaves. He slowed to a jog to take in the inviting smells and sounds. Children were rarely allowed to venture the leaf-shrouded paths beyond the village alone, no matter the hour, but there was no one around to tell him so. The pathway winding through the trees was lit nicely and there were no shadows, so he didn’t fear any danger.

After twenty minutes Oakson decided to stop for a break beneath an ancient oak tree. He ate a muffin from his basket and watched butterflies fluttering about.

“Hey you, boy! Come here!” came a voice from nowhere. Oakson sat up and scanned the nearby undergrowth, but there was no one there. He approached an old, gnarled tree beside the road with a hollow in its trunk the size of a pumpkin. The voice was coming from within.

“I need your help. Grab an axe and get me out!” said the tree.

“I don’t think I should,” Oakson said.

“Why not? You seem like a sprightly fellow. Cut me out of here, and do it quick!”

“I shouldn’t. You’re dangerous.”

A pause. “Why do you say that?”

“Someone put you in there for a reason. It’d be wrong to interfere.”  

“Rubbish. Get me out of here, it’s darn cramped.” There was a moment of silence, which Oakson didn’t dare break. “I’ll make it worth your while,” the tree said invitingly.  

“No! I won’t do it!” Oakson suddenly shouted. “I won’t let you out!” Before the tree could entice him further he grabbed his basket and dashed away, forgetting all about the letter he was supposed to deliver. Without looking back he sprinted all the way home.

That evening he ate supper alone. He would have told someone about the mysterious tree and the voice, but there was nobody around to tell. His father was playing cards in the tavern and his mother was at a party with his sisters. He spent the night reading from a collection of folktales, paying special attention to the tales about enchanted trees.

The next morning, he found his parents having breakfast.

“Oakson, my lad,” said his father. “How went the trip?” He was in a cheerful mood; last night’s card game must have gone well.

“Great,” Oakson said quickly. He grabbed a piece of toast and hastily buttered it. “I’m going back this morning.”

“What for?” his father asked. He received no answer, for Oakson had already gone outside.

Oakson ran through the forest like a demonic wolf was chasing him, all the way back to the tree. He knew exactly where it stood on the path and found it easily.

“Hello?” he called out, unsure if there would be an answer.

“You’re back. I knew you would,” the tree said immediately.

“How’s that?”

“You left your letter, Oakson.”

Oakson’s mouth dropped open at this and a jolt of fear ran through him. “H- how do you know my name?”

“I guessed. It wasn’t too hard. You’re a boy, the son of somebody, and Oakson’s a common name for a woodcutter.”

“I’m not a woodcutter, I’m—” he stopped short, knowing he mustn’t give anything away.

“So, have you brought the axe?”

“There’s something not right about you,” Oakson spluttered. “I won’t let you out. I’ll never come back, either!”

“Hey, now wait a minute—”

Oakson ran back to town, vowing never to return. But right away he struggled to keep this promise. Both encounters had left an impression on his mind and no matter what he did the tree-thing never left his thoughts. Often, he wondered what it looked like, but his imagination never came up with anything pleasant. He couldn’t tell anyone about it either, otherwise they’d be compelled to free it and unleash a horrible evil on the town. Only he could know.  

He managed to suppress his desire to go back for three days, a time in which he was sullen and withdrawn. If the townsfolk noticed his new attitude they paid no mind to it, and neither did his family. His father’s luck at the tavern had changed lately and his parents were both unhappy. They spared no time for their son.

On the fourth morning, a rooster woke him up at dawn. Pale orange light illuminated the eastern sky as he went out into the stirring village. He was calm. He knew what he had to do. A pair of peddlers saw him carrying a lantern and marching with purpose into the wood, and they called out to ask what he was doing, but he disappeared into the dark trees like an apparition and never answered them.

It was midday when the odour reached the townsfolk. The smoke was coming from the forest and soon they saw a red glow coming toward them like a thundercloud. The town was rapidly evacuated as the fire spread from the woods and destroyed over half of everything before the wind changed and carried the flames away to some other destination.

Oakson confidently emerged from the charred and blackened trees a while later, completely unscathed. The tree was gone and the thing inside was burnt to ash along with everything else. It could not escape to harm others. He’d succeeded.

“Bloody stars! Oakson!” his father yelled. “Did you start that fire?” The villagers formed a crowd and were clamouring around him. He was surprised at the anger in their eyes.

“I had to kill it,” he said. “I almost let it out and it would’ve been bad if it got free.”

Already cries went up of “look what he’s done!” and “he must be punished for destroying our town!” The villagers wanted him to suffer for his actions; they wouldn’t listen to reason. They didn’t care about the thing in the tree and how dangerous it was. They might have acted rashly had the village physician not intervened, who declared the boy a danger to others including himself.

As Oakson was taken away he looked for his family, but their faces melted into the mob that chased the caged wagon out of town.

—

The tower was where he was to spend the rest of his days, locked in the highest room with one tiny window and nothing inside except a solitary chair and a fireplace. There was no door, his meals were given through a slot in the wall, and he had nobody to talk to. Sometimes he wondered why they were so ungrateful. He’d saved their lives. But he was at peace; the thing in the tree was dead and it could never get him now.

They would understand soon enough. Someday.