Tree People - Short Story by Ursula O'Reilly

 

TREE PEOPLE

By Ursula O’Reilly

 

“Grandad, tell me about the Tree People,” I implored. My grandfather turned towards me, the open fire cast flickering shadows across his face.

 “Pour me a cup of tea, George, and put a drop of the hard stuff in it!  I’ll tell you about them.” He winked. I picked up the teapot and did as I was instructed, adding a dram of whiskey to Grandad’s steaming cup.

As a child I delighted in my grandfather’s tales of mystery and adventure. I would sit beside him spellbound; never doubting his words were true.  Now in my late twenties, I eagerly looked forward to my visits to his small cottage, at the edge of Drumgool Woods.

Grandad took a sip of tea, sat back in his armchair and began to talk.

“George,” he said. “This tale is true, although many would doubt it When I was twelve years old; I lived on a farm with my parents and little sisters, Joan and Clara. People didn’t have much then, but were happy nonetheless.

The farm was small and isolated. I had to walk two miles to school, and home again through the fields.  My sisters were several years younger than me. I spent much of my time playing alone or helping my parents on the farm.

Our back garden was a wondrous place. Vast and wild, filled with old gnarled trees, bushes and shrubbery. A place you could lose yourself in. I would play there for hours each day, until I heard my mother’s voice calling.  ‘Edgar, Come in for your tea!’

It was a place to read adventure stories, throw a ball for my dog, Rex; or just escape for a time into a daydream. That’s what I was doing the day I saw the Tree People.”

I watched my grandfather with a sense of expectancy. I was a small child again, mesmerised by his words. “Where did you see them?” I asked.

“One day in early summer, I was sitting at the bottom of the garden under an ancient oak tree I looked up from the book I was reading and witnessed a curious sight. A band of elfin creatures. Ambling in and out of a small hollow in the tree, just above my eye line.

I jumped to my feet, shook my head and rubbed my eyes. When I looked again the creatures were still there. They were as real as you and I, George!  About three inches high, they were. I couldn’t’ believe what I was seeing. The dog at my side whined and backed away. ” 

“What were they like?” I asked.

“I called them Tree People because that’s how they looked. Their skin was brown as a nut, and weathered looking. Their hair and eyes shone bright green and they had twig-like arms and legs. The clothes they wore were also green, a myriad of different shades.”

“Like little men, Grandad?”

“Some looked like men and were dressed in jackets and breeches. Others looked like tiny women, with flowing green locks and little dresses. I stood transfixed, unsure of what to do.”

“How many were there, Grandad?”

“There must have been a dozen of them. Abruptly, they all turned towards me, like they had noticed me for the first time. Then each one let out an ear piercing screech and ran straight into the tree-hollow, where they crouched in the shadows. I could see their green eyes gleaming in the darkness.”

Grandad released a long sigh, and leaned back in his armchair. He drank from his teacup and continued.

“I felt as startled as they did, George. I looked around to see Rex bounding up the garden and into the house. He was smart, that dog. He knew something was amiss, and he wasn’t waiting to find out what.

I had always been too inquisitive for my own good. I went back to the hollow in the tree and peered inside. I could no longer see the glinting eyes. The hollow was dark and empty. There was no sign of the tree folk. I waited by the tree for hours. There was no movement, no sound. Rex didn’t venture back out of the house that day, so I held my vigil alone. I was forced to leave when I heard my Mam calling me inside for the evening.

That night I found it hard to sleep for thinking about the little folk. I felt bewildered. Had I been dreaming? I had no answer, but in my heart I knew it had happened. I longed to tell my parents, but something told me to keep it to myself. So that’s what I did”

“Why didn’t you tell them, Grandad?”  I asked.

A smile played on the old man’s face. “As I have often told you, lad, I would see some peculiar things from time to time. I had learned to keep these occurrences to myself, for fear of being laughed at or not believed.”

“Did you see the tree folk again?”

“For a long time I didn’t see them, even though I was in the garden every day. It was only when I forgot about the incident, and began playing with Rex and loosing myself in adventure stories, that it happened again.”

“The Tree People came back?”

“Yes,” said Grandad with a grin. “One day in late August I was throwing a ball for Rex, while my two sisters sat nearby on the grass, picking daisies to make chains. They were about four and six years old at the time.

Suddenly I noticed something moving nearby them. I moved closer. The Tree People had gathered in a circle around the girls as they picked the flowers. I could hear them laughing and whispering, pointing to my sisters. 

Joan and Clara continued to chatter together, unaware. After a few moments the creatures turned in unison and stared at me. Again they let out a series of high-pitched shrieks. Then, swift as a lightning bolt, they were gone!”

Grandad’s blue eyes stared into mine. “Where did they go?” I asked.

“They disappeared, lad. The girls were still picking daisies and chatting. I turned to call Rex, but he was nowhere to be seen. He had scurried back to the safety of the house!” I gazed at my grandfather and suppressed a laugh. He carried on talking.

“That night I slept soundly for the first time in weeks. Happy now I knew for certain the little folk were real.”

“Did you see them after that, Grandad?”

“Several weeks later I was sitting near the oak tree. I looked up and there they were. Walking over the tree branches near the hollow. I didn’t spring to my feet this time, determined not to alarm them. My strategy worked. They didn’t notice me at all. I sat watching them for about an hour.”

“What were they doing?”

“Gathering small twigs and branches and taking their bundles into the hollow. They giggled and sang as they went. A merry bunch!  It was beginning to get dark when I left them, still busy at their work.”

Grandad’s eyes glistened as he stared into the red flames of the fire. I knew he was reliving memories. He continued. 

“After that day I would glimpse the Tree People from time to time. They worked, frolicked, sang and played; always together in a group.

I noticed they would appear before a happy occurrence in my life. An unexpected present, good news in a letter, a birthday, holidays. Whenever they appeared I knew it would be a good day.”

“Did they ever speak to you, Grandad?”  

“Yes, George. Just once, but it wasn’t in the garden, It was in my bedroom. One night I woke with a start. The moon was shining through the curtains of my window. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

I was astounded to see one of the Tree People sitting on top of my bedspread. He was wearing tiny breeches, and a jacket. A little peaked hat sat on his unruly green hair.  He began talking to me, as natural as if it happened every day.

‘You are blessed and privileged to be able to see the small folk.’ he said. ‘We know you watch us, and it makes us happy. It is a rare occurrence,’

I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t speak. I had never been so close to one of his kind.  His emerald eyes glinted in the moonlit room. At last I found my tongue. ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

The fellow laughed. ‘My name is Mohab.’ 

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mohab,’ I said. ‘I am Edgar. People call me Eddie.’

We continued to chat and he told me about himself. The Tree People in our garden were part of his large extended family; they lived in the old oak tree.

It was an entrancing conversation. I don’t remember it coming to an end. I drifted off to sleep and when I woke up again, the creature was gone.”  The old man put his cup down on the table and sighed.

“We never talked again after that night, George.  But I continued to see the little creatures from time to time. Mostly around the oak tree. It was always a cause of joy for me. I never told a soul about them, until I told this story to you, George.”  Grandad looked at me and nodded, a reflective expression on his craggy face.

“As I grew older, these astonishing events became less frequent. I became concerned with the normal trials of teenage life, school, exams and my friends. I had less time to spend in the garden.

When I was sixteen, my parents sold the farm. We moved closer to the town, and I had to say goodbye to the Tree People for good.

I paid a last visit to my beloved garden on the day we left. I spotted the little folk all lined up on a branch of the oak tree. For the first time they all looked straight at me. I could see Mohab in front of the group.  I was awestruck when he smiled at me and they all began to wave.

How did they know I was leaving? I smiled and waved back. Then my father called for me and it was time to go. That was the last time I saw the Tree People.

Grandad was silent for several minutes. His features took on a wistful expression. I fancied I saw a tear glistening in his eye, but I couldn’t be sure.

I reached for his cup and poured another cup of tea, not forgetting the dram of whiskey.

Ursula O’Reilly lives in County Cavan, Ireland, and writes poetry and short stories. Her other interests include painting and walking in nature.  Ursula has had poems and fiction published in several magazines including:  ‘Poetry Plus magazine’, ‘Woman’s Way magazine’, ‘Drumlin magazine’ (Ireland), and By‘Earlyworks Press’