… and number 4. I just liked the idea of a story within a story.

 

Lightning Tree

 

The wood was old:  firmly entrenched in the small valley.

The trees were old:  gnarled and bent with time and weather’s aging.

The very air itself seemed old:  laden with mystery and portents.

The people were … young, for the most part.

 

“Please miss?  I think I got a splinter from one of the tent-pegs.”

Mrs Calderbank, the Gym teacher, looked down at the girl.

“I doubt it … not very easy to get splinters from metal pegs … let me look at it, just in case.”

The reddening on Karen’s finger had probably been caused by accidentally hitting it with a mallet.  That was her opinion, but she cooed and fussed over it for a few minutes anyway, until the child calmed down.

“There you are.  No real harm done … and I’m glad to see you were paying attention earlier.  I can’t see anything wrong with your tent, and you got it erected very quickly … well done.”

“Thanks Miss.  Judy and Sarah did most of it, but we tried to work as a team, just like we’d been shown.”

This was, perhaps, the main objective of the trip:  to get younger and older students working together.  It also allowed them to let off excess energy and noise, and meant that the school would be a fractionally quieter place while they were away.

“You can relax for a while, now.  The boys have nearly finished the latrines, and the fire is almost ready to start cooking supper … If you want to stroll in the woods, make sure you go with someone who’s been here before … I don’t want anyone getting lost … and watch out for stinging nettles.”

Karen smiled:  her finger already forgotten.

“I’m looking forward to ‘after’ the meal … Judy said we would sit round the fire till it was dark, and you and others would tell us stories … bye, Miss.”

 

This is a tale from not too long ago … only twelve years, or thereabouts … when the woods were home to a wider variety of life … not all of it human.

Did you notice, earlier, the way the trunk of that tree seems split into two near the more recent growth, at the top?  Even now you can see the twisted roots at the tree’s base … the way they are entwined, creating little nooks, and cavelets … and the shadowed ‘holes’ that used to be home to innocent, and slightly mischievous, imps.

There was a dark-mage … not a nice man.  He liked to climb the tree, and sit, almost at the tallest point, so he could survey everything around.  He used to lash the poor imps with switches made of briar twigs, and cared nothing for their pain and discomfort.  He sent the tiny creatures out of the woods every once in a while, to do his bidding … to steal … to plant nightmares in the minds of people he wanted to hurt … to hunt out strange and rare herbs and plants, that he used in his darkest spells.

This went on for a long time, until the night the ‘other’ came.

The dark-mage preferred velvets and silks, which was how he was garbed just then … soft, expensive, powerful clothing with metallic gold braid edging the hems.  He looked with disdain on the ‘lowly’ figure, just arrived.  The plain brown habit they were wearing was made from rough material, and conveyed no sense of strength or importance.

“I have come to stop you.”

The voice was calm, warm, almost friendly, and the mage was not impressed by it.

“You?  Fool?  Forgive me if I sound cynical, but you don’t exactly have me quaking in my boots at your ‘magnificence’.”

The mage hit him with Earth, first … it rippled and bucked under the monks feet … deep chasms opened in front of him, and rocks pelted him.

The figure stood there, feet firm, not wavering, and the rocks merely bounced off.

The mage hurled Fire at him:  torn as if from the gates of hell itself, the flames licked hungrily, curled and surrounded him, seeking to devour with their insatiable appetite.

Smoke cleared, and the figure was still there … untouched, not even sweating.

Next, he clawed handfuls of Air from the atmosphere, and threw it at the figure … a whirlwind, tornado, buffeting, and sucking the oxygen away … it still didn’t work.  The monk’s robes were not even ruffled.

Water, called up from the depths … cold, unforgiving, it swelled up, and flashed, all-consuming and unstoppable towards him … and stopped.  The monk gestured, and the waters calmed:  sinking slowly away without coming near him.

It was the monks turn now.  Clouds gathered overhead, and before the mage could defend himself, a bolt of lightning struck: searing him to dust, and with a mighty ‘crack’ splitting the top of his tree.

The imps screamed, and ran from their root homes.  They were never seen again.

The monk had one more thing to do.  A patch of rich, dark earth was levitated to the centre of the ‘V’ where the trunk had been split … a tiny seed was placed carefully in it, and the vanishing thunder clouds were gently persuaded to shed one, two, three … four silver tears of rain, on the precious gift he had left as an apology … he made a last, quiet vow to the tree, before disappearing from the woods.

“I am sorry for the loss of your friends, but if it takes ten years, I will make sure that you do not remain lonely.”

 

She knew the flowers: a vibrant healthy ‘splash’ of purple, were there, and that no one could see them from ground level.  She knew why the headmaster arranged camping here every summer, to give the tree company.

Sarah also suspected that the ‘true’ story had not been half as pretty, or easy, as her own … but she preferred ‘her’ version.