Take a break from gobsmacking news and the barrage of affronts to our moral codes. This week, I offer a short story about the consequences of disrespecting what is important to others.

There will be no post next week while we all enjoy the holiday weekend. In the United States, Saturday April 19 will be the second “Hands Off” rally; here’s hoping they reach the 3.5%, peacefully and safely.

Keep your joy.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger, unless it’s a holiday weekend. Or summertime. 

The Fairy Tree

In my present form I am able to recall my history as a human. No, recall is not the right word. It’s rather more a series of ethereal sensations that disappear as rapidly as they arrive. Histories, stories, and such are meant for those who care to listen. I wished I had.

Both my parents were only children; my singular arrival satisfied them as sufficient. My mother died when I was nine, old enough for me to understand that food had to be on the table, clothes washed, floors cleaned. My father did what he knew; he worked in the factory. He handed his pay over to me and I took care of it as my mother had done before. I had no time or inclination for childhood fancies. I kept up my schoolwork. By necessity, I kept to myself. 

After my father passed, I took a job teaching at the local school. There were lots of young people around me but I couldn’t seem to find my footing with them. Once, our school librarian encouraged me to branch out and took me with her to a party. After a few uncomfortable hours I begged off and returned home. We never again pretended at friendship. When she left to get married, I regretted not trying harder.

With my other colleagues, I developed a reputation for being downright prickly. I couldn’t picture myself on a date, but I liked to imagine myself in love. I suppose therefore, I was ripe to fall for the first man who paid me any attention. 

Sean came to Canada temporarily to earn extra money before returning to Ireland to take over the family farm. He said he liked my sensible ways. I said I liked his dreams. His voice, with the melodious accent, soothed me like a soft breeze on a warm day. He told stories of the farm, his mother, younger brothers and his old Gran. When he asked me to return with him, I readily accepted. For the first time in my small life I imagined a bright future, a growing family, love and laughter. 

Sean sailed home ahead of me while I finished out the school year. We planned to marry within a month after my arrival. I had expected his family to greet me with warm hugs and some kind of cheery Irish celebration. It was nothing of the sort. As soon as the food was cleared from the table, Sean excused us, muttering about showing me the rest of the farm. He walked in front of me at a pace I found difficult to match. Well. If he was angry, fine. So was I. Why had he never told me his family expected him to marry the local girl? We marched in single file along an old cart track.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” She had an Irish name I couldn’t pronounce.

“Because you’re the one I want to marry,” he said and kept walking. 

“Your Gran doesn’t seem to be very friendly,” I said, trying to force the argument. He stopped and turned, “Oh, Gran is friendly enough all right. She just can’t appreciate a guest at the table telling her she is being superstitious.”

“A guest? Is that what I am?” 

“Don’t be daft. Gran was trying to include you in what is special about this farm, about this property. You only had to listen.” His face was tight with annoyance, “You insulted her. All of us.” 

I scoffed, “It’s the middle of the twentieth century. You expect me to swallow tales of fairies and trees like I’m a child?” 

He shook his head and resumed walking. I sighed and followed. The rolling fields around us looked like every picture of Ireland I’d ever seen. The air itself seemed green.

We climbed a low hill. Odd looking bushes I later learned were gorse caught at my skirt. The top of the hill was flat. In the centre stood an ancient tree. The trunk was thick, dark and gnarled. Roots bubbled up from the earth as if from a buried cauldron. Entwined branches twisted upward but realizing the sky had nothing to offer, they bent back downward to encircle the trunk instead.

Sean took my hand and we crouched low to enter the bower. There was enough height near to the trunk to stand straight. The chill damp air smelled fresh and earthy.

“This is it? The fairy tree?” I felt obliged to keep my voice hushed.

“Yes. My family has been the steward of it for generations.” He pulled me to him, his arms felt strong and warm. The tension of the dinner fell away. He ran his thumb along my jawline, “This is my inheritance. I want it to be yours too.”

“It’s lovely, it’s remarkable, but… your Gran spoke of fairies who will curse anyone who harms it.” He sighed and pulled me out from under the umbrella.

“Stories are our blood and bones. Look.” He spread his arms out to take in the green fields rolling to the horizon,

“How many trees do you see?”

I shrugged, “A few.”

“A long, long time ago, this island was so thick with trees, one had to climb to the canopy to see the sun in the sky. The trees gave our people everything we needed—shelter, tools, weapons for hunting, firewood, even medicines. In return, the people protected and cared for the trees. And then one day the invaders came. They saw the trees as profit for themselves and they wanted the whole island. Our people fought hard to save the forest and our way of life. The invaders understood the best way to fight us was with an axe. When they felled the trees, they felled our hearts. Ancient survivors, like this hawthorn, protect the spirit of who we were before we were conquered.”

It was quiet all around us. The late summer sun was setting, colouring the few clouds a rosy pink. Patchwork fields rolled off into the distance. I felt set adrift. Sean seemed peaceful, perfectly at home, moored comfortably in the landscape. I cleared my throat, 

“But, …fairies?” 

Sean’s answer was wooden, “You disrespected my Gran.”

“Because it’s a tree. Not a fairy.” 

“You want to fit in here? Don’t be the outsider who tells us we’re some backwoods folk chasing pots of gold.”

The word “outsider” stung. I looked him in the eye, reached up and snapped a dry twig off a branch. His face darkened, he turned away, headed back down the hill. I pulled my sweater close against the quickening wind and pursued him, ten steps behind.

During this time of our engagement, before we had taken our vows, it would have been bad luck for me to stay at the farm. I took a room in town and found work at the diner. Customers trickled in to order tea and scones, wary eyes sliding sideways to check me over. I knew I was being compared to the local girl. I didn’t care. He had chosen me. 

Connor, the cook, teased me by saying my offspring would have to carry on for seven generations before they’d be accepted as truly Irish. I appreciated his friendly banter. Outside of moments alone with Sean, it was the only time I felt included.

Sean took ill with some sort of fever that sapped his energy and kept him in bed, our wedding plans were postponed indefinitely. Every day I rode an old bicycle out to the farm to visit him. The skin around his eyes grew dark and crepey. His family, his three younger brothers and his parents were polite enough to me. His Gran, though, with dark eyes, deep-set in that walnut brown face, followed my every move with barely masked hostility. I kept my attention on Sean, fervently wishing him to get better.

One slow rainy day in the back room of the restaurant I twirled the twig in my hand. I carried it with me everywhere. For all my scoffing at the notion of a tree protected by fairies, I couldn’t bring myself to throw the stupid thing away. Connor caught me looking at it,

“What’s that you have?” 

“Just a twig.”

“Is it now? I’ll tell you what, there’s the bin. Go toss it.”

My feet felt rooted in cement. He nodded at the twig, “Don’t tell me how you come to be holding that, but your man’s illness…”

“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted.

“You need to return to where you got it. It’ll be clear enough what they want.”

I couldn’t help myself. I rolled my eyes.

“They?”

“Don’t belittle what you don’t understand.”

I’d been nowhere near the tree since breaking the branch. I climbed the hill and was surprised to see deep red seed pods capping the tree. I approached feeling strangely like an intruder. The sensation to knock, or call out ‘hello’ struck me as so ludicrous, I snorted at my hesitation, crouched low and entered the bower. 

The earth smelled rank and reminiscent of something rotted. I couldn’t sit still. My flesh goose-pimpled, my heart raced. My light sweater offered little comfort. I felt cold fingers touch the back of my neck. Panicking, I bolted out from under the branches. A tree root tripped me and my face hit the ground hard. The wind howled in my ears until I recognized my own scream. I pushed myself upright, spat the dirt from my mouth and ran down the path, trying to ignore the wind whipping my hair and skirts.

At the farmhouse, Sean lay in his bed, his eyes as sunken and dark as his Gran’s. It hurt to see him like this. He ranted and moaned when I took his hand. His family clucked and stirred. His teeth chattered so much the broth his mother tried to spoon into him spilled onto the pillow. Old Gran, in her chair by the window, sat with her fingers in her lap looking as dry and brittle as a bundle of sticks. She stared hard at me ’til finally, I raised my eyes to meet hers. She pointed with her lips toward the door. In the kitchen, she gripped my wrist in those gnarled fingers,

“What you’ve done, you must make amends for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She let go my arm as if she were tossing rotted meat to a stray dog. I slammed out the back door, grabbed my bicycle and turned toward the tree. Low clouds scudded across the sky. I could smell rain on the air. 

In the glowering light, the abundance of red pods dripped earthward. This time, I approached the shroud of branches with some reverence for the beauty of it. Within the shelter, I knelt, shut my eyes, calmed my breath. I could see Sean’s face, pale grey in the dim light of his room. I kept my mind still and watched, as if I were there with him. His breathing slowed, some colour rose to his cheeks. The twig burned in my hand. I laid it carefully down and stretched out beside it. My energy blended effortlessly into the spirits who rose to greet me.

Sean came to me at sunrise. He found my body, arms crossed, hair spreading out to match the roots. I lamented his tears, but had no regret for my death.  

Were I still human, my days would be ending. I feel Sean’s vitality ebbing as he walks about the farm. His sons and grandchildren do the chores he once did; the local girl bore him the sons I should have. 

Some of us once were human, some were always in this form. We care not for any human who would bring harm to this tree.