Tales of the Tree

"Grandfather, the little blonde haired girl asked as she came into the room, "what's this? She held up a plain wooden box, unadorned save for heavy black hinges and an intricate lock. "Grandfather? Are you alright? The old man caught his breath as the awful fear that had clutched his heart lessened a bit.
"Is it locked? He managed. Her nimble fingers tried the clasp.
"Yes. What's in it? The old man looked at his youngest granddaughter. Why her? He wailed in his mind ' of course he went unanswered ' but the memories were already flooding back. All the things he thought he'd banished and locked out of his mind, came back as easily as if they'd never gone.
"Are you sure you want to know Amelie? He half pleaded to the immovable responsibility set upon him all those years ago.
"Tell me the story Grandfather. She said, sounding suddenly more adult, as thought understanding some measure of what she was asking. With a sigh, the old man let his mind wander back all the long years to that night¦

The priest stood by the alter, putting out the candles and just setting everything straight for the next day. His thoughts wandered as his hands made the familiar movements ' the smoky smell from the candles drifting with his mind in the silence.
A sudden noise, like the latch on the heavy south door clicking open, broke into his reverie and he looked round. There was no one there, but the door was open slightly, letting in the cold winter night air. He strode up the nave and, lifting his hand to push the door shut once more, he suddenly froze. A faint groan had reached his ears.
Throwing wide the door his face twisted in horror at the sight that met his widened eyes, "My God¦ On the doorstep lay a man, well what was left of a man. His features smeared in mud and crusted blood, clothes torn and limbs twisted. The priest stooped and lifted him bodily through the door into the church. There was no weight to him, he could feel bones pressing against abused skin beneath filthy cloth.
Laying the man on a pew, prayer mat beneath his head, the priest ran to find water, anything, that might relieve the tortured rattle of breath gasping in that scrawny neck. Half a goblet of communion wine would have to suffice, and the priest hastened back to the man.
The wine indeed seemed to revive him somewhat. The breath eased in his throat and his eyes opened just a little.
"Sanctuary? He croaked past cracked lips and broken teeth.
"You are in the House of the Lord. The priest assured him, "Do not fear for you are in His hands now. The man relaxed visibly, just lying and breathing for some few minutes. The priest, fearing he was unconscious, leaned over him, touching his cheek. The bloodshot eyes flew open.
"Must¦tell you¦ they will want it¦ need to tell¦someone. His voice died to a whisper and the priest held up the goblet of wine once more. Slowly, in broken words in between many pauses for breath, the whole amazing, sad and sorry tale unfolded.

He was a business man, top class executive. He had everything ' fast car, big house, more money than he needed, would ever need in fact. He was driving home from the office, the big powerful BMW swooping round the tight curves in the twisted, tree covered country lane. He enjoyed the smooth control he held between his hands ' it was about the only control he did have right now.
Abruptly, the mindless drive home, the thoughtless peace he had managed, was shattered, and the black void gaped wide once more ' grating on his senses, and pricking his consciousness always. With relief he spotted the lay-by, and shaking hands plunged the car into it. He sat, head pressed into the darkness of his palms. What was wrong with him! The familiar flash of anger rekindled dark blue eyes for an instant, but then faded, leaving the empty gaze that even his friends could no longer bear to look into.
For months now, he had found satisfaction in nothing. His job ' which once he had excelled in and lived for ' now seemed nothing but power games ' irrelevant in the grand scheme of things ' his whole life so far wasted. His house echoed with the emptiness of his life. He had taken to hiding in the study, the smallest room, whose book lined walls both protected and isolated him. The sofa was his bed ' when each night too drunk to climb the stairs to the huge ' empty - double bed, he passed out into oblivion until morning. Outwardly, he was a young successful executive making the most of life. Inside black demons ate away at everything within his head, until all was worthless and pointless, and the only reason to get up in the morning was to avoid the shame of the cleaners finding him huddled up at home.
He couldn't go on like this. The thought, often aired, but hopelessly, suddenly fizzed through him, silencing the demons for a moment and stopping his hands as they restlessly pushed through his short dark hair. New resolve flooded through him ' filling the void, or at least bridging it ' and he pulled back into the road and sped home. His mind, for the first time that he could remember recently, buzzed with thoughts and revelations. He saw, what he'd seen before, but now he knew it for truth, all the things that were missing from his life, and more ' how he could get them back.
Clammy hands shook on the wheel, with excitement now, as he pulled into the drive. Open the front door, reset alarm, dash upstairs to change¦ then what? The wild excitement immediately dropped into the void, and he almost fell ' so great was the change and the fear that he too would plummet through those black depths once again. It was unfounded. The excitement was at once replaced with a restlessness, urgent and unrelenting ' a hot glowing coal in the blackness left by the fire of decision.
Slowly, carefully, as though some outer influence was guiding his actions, he changed out of the stiff, sombre suit, into warm sturdy clothes, and carefully, methodically, put some food and drink into a rucksack. Still obeying some other power, he set the alarm, carefully locked everything, and walked up onto the moors behind his house.
The climb up passed in a blur, but once he emerged out onto the moors ' ankle deep in brown heather and peat ' the cold wind awoke his preoccupied mind. As always, the space up there seemed endless, miles and miles of unchanging scenery, open to the wide sky ' a different world from his air conditioned office full of hassle and deadlines.
He set out, feet taking him further into the moor. The restless energy that had filled his mind like hot sparks, now discharged itself down through his legs ' striding out for mile after mile ' unwearying. The wind seemed to blow straight into his mind and body, cleaning away all the cares and worries, preoccupations and stress. And, most importantly, it blew him away from the void. For a moment, when he stood on the edge of the wild land, the vast emptiness had beckoned ' wind whispering promises with icy breath ' an outer void to match the inner. The temptation to just start walking ' out onto the February moors ' and keep walking until the cold slowed his blood and he slipped into that endless sleep, had almost overwhelmed him ' legs twitching in readiness to obey. He still had to walk, needed to, but no longer to self-destruction. He carefully ignored the murmuring to not turn back ' the demons hard at work to shout through his resolution.
Even when his mind had been so numbed by the cold winter wind that he could relax the gag on the whisperings just a little, convinced they'd been blown into hibernation, he still kept walking. Instead of the heavy barbed darkness that had sat in the core of his being for so long now, there was only rushing air, and a light-headed, detached feeling, as though he'd blow away in a strong gust.
It was when dusk fell that he came out of himself, or back to himself ' from wherever the breeze had taken his thoughts ' and noticed something was different. He was still on the moor ' or at least, a moor ' where as before the far off twitter of birds, the whistling of the wind through the heather and grass, the odd aeroplane overhead, had all reached him without him even hearing them, now he heard they were gone. Silence. His feet made no noise as he walked, clothes no longer rustled past one another. He could hear his breathing, and indeed when he shouted out loud it made the noise, but flat. As though he made no impression on this land.
The sky was a twilight blue. Perfectly clear, not warm or cold. There were no stars emerging, nor the pale shadow of the moon. Or the sun setting. It was as though someone had simply dimmed the lights.
He walked on through this empty land that was not and could not be home, with no sense of time or distance passing. The landscape was unchanging. Undulating heather, grass and peat bogs. There was the odd gully, but no water trickled along the bottom, or pooled in shallow hollows. Nothing breached the horizon, no low bush or wind-tattered shrub, until the Tree.
The Tree rose up from the shifting, unsteady peat into the air. Its branches reached up and up, he couldn't see the top. It got lost in the darkening haze some two hundred feet up. The trunk itself was huge, it would take about a score of tall men to join hands and reach round it. The bark was silvery ' smooth and cool. And ancient. Wherever this Tree was, he knew it had been here before. Before dinosaurs, if they'd ever been here, before man. Before life was even a glint in the eye of the world.
He sat on a grass-covered tussock at the base of the Tree. He noticed it didn't grow up out of the earth, but rather looked as though the earth had settled around it. The trunk got no wider at the base, no suggestion of roots beneath his feet. He sat, the rushing slowly easing in his mind. He would climb the Tree. The thought appeared so suddenly and out of nothing it was as if someone had just put it there. Now he looked, there were a series of knots and gnarled lumps sticking out of the trunk that would make climbing easy, and the branches were all sturdy, spaced just less than his height apart. Suddenly ravenous, he ate some of the food he'd packed, drank some water, and then, began to climb.
Up and up he climbed into the ever darkening sky. Ever there were branches above him and on he climbed. Up and up until he climbed through blackness so complete he could not see himself but his hands still found the branches and so still he climbed. After a while it seemed almost as though he climbed not up, but through, although what he was climbing through he couldn't tell. Space and time perhaps, and when he'd climbed as high as he could he'd come out somewhere different ' somewhere where this blackness inside wouldn't eat away at him, and where demons wouldn't whisper and mutter and urge him to destroy himself and all he'd worked for. His heart leapt at the thought as his mind shunned it. Fanciful.
After some immeasurable time had passed ' perhaps aeons, or merely seconds ' he grew tired. As soon as the first heavy thought entered his mind, the ache in his legs and shoulders multiplying, the sky began to lighten once more, as though it had been waiting for him to be ready. A bit longer, and the branches grew shorted and thinner, until suddenly he blinked, and he was halfway up an apple tree in some strange yet eerily familiar land.
Climbing down the apple tree, he dusted himself off, and looked around. He was standing at the foot of a wind-beaten tree, on the edge of a high moor land, like the one behind his home so long ago. But as still and empty as the moor before the Tree had been, this one was so obviously full of life. Snow lay thick and pristine on the ground, the sky a bright clear blue overhead ' an idyllic winter's day. In a thinner patch of snow around the base of the tree, snowdrops poked their pearly heads above the white frosting, bobbing gaily in the crisp breeze.
Stretching out below was a valley, equally blanketed by snow, but down the centre a crystal stream ran trickling and chattering under ice and round dark boulders. Birds darted and sang overhead, and the flash of a hare in her winter white caught his eyes, and there was the path.
He walked on into paradise. In that tail end of winter he lived beneath the sheltering boughs of an outcrop of the Greenwood which filled the lower valleys and spilled out across the lowland plains. Burrowed deep in a cave at night, he found a deer the wolf had brought down, and took its thick winter skin to warm him. Dead wood in abundance made for firewood, and some ancient race memory provided him with enough skill to survive the first harsh month before the snows melted. It snowed a little every night, and then froze over so every morning the world had been coated anew in a fresh clean blanket. The stream which flowed past his cave stayed free of ice and brought him fish to eat and water to drink.
When the warmer weather came he moved out of the forest cave onto the wide rolling plains. Herds of wild cattle grazed here, and round the edges, nearer the protection of the trees, were the deer and few wild ponies. The plains were covered in emerald grass that waved and flowed beneath the airs like an inland sea. He found another cave at first, high in a limestone escarpment, but as the evenings stretched and lengthened into high summer, he set about building a house.
Down by the river, a wide blue ribbon that wound through the land ' clear and pure ' was a stand of willows, and it was from these that he cut boughs and wove them ' into walls and then a roof, and a low pallet to lie upon ' and his living hut was made.
It was in those fat and lazy summer days, when the new life of spring slowed and matured, filling out with health and abundance, settling down and resting before the frenzied dash for food for winter, that the demons lost their hold on him. He woke one day, one ordinary day. He could almost see the life and vitality of the land sparkling in the early air, and he realised he was at peace. No ugly voice inside his head berated him or told him all was useless ' instead blessed silence ' broken by the early tweetings and chirpings of birds overhead, and the slap of the fish jumping for flies over the murmuring waters.
He relaxed. At last, he had found an inner paradise to match the outer one he lived in. The sunshine seemed to fill every corner of his being ' filling him with easy warmth and light ' and he decided he wanted the company of other people once more.&
Since he had first arrived in this land, this private utopia, his hair had grown until it hung a dark curtain down to his shoulders, mixing with the beard which had felt uncomfortable and strange at first, but now was just a beard. Lines of worry had eased from around his eyes and forehead, replaced instead with the lines of a smile when he saw the turquoise kingfisher dart, or proud stag cast a watchful eye over his herd ' domestic and yet so wild and free. Real food, not junkie rubbish and snacks, had filled out gaunt shadows in his cheeks. But more noticeably now, peace of mind cast an aura of calm well-being out around him, touching everything he came near.
He left his willow house by the banks of the river, taking his few belongings in a soft leather bag he had stitched together ' the modern rucksack not lasting two minutes in this world. His clothes had gone a similar way, and he wore a pair of short furred trousers ' topless in the warm summer days, but a soft suede jerkin for cooler times ' and several thick furs for winter. All this he carried with him on across the plains ' following the river simply because it gave him a direction.
When the harvest time came, the days now creeping ever shorter and that bit cooler, he passed three small houses and then a little hamlet. In return for food and a bed he helped gather their harvest. It was plentiful. Small plots of land had been cleared to grow the corn and wheat, and vegetables sat in neat rows before an orchard heavy with swollen fruit. A small herd of goats grazed the surrounding land, and several pigs were kept in a copse the hamlet stood by. Stooking corn and threshing wheat all day with the men, he then helped gather nuts and berries from the hedgerows in the evenings, and day after day the fish traps were bursting. Four of the six cattle were killed, the meat smoked and packed away in cool earth cellars, the leather tanned and worked, the furs kept against the approaching winter. With his share of the gains, he moved onwards, still down river.
The houses near the hamlet had been stone cottages ' one or two rooms at one end and then a large area for the animals to winter inside on the other side of the fire and near the smoke hole to take out some of the smell. As he got nearer the estuary, the land became more cultivated and prosperous. Rather than one or two fields cleared out of a copse, here whole hillsides were neatly harvested fields with tidy hedges and well rounded livestock. As the scale of farming increased, so too did the size of the houses, and here the animals had separate barns and bothys. Some houses even had two storeys, but they were still built out of the local grey stone.
On a crisp clear autumn day, a little frost still rimming leaves and fronds, lacing puddles and pools, he saw a city.
At first, he thought he'd come across a quarry of marble, for on the flat land beside a gently curving bay filled with sparkling turquoise waters, a labyrinth of white buildings shone in the lowered sun, gold and silver glinting. From the hill he stood on, he could see squares of green grass with elegant silvery trees amid the buildings, and in one larger square, a market of many colours all jumbled together ' a rainbow in this gilded place.
Hastening on, the track he'd been following became a paved road, slabbed with a smooth pale stone that made walking easy. There were no gates or walls around the city, the buildings had an organic look ' as though they had sprouted from the fertile shore. He walked in wonder through these fair streets. Outside the city was a rural paradise ' hardworking and simple. In here, this was a heaven of art and beauty and finery. Women walked the streets in robes of silk ' every colour of the rainbow and then some he didn't even have names for. The men wore similar clothes but the robes were split into trousers at the bottom. Both sexes were tall and beautiful ' finely boned faces and long graceful limbs. The women wore their hair long and loose down their backs, the men's also long but braided and tied back.
People walked alone, in pairs, or groups of friends all laughing and smiling ' at ease. He saw no face with even the hint of a negative thought upon it, and even in his rough furred clothes, no one looked askance, or made him feel out of place.
The honey coloured streets captured the sunlight, and seemed to radiate it out again ' making a warm golden world between the buildings. The tables and benches outside shops and houses were all filled with people reclining, reading or eating. The foods seemed as beautiful as the city ' light fruits and salads, and delicately carved cuts of fine meats to go with them. At intervals along the straight streets, there would be the round dome of a meeting house ' where people gathered to chat and exchange news over a glass of their sweet nectar-brew. It tasted like a fine spring morning ' clear waters running down through flower-laden grass and past honey bees weighed down with their harvest. It soothed muscles weary with walking, fine tuned the mind to learning, and loosened the tongue for talking.
Although the buildings were varied and seemed to have no linking architecture, the effect was not untidy. Instead ' domed meeting houses next to the elegant, impossibly tall and slender towers and minarets which housed the libraries and galleries ' made an interesting contrast, these opposites in the same harmony as the rest of the city. In the many green squares, above the tinkling fountains came the voices of poets and minstrels, philosophers and story tellers. In one square, a man stood carving intricate and amazing sculptures ' simply because he could, and in another, an artist depicted fine scenes ' so real it skewed the sense of perspective ' on the smooth stone floor.
He had already discovered there was no money here. People could barter if they wished, but mostly, things were taken by those who needed them ' as and when they wanted ' from those who could, and so did, provide them. He saw no greed, no envy or pride, no hatred. No dirt and, no slums. Everywhere was prosperous and peaceful, and his soul was lulled by the tranquillity.
He sat in a meeting house over looking a square filled with crystal fountains of different shapes and sizes. They played their waters into one complex design ' lit softly by the smokeless cream lights that lit the streets. Clothed in the silk robes of the city, he sat by the warm fire away from the evening chill, and sipped a glass of nectar. Presently, he was joined by a man whose greying hair and calm gaze suggested age ' but there were no wrinkled cares or pains upon his face.
"Greetings friend ' may the stars of evening light your path always.
"Greetings ' and may the moon gaze upon your way often. The traditional welcome exchanged, the stranger sat upon the bench.
"I have not seen you before friend. Do you like our meet house? His voice, as all their voices, was neutral ' flawless pronunciation and warm, unhurried tones.
"I arrived today, from further up the river. Your meet house is perfect.
"I, Olliet, welcome you to our city. Do you have a name friend? Olliet smiled.
Name. He had had a name. It linked to the void, crushing blackness eating away at him, demons muttering curses and hatred through his life. That name didn't belong here ' in this peaceful beauty. Olliet's eyes grew compassionate as he saw the younger man's pain and fear flash to the surface, and heard in his silence a clear enough answer.
"Perhaps, friend, I will call you Aeron ' it means "born again.

The man sipped the last of the communion wine from the goblet, and sank back with a sigh.
"I had been born again. Free from demons¦ He lapsed into a half sleep, breath still hoarse and ragged, but a little peace had entered his haunted features. The priest fetched more wine, then sat, deep in thought and prayer, all he had heard running through and through his mind.

Aeron saw many years pass in that beautiful city ' years of happiness, peace and harmony. There was no illness, no taint to take away the simple enjoyment of life he had found here. When the old died, they were remembered fondly and with love, their presence missed, but an understanding and acceptance of life's cycles made mourning a selfish and pointless mood ' why waste this day on yesterday's grief?
He lived, as far as it was possible in the opulence of the city, simply. A small house near the fountain square where he had first met Olliet, became his home, and in time, the home of Felice, his partner. There were no weddings here ' there was no need. Once love was declared between two people, it never faded or fizzled out. Neither was there a belief system, other than perhaps that life must be enjoyed to be lived, and so no need to confirm the partnership before any higher power. Life became even more idyllic.
When in time, Felice and he were joined by twin children ' a girl and a boy ' both sharing their mother's honey colouring, and their father's darker shade ' to become golden children, the lights of his life. He spent his days with his family, then in the evening meeting Olliet - for they were still firm friends ' and perhaps sharing a drink, or going to a square to listen to the singers, tellers and players ply their craft.
It was in the twins' sixth year ' the eighth since he had arrived in the city, and the ninth since he had left his old life ' that everything changed.
One evening, Aeron stood with Olliet high up on a balcony on one of the slender minarets. They had been studying some of the ancient illustrated scrolls, and had come out to rest their eyes and stretch the kinks from their bent-over backs.
"It is a fine evening my friend. Olliet broke the silence, watching the brilliant sun dip down below the horizon, bathing the world in gold and amber.
"It is indeed. Life is fine my friend. Nodding, they saw the last rays slip beneath the shoulder of the earth. "What is that? Aeron asked when, a few minutes later, the soft orange glow on the horizon seemed to be growing, rather than fading. Olliet looked for a moment, but shrugged.
"There is another city over there, perhaps they are having a festival.
"It is getting closer. Can you smell that? A hint of burning drifted past on the evening breeze, bringing with it the faint echo of screams and the clash of swords. Wild eyed, he looked at Olliet in panic ' where had the fighting come from? The older man's face was grey, wrinkles suddenly deepening and ageing him.
"They have come up the Tree.
"The Tree ' you know about it? In all his time in this land, no one had given any indication of any knowledge about the Tree.
"Of course ' it is how we came ' our ancestors climbed into this paradise as you did. Now others have followed us up ' but their intent is not so peaceful. As he spoke Olliet turned and ran down the spiralling staircase, Aeron racing behind him. "Warn as many people as you can, send Felice and the children out of the city, then come back here ' quickly! Nodding, Aeron dashed away.
It was chaos when he returned, fighting his way through the hordes of people all running in the opposite direction. These had been a peaceful folk for centuries, there had been no need for defence of any kind, but now that innocence was crushed and tattered beneath the boot of the oncoming attackers, and these artists and craftsmen would be cut down like the autumn corn.
"Here! Olliet beckoned to him. He was holding an axe in one hand ' quite small, but it looked strangely sharp ' too sharp for mere metal ' and in the other a small wooden box.
"You must go to the Tree, climb back down to your world, Now was not the time to ask how he knew of Aeron's past, "and cut down the Tree. It's the only way your heaven can be saved. Those compassionate eyes stared at Aeron, seeing his fear and panic, incomprehension, and a growing realisation that he would never be able to return.
"Let me stay here, die here if I must. Don't make me go back. He pleaded.
"Would you have this fair city run with blood, become witness to rape and theft and vandals? Would you see the woodlands burn, waters poisoned and the land ripped open so they can steal her precious minerals? I cannot go ' I have no place anywhere but here. You can live in your world ' the job has to be yours. He knew the older man was right, it was time to pay back the debt he owed this land ' to stop it becoming like Earth ' polluted and wounded by man's insatiable greed. Nodding, he took the axe and the box, and ran ' flowing with the crowds this time.
Out of the city he ran, not following the river but aiming straight. All the maps he had poured over during his years here had let him pinpoint the Tree, and it was in that direction he headed ' fleeing once more from the demons, only this time they were real and set loose.
A year of slow wandering was cut down to a night of running, and then when fire burned in his lungs and his pounding heart shook his whole body, he walked ' never once stopping ' and as soon as he could he would run again.
Finally, in front of him, stood the gnarled old apple tree. Almost flying, he threw himself into its branches, scrambling up and up, and on his heels he heard the demons screaming. Down and through the darkness he climbed, that in between space in which the Tree was the only constant ' but now his feet slipped in haste from the horde that snapped and screeched above him ' desperate to stop him in his task.
White hot resolve burned through him, fortifying the calm tranquillity he had gained, turning it into a desperation to save that heavenly land, and Felice, and the children. Finally he was out of the darkness, but now the demons were all around him, pecking, plucking and tearing. Scratching at his skin and clothes alike. He could feel his body slowing and responding to the torture, but he managed to keep climbing down.
Down and down, until at last his feet touched the solid earth of that limbo land ' the empty moor still silent and waiting. Into it flooded the chattering goblins and demons ' black and ugly. Clawing his way to the Tree, he lifted the axe.
A hush fell, a pause in time, in which all the demons stilled, and drew breath to launch their final attack. The air hummed with the tension,
His arm fell. One last effort driving that small axe through feet of ancient wood. With an audible groan the Tree swayed, teetered the other way, and then slowly, as though through treacle, toppled over to the ground.
Just before impact however, it disappeared into the rising haze that flowed up out of the ground ' as though this empty land was dissolving ' and with it, with a final screech, went all the demons and the axe. He collapsed onto the heather, smelling the peaty earth beneath him, and feeling the cold night air flow over his broken body. Warm blood seeped slowly across his skin.
Something was digging into his bruised chest. Slowly, mind protesting at being woken from its slow slide into oblivion, he reached inside his jacket ' the sturdy clothes he had dressed in before leaving his house all those years ago somehow back in place ' and pulled out the small box. Dimly he remembered Olliet giving it to him, and knew he couldn't let go without passing on the box to someone.
So he rose and staggered and crawled to the church in the village.

With obvious pain the man pulled out the box ' plain except for heavy black hinges and an intricate lock. As he had told his story, with it seemed to go from him his very life ' eyes growing duller with every tearing breath.
"The Tree linked all God's worlds ' Hell, Earth and Heaven. Good and bad could flow equally between the three, but more and more bad passed into Earth and then, into Heaven. Without the Tree, this can no longer happen ' all are cut off from one another. He broke off, choking and gasping for breath ' red blood leaking from between his lips. "When Earth is healed, purged of all bad, you must plant the seed in this box. It will grow into a new Tree, and then Earth and Heaven will be linked once more. He paused again. When at last he spoke, the priest could barely hear, "Until the Earth is healed this seed must not be taken from this box. It has in it some of the soil from each world, mingled and blended, and only from them can a new Tree ever grow¦ His voice slipped away the came back stronger, "The agents of Darkness here on Earth will search for this seed until they are no more. Keep it safe.
With that last wish, his eyes closed, and the brittle breath stopped in his tortured throat. The priest laid him back on the pew, head bent in farewell. Picking up the small indifferent box, he stood for a moment, hearing the echoes of the man's last words ring through the silence, and settle across his life, and the lives of all who came after him. Tucking the box away beneath his cassock, he went to phone the authorities.

"And they came Amelie, with their blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. They took that poor man's body and asked me endless questions. But I didn't tell them about the box ' where would I have begun? ' and when I got home I put it in the attic and got on with my life, waiting for signs.
"Then you found it, and I think now it's your turn to keep it safe, and wait for the time when it can be planted. The old man looked at his blonde haired granddaughter. She stared back at him with wide blue eyes, and then looked down at the box.
"He was telling the truth then?
"That's what we must wait to see.

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The old woman lay on her bed. The window was open, and when the cool breeze moved the curtains aside, she could see the far off stars and brilliant moon. She sighed. The pain was worse than ever these days, she was so exhausted from simply hurting that her insides ached for relief. It shouldn't be long now. Then she'd see her Harold, and Amy, and everyone she'd ever known that had escaped before her. A single tear tracked down her paper-dry skin. How much she wanted to see them again!
The room grew dim around her, darkness pressing from all sides. A woman stood at the end of her bed. She was wearing a simple white dress, and there was a strangely luminous quality to her skin ' as if she glowed silver from within ' a stark contrast with the inky black hair that flowed down her back. Something told the old woman this was not one of the night nurses.
"Jocelyn. The white woman's voice was as cool and soft as the night breeze, and in it, Jocelyn could hear the ancient wisdom of the stars. "It is time. She held out her hand and instinctively Jocelyn reached out ' it was only when she was standing outside her room, soft grass beneath her feet and the silver moonlight on her white hair, that she realised the pain had gone ' she could move again.
The white woman led her across the grass. It seemed bigger than Jocelyn remembered from her view out of the window. She was sure it was only a small green in between the car parks and the hospital, yet this field went on forever. She could see it stretching out until it met the black haze and merged with the stars on the horizon. When she glanced behind, there was no hospital ' no sign of anything but soft wind-rippled grass. The white woman turned and smiled, real warmth and compassion shining from her dark eyes, and Jocelyn felt her fear subside into wonder.
A black smudge on the dark horizon slowly grew and stretched into a giant tree, its trunk several metres round, lower branches at least fifty feet from the ground. The white woman halted at the base of the Tree and turned to Jocelyn.
"Your way lies up there.
"Up¦ Jocelyn stared up at the dim heights with trepidation and no small amount of disbelief.
"You must climb the Tree as high as you can. When you can go no further, you will have arrived.
"Where? And how am I supposed to climb that ' me who can't even lift her teacup.
"You will be where you have wished to be for so long now ' and climbing it will be as easy as the walk here. Have faith Jocelyn, I wish you well. A shimmer of the moonlit night, and the woman was gone.
Muttering to herself, "¦dreaming again Jo that's what my Harold would say, how you going to climb that tree woman? You're daft¦ Jocelyn nevertheless felt herself drawn to the Tree ' a compulsion deeper than she could understand. Shaking her head at her gullibility, she set her hand to the first knot ' within easy reach ' and began to climb.
After what seemed like a short time, the sky around her darkened until soon she couldn't even see the silvery bark of the Tree scant inches from her nose. Her hands still managed to find the next branch up though ' as if drawn by some hand-magnet she thought to herself ' and so she went on up.
Soon her shoulders began to tire, and the thought of the end grew large in her mind. Just as she first thought about stopping for a rest, the sky lightened, and the branches got thinner and shorter. She blinked to clear tears of weariness from her eyes, and when she next looked she was in the lower branches of an apple tree in an old orchard ' lush long grass beneath sweet swollen fruit. And there, around the base of the tree, playing in the long grass, was everyone she'd ever known and lost.
"What're you up a tree at your age for gal? You come down and stop being daft. Tears of joy, relief and sadness leaked from beneath her lashes now as she climbed carefully down into the waiting arms of her Harold. Joy and relief because she was reunited with all she had loved, free now from the reach of pain or hardship ' and sadness because she knew then that she must have died ' and that was scary at first.
"Quit your crying lass ' there's nowt that needs your tears here. I've got you now and I won't ever let you go again.

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Shadows hid the slim figure dressed all in black. He waited down a side street, the cobbles slick beneath his rubber-soled boots. All the better to catch his target unaware as he splashed through the rain. He checked his watch, any minute now¦
Sure enough a short man of middle-ish years shambled along the pavement. Head bent against the downpour, he only looked up to take a swig from the unlabelled bottle in his hand ' then lurching off to the shelter of the doorway he slept in. As he passed the mouth of an alleyway, a lithe shadow stepped out in front of him.
"Spare some change Mister? He mumbled automatically. The shadow grinned ' white teeth glinting.
"I'm sorry I don't have any on me. The voice was polite, congenial ' at complete odds with the gleaming dagger that flashed silver in the lamplight. It drove in once, surely and expertly, and came out crimson, as the homeless man sank to the floor, in need of no change anymore.
Stepping over his prey, the shadow showed no emotion but the satisfaction of a job well done ' one less down-and-out littering the streets. His conviction in his "mission ' as he thought of it to himself ' sang through his veins. The authorities were powerless ' what had they done against the rising tide of dependents living like parasites off the tax payer's money? His way might be extreme ' he acknowledged that ' but at least he was doing something.
He checked his watch again ' melting into the shadows as a young couple ' hopelessly drunk after a night in the clubs ' rolled past. A grimace of disgust and contempt twisted his features ' fools ' wasting their lives. If only they knew they were inches from one who could snuff them out as easily as a cigarette is stubbed out. When they had passed he looked after them ' considering ' they weren't on his list ' but a little improvisation never hurt anyone ' except them perhaps. He smirked, and watched them walk away ' no. He'd be late for his next appointment ' better take the direct route.
Jumping up he caught the last rung of a fire escape, and hauled himself up. Strength and vitality flowed through him, and he ran, leaping and agile, revelling in life ' in the power he had over all those ordinary mortals who scurried below him ' never once suspecting the almost holy control they could have ' the decision of who lived and who died ' it was almost orgasmic.
His moonlit dance took him right across town ' from the centre to the decaying outskirts ' but even considering the distance, it seemed to be taking a long time. He checked his watch, but it had stopped ' ah well, someone else would soon have no need for theirs¦
The last leap carried him onto the flat roof of a two storey building. He stopped dead, in surprise. All at once as alert and tense as a stalking cat. Over the edge of the roof was nothing ' a grassy field that in the centre held a huge tree. Even from his elevated height, and the distance between, he could see the Tree was huge. He could see the lower branches, but the upper were lost in the low clouds that hid the moon but still managed to illuminate the scene with a silvery light ' cold and metallic.
He glanced behind ' the sea of roof tops he had come over had vanished ' instead was a field of grass, and a huge tree. He whipped back to the front ' the Tree was there. He tried it facing each direction. Whichever way he looked he was always confronted by the flat field and giant Tree. Logic said there was more than one Tree. Intuition said there was only one ' and he had the uneasy feeling that intuition was right.
Climbing slowly down from the roof, he walked with wary caution across the scrubby grass to the base of the Tree. He could remember the first tree he'd climbed ' a memory of sunshine and laughter ' innocence¦ Recognising that they were all things of the past, he still had a strong urge to climb the Tree. Why not? He supposed there wasn't much else to do, and he didn't actually understand where he was, or what was happening, and climbing the Tree would give him time to think.
He jumped up and caught the first branch ' about four feet above his head. Conditioned muscles bunching, he swung himself rapidly through the branches ' something fluid and graceful in his movements ' a flowing shadow. Up and up he moved ' treating it as an assault course for his skills ' choosing all the most difficult routes and trickiest angles to test himself.
Lost in the rhythm of his workout, he nevertheless noticed the sky growing darker around him, and he slowed slightly. When the darkness got so complete that even his night-trained eyes couldn't penetrate it, he gave up the fancy gymnastic approach, and went hand over hand for a while. He lost all sense of movement ' in fact ' if he had to guess, he would have said he was descending, even though he was still climbing up.
Long after he'd had enough, the darkness began to change ' but for the worse. Sulphuric smells belched up into the air with clouds of stifling heat that surrounded him, and he couldn't help noticing that the blackness had a definite red tint to it. Fear began to creep into his movements ' now he stayed close to the silvery trunk and inched down from branch to branch.
Just as the heat became unbearable, the airs shifted, and he opened his eyes to find himself halfway up a thorn tree in a night time city. Not the city he'd been in that's for sure. Climbing out of the Tree he looked around, instinctively on edge ' watchful. From somewhere ahead of him, came the shouts of a gang meeting rivals, the scuffles and threats blown on gusts of stinking air. Off to his left, a sudden tongue of flame showed through a gap in the buildings ' a car no doubt ' run into the ground and discarded. Relaxing slightly ' he was at home in this kind of world ' he moved off to explore his new territory.
The sights he saw that first night; it was always night, but at regular intervals foul creatures scurried and scuttled through the streets, with sharp pointed teeth and bright, alien eyes full of cruel intelligence, and he learned to sleep through those times. The sights he saw would have blinded any normal man. Theft, violence, murder, rape ' all in a night's work for this side of society ' and at first he moved with easy confidence ' he knew how to hold himself in this underworld.
He hired out his skills to gangs ' either or both sides sometimes ' if he was feeling bored. Life was hard ' about survival and getting what you wanted above everyone else ' but he made it, selling himself to the highest bidder ' knowing when to keep in the shadows.
The problems started when he realised that here ' wherever "here was ' this dark underbelly of society was all there was. This was the only society ' and he hadn't seen any honest civilians in all his time here. It made him uneasy, but he had more to think about at that time. He'd gotten himself into the middle of a particularly vicious gang war ' by trying to play too many sides with the wrong people ' and both sides were now intent on him becoming the scapegoat for all their problems ' eradicated by getting rid of him.
The first time they caught him ' disbelief numbed him slightly ' but that was nothing to the desperate fear and hopelessness as he realised they would kill him. Futile anger burned through him ' they couldn't kill him, he had a right to life the same as they did ' he hadn't done them anymore harm than they'd done themselves¦ Then the pain. Nothing could ever have prepared him for the pain of lying face down in a gutter feeling his lifeblood seep away and his body grow cold.
Somewhere, his mind pointed out that this was what his "targets had been through ' and it wasn't very nice was it? He pushed the though away uncomfortably. Everyone he had killed had been a waster, useless and a tic on the animal of society. But they still had a right to life ' the same as everyone ' the treacherous voice whispered insistently in his head. Life was sacred.
He lay, expecting the world to grow even darker than it was ' his body slowly stopping as it ran out of the vital blood. Instead, he felt himself grow warmer. The pain receded and his mind sharpened once more. Uncomprehending, he pushed himself to his feet ' he was unscathed¦ except for the sour and bitter seed of acknowledgement that what he had done on Earth probably wasn't that justifiable. Rejoicing at this second chance at a life he now valued much more, he walked back towards the town.
It was only the beginning however. From then on, he was hounded and killed a thousand times ' more. Each time he learned afresh the indignity and defeat of someone stealing your life, and that seed grew into an almighty thorn bush within him. He never actually died though ' for him there was no blessed relief at the end of it all, only a returning strength and the knowledge that it would all happen again ' even when he was cowed and penitent ' until he had paid back what he had stolen from his victims, with interest.

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"Mummy, why doesn't Polly answer when I talk to her? The little girl asked ' dark brown eyes serious as she contemplated the tiny brindle kitten that sat near her feet.
"Darling Polly's a pussycat, she doesn't talk using words ' and I don't think she speaks English. Her mother tried to explain again ' wondering over her daughter's fixation with talking to animals.
"I wish I could speak to her Mummy, and Tig and Benny. She included the two rabbits who sat, forever twitching their noses, in a hutch by the back door.
As soon as she had been old enough to show an interest in animals, Marie had pestered her mum for a rabbit, then another, then some fish, and now ' a kitten. Her mother went along with her enthusiasm ' it was good for Marie to learn to look after and be kind to other things.
When she was six ' the love of anything animal was sweet ' encouraging. When she was ten, and the house and garden were overrun by her pets and projects ' a puppy to train, chickens to get eggs ' her mum regretted slightly that first rabbit that had started it all off. When Marie was sixteen, and her animals overflowed to a neighbouring farm where she kept two horses ' a mare and her foal ' a sheep, a goat and some ducks, her mother had the distinct feeling that something was going to have to give.
"Have you done your homework? Before you disappear down the farm for hours. She called up the stairs where she knew Marie would be getting changed to tend her charges.
"Mmm, I didn't have much tonight. She never had much ' her mother sighed with a shake of her head ' she lived for those animals, school was just an interruption.
"You've got that day tomorrow haven't you ' when you have to submit your final choices for sixth form. She was met with silence. Sighing again, her mother retreated to the lounge to catch Marie as she went out the door.
"Your school work is important you know ' you'll need good qualifications if you're going to be a vet. What she could see of her daughter's face behind the curtain of long dark hair was troubled.
"Mum¦ I don't think I want to be a vet anymore ' well I know I don't. I don't even want to go to sixth form. She spoke quickly, forcing the words out. There was a thick silence, then,
"Well what do you want to do then? Encouraged by her mother's calm reaction, Marie brought her head up, and spoke excitedly of a plan obviously a while in the making.
"I want my own business Mum, I'll train horses and dogs, and I'll be an animal behaviourist to help the rest as well. She waited, on tenterhooks, for her mum's reaction.
"How do you plan to do that Marie ' you're only sixteen ' you can't just have a business ' it takes years of work and a huge amount of money ' which you don't have. Marie's face rapidly retreated by behind the hair.
"You always said I could do anything Mum ' and I believed you. She got up and went out ' to the farm, to her animals.
The wind had sprung up as she moved around the yard ' clear and fresh in her face. Abruptly, she decided to ride out to the top of the woods, where hopefully the gusting air would blow away her troubles. Her horse jogged and clinked the bit ' sensing her agitation, the weight of crushed dreams on her shoulders, and the fierce determination still burning inside to prove her mother wrong.
Restlessly she loosened the reins a notch, and the horse instantly moved up into a smooth, powerful canter ' carrying her swiftly up the hill. Once at the top she pulled to a halt and sat, staring out over the patchwork fields that gave way to the sprawling suburbs, and then to the deep green woodland stretched out like a quilt below her. The wind seemed to blow straight through her ' fanning the flame of determination, and sloughing away all the frustration and hurt anger. When she felt clean and clear right through, she carried on towards the trees.
The horse picked her way down through the tussocky grass and then through the whispering branches. There wasn't a set path, just a way through the trees marked by the feet of dog walkers and the occasional horse rider. The woodland was alive around her, whispering and swaying leaves sent shadows chasing each other across the leaf mould. Small creatures chattered and hopped around the roots of slender silver birches, sycamore, ash, and the stately oak.
As she got deeper into the woods, the light took on a strange tint, as it passed through green leaf and flitting shade. The smell of damp earth and old, gently rotting wood got stronger and sweetened the air with its fusty greenness. There was no sound except for her horse's hooves shifting through dry leaves, the wind had dropped away.
She didn't recognise this part of the woodland ' she had been riding on autopilot ' thinking about her dreams and hopes for life ' and perhaps wouldn't have noticed if she'd left the path. But it was there, dark and clear in front of them ' clearer than normal she thought, and straighter ' the trees standing respectfully to each side ' leading her in.
The path broke through a circle of yew trees ' ancient and gnarled ' and then ended in a clearing, The sunlight seemed bright after the dim forest light, and the grass that carpeted the floor especially brilliant. Small white flowers dotted the green, and seemed to dance around the tree in the centre.
Surrounded by a ring of toadstools, the Tree stood huge and ancient before her. Slipping down off her horse, she felt a strong urge to climb up into its lofty heights, and see what solutions the age old bark could bring her. Leaving her horse free to wander the clearing, she walked over to the Tree. Its silvery bark at first looked smooth and seamless, but on closer inspection it was gnarled and cracked enough for her to climb quite easily. The trunk stood up and up ' the lowest branches at the top of the canopy of trees surrounding it ' and she couldn't see the top, lost as it was in the deep blue haze of the sky. She began to climb.
Up and up she climbed, high above the other, normal trees, and then on through the branches. They were set at just less than her height apart, and still she climbed on easily, needing to get higher.
On she climbed through the deepening haze into complete and utter darkness. She could no longer see the smooth bark in front of her nose, but her hands seemed drawn to the branches as though she were made of iron and the Tree magnetic ' so still she climbed, needing to clear the blackness so she could see.
Just when the first doubts began to creep into her mind ' that perhaps somehow she had got lost ' the darkness began to lighten and she climbed into an azure blue sky similar to the one she had left, but the ground was very different. And very far below.
She was sitting on a small platform in the lower branches of a giant redwood tree. Below her, green plains rolled and stretched to meet rocky mountains on her left, but to the right, they sloped down to a red sandy beach, and then a clear turquoise pool. Beside the pool sat an old man ' his face a deep brown and lined with wisdom ' crinkles round his eyes from staring into the burning sun. He suddenly stared up at her, and she felt it was time to come down.
Wooden pegs had been pushed into the tree, and a rope net tied round the trunk to make it easy to access the platform perched in the sky. As she climbed down, she realised her clothes had changed to match the man's below. Soft brightly coloured woven tunic, over short suede trousers and then soft moccasins on her feet. A feather, hung round her neck from a leather thong threaded with wooden beads of every colour in the rainbow, wafted in the gently breeze. A buzzard circled lazily on the thermals high, high above.
She joined the man at the water's edge. He fixed her with deep brown eyes, impossibly bright and full of a wisdom she couldn't even scratch the surface of. Feathers were tied into raven black hair that fell about his shoulders, and red and blue striped patterned his cheeks. In the centre of his forehead ' between his eyes ' was a white circle, that seemed to glow slightly.
"Sit. He motioned to a striped rug laid on the ground beside a circle of hot coals, and a stone jar of yellow powder.
He sat cross-legged facing her, and threw some powder onto the coals. Silver smoke rose and a heady, pungent scent filled the air ' spicy and yet sharp, hinting at dreams and secret knowledge. She felt her consciousness alter, felt herself drift off ' saw herself sitting loosely on the rug, heard strange words, magic words in a language her ears didn't understand, and then she was whirled away on a fragrant wind, the white dot the man had placed on her forehead burning cold and clean.
"Awake. At the man's voice her eyes snapped open, and consciousness returned. She was changed. She could feel it buried inside her. Some new thinking, a fundamental shaft of understanding had lodged deep down. Her gaze turned inwards ' trying to find it.
"You have the knowledge of the wise ones. The way of the wolf and leaping salmon and running horse, is yours now. Use it wisely. She looked at the man in incomprehension and growing excitement. He motioned to the Tree. "You can return ' you will be allowed this once. Still not understanding, but feeling the new knowledge hot inside her, she climbed back up to the platform. The air dimmed around her, and when she tried to look back at the man, there was only blackness ' complete and utter.
Down and down she climbed, the change in her shifting and coalescing to one bright spot on her forehead between her eyes. Pausing a moment, she touched the place where the old man had had a white circle. She couldn't feel anything, but her skin felt hot and tight with the strangeness.
Her mare looked up from her grazing and came over to meet her when she finally stepped down onto the green, green grass. She thrust her velvet muzzle into Marie's hand and, instead of the usual vague human idea of welcome, Marie knew she was being greeted as clearly as if the mare had spoken to her. The angle of her body, position of her ears, even the gently swishing of her tail took on new meanings and became clear. Half afraid she was dreaming, Marie felt herself respond ' angling her body, using hands and head to answer the mare's greeting ' to welcome her and let her know all was ok.
On the ride back, Marie's head buzzed with the wealth of information she could suddenly access from all around her. The twitter of a blackbird unseen beyond the path became a warning call that a threat ' her ' approached. The constant twitching of the squirrel's tail spelled out a semaphore message that was so suddenly easy to read.
When she got back, the dogs greeted her as always, but she could read their glee when she responded in a way they could understand, and she felt a renewed sense of wonder at the complex subtleties of their language.
He mother heard her come in and go straight upstairs, and her heart sank ' she was obviously still angry at the way she had spoken to her. But when, a little later, she heard her daughter's voice, lifted sweet and joyous above the radio, she knew everything would be ok, and her daughter's dreams perhaps weren't so far off anymore.

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She sank her head into the cool sanctuary of her palms. Sometimes, she really wished she was just an ordinary person, who could worry about the bills or what to wear, instead of how to pass on a message to a grieving mother that her son's death had not been an accident, but that he had committed suicide. The mother naturally had been distraught, stricken by grief that her son had been so unhappy and she hadn't noticed. The son had tried to reassure her ' through Lauren ' but even so, Lauren didn't think she'd ever seen anyone cry so many tears.
Feeling drained, her office stifling around her ' still echoing with the woman's grief ' she had to get out. Donning her coat against the bitter February snow, she ventured out into the streets. There was no peace here, but she hoped the brisk rhythm of her walk would clear the shadows.
No such luck. The midday streets were thronged with the inhabitants of every office block and shop ' or so it seemed. All on their lunch break, and her walk was a jolting, disjointed stop-start-dodge, which only left her more annoyed and desperate for a quiet spot.
"Con! She pleaded her spirit guide, "Show me where I can get some peace!
"I thought you'd never ask. The quiet amusement in his voice calmed her instantly, and she felt his hand on her shoulder, guiding her feet through the slush covered back alleys and twisting labyrinth of the city.
She followed him trustingly, soon leaving the familiar roads and new businesses, and threading through run down, deserted areas that she had never seen before. This was the old heart of the city, denuded by the regeneration and expansion of the outskirts ' leaving this empty hole in the centre ' the doughnut effect ' she remembered from some long ago geography lesson.
Con led her to the gates of a derelict warehouse that backed on to the slowly silting-up canal ' once the industrial artery of the city. The warehouse was huge, four or five storeys high, and coated in a thin film of grime, so that even the green ivy growing in through the broken window panes seemed like a slow infestation devouring the old decaying building from the outside in.
Lauren walked in through a smaller door hanging crazily on rusted hinges. Inside it was dark ' the only light source the rapidly growing-over windows, and the shadows had a green tint to them. Her footsteps sounded deafening over the debris-littered concrete floor.
At the far end of the warehouse ' looming out of the dust-filled gloom ' was a giant tree. A familiar tingle down her spine told Lauren this was no earthly tree, and indeed, no roots cracked the brittle concrete to support its thick trunk. It really was huge. She couldn't see the top ' it was lost in the shadows ' or somewhere else ' and it was no surprise really, when Con urged her to climb it.
Up and up she climbed, her unsuitable office shoes making light work of findings nooks and gnarled lumps to gain a foothold on. When she reached the lowest branches, the roof seemed no nearer ' the gloom if anything thicker up here ' and the shadows lowered until she was climbing through deep blackness that soothed her frayed temper and began to ease her back into balance. Not completely though, for before the process was complete the darkness gave way to a lighter sky and she blinked, suddenly finding herself sitting in an apple tree in a lush orchard.
The grass beneath the trees was long and green, filled with wild flowers and the sound of bees gathering their honey. The air was sweet and clear, warm but not hot, and a gentle breeze moved the thick curtain of her hair. She walked down through an avenue of apple trees, all hanging low with fruit ripe for the picking. She walked to the end of the orchard, to where it became a small garden of yew and oak, elder and rowan, and silver birch. In the centre was a clearing of soft grass, cut by a tinkling silver spring. Birds sang in the trees, bees buzzed and the soft breeze whispered over the chattering stream. She sat in the middle of the grass, feeling the sun warm her, and peace returned.
When some immeasurable time had passed, and she felt fully refreshed and renewed, she saw Con walking towards her out of the trees ' Con as she saw him in the spirit realm now walking over to her. She stood and embraced him, feeling for real his strength and love.
"Come on, it's time for you to go. He held up his hand as she made to protest, "You have work to do in your world ' but you will always be able to come back to this garden up the Tree anytime you need some peace and stillness. Reassured by his promise, she followed him back to the apple tree, and he laced his fingers together so she could step into them and up the tree.
"See you in a minute. He whispered, and when she blinked, he had gone.
She climbed up the apple tree and up into darkness, until finally she climbed down the thick old trunk of the Tree and into the deserted warehouse. She felt Con's presence once more, but could no longer see him.
"I'll take you a quick way back to your office ' your next client is waiting. He led her through a different maze of back streets and alleys, and then there was her office, hordes of people passing outside. Reaching for the inner calm and stillness, she plunged back into the fray.

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The late summer evening was balmy ' the oppressive humidity reduced to a lazy warmth and cool breeze that skipped past the faces of those in the pub garden. Sipping cool drinks from cold glasses in hot hands, looking out across green fields dipping to the river ' bliss.
"Right lads ' I promised the missus I'd be back for supper, so I'll see you tomorrow. Ted pushed away from the wooden picnic benches and strolled back to his car amid half-hearted jeers at his obedience to his wife. He didn't care, at least he'd kept his Dawnie, not like Jack ' divorced last year, or Simon poor bugger ' his Jules passing away from the cancer. No, he decided, they could jeer all they liked, life was good.
He got into his car, it was boiling inside. Sitting with the doors open for a moment, and the windows wound right down, he caught sight of one of the "Don't drink and drive posters on the pub door. Well he'd only had two ' same as he did every night ' and he couldn't think that in the ten-minute drive home through the quiet village he'd suddenly lose control tonight.
Humming a jingle from the radio, he backed out of the car park, and made his way home down the neatly walled roads. Bright flowers spilled over the grey stones, their sweet scent rising into the sky. The warmth seeped into his mind, despite the window being open and the blower on full tilt at "cold. He was lulled into a cosy trance-like state, watching his hands move on the steering wheel as though from a long way off. He flicked his gaze up to the children playing on the pavement, but the warm silence in his head blocked out their raucous chatter and shrieks of laughter.
He moved on, down emptier roads leading to the very outskirts. Fewer children here, his eyes moved back into the car, limbs filled with an easy lassitude. He felt safe, cocooned in cotton wool.
Bang.
His car lurched and jerked him back to himself. Killing the engine he wondered if a tyre had burst in the heat ' some of them were a bit worn. Getting out of the car, he made his way round ' front right, back right, back left, front¦ "Oh¦ God. His voice was a strangled murmur, his throat closing up at what he saw.
Beneath the front left wheel, the broken-doll body of a little girl, no more than seven, her blonde curls flung haphazardly against the black tarmac.
Panic gripped his chest and he reeled away, clutching at the hot bonnet as though it were the only real thing in a maddened world. Fumbling for his mobile phone, he called 999 and asked for the police, and an ambulance.
"A little girl's been hit. He croaked out the name of the road, the village, but then hung up before they asked for his.
Loose fingers dropped the phone back into the car and he shut the door, and walked ' staggered ' then ran across the fields away from the river.
His disjointed half-run, half-stumble took him into the cool darkness of the woods. Rough sobs shook his stocky frame cowering on the floor, blunt fingers clawed at his face as he tried to scrape away the image of what he had seen ' the knowledge of what he had done. Deep and bitter hatred rose up out of the darkness inside him, stilling the sobs and twisting his face into a grimace of self-hatred and fury.
Scrambling to his feet he moved jerkily, restlessly, like a puppet with a broken string, through the trees. He came to a thorn bush by a little stream, and the disgust at himself filled his mind with a black mist. If only he had walked home, if only he had not had a drink, that perfect little angel ' someone's little baby ' would still be playing in the summer heat.
Absent-mindedly, still screwed up in his nightmare, he picked a thorn from the bush and plunged it into the fleshy part of his palm. The pain woke him like a breath of cold air, and he looked down at the red spot forming on the calloused skin. He deserved it. The pain was a punishment. Again and again he drove the thorn into his hand, face scrunched in a desperate fury, until the blood ran scarlet from his palm and dripped down his wrist.
Abruptly, he stopped and rinsed his burning hand in the quick tumbling waters of the stream. He looked around ' the frenzied turmoil inside abated for a moment ' and saw the tall quiet trees standing all around. They knew it had been an accident ' they didn't care what he had done ' his actions so insignificant in their long life of standing and growing. Then he saw the dark ivy that slowly wrapped itself around their trunks, creeping up and up, until it stifled the life from within them.
The panic threatened to rise over him again, and he got to his feet, stepping over the stream and walking restlessly, desperately, further into the woods.
Finally a huge tree in his path stopped him. He needed to step to one side to see round it the trunk was so thick. He knew he was running away ' running away from himself ' and he knew that was impossible, but he couldn't stop. In despair, waves and waves of black despair that rolled and broke over him ' their oily surf crashing through him ' he leaned his head against the cool bark.
Climb the Tree.
The idea was suddenly clear ' the childlike notion that this would make it all better ' and trusting, hoping, he began to climb. His shaking hands slipped on the gnarled knots and his feet missed easy footholds, but he managed not to fall, and soon gained the lower branches.
He realised the forest had been dimming gently all around him ' night finally falling ' he guessed. But as he climbed up the darkening kept pace with his climbing, until eventually he climbed through black, black darkness.
He lost all sense of direction ' he was still climbing ' but moving neither up nor down in the blackness. Eventually, exhausted, he paused to rest. He could feel the Tree unmoving and solid at his back, yet he sensed the darkness changing, until it stretched out away from him in all directions ' an endless, starless night. He felt calm, yet knew something was going to happen, yet he could wait.
A pinprick of light appeared in the distant darkness, growing larger as it moved steadily nearer. When it reached the Tree, he could see what looked like a small person surrounded by blinding white light. With a surge of horror and awe so great that he would have fallen from the branches ' were he not fixed, unmoving ' he realised it was the little girl.
Her beauty was so pure ' angelic ' that he squirmed and cowered away from her light, yet at the same time yearned painfully for the touch of something so heavenly.
"I forgive you. Her voice reached his mind without passing his ears, and seemed to carry on through him ' splitting him and breaking him ' so great was the relief and thanks, and knotted torment at her goodness.
He felt himself unravelling, spinning and stretching out across this eternity ' wretched and released by her gift. He drifted on the winds of Time. There was no need, no where, to run anymore.

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"Why can't you just be normal? Why do you have to screw yourself up thinking and worrying about these things that aren't even important? Her mother beseeched her daughter. What had happened to the sunny, happy child who was always smiling?
"It's important to me Mum. Do you think I like being screwed up, different from everyone else, thinking about things until I'm not even sure what's real anymore?
"Then why do it? It's these books you read ' filling your head with rubbish.
"I can't help it Mum. I hate it and I can't help it ' but I don't want it to stop. Her voice was suddenly calm, impossibly weary, as though she didn't know how to carry on any more. The lack of comprehension in her mother's eyes just made her more tired. How could she expect anyone to understand ' she didn't understand herself. "I'm going out. Her mother didn't protest, helpless at not being able to say the right things to her daughter ' to make it all better as she used to ' but now she didn't even know what was wrong.
Tara sat on the wall round the cemetery with her best friend Rob. The soft evening sky was clear, brilliant stars sprinkled across infinity, the round moon full, gazing down.
"Do you ever feel like there must be more to life ' that if you just knew how to see it, all this magic and wonder that you read about would be there ' real? There was a pleading quality in her tone that stifled Rob's instinctive mocking reply.
"I think life is just life Tara ' you make of it what you like. She shifted in agitation.
"Yes but how do you know if what you make of it is real, or just your own imagination ' and then soon they'll come and put you on pills for being mad. There was real fear now ' muted ' lurking within her voice.
"You're not mad Tara ' you see things differently. That's no bad thing. Who knows, you could be right, and it's all the rest of us who are stumbling along in the dark. She gave him a wan smile.
"Thanks. She slid off the wall, stretched, "I think I'm going to go up on the moors for a bit, try and clear my head.
"You want a friend?
"Always ' but I think I'll go alone this time.
"Be careful.
Her feet found the familiar path that wound and dipped and eventually climbed its way up onto the bleak moor behind her village. The moonlight was bright enough not to need the small but powerful torch she had in her pocket, and she walked beneath the wide expanse of velvet sky.
Up on the moors, especially at night, she thought she could feel the slow life of the land humming beneath her feet. The air tasted sharp and clear, and she lay back on a smooth boulder beside the path ' losing herself in the magic of the stars.
The peace lasted for all of two minutes. Obviously tonight she would gain no solace. How could she find respite up here, when all that she came up here for ' the magic and raw nature ' might be inside her head, and this no more than a patch of scrubby heather over rapidly eroding peat.
Helplessly, she felt the twisting conflict rise up again inside her. She knew there must be more to life than the everyday rationale she saw, she even thought she could find it sometimes, and the restless impatience would relax a little, before rushing back as she wondered what if it was all in her imagination ' and life really was the slow trudge towards death that she so desperately didn't want to believe.
Sighing, she got off the stone, walking away from the argument that raged inside her ' wanting to believe what she felt, but not daring to in case it wasn't real. The path led her on across the moors. Up and down, steep gullies with brown water turned black by the night sliding along the bottom.
Occasionally the dark mass of a sheep would shift suddenly ' startled by her presence ' but she didn't see them. Her eyes saw nothing, her mind held in careful stasis by the cold air she breathed in, and out, and the heavens wheeled overhead.
Eventually, she saw that what she was waiting for was evidence. Irrefutable proof that would show her one way or the other. But then she realised ' she had plenty of proof there was nothing extraordinary about life ' but she didn't believe it. Before her mind could start up in its worn track once more, she fixed it firmly, by willpower alone, onto her surroundings. How far had she walked?
She didn't know. Far enough for the lights of the village to be out of sight. She checked her watch. She'd been up here about three hours. That would mean she'd walked about six miles ' although she hadn't been paying attention to how fast she'd been going.
She wasn't worried ' she'd roamed over every inch of these moors for as long as she'd been able to walk. She looked around for a familiar landmark ' a specifically shaped ridge ' anything. She didn't see one. What she did see, was a huge tree rising out of the stiff heather and saturated peat about fifty yards to her right. She'd never see in before ' she'd surely have noticed a tree that big.
But what if she was so far off the usual paths and tracks¦? The worry niggled in her head, but then cleared as she had an idea. If she could climb the Tree¦ she'd be able to see in which direction the village was. Oh but the branches didn't start until quite high¦ shut up and climb the Tree!
There were enough gnarled lumps and bumps for her to climb easily into the lower branches. She looked out at the moor land but the Tree seemed to be in a dip ' she hadn't cleared the horizon yet. Feeling the bark ancient and yet still very much alive beneath her hands, she climbed higher. And higher.
Her worry fell away as she climbed up and up towards the stars. It felt as though something amazing was just ahead, just beyond the next branch, so she kept climbing upwards.
When the subtle darkness ' that had slowly draped its wings about her until the blackness was complete ' closed over her, she paused, frightened. This was no ordinary tree. She tried to see the ground below her, but all was dark. For an ageless moment she floated in a void of uncertainty, then felt the pull of promises of magic. She climbed higher.
When her arms ached from pulling her upwards, and her knees hurt from being scraped on rough bark over and over again, the darkness began to lighten ' imperceptibly ' until she blinked and was in the arms of a great oak, high in a forest.
Shakily, she climbed down, and then stared about her in wonder. She could feel the vital life force flowing through the soft loam beneath her feet, and through the trees and plants that surrounded her, and in all the animals she could sense through the Wildwood. And through her. For a few moments, she could see it ' a brilliant glow edging everything, and sparking sometimes through the air ' but then her eyes adjusted, and it faded.
Every sense was heightened. The gentle breeze that fluttered across her face spoke of warm magic, honey and bright flowers, white, flashing water and high, bare crags amid the dense Greenwood. She could hear the sounds of countless creatures busy about their lives between the bright green leaves. Every colour seemed brighter ' more vital ' the energy from the earth flowing up through her legs to her body ' rejuvenating her until she was sure she sparkled herself.
Moving among the trees, she found a rushing white stream, flowing from a turquoise plunge pool at the foot of a steep dark cliff face. Stooping, she cupped a handful in her palm and sipped it ' letting the shock of the icy cleanness spread right through her.
She wandered on, creeping softly past a stag, drinking from a pool. He raised his antlered brow and fixed her with an eye that was at once soft and gentle, and yet also held the mystery of a starlit night, and the secrets of the wind through the trees ' wild and unknowable. She saw salmon leap up impossibly high rock steps ' their wet bodies gleaming in the brilliant sun.
Everything was as she could have imagined in a wildest flight of fancy ' only better. And for a moment, a shadow moved across her new sunlit world ' what if she had finally gone insane, was lying in a hospital bed somewhere, eyes looking where no one else could see ' inside her head. The old fear gripped her, shaking her from this magical wonderland, and she sank to the mossy floor in despair.
A tingling through the air made her raise her head. In front of her, suspended in mid-air, were two shining, tiny figures. The brilliant glow she had seen outlining everything earlier still sparked and flared around these two. They were perfectly formed ' and then she noticed the gold and silver wings fluttering to a blur behind them. Hardly daring to believe what she was seeing ' yet knowing, in her heart of hearts that they were real ' irrefutable ' she followed as they beckoned and darted off. To initiate her in the mystery and wonder of life ' every life ' that is there when you know how to look.

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The man quickly ran his hands over all the equipment laid out before him, checking off the inventory in his mind. It was all there. A gleam of anticipation and excitement shone in cool green eyes as he thought of what he was about to do, that familiar buzz before solving a mystery, dispelling a myth¦ it was all in a days work.
He'd known when that old salt down in the village pub had started muttering about a great tree up on the moors above the bay, he'd known there was something to it. Whilst others laughed and brought the man another drink to loosen more tales from his tongue, Jem had sat speechless, his mind working furiously. He'd heard the ring of truth in the old man's ramblings, felt the reverberations echo through his consciousness to tell of a great secret, a hidden answer to one of life's great mysteries. He'd heard the promise of what he'd trekked all the way down to this back of beyond village for ' the promise of magic.
When the crowd had moved away, still chuckling and shaking their heads, Jem had gone over to the old man and introduced himself.
"I couldn't help overhearing what you said, He paused but then hurried on as the man opened his mouth to defend his tale, "no I believe you, I've had many experiences of such strange things ' it's my job you might say. " He gave that enigmatic, half smile ' practised long in front of the mirror. "I know there is much to life that passes unseen. The old man, who's name was Seamus, stared long at Jem, clouded slate blue eyes meeting clear green ones.
"Aye well, what did you want to be knowing? I see now I should never have opened me mouth, but perhaps the drink went to me a head a moment.
"I'm glad that you did speak. All I wish is to know how I might reach this tree. Just to see it for myself. Seamus' lined face had closed up.
"Naught but trouble comes from dabbling in that of the Good Folk, you stay away. It were a mistake that took me to it, I'd not do the same by choice.
"Believe me when I say have some knowledge of such things. Jem sighed, he'd been hoping not to actually have to tell the man what his job was ' it always ended up with them thinking he would offer them money for they're tales and legends, "I'm a reporter for a magazine, we investigate paranormal and supernatural phenomena all over the UK and abroad sometimes. Please help me out, I came all the way down here just for some such chance. Seamus seemed to be weighing something heavy up in his mind,
"My throat's mighty parched from talking all evening you understand. He said slowly. Hoping that this was all the payment he'd get away with, Jem gladly motioned to the barman for another round.
"Right then. Seamus settled back in his seat after first taking a long pull at his pint. "You wanted to know where the Tree is? It's up on the moor above the bay. That's all I can say. I have no idea of how I got there or back come to think of it ' it was all a dream. He'd stared, eyes wide ' defying Jem to protest or disbelieve him ' but Jem was an old hand at these games and he'd stood, gravely thanking the old man for his help, and strolled out of the door.
His mind was buzzing with excitement, roving ahead to the article he'd submit, the sensational photographs and all the praise and amazement that would come his way once he shared this new secret with the world. He allowed himself these delicious imaginings for a moment, and then with practised discipline reined his mind in, focusing on his preparations for the task. He had no doubt that he would find the Tree, it just required the right approach.
He rose early the next morning, early enough for the last shades of dawn to still be clinging to the heathered shoulder of land that cupped the village between it and the sea. He dressed in the tough outdoor gear he'd brought with him, and filled the rucksack with chocolate bars, a drink, and all manner of equipment ' video camera, temperature meter, a tape recorder for sound ' everything he could think he might need to capture the Tree he packed carefully into the rucksack, topped by a pen and notepad. He took with him a map of the moorland, a compass, handheld GPS and a torch ' there was nothing he was not prepared for.
Leaving the village in the brightening tones of early morning he moved swiftly up into the hills and then onto the flattened expanse of heather and peat broken only by granite outcrops and the wheeling and calling of seabirds in the distance. The horizon was unbroken. Not a tree in sight ' not even the scrubbiest shrub. He smiled ' just as he'd hoped ' the Tree was no ordinary tree.
As he walked, he started the video camera filming, and the tape recorder listening and the temperature meter so far measured the warm sun that was beating down on his head. He began to prepare himself for the journey. He opened his mind, relaxing and letting the rhythm of his feet, his breathing and his heartbeat, fill his consciousness. His eyes no longer saw the bright day around him, or heard the cackles of grouse startled by his approach. His feet walked the moor, but his mind, his soul perhaps, walked an in between place ' waiting, letting whatever might happen, happen.
His foot suddenly sunk in a patch of softer peat, plunging him in pungent mud and cold clammy water up to his ankle. Coming back to himself with an abruptness that left his disorientated and dizzy, he freed his foot, and looked around.
A spark of excitement and satisfaction flashed through him ' he'd done it! Where before had been scudding white clouds and the rolling heather beneath the raucous calls of seagulls, now was only a twilight blue sky ' utterly clear ' and soft heather yes ' but it was different. No sound but the sound of his breathing interrupted this empty land, and he knew he must be close. Focusing his thoughts on the Tree, he walked on.
Finally there it was, rising impossibly tall out of the moorland before him. It seemed not to grow out of the earth, but rather the soil could have settled around the great trunk as the world formed. The trunk was huge, big enough to need a score of men to join hands and circle its girth, and it stretched up and up until its branches were lost in the deepening haze. The bark was skin smooth, not a crack or knot anywhere ' absolutely perfect. Its height hinted at wonders beyond imagining, but held them aloof. He knew with absolute certainty that it was unclimbable, to even set hand to it would be the greatest wrong.
Suddenly remembering them, he checked his equipment. To his utter dismay none were working, just dead bits pf metal and plastic in his hands. Hot with disappointment at the vision of his photographs and detailed measurements being crushed before he could even think about the article he would write for them, he cast the tools aside, tossing them carelessly back inside his rucksack. Even the pen wouldn't work when he tried to draw the Tree, or even describe it.
He stared in anguished desperation at the Tree before him, as though he could gain some consolation from burning its image into his mind's eye. As he looked, it was not an image he gained, but rather, understanding began to nudge at the back of his skull. There was a time and an order to all things, he knew this. Yet he had come to the Tree of his own will, not that it was his time to do so. The Tree was in front of him because in some way it was always there, throughout everyone's lives all the time, but inaccessible, unknowable until that one moment in time when the barriers between the worlds were lowered, when the Tree called. It had not called him, and so he could not answer.
As this unfolded in his head, he looked away, feeling the Tree's presence as he knew the sky was above and the ground below, but there was no need to remark upon either. Lost in his thoughts, he only realised he had left that in between, limbo of a land, when the icy peat water bit through his sock and gnawed at his foot still half submerged in the bog.
Stepping clear, he turned and began to make his way back towards the village. He hadn't anything to show for his day's work, certainly no life-changing article in the making, but he was content. He understood, and the feel of that understanding inside felt better than all the articles and accolades in the world. He returned to the village, the Tree already fading from memory ' little more than a dream ' but it had left its mark on him, and he was glad, in a way, that he couldn't write any of it down.

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The first jolt woke her. Shaking her from sunshine dreams into harsh strip-lighted reality. She looked around the carriage. Unease was almost palpable in the air ' why?
The train had stopped.
She glanced up at the scrolling message display above the doorway. Helpfully it remained blank ' no messages. The other people around her were all looking around nervously, peering out of the windows, trying to conceal the anxiety by talking loudly and angrily to anyone listening.
"Honestly, the railways today ' can't even get a simple trip from one station to the next right. I haven't time for any of their unscheduled stops. A large-bodied, large-voiced business man was telling his neighbour ' a feeble looking scrap of a man who seemed to shrink further and further inside his suit at every word.
Another jolt. And then a long slow creaking moan.
Her heart fluttered nervously. She'd heard that sound before, in films ' the sound of dying machinery ' ships and¦ trains.
The sharp clattering chatter that had filled the carriage before ceased suddenly, as though a giant hand had clapped over their collective mouths, creating a vacuum of silence that dragged at her ears and throat. Everyone just sat, not moving in case it made anything terrible happen. They sat staring at each other, at the message display, out of the windows ' looking for answers and reassurance.
A breathless member of the on-train team appeared in the doorway as if by magic. All attention was suddenly focused completely and utterly on him. She was surprised he didn't recoil beneath its intensity.
"Erm, He swallowed, eyes darting nervously. He was young, probably not long on the job. "Erm, there has been an incident involving the train. Please remain calm and in your seats until further notice. He ground to an abrupt halt, stood ' sweating and worried in the doorway like a rabbit caught in headlights. There was silence, deeper than before, and then,
"What do you mean incident?
"What's happened?
"Is everything ok?
"Are we going to die?
A thousand voices suddenly swelled in righteous anger and fear, drowning out the cavernous silence with a wave of pure noise as people half stood and demanded answers. But even that couldn't cover the next groan of tortured metal, the audible result of stresses and strains acting on parts definitely not designed to cope with them, the sound of hardened steel bending and slowly breaking.
The voices died away, and the attendant bolted.
Before anyone could take a breath, before the noises had died away, the whole carriage jerked to one side, listing to port like a sinking ship floundering in heavy seas.
She was thrown against the window. Hands gripped the armrests so tightly her bones ached, but she'd rather her fingers snap than let go. No one dared move, lest they unbalance it even more. There was a moment when time stood still ' when the world stopped turning. And then the carriage fell.
Over and over it rolled, sliding and slipping down the embankment. It didn't fall far, but it felt like a hundred miles ' the passengers thrown like confetti against walls, floor and ceiling. Another man fell against her in the chaos, slamming her hard against the toughened double pane of the window. Her head connected, and the frenetic scene splintered into mad whirls and star bursts. Then the carriage flipped and the man fell away. She hung against the table, the armrest, bruising the soft muscle of her stomach, crunching the hard case of her ribs. She'd shut her eyes, but neon lights burst in the tightly clenched darkness, flashing with rainbow colours inside her head. Each flash accompanied some new part of her connecting with jarring force against so many hard unmoving things.
As abruptly as it had begun, the wild maelstrom ended. The shriek of rending metal ceased and silence burst loud in her head ' seeming to echo. Painful breaths rasped in and out ' not enough. Her arm and one leg were twisted, bent impossibly beneath the table she had landed against, and deep inside she felt the slow spreading warmth of pooling blood ' seeping through ruptured tissue and split vessels to gather, dark and soft, in the hollow places. The echoing in her head seemed to grow, drowning out the low murmurings and whimpers of the other passengers. Someone began to cry ' softly at first and then wild hysterical shrieks. Screaming and screaming, but no one could help. No one could reassure them that everything would be ok.
She opened her eyes just ' slits to let the horror through. She saw the mouse of a man, just his face and arm poking from beneath his large neighbour. The mouse-man's eyes stared at her, sightless and unseeing, blood staining the corner of his mouth. She closed her eyes again, not wanting to look, and the pain grew in waves of gathering darkness ' the darkness of old blood ' that rose up and engulfed her.
There was no respite, even here all was garish and nightmarish, straight from the darkness of Hell, and so she fought her way up again ' back towards the light. The breaths ' so painful ' weren't working. There didn't seem to be enough air, and every indrawn gasp sounded wet and warm. She gagged, rather than cough, and didn't even notice the tickle of pale pink liquid that wetted her lips. The carriage seemed to tilt again, dip crazily sideways, but it hadn't moved ' the movement was in her mind ' the dizzying slide of consciousness away from her.
She saw, in a moment of fractured disorientation, herself looking up at her looking down at her looking up. The self looking down stood and smiled at herself looking up ' a beautiful smile framed by silver-blonde hair and topped by deep green eyes. It was a sad, happy smile ' a smile of farewell, of leaving for better things. Tears started in her eyes looking up. She understood.
She watched as her spirit walked out of the carriage, out of the carnage, could still somehow see as she came to the base of a huge tree, and began to climb. And as she climbed that tree with no hand or footholds, herself looking up smiled too ' past the tears ' and the pain began to fade. Everything began to fade, until she felt better ' unbroken. She smelt fresh grass and heard the gentle buzzing of bees in the flowers.
She opened her eyes. She stood at the foot of a gnarled old apple tree in a beautiful orchard. It was warm and calm. There was no pain, no sorrow or fear ' only good things. And she sat down in the long grass, to wait, and grow whole again.

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The felling of the Tree passed with barely a shiver across people's subconscious. Some of the more sensitive experienced a strange, flattened sensation, as though a 3D image had suddenly been reduced to 2D. But for most, the event went unmarked. A brief moment of unease, passing without a second thought, and life moved on.
For some though, the sudden sense of dislocation and isolation, a raw edge to their consciousness as though some part had been ripped away, was at the least unbalancing.
An office worker in Kent went home after coming over faint and light-headed. A park keeper dropped his tools and stood, staring into space for ten minutes, trying to locate the source of this loss. Twin girls in Hull went to sit quietly with their teacher after both had suddenly and simultaneously burst into tears in the middle of playtime. They were inconsolable for the same ten minutes, and then sat sniffing, red eyed and doleful, as though they'd lost their favourite teddy or doll.
Of the few who felt the Sundering, an even smaller proportion understood what it meant. A retired schoolteacher stumbled on a note as he played the piano, then his fingers carried on, silent tears running down leathery cheeks. A mother of three stopped with her trolley in the middle of the supermarket, eyes skyward, then continued, her features drawn as if in great grief or pain.
The Earth stood alone. The mid-point of a trilogy bereft of its companions ' the extremities which made its middle ground suddenly lost ' inaccessible.
All throughout the unseen world, the tremor passed like wildfire after a drought. Angels turned their golden faces and wept for the abandonment of their earthly kin. Demons hissed and chattered, rumour running rife of all that had occurred ' their escape out into lands in need of corruption and darkness cut off. They were trapped to stew in their own vitriolic anger and fear and hate. The blame was passed back and forth, up and down and along the ranks, from petty imp to masterful fiend ' suspicion and paranoia ran like eels through the reed beds. But this was common in the Darklands.
And what of those beings of Light and of Darkness who tread the earthly paths in human guise? They all felt the Sundering in their cores, their heart of hearts. The beings of Light were poised between sadness and hope; sadness at the loss of their homeland to them ' never again would they see so close the magic of the starlit night. They were sad also for the good people of Earth ' now doomed to stay on this green and blue planet ' and know nothing higher or lower ' a stilted existence. There was however a glimmer of hope for them. For now the Darkness was finite, the Light had a chance to win back the balance of Earth ' to tip her once more towards the brighter things. For Good always wins if given a chance ' and this was a chance alright.
And as for the Dark ones. Those who linger on the edges of shadows, keep to the shaded side of the street, and are known in the underbelly of society. They muttered and cursed, spread thin their resources to locate the Seed, destroy the hopes of Light as the shadows too were crushed, but it could not be found. The cold light of desperation filled their faces, for they knew they were slowly but surely being beaten. The wheel had turned from the rise of the Darkness, now was the return of the Light. Those Dark ones smiled cold smiles that didn't reach their eyes, and plotted. How to ensure the shadows still lurked once they themselves had passed away? No doubt ways were found, but they have not been felt yet ' it is too soon.
The dead returned to the ground ' bodies slowly turning back to earth and dust ' and their spirits sleeping between the bones, waiting for the doorways to open once more.
Religions suddenly decided it was here on Earth that mattered ' not what happened after death ' and began to revise their teachings ' becoming more focussed on living a fulfilled life, rather than preparing for death. More people attended the services than had done for many decades.
Works of pure creative genius ceased ' the golden inspiration no longer able to float through from between the worlds. And the formation of weapons and dark, warped things stopped ' the madness needed no longer flowing like oil through the background.
And the Earth waited quietly, spinning slowly, feeling her balance shift back towards the light, towards Heaven, and felt also the warm promise of the Seed. She would again be physically linked to Heaven, to the Light. All it would take was time ' and she had plenty of that. A world shut off in itself ' healing itself ' waiting.

The cold wind moans softly,
Through jagged stones high
On the moor's edge,
Breath through the broken teeth,
Of a sleeping giant.

Through sable night,
A woman walks,
Cloaked by stars and
Moondust.
She carries a box.

On and on she moves,
Across whispering heather,
And past the deep,
Hidden secrets of the peat.
The full moon gazes down impassively.

A world within a world,
And without.
At once a part of and
Completely separate.
Here an old stump rests.

On the stump,
The woman places her box,
Her burden.
She flips open the locked lid,
And steps back.

A flash of molten fire through the blackness,
For an instant all Time stands still,
Holding its breath.
The box glows from within,
Something changes.

Up and up a new Tree shoots,
Aeons of growth compressed,
To a momentary pause in
Existence.
The Tree reaches up to the Light.

Earth linked to Heaven,
Heaven to Earth.
Choirs of angles sing their praises
Up to far flung stars,
The magic ringing through the worlds.

But down,
Deep beneath everything,
The roots twist and stretch,
Down their winding road,
To Darkness.

Human wisdom falls short,
For shadows cannot exist
But for Light.
Its counter-point and balance,
Creation needs the Night.

And so once more,
Three worlds,
Linked,
Balanced,
In harmony.
For now.