I am woken from oppressive dreams by furtive sounds in the undergrowth. The woods are muggy and close, the air thick and warm in the watery, late afternoon sun. An unfamiliar sense of anticipation tingles through my roots and branches. Dare I hope?
Through the trees, a couple come into view and approach me curiously. Young – barely more than teenagers – likely from the village nearby. A male and a female, bursting with the freshness and innocence of youth.
The girl is hesitant at first.
– Must we stop here, Joe?
– Why not, love? Youse ain’t frightened of an old tree, are you?
– I am, a little. It makes me a little scared. You know, my Nan, she calls it The Old Enchanted. On account of a mad old gypsy woman died under it a long time ago.
– Oh, hush now Sandra. Old wives’s tales! You’re here with me, ain’t ya? I’ll protect ya, ya know that, right?
– Oh, I do know that Joe. It’s just, well, no one knows we’re out here, and that makes me feel, I don’t know, a little afeared, a little dizzy … shall we lie here a while? You won’t let anything happen to me, will you?
They settle onto the grass at my roots, snuggling into each other’s arms. Presently murmurs of soft endearment turns to little gasps, sighs, the rustle of clothes being shed, a quickening of breath. Time seems to congeal around the outflow of passion, at first urgent and passionate, then after a peak, slow and languid.
Gold and purple shadows elongate, deepen and darken around us as dusk lays its cloak over the woods. Spent, the couple slip into sleep, the girl murmuring,
– Oh, Joe. I love you so much. I do wish we could lie here, you and I, like this forever.
But the boy already sleeps.
I feel a swell of love ripple through me for these two callow innocents, lost to the world, blind to anything but their love for each other. There and then, I determine to help them.
As they slumber, I part the earth below them gently, so that they sink deeper into my embrace. My roots grow and lengthen with barely audible cracks and grunts, inching over their bodies, around their tender limbs, pushing, pulling, tying their torsos together. Body to body, limbs entwined, they now lie face to face, wrapped by my roots in an eternal embrace.
By the time my work is done, even I no longer know where Humans end and Tree begins. It is good.
And now, as the sun comes up, they startle awake, finding themselves entombed. Eyes bulging from sockets, they struggle desperately to break free. But their futile screams are muffled by moss and bark.
What have I done? I am old, confused, the old gypsy is screaming at me. Make her stop! Make her stop!
When the villagers finally come, they bring their axes.
