The 8th Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories

THE TREE Joyce Marsh

Reita Oxley lay still, but wide awake in her narrow bed listening tensely to the shallow breathing of her husband sleeping in the large bed beside her. There was no light, but the huge moon threw twisted beams, painting the room with bizarre stripes and patches of luminous light. Suddenly the man in the bed coughed and moaned restlessly. With the swift silence of long practice, Reita slipped from her bed and padded across the few feet that separated them to look down at her husband. Thankfully she saw that he still slept and the slight cough had not been the forerunner of another attack. The harsh light of the moon accentuated the dark spots of colour high on the cheek-bones and the blue-tinged lips showed black in the moonlight.

As she lay down once more Reita felt a surge, not so much of sorrow, as of anger that her five short years of happiness were to end so soon. For the past year her husband’s heart, strained by the privations of years in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, had grown steadily weaker. It had been only five years ago that he had first come to her father’s house in Northern India where he had been sent to recuperate in the soft climate of the hills. Young, gay, and always laughing, he had seemed almost like a being from another world to that household steeped in the traditions and superstitions of centuries. It was not surprising that the young Reita had loved him. It was more surprising, perhaps, that he had loved her and married her to bring her home to this strange and lovely England.

Now he was dying. She turned her head to look out of the window. The moon was huge, like an Indian moon but colder, and so close that it seemed to be tangled up in the bare twigs and branches of the great tree that grew outside the window. The brief gusts of a March wind made the little twigs toss and jump but the trunk of the huge old oak moved not at all. It stood as it had done for countless years, its roots deep in the earth drawing up the strength that made it impervious to wind, rain or man.

The sick man moaned again and the sound filled Reita with an unreasoning anger, this time against the tree. She suddenly hated it for its strength, feeling it a mockery of her husband’s weakness. The thought that it would stand there firm and untouched long after George was dead seemed almost obscene. ‘In my country, in my great-grandmother’s time, I might have been married to such a tree,’ she thought, ‘but I married a warm, living, loving man and now he is slipping from me while the tree lives on. If only he had the strength of that tree I could believe again in the ancient gods and customs of my ancestors; if the strong sap coursed through my husband’s veins he could live while the tree died.’ Shuddering slightly at her own ridiculous thoughts, Reita turned away from the window and closed her eyes. In doing so she did not see a slight tremor that ran through the trunk of the old tree, or notice the brief, but violent shuddering of the branches.

The next morning the sun shone clear and bright; when Reita awoke she was surprised to see George awake before her and already sitting up in bed. ‘Sleepy head,’ he called to her with a grin reminiscent of their early days together. ‘Let’s get moving,’ he went on gaily. ‘You’re going to trundle me right round the garden before breakfast, my lady.’ Reita jumped quickly out of bed, pleased, but not deceived by his lively mood. She had seen so many days that he had started like this, bright with hope, only to watch the vitality slowly draining from him until the day ended in breathless gasps and exhaustion. She gave no hint, however, of her inward despair as she matched her mood to his, laughing and chattering as she dressed herself and him.

When George was at last ready and sitting in his wheelchair, he repeated his demand that they walk in the garden. Only too pleased to give him what pleasure she could, Reita had him carried downstairs and they set off through the lovely English garden. All the way George talked and laughed and constantly called on her to stop while he examined the Spring bulbs just showing through. Even a tiny leaf bursting from a newly-pruned rose excited his interest. He seemed so gay that Reita managed to push aside her sickening dread for him. She forgot for a while that his strength must soon ebb and his chatter die away. But the day wore on without any change in George’s mood and no signs of his vitality flagging.

After lunch he wanted to go back again into the garden. The sun was quite warm and he sat in his chair under the old oak. Reita had wandered a short distance away when he suddenly called. The urgency of his voice frightened her and as she turned to him the expression of repulsion on his face further alarmed her and sent her running towards him. George was staring down at his hand. The fingers were held stretched out and across the upturned palm lay a little twig snapped in two. As Reita came near she could see a red stain spreading over George’s hand, and from the broken ends of the twig oozed tiny little droplets of red sticky fluid. ‘It’s blood, the twig is bleeding . . .’ George’s voice was thick with the revulsion he felt for the thing on his hand.

‘Nonsense,’ said Reita, disguising her own disgust. ‘You must have crushed an insect when you picked the twig.’ Hastily she wiped away the stain, and hurried to get her husband back indoors, lest the unpleasant incident should spoil the best day he had had for months. But as she walked round to the back of his chair she felt something warm drop on to her cheek from the low branches. Looking up she saw a broken twig and, hanging from the end, a drop of blood. Fortunately George had not noticed, so scrubbing hard at her face she pushed him indoors. Once inside, George seemed to forget the whole episode and the lay continued to its end in the same gay mood in which it had begun.

March gave way to April and the glorious Spring sunshine seemed never ending. To Reita’s delight and his doctor’s utter confusion, George grew stronger every day. They spent a great deal of time in the garden and the sick man’s favourite place was under the oak. He seemed to have completely forgotten the little bleeding twig, although Reita noticed that he never reached up to pick another.

It was towards the end of April that George first insisted upon leaving his wheel-chair to try a step or two. Reita was a little apprehensive, but the last few weeks had brought such a return to happiness that she was determined to live each day as it came without thinking of tomorrow, so she did not try hard to dissuade him. They were in their usual place under the oak tree and when she helped him to his feet his firm stance astonished her. She held out her arms for him to come to her, but he turned away, to walk easily and steadily to the trunk of the tree. He flung his arms as far round as he could reach and the feeling came to Reita that this was more a gesture of love than a need for support. His voice too, when he spoke, frightened her. ‘This old tree is in a bad way, in fact I reckon it’s had it.’ His tone was flat and expressionless and yet somehow triumphant.

Striving to suppress an unreasoning panic, Reita spoke lightly. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. It’s a bit early for the oak leaves yet. In a couple of weeks it will begin to leaf-up, you’ll see.’

‘In a couple of weeks it will be dead.’ This time there was no mistaking the curious note of triumph in his voice as he answered her. Reita felt a sudden cold shudder pass through her; fear that she could neither understand nor explain gripped her. It passed in a moment and she was soon laughing again as George showed his new-found strength and sent his wheel-chair trundling into the fish pond. From that day George never again referred to his illness. He walked in the garden, practised golf and even rowed a little. His doctors came and went away without seeing him, since he refused to be examined. Reita knew that she should have been overjoyed, and to a certain extent she was, but at times she could not rid herself of the strange feeling of fear that there was something sinister in this near-miraculous recovery.

George spent so much time under the old oak, that often when she saw him there, his hand on the trunk or gazing up into the lifeless branches, the same cold shuddering panic came to her as it had on the first day he had walked. She found herself willing the oak tree to show signs of life and every day examined it for the little buds of new leaves – but none appeared. Spring had softly slipped into Summer before Reita admitted to herself that there was no hope for the old tree. All around her the garden rustled and glowed with bright new leaves; only the oak stayed bare and stark. Crumbling holes had appeared at the foot of the trunk where the roots had loosed their grip on the life-giving earth. With a sense of foreboding she walked away from the dead tree to sit in the rose arbour. As she looked towards the house, George came out of the garden door. He stood for a moment looking for her but she did not immediately call to him; instead she watched him, unseen, allowing time for her ridiculous depression over the death of the tree to drain away. At that moment a flock of small birds flew over her head towards the oak but, a few feet away from it, suddenly turned and wheeled away in fright. George had seen them, too. Slowly he lifted his arms and stretched out his fingers. At once the birds flew to him, settling on his arm, hands and head. They were gone again in a few seconds. As Reita ran across the lawn, the birds flew off and George turned towards her, smiling. Neither of them mentioned the episode, although George looked at his wife’s anxious face with a kind of desperate appeal. She could not overcome the dread in her heart enough to talk about what she had seen.

The next day the contractors came to take down the dead tree. It was to be cut up and carted away, not a branch or twig was to be left, even the stump was to be dragged out. Once Reita had accepted the tree was dead, the sight of it repelled her and she had ordered the work of its final destruction to be carried out with a desperate urgency which surprised the foreman of the gang sent out from the local builders. The men worked all day and by late afternoon only the roots remained. Reita wandered out on to the terrace to watch. The winch wheezed and panted, slowly gave way, until at last the stump was out, leaving a gaping wound. The workmen seemed to be gathering around the hole, staring down into it. Curious to know why, Reita went over.

The men gave way for her and, looking down, she saw the raw broken clay stained and in the bottom of the pit a little pool of red sticky fluid. Shuddering, she turned enquiringly to the foreman, and then she noticed for the first time that he and all his men were splashed with red and their hands were stained with it. Closing her eyes to shut out the sickening sight, she turned back towards the house, not even hearing the foreman’s mumbling attempt to explain the number of nasty diseases that can attack an oak. George was sitting at the window and as Reita came into the room the expression in his eyes drove from her mind the horror of that blood-stained hole. Gently she cradled his head in her arms and soothed him until the shuddering of his body had died away and he was calm again. They never spoke of the old oak.

That night the moon shone clear and bright, flooding the bedroom with an unusual light, unbroken by the shadows and dancing patterns cast by the tree. Reita lay awake a long time gazing about a room that had suddenly become almost frighteningly unfamiliar. George still slept alone in the big double bed and she could hear by his breathing that he had long since fallen asleep. Her husband’s distress at the death of the tree had been deep and shattering and for a long time he had clung to her, the shuddering sobs racking his body. With a deep sigh she pushed aside these vague fears, determined that the next day would bring a return of those days of exultant happiness after George’s miraculous recovery. So she fell asleep, only to be awakened some hours later by a faint rustling in the room. It was difficult to tell where it came from, but instinctively she turned to look at her husband. Her eyes flew open wide in sudden fear, for George was not there. Instead, the twigs and branches of a tree spread across the pillow and covered the whole bed. It was gone in a moment. As she sat up she could see his dear familiar face turned towards her and hear the soft deep breathing as he slept. She lay down again, half laughing and half angry with herself for being frightened of the shadows cast by moonlight shining through an old tree, but was asleep again before she had time to remember that now there was no tree to cast shadows on the bed.

Reita woke late the next morning and George was already up. There was no sound from their bathroom so she guessed that he must have gone into the garden for his usual morning stroll. The warm sun shone through the window – dispelling the fears of the night. For a moment she lay enjoying this moment of peace and happiness. It was to be the last moment of peace she was to know.

The carpet was soft and warm to her feet as she slipped from the bed and went over to the window to look for George. She saw him at once; he was still in his pyjamas, standing on the red clay where the tree had been. Even from that distance she could see the anguished contortions of his face and the frenzied straining of his body. Looking down she saw that his feet were buried to the ankles in the ugly red clay and all his struggles could not free them. Even as she watched, the oozing mud crept higher up his legs. Stifling a scream, Reita turned and ran out of the house and into the garden. George was still struggling when she reached his side, and dropping on to her knees she clawed at the mud with her bare hands, frantically pulling it away from his feet. At last, when her fingers were raw and bleeding, he gave a heave and was free. Sobbing with relief, Reita helped him into the house and back to their room. She would have helped him wash the filthy mud from his feet, but at the bathroom door he suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her gently. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ he whispered and went into the room, shutting her outside. Wearily, Reita dressed. Everywhere around her now was filled with an unknown terror, and without understanding how or why, she knew that her husband’s whispered words were to be his last farewell. With this realization came the calm acceptance and the patient resignation that she had inherited from her ancestors. Carefully she put away her dress, and, for the first time since coming to England, she wrapped herself in one of her jewel-bright saris. She clipped into her nostril the tiny gold bead that she had first worn for her baptism, and the caste mark on her forehead glowed bright as the Indian girl quietly left her room to go about her household duties.

In the weeks that followed, George rarely spoke and, although he drank huge quantities of water, he ate very little. He spent long hours in the garden standing where the tree had been. Birds flew around him and often alighted on his head and shoulders, sometimes little insects crawled over his face arid hands, but he seemed not to notice. The servants saw his strangeness and they feared it. Reita kept her fear within herself, hidden by a calm acceptance of fate, and so the long hot. Summer wore on. At last it seemed that the fine weather would break, for the day had been hot and thick with menacing storm clouds building up in the sunset sky. Reita felt sick and tired so she went to her room early while the stormy sun still lingered on the horizon. A little breeze had sprung up and she sat for a while at the window, watching her husband below her in the garden. She noticed the wind lift his hair and saw him gently moving his head from side to side in the cooling breeze. Although she called to him he did not answer or turn, so with a sigh she left the window and wearily lay down to sleep.

When she awoke it was quite dark. The breeze had become a rushing wind. With a start Reita sat up. The bed beside her was empty. She turned her head and the window was filled once again with the sprawling branches of a huge tree. The storm swept and whistled through it, and softly in the moaning came the anguished sound of her name.