The Skrayling Tree (2 page)

We were thoroughly relaxed by the second Saturday after we arrived. Brought by the local taxi from English-town, we had become
wonderfully isolated, with no car and no public transport. I must admit I was so used to activity that after a few days I
was a trifle bored, but I
refused to become busy. I continued to take a keen interest in the local wildlife and history.

That Saturday we were sitting on the widow’s walk of our roof, looking out over Cabot Creek and its many small, wooded islands.
One of these, little more than a rock, was submerged at high tide. There, it was said, the local Kakatanawa Indians had staked
enemies to drown.

Our binoculars were Russian and of excellent quality, bought on our final visit to Ulric’s ancestral estate in the days before
the Berlin Wall went up. That afternoon I was able to spot clear details of the individual seals. They were always either
there or about to appear, and I had fallen in love with their joyous souls. But, as I watched the tide wash over Drowning
Rock, the water suddenly became agitated and erratic. I felt some vague alarm.

The swirl of the sea had a new quality I couldn’t identify. There was even a different note to a light wind from the west.
I mentioned it to Ulric. Half asleep, enjoying his brandy and soda, he smiled. It was the action of Auld Strom, the avenging
hag, he said. Hadn’t I read the guide? The Old Woman was the local English name for the unpredictable bore, a twisting, vicious
current which ran between the dozens of little islands in the Sound and could sometimes turn into a dangerous whirlpool. The
French called her Le Chaudron Noir, the black cauldron. Small whaling ships had been dragged down in the nineteenth century,
and only a year or two before three vacationing schoolgirls in a canoe had disappeared into the maelstrom. Neither they nor
their canoe had ever been recovered.

A harder gust of wind brushed against my left cheek. The surrounding trees whispered and bustled like excited nuns. Then they
were still again.

“It’s probably unwise to take a dip tomorrow.” Ulric cast thoughtful eyes over the water. He sometimes seemed, like so many
survivors of those times, profoundly sad. His high-boned, tapering face was as thrillingly handsome as when I had first seen
it, all those years ago in the grounds of his house during the early Nazi years. Knowing I had planned some activity for the
next day he smiled at me. “Though sailing won’t be a problem, if we go the other way. We’d have to be right out there, almost
at the horizon, to be in real danger. See?” He pointed, and I focused on the distant water which was dark, veined like living
marble and swirling rapidly. “The Old Woman is definitely back in full fury!” He put his arm around my shoulders. As always
I was amused and comforted by this gesture.

I had already studied the Kakatanawa legend. Le Chaudron was for them the spirit of all the old women who had ever been murdered
by their enemies. Most Kakatanawa had been driven from their original New York homeland by the Haudenosaunee, a people famous
for their arrogance, puritanism and efficient organization, whose women not only determined which wars would be fought and
who would lead them, but which prisoners would live and who would be tortured and eaten. So Auld Strom was a righteously angry
creature, especially hard on females. The Kakatanawa called the conquering Haudenosaunee ‘Erekoseh’, their word for rattlesnake,
and avoided the warriors as conscientiously
as they did their namesakes, for the Erekoseh, or Iroquois as the French rendered their name, had been the Normans of North
America, masters of a superb new idea, an effective social engine, as pious and self-demanding in spirit as they were savage
in war. Like the vital Romans and Normans, they respected the law above their own immediate interests. Normans employed sophisticated
feudalism as their engine; the Iroquois, a shade more egalitarian, employed the notion of mutuality and common law but were
just as ruthless in establishing it. I felt very close to the past that day as I romantically scanned the shore, fancying
I glimpsed one of those legendary warriors, with his shaven head, scalp lock, war paint and breechclout, but of course there
was no one.

I was about to put the glasses away when I caught a movement and a spot of color on one of the near islands among the thick
clusters of birch, oak and pine which found unlikely purchase in what soil there was. A little mist clung to the afternoon
water, and for a moment my vision was obscured. Expecting to glimpse a deer or perhaps a fisherman, I brought the island into
focus and was very surprised. In my lens was an oak-timbered wattle-and-daub manor house similar to those I had seen in Iceland,
the design dating back to the eleventh century. Surely this house had to be the nostalgic folly of some very early settler?
There were legends of Viking exploration here, but the many-windowed house was not quite that ancient! Wisteria and ivy showed
how many years the two-storied house had stood with its black beams rooted among old trees and thick moss, yet
the place had a well-kept but abandoned look, as if its owner rarely lived there. I asked Ulric his opinion. He frowned as
he raised the binoculars. “I don’t think it’s in the guide.” He adjusted the lens. “My God! You’re right. An old manor! Great
heavens!”

We were both intrigued. “I wonder if it was ever an inn or hotel?” Ulric, like me, was now more alert. His lean, muscular
body sprang from its chair. I loved him in this mood, when he consciously jolted himself out of his natural reserve. “It’s
not too late yet for a quick preliminary exploration!” he said. “And it’s close enough to be safe. Want to look at it? It’ll
only take an hour to go there and back in the canoe.”

Exploring an old house was just enough adventure for my mood. I wanted to go now, while Ulric was in the same state of mind.
Thus, we were soon paddling out from the little jetty, finding it surprisingly easy going against the fast-running tide. We
both knew canoes and worked well in unison, driving rapidly towards the mysterious island. Of course, for the children’s sake,
we would take no risks if the pull of Le Chaudron became stronger.

Though it was very difficult to see from the shore through the thick trees, I was surprised we had not noticed the house earlier.
Our friends had said nothing about an old building. In those days the heritage industry was in its infancy, so it was possible
the local guides had failed to mention it, especially if the house was still privately owned. However, I did wonder if we
might be trespassing.

To be safe we had to avoid the pull of the maelstrom
at all costs, so we paddled to the west before we headed directly for the island, where the gentle tug actually aided our
progress. Typically rocky, the island offered no obvious place to land. We were both still capable of getting under the earthy
tree roots and hauling ourselves and canoe up bodily, but it seemed an unnecessary exercise, especially when we rounded the
island and found a perfect sloping slab of rock rising out of the sea like a slipway. Beside it was a few feet of shingle.

We beached easily enough on the weedy strip of pebbles, then tramped up the slab. At last we saw the white sides and stained
black oak beams of the house through the autumn greenery. The manor was equally well kept at the back, but we still saw no
evidence of occupation. Something about the place reminded me of Bek when I had first seen it, neatly maintained but organic.

This place had no whiff of preservation about it. This was a warm, living building whose moss and ivy threatened the walls
themselves. The windows were not glass but woven willow lattice. It could have been there for centuries. The only strange
thing was that the wild wood went almost up to its walls. There was no sign of surrounding cultivation—no hedges, fences,
lawns, herb gardens, no topiary or flower beds. The tangled old bracken stopped less than an inch from the walls and windows
and made it hard going as our tweeds caught on brambles and dense shrubbery. For all its substance, the house gave the impression
of not quite belonging here. That, coupled with the age of
the architecture, began to alert me that we might be dealing with some supernatural agency. I put this to my husband, whose
aquiline features were unusually troubled.

As if realizing the impression he gave, Ulric’s handsome mouth curved in a broad, dismissive smile. Just as I took the magical
as my norm, he took the natural as his. He could not imagine what I meant. In spite of all his experience he retained his
skepticism of the supernatural. Admittedly, I was inclined to come up with explanations considered bizarre by most of our
friends, so I dropped the subject.

As we advanced through the sweet, rooty mold and leafy undergrowth I had no sense that the place was sinister. Nonetheless,
I tended to go a little more cautiously than Ulric. He pushed on until he had brought us to the green-painted back door under
a slate porch. As he raised his fist to knock I noticed a movement in the open upper window. I was sure I glimpsed a human
figure.

When I pointed to the window, we saw nothing.

“Probably a bird flying over,” said Ulric. Getting no response from the house, we made our way around the walls until we reached
the big double doors at the front. They were oak and heavy with iron. Ulric grinned at me. “Since we are, after all, neighbors”—he
took a piece of ivory pasteboard from his waistcoat—“the least we can do is leave our card.” He pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord.
A perfectly normal bell sounded within. We waited, but there was no answer. Ulric scribbled a note, stuck the card into the
bell-pull, and we stepped back. Then, behind the looser weaving of the
downstairs window, a face appeared, staring into mine. The shock staggered me. For a moment I thought I looked into my own
reflection! Was there glass behind the lattice?

But it was not me. It was a youth. A youth who mouthed urgently through the gaps in the weaving and gestured as if for help,
flapping his arms against the window. I could only think of a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.

I am no dreamthief. I can’t equate the craft with my own conscience, though I judge none who fairly practice it. Consequently
I have never had the doubtful pleasure of encountering myself in another’s dream. This had some of that reported frisson.
The youth glared not at me but at my husband, who gasped as one bright ruby eye met another. At that moment, I could tell,
blood spoke to blood.

Then it was as if a hand had gripped my hair and pulled it. Another hand slapped against my face. From nowhere the wind had
begun to blow, cold and hard. Beginning as a deep soughing, its note now rose to an aggressive howl.

I thought the young albino said something in German. He was gesticulating to emphasize his words. But the wind kept taking
them away. I could make out only one repeated sound. “Werner” was it? A name? The youth looked as if he had stepped from the
European Dark Ages. His unstirring white hair fell in long braids. He wore a simple deerskin jacket, and his face was smeared
with what might have been white clay. His eyes were desperate.

The wind yelped and danced around us, bending the trees, turning the ferns into angry goblins. Ulric instinctively put his
arm around me, and we began to back towards the shore. His hand felt cold. He was genuinely frightened.

The wind appeared to be pursuing us. Everywhere the foliage bent and twisted, this way and that. It was as if we were somehow
in the middle of a tornado. Branches opened and closed; leaves were torn into ragged clouds. But our attention remained on
the face at the window.

“What is it?” I asked. “Do you recognize the boy?”

“I don’t know.” He spoke oddly, distantly. “I don’t know. I thought my brother—but he’s too young, and besides…”

All his brothers had died in the First War. Like me, he had noticed a strong family resemblance. I felt him shake. Then he
took charge of his emotions. Although he had extraordinary self-control, he was terrified of something, perhaps even of himself.
A cloud passed across the sinking sun.

“What is he saying, Ulric?”

“’Foorna’? I don’t know the word.” He gasped out a few more sentences, a nonsensical rationale about the fading light playing
tricks, and pulled me rather roughly into the bracken and back through the woods until we arrived at the shore where we had
drawn up our canoe. The wild wind was bringing in clouds from all directions, funneling towards us in a black mass. I felt
a spot of rain on my face. The wind whipped the turning tide already beginning to cover the tiny beach.
We were lucky to have returned early. Ulric almost hurled me into the canoe as we pushed off and took up our paddles, forcing
the canoe into the darkness. But Auld Strom had grown stronger and kept forcing us back towards the shore. The wind seemed
sentient, deliberately making our work harder, seeming to blow first from one side then another. It was unnatural. Instinctively,
I hated it.

What irresponsible idiots we had been! I could think of nothing but my children. The salt water splashed cold on my skin.
My paddle struck weed, and there was a sudden stink. I looked over my shoulder. The woods seemed unaffected by the wind but
were full of ghostly movement, shadows elongated by the setting sun and hazy air pursuing us like giants advancing through
the trees. Were they hunting the young man who was even now running down the long slab of rock and into the water, his braided
milky hair bouncing on his shoulders as he tried to reach us?

With a grunt and a heavy splash Ulric gouged his paddle into the water and broke the defenses of that erratic tide. The canoe
moved forward at last. The wind lashed our faces and bodies like a cowman’s whip, goading us back, but we persevered. Soaked
by the spray we gained some distance. Yet still the youth waded towards us, his eyes fixed on Ulric, his hands grasping, as
if he feared the pursuing shadows and sought our help. The waves grew wilder by the moment.

“Father!”
The birdlike cry blended with the shrieking wind until both resonated to the same note.