The Tale of the Tree : A Gothic Bedtime Story as Remembered by the Librarian of BlackwaterManor
The Nature of Ghosts
Haunted orchards
We grow ghosts here
No cemeteries
Fields
Forests
Rivers
We grow ghosts here
A rich harvest
Howls at midnight
New moons brings slivers
Wisps
Whines in the wind
The children chase them like fireflies
Catch them in jars
We make them release before the rise of the sun
Bad luck and all
It is a horrible racket in the homes
The full moons
We stay in doors
Close the shutters
The fireplaces
We do not go near windows or doors
The ripe ghosts
With long memories
They come knocking
we all know this story. it is whispered over embers it is sung while skipping the willow rope. it is keened by the grieving. ghost stories mean something different for those who look upon ghosts faces. search for them. you know. we all do. all of us when the moon rises after the body has been laid under heavy rectors words which cottage will have a curtain turned to the corner their hope lighter than church words.
This is for the people in the town proper. In the circle guarded by hollyhocks and hedge groves one gate at the end. One way in one out directly in front of the chapel. They have other rules.
We we the Cottagers. Wise women. Ghost friend. Last hopes. We live outside. We have other customs. We have other fears.
When we pass we choose our tree. We heave our carcasses from our death beds and throw the last of ourselves towards the forest. We find our tree. It was ours before our mother or father set eye upon each other. It has been waiting for us. For this.None may follow us. We often pray for a tree near our front door. We have a dark sense of humor here. When the sisters wake we will find the member who has transformed by her shoes her shift at the root of her tree. We will sing to her. We will search for her face in the whorls of the bark. We will wipe the sap away on bottle Witch’s Final Tears for townspeople salve. We are a mercenary bunch. We will leave. We will promise to visit. We will ignore the cackling of disappointed leaves.
A young witch had come to us. She only remembered burning with fever tearing through the woods unable to find the tree that would call to her. She was most distressed when we found her in one of the spare dormitories. are my sisters here is this what happens at the tree did i make am i home may i see those i loved who loved me now?
child tell me of them. tell me of the world you left
i saw when she broke when she knew my kindness was to calm and study when she knew familiar would be built again.
she told me of the world she left behind if those she hated loved laughed at of birch trees and angry men in black. towns women who shunned in light and sobbed at her door at night.
she whispered their world back into being in these tales and in this volume
All that would calm her was to tell tales of her village. It is a custom we have returned to many times with the more restless new comers to our school. I have taken to collecting them in volumes as I now see your have chosen to pick this volume up.

