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.