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table set with meat, bread, cheese, and a flagon of wine. A chair was
alongside the table, positioned so that its occupant might eat and be
warm at the same time.
I stood in that doorway for I can t tell you how long, till I d
dripped a great puddle of water on the floor and heard my stomach
growl. At last, I finally went in, took a seat in the chair, and ate as
hearty and delicious a meal as I d had in my life. Afterward, I slowly
drank a glass of wine, the best I d ever tasted. Before I knew it, the
food and wine, combined with my weariness, got the better of me, and
I fell asleep before the fire.
I d never have been able to do that, April said. I d have felt
too afraid.
Did you not feel afraid, sir? Dominic inquired.
My father was quiet for a few moments. No, I did not, he
answered finally. It s difficult to explain, but it s almost as if the house
felt welcoming. As if it was made peaceful, even joyful, by my
presence, and wished to do me good rather than harm.
Papa gazed at is as we sat around the table, holding each of our
eyes in turn. You all know that I am not a fanciful man, my father
said. I have never really believed the old tales of the Wood. To me,
they seemed best suited to what they have become: bedtime stories.
But I swear to you that I felt something in that house, as if the very
stones of which it was made were, themselves, alive. And I felt it
welcome me as surely as I felt you welcome me here today.
But, beneath the welcome, there was something else.
What was it, Papa? I asked.
Loneliness, my father answered. The silence of that house
spoke with the same voice that the windstorm had, with one fierce and
endless cry against being alone.
So, no, my father said once more, turning his gaze again to
Dominic. I did not feel afraid. If anything, I felt my own good fortune.
I had been rescued. I was being offered shelter. But in the
morning, I would ride away. I could return to my home and those I
loved. But the spirit that haunted that place would have no such
reprieve. It had to stay behind. I m not certain how I knew this, but I
did. I seemed to feel it in my bones.
I slept through the night, my father continued. And awoke
refreshed the next morning. My clothes were dry. They bore no trace
of having come through a storm, no trace of having been slept in. nor,
for that matter, did i. I wasn t stiff or sore from sleeping in a chair all
night. The table beside me had been reset for breakfast. There was
fruit and cheese, and a steaming pot of coffee. I breakfasted as well
and heartily as I had dined the night before.
I had half a mind to explore the house, then changed my mind.
For the loneliness seemed heavier this morning, as if anticipating my
departure, and at that I felt a sharp and sudden longing to be safe in
my own home.
I went to the stable and saddled my horse, who had
breakfasted just as well as I. I still had no idea who had provided the
food and fresh water, for I neither saw nor heard a single soul.
Thank you, I said to the air in general. I felt slightly foolish,
but to go without expressing some thanks did not seem right. I don t
know who you are, but you have shown me great kindness. I will
always honor you for it. I gathered up the horse s reins and prepared
to go.
As I led the horse from the stable, I caught sight of a smaller
path, one I had not noticed in the gloaming the night before. And
down the path, I saw a small but beautiful lake with a white pergola
near the shore.
Not far from the pergola, there was a tree in bloom, the
loveliest I d ever seen, or so it seemed, but I could not tell what kind
of tree it was. And here, at least, I finally gave in to my curiosity.
What harm can come from going to look at a tree? I thought.
So I left my horse where he stood and went down the hill on foot.
You will remember I said the house sat at the top of a rise.
We remember, Papa, I said, nodding.
The distance was greater than I had thought. Or perhaps it was
simply that the closer I came to the tree, the more slowly I walked.
For as I approached, I began to understand why the tree had
caught my eye. The boughs bore blooms of two different colors. Some
were a white so pure it was like looking at sunlight on a new-fallen
snow. Others bore blossoms of a red more rich than any rose. A faint
scent filled the air, sweet and promising, like hope.
Then, as I watched, a faint breeze moved through the branches
and a handful of petals released their hold. They stumbled toward the
earth, mingling together, and finally came to a rest upon the ground
below. And there they formed a third color, the soft pink of a new
dawn.
I felt a wave of emotion roll through me, so many different
things at once I couldn t even begin to identify them all.
The Heartwood Tree, I said, barely recognizing the sound of
my own voice.
the Heartwood Tree, my father echoed. As if in a dream, I
walked forward until I stood beneath its boughs. I looked up and
beheld a fluttering mass of red and white and every variation in
between that you can think of. For the petals were in constant motion,
like a flock of birds in flights. Where the petals overlapped, new colors
formed.
I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life, my
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