The Dule Tree

Time with the cousins was always interesting, especially as I was the youngest and the only girl.

“If you don’t want us to think you’re lily-livered, you have to go over the gate and touch the tree,” said George.

“But, Grandpa said we mustn’t.” The sun had almost set, the shadows in the garden long.

“Chicken!” Jack laughed. “It’s not that scary.”

I pushed him and scrambled over the rusty gate, into the overgrown part of the garden and pelted towards the ancient tree. As I reached it my feet sank into the boggy ground which bubbled, emitting a foul stench. I fell forward, catching myself with my hands against the gnarled bark, which pulsed beneath my palms, like a heart pumped its sap through veins.

A shudder ran over my skin as the temperature plummeted, the air still and, somehow, expectant. I heard a creak above me. A burst of adrenaline urged me to run, but I stayed, rooted to the spot, hand still against the tree. I looked up to see a pair of legs, swaying in the non-existent breeze, and further to the purple, bloated face of a hanging man.

I shrieked, back-pedalling, and tripped over a root, landing heavily in the foul mud. Bramble snaked towards me, wrapped around my ankle and dragged me towards a dark, gaping maw amongst the roots. I screamed, squeezing my eyes shut as I flailed, not wanting to see.

A loud thud startled me back to my senses and Grandpa was there, wielding the axe he used for chopping firewood. He hacked at the bramble with one hand and pulled me to my feet with the other. We hobble-ran back to the gate to be met by the pale, terror-stricken faces of my cousins.

“It’s the Dule Tree,” said Grandpa, later, “Many men hung there over the years, the last of them a highwayman, Johnny Knox. He threatened death to any who approach. Over time, some have tried, most never came back.” He hugged me close. “You were very lucky, Clare,” he said, as I sobbed into his shoulder.