The Tree Who Was A Witch

Half tipsy on the wedding day champagne she reminded Mark of that long ago afternoon on the estate.

"A perfect day," she said, leaning on his arm. "I would have believed anything you said.

You were such a delicious lad."

It was odd. The witch described him as such. A delicious lad. Then Cybil leaned over to lick his cheek, giggled, and turned to her groom.

"I need Horace to guide me," Mark said aloud as he stood in the old rock-ringed circle where charms were chanted. Horace had first alerted him to the witch. He often thought Horace was in love with her, this wraith of color that flamed through the woods.

"I'll outlive you all!" She threatened. Perhaps she would. Only Mark was left.

"I'm still here," he spoke again to no one. "I'm waiting for you to call on me. I'll come tomorrow if necessary." In reply the breeze shrugged through the leaves on the trees. "I've grown up. Horace is dead. It is to me you must appear. Your delicious lad." Still only the titter of branches.

When Horace first told Mark about the witch Mark was ten. Horace never spoke to Mark the way other adults did. He never condescended to the child, but instead he used the same words and tone he would have used with Mark's parents and grandparents. In return Mark adored Horace, following him everywhere and undertaking any task Horace would put to him.

They were in the clearing early one morning when Horace turned, smiled his crooked smile, and said: " This is where you must come to meet her."

" Meet who?"

"She might not show herself to you. It isn't everyone who's lucky enough to see her.

And she doesn't like little boys."

" Meet who?" Mark asked again.

" I can't tell you straight out. A lady. A sort of lady. Although I don't think she's really much of a lady. She has a mouth on her..." Horace put a heavy hand on Mark's shoulder to steady him. "She lives close. And she comes to see me often. We have good times together.

I wanted her to get to know you."

Mark was in the prologue years of romance. Later he knew his tastes were decided much by Horace and the "lady" in question. Perhaps why he never married. His therapist remarked what mortal woman could keep pace with a garden witch.

As soon as Horace had touched Mark that morning the leaves blew up around them both in an angry rise.

" See?" Horace smiled. "She's temperamental."

Mark did not meet the Witch that morning. Horace took him by the hand and led him firmly back to the main house. They passed the tree.

"That's her when she's not a witch," Horace pointed without elaborating further.

" It's her house?" Mark did not understand.

"It's her. That's what she becomes." Horace pulled him along the path. Mark looked back at the tree itself.. The bark was mottled with brown spots. A coverlet of moss grew along one side as though to warm the trunk. The limbs spread over them as arms lifted with the ends of branches as fingers feeling the air around it.

"How did you meet her?" Mark asked, but Horace shook his head firmly.

"That's a story for another day."

As Mark sat in the old chair set out on the porch of the garden house he remembered the glint in Horace's eyes. The story was eventually learned, although not through the recollections of Horace. The Witch herself related the tale to Mark when he was twelve, exiled there from school at Christmas and unhappy.