DRYAD A Short Story

Dryad by debra hall 2025

Dryad

A short story

WORDS 1600

Author Debra Hall

Genre : Fantasy

Profanity: 1

There we were sat on the bench the old lady, Mrs Clarke and I, both loosely pencil sketching the twisting branches of the ancient Beech tree in front of us. 

Conversations we had shared over time were more than just small talk, her stories and outlook seemed other worldly sometimes, her wisdom... supreme. 

She knew she was going away, I felt it and had been expecting it.

I happened to be a long time acquaintance of her ex-husband, ‘her Stan’, who had been a neighbour of mine before he passed away. I saw him as a kind, salt-of-the-earth sort and obviously was an attractive man with a larger than life personality in his youth for sure. The Clarkes divorced for reasons that were unclear beforehand; neither had remarried.

Ironically, Mrs Clarke and I met much later at the same bench on which we were sat that day. One day we had put two-and-two together and she found it an incredible coincidence to learn that her Stan and I had been neighbours.

Good friends she and I became through a shared love of nature and art, but we were so much more than artist and student meeting regularly. For me, I went to see her there seeking a special kind of solace that only she provided. She helped me focus on the important things in life, and, in return, I dared to hope that I brought a similar light and love into her life. She trusted me I know that much which has been reassuring.

She had not needed to explain why she and Stan went their separate ways. She had never opened up about any of that, but that day was the day to talk about it. She wanted me to better understand her I know that now and in turn I needed to put into place and make sense of my own unhappy situation back home.

“Well, my dear, Stan never understood me, let’s face it, the man made unnatural things out of natural things. He turned things of beauty into products, if we had shared an affinity of all things wholesome all well and good, trouble was, we were, fundamentally, poles apart.” With a slight wobble of her head she slowly and carefully placed her sketchpad and pencil in the gap between us on the bench, downing tools for the last time.

“You see, trees are demonstrative and impeccable with it!” She said, looking skywards, watery eyes squinting in the grey light. “They challenge you in ways that people could never do” she said breathlessly. “Do you have any idea what I mean by that?”  She threw me a knowing look. I dropped my head down; I felt a little flushed “I think I am beginning to,” I replied.

 

She continued with her story because she knew that the time was right to tell it: 

“Once Stan and I were down by the river by a beautiful tree, my tree, the one I would sit under gazing up at its form in awe as the seasons changed. I loved the way its lower branches curled around itself and I would look out for the first sign of leaf growth. Its flowers would drop into my lap in early summer. I would watch the vapour rise from its leaves after a heavy shower. I would gather up the fruits that contained its precious seed in autumn and in winter, marvelled at the spider webs embellished with glistening white, weaving in and out of its roots" she drew a short breath and continued...

"On that fateful day while we were both stood at the foot of tree I told Stan that I wanted a divorce!” she exclaimed.  “I felt so liberated!” she said, smiling at the memory, “I remember being transfixed by the tree and its strong limbs, black, they were, against a darkening sky. The branches began to sway in a sudden rush of wind and the stirring leaves seemed to whisper support and encouragement of my new found confidence”.

She held my hand and and squeezed it tight then continued all matter of factly, “Oh, I wasn’t in any way surprised by Stan’s sudden outburst! He knew he was out of his depth. In frustration, he did grab me, and roughly too. He threw me to the ground, at foot of the trunk, so I, instinctively, wrapped my arms around its bulk for protection”.

“He said, it’s that ruddy tree, the bastard!” I found it amusing that she told he had said that and that the profanity came from a mouth of such refined fraility.

Nevertheless, I checked myself when she went on to admit she had visited the tree secretly, like she was having a secret love affair. She admitted that she was spellbound in a way. “He called me a freak” she said “ he wondered what on earth had come over me... but, you see... it was my calling.”

She said that he had pulled her to her feet with a tight grip, but her repulsion for him was apparent; he knew it but he pretended not to notice. He urged her to put the lunacy behind her “and yes, I did fear that I had said too much as I watched Stan walk away, silent and dejected” she said, thoughtfully.

I must admit I felt a little sad for Stan momentarily, because he had obviously been oblivious to the truth of the matter. I imagined him as the younger version of the well meaning man that he was, clutching at straws trying to lean his head on her heaving shoulder like some lolloping puppy dog, offering her a new house and everything he thought she wanted. 

Mrs Clarke suddenly broke from her story; her breathing had quickened and I noticed that her light mood had changed dramatically and her smiles had disappeared.

 

'Unfortunately, later, Stan returned to the tree with an axe in his hand. I was still down there in my spot by the river. Oh! The panic in me!” She cried. “I tried desperately to stop him from striking the first blow. I shrieked! He opened the first gash - wide - into the cherished skin and flesh of my love” Her body muscles tightened with the memory.

“He was like someone possessed, he swung that axe again and again, and I was absolutely powerless. It was a jealous rage, not a pretty sight. Twelve blows and I felt the wracking pain of everyone of them” she said.

I gently lifted her hand to look more closely at her long fingers that had a twig-like appearance, suddenly green sprigs were springing from her fingernails. I realised she was transforming, passing over, before my very eyes. For a brief moment I felt ill at ease being caught up in such an intimate moment; I looked this way and that checking that we were alone in the copse, strangely, we still were.

Through her touch however, I felt warmth emulating from her body, her life blood flowing into my own. I suddenly felt free of my own inner turmoil and a great sense of belonging, peacefulness and well being engulfed me. Images of my own loveless situation back home came to my mind, but I felt strangely detached, emotionally, I knew what I must do.

This was her goodbye and it was natural and beautiful and as our hands let go, she just floated away from me but not too far at first. Her body was stripped of the confines of old age and any synthetic adornments just fell away. She was youthfully lean and flexing like a young sapling in the wind, yes, like a young tree, that was it! The floating figure was glowing white and green, her lovely face replaced by a white light. Then, before my eyes just simply melded into the trunk of the old Beech and disappeared, and I knew then, that Mrs Clarke had arrived.

Mrs Clarke’s return to nature was comforting in its confirmation that she was not alien to this earth (as I had once suspected) but that she was totally, wholly, at one with it. 

I had always known that I have been in the presence of something totally pure when in her company, she was devoid of any failings pertaining to humankind in a way. As I watched her slip into the very fabric of nature I realised then that the little wood nymph had finally found her way home and despite being lost for a time, the ugly side of life had been unable to invade and infect her.

Later that month, I read her obituary in the local press,

Josephine Morgan Clarke (local artist) who was particularly renowned for her incredibly detailed botanical illustrations, also equally impressive was her knowledge of plant life – her most interesting talks based on the biggest plant of all – The tree.

Ten seasons have passed by under 'my tree' (my gift to Mrs Clarke) and one winsome, beautiful afternoon in May this year, I arrived to find a man seated on the bench. His voice was quiet and I remember I was immediately at ease as I sat beside him. I noticed that his fingers were long, and his hands were soft. When his intense brown eyes looked up at our tree and he said earnestly “I’ve always had a soft spot for beeches.” 

It was love at first sight of course. I’ve been given a second chance of love and for that I am eternally thankful.