Summertide (Paperback)

It began with a rustling in the leaves, as of a brisk wind passing through. Were this shivering and susurrating a product of the wind, though, one might imagine it would start near the top of the Tree — up where the winds flew fierce and unimpeded.

But it began near the bottom. Rarely was this part of the Tree disturbed, for the great, gnarled trunk was so broad, it would take you a few minutes to walk all the way around it, even at a smart pace; and the boughs hung thick and heavy, like ranks of soldiers formed up against the wind, the rain, and every other disturbance the varied seasons might bring.

Mother Gantry noticed it first. Having no head for heights (she said), she had chosen an abode only some few feet off the ground; and unlike some of her more daring neighbours, her dwelling was neatly enclosed, all the way inside the trunk. Her door, tightly woven from fallen twigs and painted a sprightly red, caught the eye of every passer-by, naturally making Mother Gantry the first to espy — and greet — all visitors to the Tree. She saw herself as something of a Headwoman to the folk who dwelt there.

The door in question, having remained firmly shut against the chill of an early spring morning, flew suddenly open with a boot, and bounced against the trunk.

Mother Gantry appeared, hands on her ample hips. ‘What’s afoot?’ she called.

A face appeared among the branches above. ‘Nowt, Mother Gantry.’ It was Diggory Stokey, one of the folk who took up a more perilous situation (some might say) out upon the boughs. ‘Don’t worrit yerself.’

‘I felt something,’ she insisted, glaring up at his apple-round face and its cheery mop of fair hair. ‘Something went all a-shake.’

Diggory shook his head. ‘Just a puff of wind, Mother. Why, ‘tis lucky you live so far down. What would you be like, farther up?’ A rustle of leaves came — oak, near the bottom, for the most part — and Diggory’s face withdrew.

Disgruntled, Mother Gantry began to shut her door — bidding fair to slam it soundly, misliking the carpenter’s dismissive tone — but then it came again: a great, rustling wave among the leaves, and a profound shiver in the living wood of the floor. She felt it through her toes, and halfway up her legs.

The floor heaved, once.

‘Oh, my,’ puffed Mother Gantry, and shot out a hand, to steady herself against the knotted whorl of the doorframe.

Diggory Stokey’s face reappeared. ‘Come to think of it, that was a bit of a shake.’

‘As I told thee!’

The rustling intensified, and Mother Gantry braced herself; but it was only Diggory Stokey, manoeuvring his stoutish frame, and all his carpenter’s muscles, down from the boughs above. He came down the stairway — no real steps in truth, but a sequence of knots and other protrusions that spiralled around the trunk, by way of which a sure-footed soul might venture up and down. Taking up a stance upon one of the mighty lower boughs (thicker around than he was himself) that framed Mother Gantry’s doorway, he cast his eyes out over the town, just as she had.

And just as she had, he saw nothing untoward. The Tree grew on the outer edge of a town called Kottow, a prosperous enough place, with its wool-merchants and its markets and whatnot. In finer weather, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves could be heard all day long, down near the bottom of the Tree, and occasionally, a raucous shout or a smatter of laughter from those who streamed in and out of the gates.

Gawkers were commonplace, though not among the residents of Kottow. For them, the Tree’s presence was as unremarkable as that of St. Mary’s church — even if the Tree did rather dwarf that holy establishment, spire and all. But those who came for the markets, to trade or to buy, often veered away from the gates, and came riding or trudging up to take a gander.

Mother Gantry was a dab hand with a broom, when it came to that; some folk had no manners about them, and would poke their faces into a good woman’s kitchen without so much as a by-your-leave. But if she or Diggory imagined that some hoard of curious onlookers might be the cause of the disturbance, they were proven mistaken: Kottow dozed, tranquil and at peace, a thin mist curling silently about its thatched roof-tops. Not there could the cause be found.

‘Odd,’ pronounced Diggory, and sat down upon the bough.

Just in time, for the shaking came again, and this third time was worse than the rest. If the floor of Mother Gantry’s kitchen had heaved before, now it bucked, and rolled like a ship at sea. A rain of leaves came wafting down — oak and chestnut and elm, and even some of the birch-leaves from higher up.

A few acorns and chestnuts, left over from the autumn, fell with a sharp crack; and to Mother Gantry’s amazed eyes, they were followed by a clutter of berries, rowan or blackthorn; wild apples, the meagre, sour kind; golden-pink medlar fruit; plums; apple-blossom; cherries and cherry-flowers, all mixed up together; and so on. It was as though the Tree were whisking through all its Seasons at once, or perhaps shedding itself of the vestiges of many Seasons past.

Diggory Stokey, having saved himself from a fall by a timely clutching at the trunk, met Mother Gantry’s gaze with wide eyes. ‘I could swear I saw a root come up, jus’ then.’

‘A root?’ The word emerged sharply, like a whiplash, for Mother Gantry felt something profound and irreversible on the approach; something she did not like, for it meant Change, and hers was a heart that far preferred a comfortable stability. ‘Roots do not come up, Diggory Stokey. Roots go down. That’s their nature. What would a Tree-root want with fresh air, I ask thee?’

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