The Thief in the Tree-house

With a novel in my hand, I had been reading a story for the afternoon when I spotted the quote reading, “friendship isn’t a big thing, it’s a million little things.” Smiling slightly to myself, the memories of him reappeared in my mind again.

The year was 89’ ,and it was during the hottest time of the year when we met. The scorching sun never seemed to set, and at the back of the calèche which was driving against the bumpy country road, I looked out at the picturesque scene. Having to arrive at an outlying village with my father, a blacksmith also a hefty man of benevolent character, being the driver, I couldn’t hold back my curiosity and kept glancing out. The turquoise sky was embellished by the fleecy clouds whereas the intensity of the heat was unbearable. As we passed through a rolling plain of emerald-coloured grass and a land of iridescent flowers which let out a pleasant aroma, a feeling of joy mingling with excitement overwhelmed my mind.

“We had arrived!” my father shouted in his resonant voice while helping me down. Hours had elapsed since the start of the journey, and my legs felt numb when stepping onto the soil.

“What do you think of our new accommodation, son?” he inquired while pointing to a building made of crimson bricks, encircled by a rusted gate, and with shattered windows in our front.

“Sort of plain,” I replied with honesty and in disappointment, “the nature is pleasing however.”

“Countryside towns never disappoint me, and while I haul the carts into our new abode, you shall go and explore around,” he made upon a suggestion while I nodded.

My father had always been urging me to mingle in with other kids instead of being engrossed in novels, and it had been slightly irritating to me, who preferred loneliness. With heavy footsteps, I walked along the road bestrewn with leaves and into the woods. The sunlight was blocked by the trees of remarkable heights, and the tranquility of the serene forest seemed pleasant to me. As I sauntered in a casual manner across the forest, I soon spotted a wooden house of miniature size. It was a crude house with no doors and a fragile- looking rooftop, and with curiosity, I approached the tiny building which was built on top of a tree. There was no ladders connected to the tree birch, and I tried with my best endeavours to reach the house. Grabbing the coarse branch which cut my hand slightly, I pushed myself upward the tree. Panting heavily due to my weak respiratory system, I soon became frightened as I looked down from the treetop. The height was incredibly tall to myself, who had never climbed a tree before, and with the broiling air that made me perspire and sick, I became half unconscious. My hands were clenching onto the birches, and a few fingers touched the treehouse finally after many efforts. Without any energy however, I could not pull myself upwards. I had let loose of the tree branch at last when I couldn’t endure how my hand was being cut and bleeding slightly and how the entire weight of my body was lifted only by my weak hands. It all occurred within a few moments, and the breeze seemed to be belabouring my face as I dropped down from the tree. I closed my eyes and thought I’d never open them again.

When I woke, I realized I was inside the wooden house with a white cloth covering my ankle and knees. With surprise, I tried to stand up but fell backwards instead. I could barely stand properly and sat still with a befuddled mind. That was when a boy of my age strode in. He had brown coloured hair with a tinge of black ones, his eyes were pitch black, and was more gaunt than any figures I had seen in my life.

“Who are you?” I questioned him while lying weakly on what I realized was a layer of soft mattress.

“I am Charles. Charles Wilson,” he answered in an amiable tone despite my coarse attitude.

I nodded and became gradually more calm as the boy helped to put bandages around my injury. His manner was soothing, and his hands were gentle when handling my bleeding skin. I soon made upon a quick recovery while he cleaned the gore on my legs with a handkerchief. He was clad in a shirt of blue and white blocks pattern, and I noticed his pants had unraveling edges. The boy made raucous noises as he scurried around the wooden floor in his sandals.

“Who are you then?” he asked while taking a seat on a small pile of hay next to myself.

“My name is Elliott,” I replied, “did you rescued me?”

“No, the baker named Mister Brogan spotted you and demanded me to help you at my cottage.”

“Cottage? I find this as a slightly dirty tent,” I told him with my brutal honesty.

“Whatever you call it I do not mind,” he responded affably, “will you like a cup of lemonade?”

“Sure,” I was glad of his company as I sat still beside him for several hours. He was a chatty person and couldn’t help querying me about where I came from, who I am, my favourite sport, and similar subjects.

“I’m from London, and I barely played sports before.”

“Really?” he seemed astonished of my statement. “I play football. Do you like biscuits or what is your favourite sweet?”

“I like chocolate.”

“I find them delectable as well. What is your favourite holiday of the year? I enjoy Christmas a lot. Why did you moved here, by the way?”

“I suffered from asthma, and my father suggested it’d be better if I get some fresh air of the rural areas. He and the doctor believe it’s the sovereign remedy for the disease.”

“I see… would you like me to escort you home? You seem to have the strength of walking now,” he offered in a cheery tone.

“Thank you for that, but I’ll be fine myself.”

“Do you want to visit my cottage tomorrow too? I’ll bring my football, or we can visit the nearby pond for a swim!” he was in a delightful spirit.

“Sure, I shall come again the next day.”

“Good bye! Elliott!” his voice echoed through the small wooden house and in my mind after I departed the forest.

My father was surprised to see myself wounded and returning after the elapse of four hours, and as I uttered the explanation of the accident, he suggested I shall invite Charles for dinner. Without a hesitate, I dashed into the forest but found the cottage being empty and called his name for a few minutes until giving up finally.

“He must had returned home,” my father suggested, “Charles, a nice boy he is!”

“Indeed,” I agreed but was wondering about his bizarre disappearance that occurred so immediate.

“Don’t be concerned of him, Elliott,” he noted, “we shall dine mangers and mash for tonight! I had the success of positioning all our furniture into the rooms.”

I stayed quite terse for the rest of dinner, thinking to myself whether Charles was eating mangers and mash now or where else could he be. The more I thought of, the more peculiar his sudden departure to the tree-house seemed to me. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow when I’d meet Charles and state all my questions to him.

That night, I lied on my bunk while turning around for every few moments and staring out of the window. The night was serene, and the silence was only interrupted by the peaceful hooting of an owl…

The sunlight shone on my face through the curtains, and I had got up immediately as soon as the sun rose. The sky looked heavenly from the dim light, and in a brisk pace, I completed my morning routine and rushed toward the tree-house. My father, who had been interrupted in his sleep by me, groaned a few words as I paced out without eating breakfast yet.

It may had been a quarter past six only, but I found Charles was up at the tree-house when I arrived. I called his name while he answered by waving cheerfully and beckoning me up. He dropped a rope down from the house when I explained how I couldn’t climb the tree which was a strenuous task to me.

I grabbed the rope and pushed myself upwards as I did yesterday but with less difficulty due to Charles’s help of pulling me. The cool breeze spin gently on my face as I ascended and finally stepped into the tree-house.

“You’re here! Elliott!” Charles greeted me with a high five.

“Yeah! I was thinking about inviting you to dinner yesterday but couldn’t find you. Where had you been?” I inquired.

“I was at my grandfather’s house probably since I had returned shortly after your departure,” he explained while handing me a cup of lemonade.

“Alright!” he resumed with an ebullient expression among his face. “I shall take you a tour around the forest.”

“What about visiting the town? I find the place remarkably beautiful, and the chatter which pervaded throughout the red- bricked streets seem marvelous to me as well,” I stated while he shook his head violently.

“The forest is more peaceful.” Was his concise response to my comment.

It was a lovely morning which we spent by playing football that Charles aced at, and when I again noted for him to come for breakfast, he rejected.

I was barely listening to my father’s saying at the table but rather engrossed in my own train of thoughts on how I shall spend the lovely afternoon with my new mate. I shall practice more football as well in order to make the game between Charles and I more competitive.

As I returned to the woods, I found Charles being gone again. Feeling disappointed and discombobulated by him, I called his name for several times until ambling back to the town myself. The neighbourhood could not had been more cheery, and the villagers sent their friendly greetings to me whenever I sauntered past. For the rest of the fortnight, I had a similar routine of owing Charles a visit every morning, touring the town till dinnertime, and reading my novels for every night. My father was gratified as well when I began spending more time in the society than locking myself in the room from the rest of the world. My fellow mate, Charles, had developed a strong rapport with me although he frequently rejected my offer of having meals together at my abode or going into the village. His mysterious disappearance every afternoon soon seemed less absurd to myself after the weeks, and I had never bothered to question him of the matter.

It was the middle of August when one of the neighbours living near my accommodation bought the news to my father and me. His expression was perturbed while he couldn’t help stammering as he spoke in a brisk manner.

“Oh! Henry (my father’s name) and Elliott! You must be cautious!” the man warned us as he stormed inside the house.

“What is the matter, Frank?” my father replied in a calm mood.

“It is a criminal! A brigand to be specific!” Mister Frank cried.

“A thief? I do not find that particular in this mountainous and rural area,” my father resumed.

“He is actually an escaped convict named Addison Brown! The coppers warned me!” the man could not be more unsatisfied and apprehensive of the situation while I was equally overwrought as well.

I, who had read about burglars, abduction, assassination, and several novels relating to the study of criminology, was greatly disturbed. The idea of a man clad in pitch black outfit with a revolver oscillating back and forth inside his pocket horrified me.

“Will he kill us?” I finally commented my greatest concern while Mister Frank looked as if he was about to faint.

“Exactly! Oh, how dreadful and horrendous this is!” the man agreed.

“Do not panic, there are dozens of burglars in London, Elliott. There are also a lot more high-class criminals worse than thieves,” my father stated with an irritated face.

“I will bolt our house and the gate while you shall do the same, Frank,” he demanded, “panic and more hearsay are the last things we want.”

“I shall go and warn Charles Wilson as well!” I shouted while treading out until Mister Frank grabbed my sleeves with a pale face from shock.

“Did you just said Charles Wilson?” he inquired with a frightened expression.

“Yes, he is my best mate.”

“Oh boy! Oh my lord, tell me what you said is untrue!” the man cried.

“It is the truth.”

“Oh my lord! Charles Wilson is the son of Addison Brown!” Mister Frank explained. As the words blurted out from his mouth, I felt as if a jemmy had struck me from my back and fell to the ground immediately.

“That is not true! You are fabricating a frivolous tale,” I insisted while sprinting out with the man and my father chasing behind desperately.

I continued hurtling into the woods and discerned the short figure of Charles in front of me. He seemed as shocked as I was when we met.

“Elliott, what are you doing?” he questioned as I panted miserably.

“Tell me….. Charles… that you aren’t…. you aren’t a ….. criminal,” I replied weakly as I rested my fragile body onto his shoulder.

His face was not pale, and he told me valiantly, “I am, Elliott. My father is at least.”

My blood seemed to have ran cold immediately.

“No.”

“Yes, Elliott. I’m sorry of the secrets I hid from you.”

“No.”

“Elliott!”

“You’re a traitor! How could you do this to me,” I blurted out, infuriated by him although I knew deep in the heart it was not his fault. I didn’t remember what I had done since my mind was not sane anymore once I became exasperated.

“I’m sorry.” It was the last words he spoke to me until running away. Tears streamed down my eyes as I saw him disappearing from my sight.

I felt an impalpable anger toward him until after another fortnight had passed. I finally stepped out of my room again and entered the village, which had resumed to its pure and joyful spirits. As I passed the bakery, I spotted the baker- Mister Brogan whom I remembered I owed a penitent thank to from rescuing me when I fell off the tree.

He seemed puzzled as I thanked him and replied, “Elliott. I didn’t even knew you had fell down from a tree? What are you talking about?”

That struck me in the mind- Charles, who had been the one saving me from the injury, had fabricated another lie. With a brisk pace, I stormed toward the tree-house looking for my mate, who was undoubtedly gone already. In regret to my own foolishness, I kicked the tree trunk until a piece of paper dropped down, carried by the wind from the window as if it was a message from the heavenly sky.

It was however, more precious than any letters from above- it was a message written with a messy handwriting.

“Dear Elliott,

I’m sorry for hiding secrets from you, but it is not due to that I don’t trust you. It’s because I don’t want you, who had always been so honest and couldn’t bare of saying a single lie, to hide a dreading secret. I knew it’d injure yourself mentally from choosing between friendship and integrity.

I hope you’ll forgive me although I don’t deserve it.

Sincerely, my real name- Oliver Brown”

Putting the novel down, tears had accumulated upon my eyes again… It seemed frivolous of me for taking a friendship of when I was nine such solemnly even after twenty years. Yet, I could not forget the times when we played football in delighted spirits, the times when we jumped into the pond and splashed water on each other, the times when our laughter pervaded through the miniature tree-house…