The River and the Red Tree

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Sally lifted another box onto the kitchen table and began unpacking more crockery, “the way the solicitors dragged their feet, I never thought we’d move in on time.”

“Well, we’re here now,” said Pete, putting down his drill and hugging his wife, nuzzling her neck beneath her dark hair.

“Hey, no time for that, get on with putting up those shelves,” said Sally playfully, pushing Pete away, “it would be nice to get things sorted and unpacked, I thought we might go to the village pub later, show our faces, meet a few of the locals.”

“A beer sounds good,” Pete grunted as he lifted the heavy shelf onto its brackets, “I’m sure people will be wondering who’s moved in here, if they don’t know already, you know what these places are like.”

The small village of Rudtrow Clough lay nestled in the northern hills, surrounded by fields, rugged slopes and deep valleys, heavy with streams and rocks, ancient tracks and shadowed forests. Now home to Pete and Sally Western, the village seemed the perfect place, Sally having secured a teaching position at the local school, while Pete, a landscape painter, was content enough that the scenery would provide inspiration for his work.

Pete and Sally made their way into the cool darkness of the late February evening, along the narrow main street to the White Lamb pub where an amber glow fell from the windows onto the stone pavement beyond. As Sally was about to push open the door, she was forced to step backwards as a heavily set man dressed in overalls and a woollen hat, left the pub at an agitated pace, muttering to himself. If he’d noticed Pete and Sally, then he’d ignored them, and the door banged shut in his wake.

“That doesn’t bode well,” said Pete, looking down the street as the man stomped off, still muttering to himself.

“Perhaps he had to be somewhere,” Sally tried to lighten things, determined that their life in Rudtrow Clough was going to start well, “come on, let’s get a drink.”

Traditional and dimly lit, the White Lamb was warm and cosy with a roaring fire, round which a small group huddled, and at another table, a couple played a curious looking board-game with egg shaped counters. As Pete and Sally approached the bar, a middle aged man with a heavy waistline appeared from a small side room, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Hello,” he said mildly, “can I help you with something?”

“Yes,” Pete was taken aback by the man’s coolness, “we hoped we could get a drink, we’ve just moved into the village.”

“Oh, the new teacher at the school then,” the man looked at Sally as his large red hands folded the towel, his face still neutral, though his eyes lingered for a moment too long.

“Yes, that’s right, I start on Monday,” Sally looked directly at the man, acutely aware of the feelings there would be about an outsider teaching at the school.

“Caused a bit of a stir that did,” said the man, “not usual for a stranger to get such an important position in our little community… but the governors approved it for some reason.”

“That bloke who just left didn’t look too happy,” Pete interjected, attempting to change the focus of the conversation.

“Taylor? Don’t mind him,” the man shrugged, “Taylor Ackroyd’s alright, just hasn’t got over losing his son last year, he’ll get there though.”

Pete and Sally exchanged a careful glance and a moment of heavy silence followed, then Sally broke the sense of disquiet. “Two pints of your best bitter please, if that’s okay?”

The man scratched his cheek as if considering the request. “That’ll be our local brew then,” and he proceeded to pull two pints of the frothing ale. “I’m Dan Oaklands by the way. Not really used to strangers in Rudtrow Clough,” he paused, “but I’m sure you’ll be fine,” and he cracked his face with a twisted grin.

The following morning, plagued by a fitful sleep and weary from the efforts of moving house, an anxious Sally walked through the gates of Rudtrow Clough primary school where she was greeted by the head teacher, Hazel Hartshorne.

“You got here,” she smiled, “you haven’t changed your mind then?”

“No, not yet anyway,” Sally was glad of the warmer welcome than that in the White Lamb. “If yesterday was any indication though, I’ve got my work cut out with fitting in here.”

“Oh?” Hazel paused and looked at Sally with raised eyebrows as she opened the school’s main door.

“Just the man at the pub, not exactly welcoming, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Sally brushed away her comment, sensing she may have spoken out of turn.

In the staff room over a coffee, Hazel talked Sally through the curriculum for the coming months. “Of course, this time of year our main focus for the children is preparation for the spring festival.”

“Easter? That sort of thing?”

“Not so much Easter, we celebrate the more ancient traditions of springtime,” Hazel reached into her bag, “here, I suspected that you’d need some information so I brought you this to have a look at,” and she handed Sally a small photograph album, the words ‘The River and the Red Tree’ printed neatly on the front.

“This looks old,” said Sally, taking the album, its cover worn smooth with age, “red tree, is that where the name of the village comes from?”

“Yes, that’s right, the red tree at the side of the river is our focal point for the spring festival, the photographs will help, my father took them in the nineteen-sixties, take a look at it,” Hazel looked at Sally, a darkness fell over her face, “it’s important that you do.”

That evening, settled on the sofa with a glass of wine, Sally began to turn the foxed pages of Hazel’s album. It was filled with black and white photographs, the first showing a group of small children in one of the school classrooms, each proudly holding up a painted egg, some plainly decorated, others with flowers, trees, animals, moons and stars. The caption below read simply, ‘preparing the eggs’. The next page was an egg-filled woven basket, titled ‘offerings for spring’, this was then followed by more pictures of children, painting eggs or holding them up for the camera. There were photographs of adults too, dressed smartly, some holding the hands of children, another of a man in a long cape, everyone’s eyes fixed in his direction.

“Hey Pete, have a look at this,” Sally took the album over to her husband who was at the kitchen table, drawing in his sketchbook. “Look at these old photos of the village in the spring, some sort of festival that they have.”

Pete looked up from his sketchbook. “Sounds intriguing,” and he took the album, flicking through the pages, smiling at some, admiring the composition with his artist’s eye, then the smile fell away. “Hang on a minute, have you looked at all of these?”

“No, why?” Sally pulled up a chair and looked at the open page. There was a group of children, standing at the river’s edge, below a tall, gnarled tree with twisted branches, the lower ones hung with decorated eggs. Beneath it, the children stood motionless around the cloaked man, transfixed, as he held aloft, a small boy, his head hanging limply, his little eyes closed towards the sky. The caption beneath read ‘light and dark, the cycle of life’.

“It must be some sort of play that they act out as part of the festival,” said Sally, turning to the next page, a close up shot of eggs hanging from the tree’s branches, ”I can ask Hazel about it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, do that, that stuff is just weird. I should have known better, coming to a place like this…” Pete looked at Sally, his nostrils flared a little and she swiftly took the album from him, returning it to her bag.

“That’s a beautiful picture Toby,” Sally’s class of six year olds were drawing pictures of eggs, ready for the spring festivities, “that will look fantastic when you paint it onto an egg.”

“Thank you miss,” said the boy, “last year my egg wasn’t very good, so I want to do a better one this year, for when the best one is chosen.”

“That sounds fun…” Sally started, then glanced up to see Hazel standing in the doorway.

“Just thought I’d see how you’re settling in,” she said, “getting ready for the spring equinox I see.”

“All good, thanks,” then Sally remembered the photos, “I should give you this back before I forget,” she said, taking the album from her bag and moving between the tables of children towards the classroom door. “They’re amazing photos, thank you for lending them to me.”

“That’s perfectly alright, I’m glad you were able to look at them,” Hazel glanced down the corridor, then, “it’s important that you have an understanding.”

“I meant to ask, the play by the river, under the tree…”

“Play? There is no play Sally.”

“What do you mean?” Sally moved out into the corridor, closing the classroom door behind her. Hazel cocked her head, anticipating what Sally might say next.

Confused, Sally grappled to make sense of what she’d seen, what Hazel was saying, and recalled Dan Oakland’s words in the pub.

“Taylor Ackroyd’s son,” Sally paused, conscious that this was her first week in a new job, “was he a pupil here? Sorry, it’s just….”

“Sally, did you ever question why you were chosen for a job here?”

“I’d hope because I’m qualified, and that I did well in the interview,” said Sally carefully, unsure where the conversation was leading.

“We’re very thorough in our checks regarding outsiders that move into the village. You may not know, but you have ancestral ties to Rudtrow Clough, and the governors agreed that your bloodline was sufficiently strong enough. That with time, you would become a great asset to our village.”

“Bloodline? How…?”

“That’s not a conversation for now,” said Hazel, peering through the classroom door window, “I fear that little Annie Stokes has just spilt paint everywhere.”

The cold wind wrapped around Sally’s ankles as she hugged her mug of coffee in the playground, watching the children running and playing.

“How are you getting on,” one of the teachers, Mr Swift, wandered over, a football under his arm, “just took this off Billy Whitam before he breaks a window with it,” he smiled.

“What game are the children playing over there?” asked Sally as she observed a circle of children staring at the ground, while in their midst another child lay on the floor gazing upwards.

“Oh, they like to practice for the spring rituals,” said Mr Swift with a smile, “I suppose you’re up to speed with everything that happens at the red tree by now?”

A chill wrapped around Sally’s neck and she shuddered, wondering whether the springtime festivities were simply innocent child's play. “Oh, yes,” she said simply.

Pete was quieter than usual that evening, distracted and poking at his food.

“What’s up Pete?” asked Sally as she made teaching notes whilst grappling with her spaghetti.

“I took a walk by the river today, to that tree in the picture…”

“The red tree?”

“Yeah…”

“What was it like?”

“Sally, do you think we should have come here?” Pete put down his fork.

“I know it’s a bit weird, but we’ll get used to it,” said Sally, and then hesitantly, “apparently I have ancestors from here, according to Hazel anyway.”

“That would explain why they gave you the job, I always thought it was odd giving it to a stranger…” Pete looked intently at Sally, “that tree’s not right, it gave me the creeps.”

“How? What was it like?” Sally’s growing unease wasn’t confined to herself, she sensed Pete was feeling it too.

“Its roots are all poking up above the ground, and the earth around it has a strange texture, like it’s richer and denser. It just felt strange, that’s all.” Pete pushed away his plate of uneaten food. “Come on, let’s go and have a drink at the pub, I can’t face this for some reason.”

The White Lamb was busy and as Pete and Sally stood at the bar drinking their beer, the door opened and Taylor Ackroyd entered, squeezed in next to them and ordered a pint.

“Here, let me get that,” said Pete, taking himself by surprise.

“No need,” said Taylor gruffly avoiding Pete’s eye, "don't need anything from strangers.”

“We’d like to get to know people,” Sally said gently, “we saw you the other day…”

“Aye, well…” Taylor’s tone softened a little, “I suppose one pint will be alright.”

Dan served him and took the money from Pete with a warning glance. Unsure what to say next, the three sipped their drinks, until Sally broke the silence. “We were sorry to hear about your son…”

Taylor wiped his brow and looked away for a moment. “I suppose you’ll know all about what happens at the spring equinox by now?” Sally and Pete both shook their heads.

“Not really,” said Sally, “we’re still trying to understand what happens at the red tree.”

“Come away from the bar then,” said Taylor in a low voice, “I’ll tell you, but not here.”

Outside the backdoor of the White Lamb, Taylor dragged deeply on a cigarette and told Pete and Sally of the village’s spring equinox rituals, balancing light and dark, where the children’s painted eggs were hung on the red tree, followed by the selection of the egg, the one regarded as being most perfect and fitting for its purpose. As he described the destiny of the child who had painted the chosen egg, Pete and Sally’s nausea swelled, haunted by the photographs in Hazel’s album. Taylor’s voice cracked as he recounted the fate of his son, like so many children before, offered to the red tree, to light and dark. His eyes were hollow as he named the man responsible for choosing the egg, spitting out the words, “Dan Oaklands.”

There was a fervour of excitement and anticipation as the children carefully attached ribbons to their painted eggs and prepared for the procession to the red tree. Sally, physically sick and drained with worry from the previous days, ushered her class into the school yard where they joined the other children and Hazel Hartshorne who was organising everyone ready to walk to the river and the revered red tree.

The sun shone through high wisps of cloud heralding the arrival of spring, as the children, carrying their precious eggs through the village streets towards to river, sang joyfully;

Spirit of spring we sing to thee,

to choose the one beneath the tree,

our sacred eggs to you we bring,

our sacrifice to you the spring! 

Sally’s stomach churned as she saw Pete standing outside the White Lamb, Taylor Ackroyd grim and silent at his side. She turned her head and their eyes met for a moment, before the procession turned a corner towards the river and the red tree. There, the children, helped by teachers and adults who had joined the procession, hung their painted eggs from the twisted branches. Sally stared at the exhilarated faces of her class, a wave of disbelief washing over her at what she’d become a part of.

After the excitement and activity of the hanging of the eggs, a silence fell over the gathered villagers, the only sound, the faint breeze in the tree’s branches and the hushed gurgling of the river, then, out of the crowd strode the cloaked figure of Dan Oaklands, his large red hands held aloft.

“We gather here, in this most sacred place, to feed the red tree’s hunger and choose the gift to satisfy the cycle of life and light” he boomed. The crowd murmured, the children glanced at each other in anticipation and made a space as Dan stepped forward to inspect the eggs. The villagers fell silent as he carefully examined each one in turn.

Sally watched, fear for the children gripping her every fibre as Dan moved amongst the eggs, holding her breath as his fingers hovered over the egg that little Toby had painted, sighing as he moved past, and then Dan stopped, his back to the crowd. There was a hush, Dan turned, holding aloft the selected egg. It was intricately decorated, with swirling patterns and vibrant colours; the egg had not been painted by the hand of a child. A murmur spread through the crowd and Sally could see Hazel Hartshorne exchange a knowing glance with Dan Oaklands, and Dan Oaklands nodded.

Sally stepped forward, every part of her consumed with fear, as the villagers hummed quietly in unison. Pete, realising what was happening, shouted from the rear of the crowd for her to stop, there was a scuffle and a sickening thud as the villagers restrained him.

Sally wretched, consumed by the horrific realisation of what was happening, as Dan led her to the base of the red tree, where the children stood like sentinels around a shallow hollow in the dark earth. As the humming grew gradually louder to a deafening crescendo, Dan Oaklands' large hands reached towards Sally.

"It has been many years since our chosen one has been of such status and standing,” he shouted into the crowd, “the red tree will thrive this year, and so will all of Rudtrow Clough!"

As the crowd cheered, Sally’s flickering eyes dimmed and the bright spring sky grew heavy. Accepting her terrible fate, the faces of the children blurred away behind the brutal hands of Dan Oaklands, and knowing that for one year at least, she had saved a child, Sally submitted to the heavy dark earth and the ancient twisted roots of the red tree.