The Old Oak

The Old Oak

The majestic oak tree had evidently dominated the landscape since the dawn of time. Tall and wide, its bare limbs reached defiantly into the chilly November sky, its stalwart frame a stark contrast to the gaunt highwayman dangling by the neck from a stout upper bough.

The magistrate had had the man whipped and stripped before the hanging, leaving him only his undershirt. "For the sake of modesty", the magistrate had hissed scornfully, and it had surprised the highwayman as there were hardly any women present. The shift was a dingy grey, only marginally darker than the highwayman's pallid skin, and afforded scant protection from the snow flurries dancing on the icy breeze. To an incidental onlooker, the highwayman appeared to be dead. He was, however, clinging tenaciously onto life by the thinnest of gossamer threads and was grateful for every shred of warmth he gleaned from the shirt.

The staunch rope creaked vicariously as a wintry gust tugged at the man's body. His shift fluttered. Water... he had to have water. He was so thirsty, but no longer able to force his cracked, hoarse voice past his bloated tongue and split lips. The crowd, such as it had been, had already dispersed anyhow. The handful of villagers who had turned out to the execution, huddling together against the biting cold, had scurried back to their leaseholds and fields when the magistrate cantered away, abandoning the highwayman to his unhappy fate with scarcely a backward glance. His only companions were the whistling wind and the chuckling brook, taunting him with its proximity. And the impatient snorting of the magistrate's horse, tethered below.

Water...

A merry company was approaching, laughing and chattering gaily. The highwayman strained and twisted, almost passing out with the exertion it cost him to peer through the furry catkins and young leaves. A May Queen, adorned with flowers and blossoms, trod daintily into the clearing, her entourage capering behind her. Milkmaids trailed behind with their decorated pails and a Jack-o'the-Green, face daubed and besmirched forest green, cavorted around them, playing the fool. He knelt to sweep his cap into the deep stream and drank heartily, shaking the last drops over the milkmaids who squealed and shrieked with delight. Grinning, the Jack hung his cap to dry on a pointing finger of the oak tree. He was unaware of the human burden hanging only slightly above his head. The group was itself burdened with picnic baskets overbrimming with pastries and earthenware bottles, and they set about unpacking their picnic. Such wanton behaviour! Such affluence, thought the highwayman, when all the highwayman wanted was a drink of water, a tiny sip. Somehow he would attract their attention, persuade them to hold a jar to his blistered lips to let him taste the contents...

The horse pawed at the roots of the tree, and snorted but the carousing party paid him no heed.

Through the clouds in his head, the highwayman struggled to understand if he was hallucinating or whether the scurrying footsteps he could hear heralded the approach of another person. More by will than effort, he managed to twist his body slightly, inadvertently jerking the stranglehold of the rope tighter as he endeavoured to peer down. Into the midst of the May revellers skipped a little girl, no more than six or seven years old. Her dress was striped blue and white with a low waist and a vast collar. The highwayman dismissed her as an apparition, a side effect of asphyxiation, for no child he had ever seen wore such uncommon apparel.

The picnickers continued to laugh and eat, unconcerned by the child who ran amongst them, her ringlets bouncing. In her hand she held the string of a red balloon with pointy ears and the face of a cat. A few minutes ago, the balloon man at the fayre had explained how these were new-fashioned latex balloons, an exact replica of the ones sold last year at the Chicago fair. The leisurely, benevolent mood of the late summer holiday had rubbed off on her father who knew his daughter only too well. Before Grace had the chance to beseech him with her doe-like eyes, he had plucked his wallet and paid.

When her parents stopped to speak to neighbours on their way from the fair grounds, Grace ran on ahead gleefully, her gaze intent on the balloon jouncing above her head. Suddenly, the sole of her patent leather shoe slipped on a stone velvety with moss and Grace fell, arms akimbo. She picked herself up with a whimpering moan and began scrubbing at the grass stains on her white stockings, knowing her mother would scold her later. The truth hit her abruptly and with a wail of distress she sprang up, searching the glade for her balloon, tears springing to her eyes.

She spotted her plaything drifting lazily upwards through the branches of the oak tree on a warm current of air. Well out of her reach, it brushed the highwayman's face before nestling in a fork further up. Grace moved to the tree, and gazed upwards, with her hand on the trunk. She was staring right at the dangling man but her only perplexity was how to retrieve the balloon. The highwayman understood she was not looking at him but beyond him, at the shiny red balloon and the azure sky peeping through the thick, rustling foliage. He tried to will the girl to fetch him some water from the creek which glinted alluringly in the afternoon sun, but standing next to the stallion, she remained blind to him, her tear-stained face upturned in the direction of her balloon.

At the whim of the breeze, the rope groaned. The highwayman spun slowly until he was facing the tree's leafage in all its vibrant autumn hues of burnished red and crisp gold, punctuated with acorns. As the balloon weaved higher still, he heard the angry hum of bees swarming in the distance. No, not bees - this was no humming but a low-pitched boom more akin to thunder, yet it was ongoing and growing louder by the instant. With alarming rapidity, the boom became a thrum and then a growl - a roar - overspilling into the highwayman's head. There was no respite from the clamour in the highwayman's skull. It reached a white-hot pointat the brink of exploding as the very leaves vibrated violently. The roar reached its terrible crescendo. Certain his end had finally come, the highwayman raised his eyes heavenwards in one last prayer of supplication and saw the grey-blue underbelly of a colossal bird flying overhead. Its rigid wings were outstretched, exposing concentric circles of blue, white and red at their tips, yet the creature had no feathers, and a propeller in place of a beak. Water, he thought in desperation. If only someone would give him water, the highwayman believed these fearful visions would be dispelled. The thunderous reverberations rippled the surfaces of the small pools which had formed where the broad creek had burst its banks. What he would not give to savour that sweet river water.

To the highwayman's relief, the clamour receded as quickly as it had swelled, replaced by a void that was deafening in its silence. A sputter, much quieter than the previous roaring growl, intruded into the stillness accompanied by an acrid smell that assaulted his nose. A metallic tang bit at the back of his throat and awoke nausea in his gullet. He was thankful the nightmarish stench faded quickly when the commotion faltered and choked to a stop. Beyond the snow-laden boughs of the oak stood a curious contraption, similar in shape to a carriage but set much lower. Bigger than a litter and without handles. It had wheels, but was not pulled by horses.

Two strangely-clad figures emerged, one of them carrying a glass bottle. The man's hair hung lank over the fur hood of his mantle, but more surprising were his britches which gaped and flapped absurdly around the ankles. The ridiculous spectacle absorbed him so much, it took him a moment to focus his attention on the woman. Her hair was piled upon her head to a height surpassing that of Queen Anne's in the portrait he had once seen; yet the highwayman was sure this woman was no member of royalty. Not when she was so indecorously dressed, wearing but a long corset and a broad belt, and knee length boots not unlike his own. He couldn't but stare at the expanse of thigh she exposed. This was the shortest dress it had ever been his good fortune to see, and he was grateful the rope had swung him to face in her direction.

Oblivious to the May revellers, the couple pushed past Grace and began carving something into the tree trunk with a small pocket knife. The woodchips they displaced curled to the ground where the horse bent his head to sniff them. The woman drained the bottle with one lengthy draught, then turned it upside down by the neck, watching the remaining dregs dribble out. As the sweet cider fumes drifted toward the highwayman, he hatched a plan. He would find a way to alert them to the impending arrival of the magistrate, and to warn them of the trouble he would cause if he discovered the woman half undressed. In their gratitude, they would refill their bottle at the swiftly-flowing river for him to imbibe.

He opened his mouth to call to the couple, but not even a wheeze emerged. He tried to turn himself, but just a twitch was beyond him. His body was too weak, he did not have the strength to alert any one of the exceptional party gathered around the tree below him. He pondered his destiny, narrowing his eyes to look over the expansive river. Straining his eyes, he could almost distinguish the far bank - and what looked to be a monstrous serpent emerging from the blackness of a wormhole and rushing headlong towards him. Its face was black and smooth as a mask, and it was traveling faster than an arrow, increasing in size as it came. The rhythmic whooshing sound the snake made pulsated through the air.

The high speed train hurtled across the flood plain, submerging in its wake the splintered trunk of the old oak tree. As splendid as the oak had once been, it had hollowed out over the centuries. The flood water rose and the bole creaked one final time. The highwayman opened his blackened lips and drank. Water, at last.

Having untied his steed, the magistrate mounted and galloped away spraying mud in his wake. The villagers, who had stayed to watch the execution, took this as their cue to leave. Drawing their shawls and mufflers snugly against the raw November day, they began to hurry back to the village, turning their backs to the oak tree at the crossroads and the highwayman hanging there. Snow fell softly, blanketing the oak.