R. Anderson - Wayfarer

“It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound like he meant it. “I’m here now.”

“Yes,” said Peri with an odd note in her voice, “you certainly are.” She slowed the car as they reached the bridge, driving carefully over the ancient stones. The wood dropped behind them, bare trees yielding to a swath of brown meadow, and now Timothy could see Paul and Peri’s house at last.

Oakhaven was nothing like the snug, whitewashed bungalow he’d left behind with his parents and sister in Kampala, and yet the sight of the old house gave him a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in months. He knew this place, from its foundations of warm gray stone to its ornamented gables, and everything about it said home to him in a way that no other place in England could.

Peri pulled the car into the drive and jumped out almost before it had stopped; by the time Timothy climbed out of the passenger seat, she was already hauling his luggage out of the back. “I can take that,” he protested, but she strode past him, leaping up the ramp to the front door with his guitar in one hand and his suitcase in the other.

“Of course you can,” her voice floated back, “but why should you? I’ll just see if Paul’s got dinner ready….” And with that she disappeared inside.

Timothy shut the car door and slung his backpack over his shoulder, looking up at the house. From the outside it hadn’t changed at all: a tall Victorian with arched windows and a neat box of a front garden. Nothing special, in itself. But over its peaked roof he could see the topmost branches of the great tree that had given the house its name, and his swollen mouth tugged into an involuntary smile. He tossed his pack onto the front step and headed for the garden gate.

The first time he’d seen the old oak, Timothy had been seven years old. His parents had brought him with them to England on furlough-not a vacation but a busy, exhausting time as they drove all over the country, visiting churches to report on their missionary work. And since his mother thought it wasn’t fair to expect a child to do so much traveling, she’d brought Timothy to stay with her relatives at Oakhaven.

Timothy had been glad for the reprieve, but he was also disappointed. England was so different from Uganda, and though his aunt and uncle seemed kind, they were also very grown-up. Even his cousin, Paul, was too old for him to play with-and besides he used a wheelchair, which would have made it difficult for them to go swimming or explore the woods together in any case. What was there, in this strange place, for a boy like Timothy to do?

But then his aunt had called him into the back garden, and he saw the tree.

It wasn’t just huge, it was monumental. Its trunk could have held twenty boys his size, and its leafy arms stretched almost as wide as the house. Eagerly Timothy sized up the distance to the lowest branch, fingers clenched and toes curled with anticipation. He scrambled across the lawn and was just about to leap onto it when Paul’s fiancee, Peri, grabbed him and hauled him back.

He’d cringed, expecting a tongue-lashing and a humiliating march back to the house. But Peri didn’t seem angry; she’d only told him the old oak wasn’t safe. Then she’d led him to the nearby wood, and shown him some trees he could climb there instead.

That was the beginning of a wonderful friendship, and for the next few weeks Timothy followed Peri everywhere. She knew all the local plants by name, and could tell him which berries and mushrooms were safe to eat and which were poisonous. She’d even taught Timothy how to snare a rabbit, skin it, and tan its soft hide. Thanks to Peri there were plenty of exciting things to do at Oakhaven-but she still wouldn’t let him near the great tree, and he went back to Uganda with his urge to climb it unsatisfied.

But five years later came another furlough to England-and another chance. This time Timothy knew better than to let Peri guess that he was still interested in the tree. One night he’d waited until everyone in the house was asleep, and he’d sneaked out and climbed the oak as high as its branches would take him. It hadn’t been unsafe at all, and he’d come back down with a deep and private satisfaction glowing in his heart….

The touch of cold iron against his palm brought Timothy back to the present. He worked the gate open and slipped through into the garden.

Until now he’d been picturing the oak as he’d last seen it, in its full summer glory. But it was too early in the year for that. The ground beneath his feet was black, wormed with roots and littered with the skeletons of dead leaves. Buds were forming on the tree’s lower branches, but it would be weeks before they opened, and in the dim afternoon light the oak looked naked, a lonely titan shivering in the cold.

Timothy squelched across the lawn, skirting the empty flower beds, and stopped at the foot of the tree. How many times had he lain daydreaming under those branches? Sometimes it had even seemed natural to talk to the old oak, when no one else was around. It wasn’t like any other tree he’d ever seen: It didn’t just have size, it had personality.

Of course, he was fifteen now and too old to be hugging trees, even this one. But it still seemed to deserve some kind of greeting. Timothy reached out and laid his hand against the oak’s gnarled trunk, patting it gently. At first the bark felt rough and unyielding, the wood beneath it solid as ever. But then something shifted beneath his fingers, and he snatched his hand back in alarm.

A crack had appeared in the surface of the tree.

Timothy’s heart gave a queer, uncertain beat. As a boy he’d liked to imagine that the oak tree held a secret door, and that it would open to him if only he pressed the right spot. But he was too old for such childish ideas now. If the black hole in front of him looked oddly neat and symmetrical, it could only be by accident.

But for the trunk to just give like that…it had to be rotting, dying from the inside out. And he’d just made matters worse by touching it. Shaken, Timothy stepped back, wiping his bark-crumbed fingers on his jeans.

“Timothy!” called Peri from the house. “What are you doing?”

Her voice sounded sharp, even angry. Timothy was just about to answer, when all at once his eyes stung and watered, as though someone had blown smoke in them. When his vision cleared, the crack in the oak’s surface had vanished. Disbelieving, he reached out to touch the place where the hole had been….

Don’t be stupid. It’s just an old tree. And why are you hanging around outside, when you should be in there saying hello to your cousin?

A prickling discomfort came over him, and suddenly Timothy didn’t want to be near the oak anymore. He pulled his hand away and was turning to leave when he heard a rasping croak from above. Two crows flapped out of the oak’s branches, their silhouettes stark against the ashen sky.

Timothy shivered, stuffing his cold hands into his pockets, and began picking his way back through the garden toward the house. Yet even as he walked he felt his spine tingle, as though something-or someone-was watching him.

The watchful feeling followed Timothy all the way to the house, but once he’d made his way inside and shut the door, it soon faded. Inside Oakhaven all was light and warmth, wooden floors glossy with age and walls painted rich, spicy hues; modern design shook hands with classic architecture, and the furniture looked comfortable enough to sleep on. The place had definitely changed since his aunt and uncle had moved out, but to Timothy’s mind it was all for the better. He dropped his backpack by the staircase and headed down the corridor.