Prologue
JOHN
Bethgelert, Wales, 1925
The darkness drew closer with every passing minute. John didn’t want to miss the sun disappearing behind the hill near the farm; the perfect vantage point to wave goodbye to another day. John closed the barn door, locking the ducks inside, and bid goodnight to the farm cat - Tabby - who’d woken up from her late afternoon nap. She was now ready to start her evening hunt for mice, which were plentiful among the hay bales and various animal food bags.
Chores complete, he turned towards the hill and began his ascent. The hill, though not very wide, was exceptionally steep, littered with divots and uneven ground, so one could easily twist an ankle if they weren’t careful. Reaching the large, ancient oak at the very top was an arduous task for most other townsfolk, but having turned twenty only a month ago, John found it to be merely a gentle stroll. He’d worked on his family’s farm since he could walk, developing his overall strength and endurance. He loved rambling to the top of the hill every day to watch the sunset and welcome in the darkness of the night. The surrounding countryside stretchedas far as the eye could see on a clear day. He felt like he was standing on top of the world. The horses used to plough the land were grazing nearby, resting after a hard day of manual labour.
Tonight, he was due to meet Carys by the oak tree so they could watch the sunset together, something they did as often as they could. No day was truly complete until he’d watched the sun go to bed with his love. He already knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Carys Griffiths. At eighteen, she was younger than him, but it didn’t matter to either of them. They were in love and had been since they were children, young enough to play together in the streams and run half-naked around the fields and barns.
Tonight. He was going to ask her tonight, even if his father and older brother, Rhys, who had come back from the war a changed man, didn’t agree with his decision.
John jogged the final few paces up the hill, reaching out his hand and touching the tree, like a perpetual finish line he always had to cross. His heart raced, but it wasn’t from the exertion. He stared up at the tree, closing his eyes.
The tree was the oldest living thing in the village, at over eight hundred years old. John’s father, a member of the village order, had shown him old diaries and village documents of when the tree was first planted: back then, a symbol of life, strength and unwavering determination in the face ofadversity for the local community. That was what the tree represented.
Some said the tree held mystic powers. There was a legend attached to it; that if you were to die near the tree, it would absorb the soul of the deceased and keep it alive within its bark and branches for eternity. When John pressed his palm against its gnarled trunk, he swore he could feel the tree pulsing with life. Perhaps it was the existence of souls nestled within.
It was just a legend, of course.
Most of the young people in the community used it for climbing. It was almost as if the tree had designed the perfect order of its branches to make it easier for people to climb. John had been a regular scrambler back in his teenage years. Higher and higher into the branches he’d climb, until the ground was so far away, his stomach would flip in exhilaration.
He often wondered what the tree would look like in another hundred years. Perhaps it would be even bigger with more limbs and climbing footholds. Technically, the tree belonged to his family as the hill it grew on was on their land. If he had the time one day, when he had taken over the farm and had children of his own, he’d love to build a treehouse in it. Nothing overly fancy, but enough to be able to sit in it and gaze across the fields below, or for his children to play to their hearts’ content.
For now, though, there was a branch where he could sit and look out across the valley below. Sometimes, while he was on his break from working the land, he’d bring his packed lunch with him, usually a small block of cheese and meatloaf. It was hard labour, but he had never known anything else. His mind and body were strong. Farming was in his blood and, one day, he’d continue the family legacy and teach his children to live the same life. He didn’t need to travel or go anywhere else. He knew he’d be perfectly content living here for the rest of his days with Carys by his side. Nothing else mattered to him.
The sun was setting. There was no sign of Carys yet. He didn’t want her to miss it because today, the skies had been so clear; the perfect setup for a spectacular sunset. John looked down the hill, hoping he’d see her making her way up towards him. Perhaps he should have waited for her at the bottom. That would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. But no, she’d agreed to meet him at the top.
John took a deep breath as he sat at the bottom of the tree, his back resting against its rough trunk. The gentle wind whistled through the enormous branches above, causing a few loose leaves to cascade around his head. It was that time of year; a time when the abundance of green around him slowly faded to browns and oranges and yellows, Mother Nature preparing for winter.
He smiled as he took out his journal from the pocket of his light overcoat. A brown leaf floated in front of him,landing on the open pages, so he traced around its outline using his lead pencil. He enjoyed tracing leaves and sticks or drawing flowers and trees freehand. His journal was full of doodles, drawings, notes and ideas. To anyone else who opened and read it, the words and drawings wouldn’t make any sense, but to John, they meant the world. The workings of his inner thoughts. He kept other journals too, but those he kept hidden. He made a lot of lists, made observations about a lot of people around him. He knew something was amiss in this village, but he wouldn’t leave it for the world. His home. His community. He would do anything to keep it safe.
A large crack sounded above. He thought for a moment that something was jumping through the branches; a squirrel, perhaps, but he saw no sign of one as he looked up. The tree often creaked and groaned. A recent storm had damaged one of the larger branches and it was only a matter of time before the weight of it would succumb to gravity and crash to the ground.
Looking down at his journal, he began to draw a rough sketch of the sunset. It was a shame Carys was missing it. Perhaps she’d been held up by her parents. It was her job to feed the animals in the evenings. He loved that she was a hard-working woman, but she would often be solely focused on completing her chores and wouldn‘t have time to see him. He knew how difficult the past few years had been for youngfarmers and if they didn’t work, then they didn’t eat, since they wouldn’t be able to sell their wares at market.
John’s attention was focused on the page; the beauty of the sunset ahead of him. He looked up for a moment as the sky darkened.
No. It wasn’t the sky.
A shadow passed overhead. He looked back down at the page, determined to finish the sketch before the light disappeared for the day.
At first, he didn’t realise anything was wrong. He didn’t notice the long rope with a noose at the end being lowered gradually over his head. Not until the noose caught around his neck and instantly tightened. The journal fell from his hands, landing on the ground as he reached his hands up to loosen the rope, pulling it away from the sensitive skin around his Adam’s apple.
It was too late.
When the rope tightened again, it lifted him to his feet. His body jerked as the rope took his whole weight, cutting off his air supply. He kicked his legs. He tried to shout for help, but his voice was trapped inside his throat.
The rope remained tight.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything other than stare ahead at the sunset as life drained from his body. It was so beautiful. Tears streamed from his eyes as he took in the magnificence of the world around him; a sight he knew he’dnever see again. He knew it was over, so his final thought was of his dear Carys. He hoped she would be able to move on from his death and live a long and happy life. This was his fault. He should have left it well alone.
John’s body twitched one final time.
His soul drifted from his body and sought refuge in the tree where it would hide in silence for the next one hundred years. The tree accepted its latest visitor, promising to keep it safe until someone came along who was willing to listen.
John would never know the significance of his death. About how the tree at the top of the hill, once a beacon of hope and strength, would now become a symbol of death and pain.
