‘Er …diolch.’ He holds up the paper awkwardly, stumbling over the Welsh word for thank you. He waves goodbye to Karen, who smiles at him while simultaneously scanning the teenager’s items.
‘Diolch a hwyl fawr,’ she replies.
Graham walks home, the prospect of attending the village committee meeting already causing him to break out in a cold sweat, but perhaps it will be good to officially join in with the locals.
Or not.
He’s mainly going to find out more about the tree, and why the hell anyone would want to destroy it. Plus, he may even discover the reason why he found a scarecrow hidden inits branches this morning. Hell, maybe it’s a weird village tradition.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’sencountered one.
Chapter 6
SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
Living in the darkest depths of Wales where there were three times as many sheep as there were people was hard work at the best of times, but add on to that the fact I was sixteen years old and I had myself a problem. Granted, I had friends at school, but to be honest, I was finding myself hanging out with them less and less as the years went by. It was a tiny school with only twelve students in my class, so the chances of finding anyone who I connected with was slim at best. The other girls my age (of which there were only seven) were more into boys, make-up and selfies whereas I preferred to sit under the massive tree on the hill opposite Rosemore Cottage - the cottage my dad owned and rented out - and draw.
The tree was an infamous attraction in the small village of Bethgelert; the village where I was born and raised. Well, it was infamous to the residents, but hardly anyone who lived outside of the community knew about it. That was what I liked about it the most. The tree held a story few people knew about. It all started with the death of a young farmer ninety years ago. A young farmer who just happened to be my great, great, great grandfather.
John Hammel.
In the years since his passing, the tree had become synonymous with death and bad luck. Several years ago, a bunch of kids climbed it and one fell and broke his leg. One time, like fifty or so years ago, way before I was born, it was struck by lightning and a massive branch fell down. Luckily, there was no one around at the time, so no one was hurt, but basically, as the legend goes, if you climb the tree or spend time near the tree, chances are you’re going to die a very painful and horrible death. Or something along those lines. The legend seems to morph every few years.
However, I was still alive, and I’d spent the best part of the last decade visiting the tree every day, so … I assumed I was safe from the “curse” or whatever. Apparently, lots of people have died near the tree, even before John Hammel hung himself in its branches. There are village documents going back hundreds of years, across several generations, detailing the deaths. I haven’t seen any of these documents, so I couldn’t say if they were true, but sometimes, when I leaned against the gnarly trunk, I felt a pulse, like the tree was alive with the souls trapped inside.
I believed John Hammel used the tree to speak to me because whenever I put pen to paper, my drawings and sketches would take on a life of their own. That was the funny thing. In class, when I was asked to draw pictures, I sucked. Like, Ireallysucked at drawing. But sat underneath the canopyof the tree where my great, great, great grandfather died, I drew the most exquisite sketches. I couldn’t explain it. It was my little secret, though. There was no point in trying to explain it to my dad or the teachers because they wouldn’t understand, or they’d think I was nuts to think that the soul of a dead guy used my body to sketch pictures.
Anyway, I had my own sketchbook, a set of pencils my dad got me for my last birthday, and my own vivid imagination. What more could a girl want? Other than maybe a friend to share it with, but I was getting used to spending time by myself outside of school. I had the tree and the spirit of my dead relative channelling me whenever I drew beneath it, so … I was good.
My dad never understood where my love of drawing came from. No one else in the family liked to draw, apart from John, but he lived so long ago that it made no sense as to why I would inherit his passion. Dad said it wasn’t a useful skill to have, especially as the only daughter of a farmer. I knew for a fact my dad was disappointed I wasn’t a boy, so I could carry on the family name. But who said I was even going to get married and take someone else’s name? Besides, I had no plans of marrying aboyanyway. Or maybe I did. I hadn’t decided yet. I did love a boy once when I was seven, but then realised girls were much more attractive, but the girls at my school had personalities reminiscent of sparkle fairies,whereas I’d have preferred it if they were more like Lara Croft, my video game heroine.
With my sketchbook and pencils tucked under my arm, I opened the front door to walk the mile-and-a-half to the tree. We lived on the other side of the village from Rosemore Cottage on a smallholding called Blackberry Farm, but Dad still owned the area around the cottage and the tree.
Barney, our new sheepdog puppy, came bounding from the kitchen as soon as he heard the front door open. He still had a lot to learn with regards to herding sheep and learning the ropes, but he was the cutest thing, full of life and energy. Technically, he belonged to Dad because he needed him to pull his weight with the livestock on the farm, but Barney had taken a liking to me, following me wherever I went.
I bent down and tickled Barney’s ears. ‘You want to come with me, huh? You sure your little legs are up for it?’
Barney yapped his response.
‘Where are you off to?’
I turned, casually plastering a sweet smile to my face. ‘I’m going to draw at the tree for a bit. Can I take Barney?’
My dad appeared round the corner, dressed in his farmer’s jacket and flat cap. ‘What’s with you and that bloody tree?’
I shrugged, pursing my lips. ‘It’s a cool tree.’
‘It’s a death tree, is what it is.’
‘Yes, yes, I know the story, Dad. My great, great, great grandfather hung himself from the tree when he was twenty years old like ninety years ago, dooming the entire village to some weird, dark curse or whatever.’
My dad scoffed, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘You should have more respect for the curse, my girl, or it’ll come after you next. You spend so much time there, I’m surprised it hasn’t got you yet.’
I wasn’t worried about the curse. Maybe it was because I didn’t worry about it that it left me alone. Besides, only the village committee members seemed concerned about the tree and its curse. The last family to be subject to the supposed ‘curse’ was the Davies family, roughly five years ago when all of their livestock tragically died of some weird disease in the space of two days.
‘So … can I go to the tree and draw or not?’
