Tha Thoarn Tree

Laura Spence

Whun John Dowling, his guidwife Grace an thur weefla, Dan, flittit til tha oul cottar-hoose, it wus spring an wee white flooers wus apenin oan tha thoarn tree.

John haed haed tha hoose left til him whun his great-uncle dee’d, seein’ tha oul mon hadnae onie femlie o his ain. John was gye an gled tae get tha hoose fur thur was nae wark tae be haed whaur he leeved an tha grun wasnae guid. Grace was wi wean agane an wee Dan cud dae wi a bit o a gairden fur rinnin aboot — sae, in May, tha Dowlings laidit aa the’ haed ontae a cuddy-cairt an flittit west tae thair new hame, wi tha coo waakin ahint them.

Tha cottar-hoose wus nae mair nor tha twa ruims an an oothoose fur tha cuddy an a wheen hens. It sut ablow tha Rocky Moontin wi gressy fiels tae tha aist an wile boags an peat mosses streetchin awa tae tha sooth an west. Tha mair it was far frae ither fowk, tha Dowlings wur blithe eneuch an wrocht lang iverie day oan tha lan, growein prootas, kale an banes. They haed eggs an milk, an whiles John wud tak a coney or a burd in a snare.

This yin simmer day, Grace wus ben tha hoose whun she guldert tae John ootby, “John, dearie, it’s wile derk an coul in here wi nae mair nor this yin wundae. I dinnae want tae haetae licht tha fire oan a guid day laik thon. Gin ye cud tak doon thon muckle brench that’s athort tha wundae, it wud let in a lock mair licht”.

Tha thoarn tree wus gye an oul an its brenches wus tha braidth o a mon. Yin brench wus growein richt owre tha wundae o tha cottar hoose, keepin oot tha licht.

Takkin it doon wus a quare hannlin. John an Dan tuk intae tha wee brenches first, haggin them aff an choppin them intae blocks. Tha muckle brench, but, wus hairder yit an the’ wrocht lang an sair tae tak it aff.

“Hoo oul wud ye say it is, Daddy,” spiered Dan.

“Ye can figure it bae coontin tha rïngs in tha wuid,” sayed John, “but we’re no fur takkin doon tha hale tree. Haggin this yin brench aff is eneuch”.

“Aye but leuk,” sayed Dan, “thur’s mair nor a hunner rïngs oan this yin brench its lane!”

John leukked at tha roon Dan wus houlin. Tha mair it wus aboot a fut across, it haed hunners o fine wee age rïngs.

“A jalouse this tree cud be a thoosan!” sayed Dan, aa bizz.

“Och naw,” sayed John, “but, mine ye, it’s ouler than A’d hae thocht. It maun a been growein here frae afore tha hoose wus bigged, even”.

It tuk anither wheen days haggin an saain tae tak tha brench doon. John’s hauns wur blistert an raa, an Dan wus fit tae drap.

Tha hale sennicht, tha wather haed bin comin in oan them, an noo it lukked set fur a quare stoarm. Tha beece wur riz an gettin by thaimsels, an tha puddocks wud ’a deeved ye in tha boags. Richt eneuch, tha verie day John got tha brench hagged aff tha thoarn tree, jist as Dan wus pit doon fur tha nicht an John an Grace wur haein thair mate, thur wus a quare brattle o thunner.

“We’ll be fit tae see tha lichtnin noo wi thon brench doon an naethin up agin tha wundae,” sayed Grace, gaun fur tae keek oot.

Til tha sooth, dairk cloods haed gethert an wur bleknin oot tha peeliewallie muin. Tha fing’rs o lichtnin wus glentin ower tha nicht sky, lichtin tha boag tha wye Grace cud mak oot tha tummocks o gress. Whiles, echas o boomin thunner cum throch tha moontins ahint tha wee cottar hoose.

Tha oors gaed by til tha stoarm blaa’d itsel oot, tha wun drap’t, tha cloods brak up, an tha bricht muin cum oot agane. John an Grace luk’t in at tha beece afore gaun tae bed, hairt-gled aathin wus aa richt. The’ baith haed a guid lach at wee Dan sleepin throch it aa on sicna wile nicht.

Tha nixt moarnin, thair wus naether sicht nor sign o tha ruch nicht. Tha grun wus dry as banes, tha craps still growein strecht, an no yin leaf haed cum aff tha thoarn tree.

“Gin A hadnae heerd an saa thon thunner an lichtnin masel, A wudnae alloo ’at we’d haed sicna wile nicht”, sayed Grace, dumfoonert, an richt eneuch, it wus a bricht, lown day.

John an Dan got tore intae splittin tha tree roons intae logs an steckin them forenenst tha hoose. The’ wrocht sair, fur tha wuid wus that teuch an tha ex kep skitin’ aff it. At lang an lenth, John stuid bak tae streetch his sair airms. On a suddent, his ee lit oan a boadie waakin in tha moss, tha mair the’ wur a lang wye aff.

“Hey Grace, luk, thonner’s a boadie heidin this wye,” guldert John, an she cum ootbye fur a jook. “Wha’s thon?” she axed, aa tuk bak, fur tha hoose wus oot o tha wye an naeboadie wud be stravaigin thon gate but fur tae lan in on thaim. The’ niver saa anither sowl — less the’ wur gan tae tha toon fur messages.

As the boadie cum nearhaun, the’ saa it wus an oul wumman, hirplin wi a cruik an daen-oot leukkin. Grace run fur watther an John an Dan gaed tae gie tha wumman thur airms.

“Can A gie ye a haun, missus?” spiered John, fur tha wumman lukked painrife an wus trailin a fut.

“Aye”.

Tha wumman sut doon oan a log an pushed bak tha cowl o her cape. She wus gye oul an wrinkle’t wi a shrivelt mooth an skin laik pairchment. Her een wus glimmert sae ye cudnae see whut wye she wus lukkin — an she haed an unco heid o white hair.

“Ma leg wus fankle’t in a snare oan tha Rocky Moontin,” tha oulwife sayed. She kiltit up her cape an John wus tuk bak at tha sicht o yin o her scraggy legs, aa bluidy an cut aff ablow tha knee. She sut quate awee an then sayed, “A can hirple tha best oan ma cruik but A be tae lay masel doon an A’ve seen nae hoose but yer ain these airts”.

“Aye,” sayed John. “There’s nae mair nor boag fur forty mile thon wye. Thon moss is gye dangerous — it’s a guid thing ye landit in wi us. A’ve heerd thur’s a toonlan ahint tha moontin — it maun hae been a boadie frae thonner set tha snare. Whaur ir ye frae, yersel?”

Wi thon, but, Grace landit wi tha breid an watther an sayed tha wumman maun stey an rest hersel a wheen days.

“Ye’ll haetae houl oan tae John can mak ye a dacent cruik,” she sayed. Then a thocht cum til her. “John, ye cud mak a quare wudden leg frae this thoarn tree wuid. It’s guid an strang an wud be betther nor a cruik”. John sayed aye an Grace tuk tha wumman ben tha hoose.

Dan was aa med up wi haein a new freen, an pit in tha day showein his treesures — conkers, buttherflees, burds’ nests an tha laik — tae tha oul wumman wha sut gye an quate, lukkin at John splittin tha wuid intae blocks.

Tha morn’s morn, John tuk intil makkin tha wudden leg. He wus chisellin tha teuch an gnarred wuid whun tha oul wumman hirple’t up tae him.

“Wud ye hae anither wuid tool?” she spiered, pickin up a wheen wuidcuts afft ha grun. Aa day, she whuttled awa wi’oot sayin ocht mair. By een, she’d med thrie wee wudden boxes. Tae John, it wus laik the wuid she haed was saft an aisie wrocht — while tha verra same wuid he wus whuttlin wus teuch an thrawn tae wark.

At dailygan, tha wumman sut by tha ingle, glowerin at tha greesheugh. Her sleekit leuks wur makkin Grace a weethin flayed.

“She’s giein me goose pimples,” whuspered Grace tae John. “Fur why daes she no say ocht? Dae ye ken yit wha she is or whaur she bides?”

John mutthered ’at he knowed nocht ava aboot her — only ’at she leukked tae be a richt canny whuttler, mair knacky at tha whuttlin nor himsel.

“All hae daen wi tha wudden leg tha morn,” John sayed. “She’ll be fit tae lee us then”.

An richt eneuch, nixt day whun John fittit oan tha wudden leg, tha oul wumman sayed she wus fur gaun.

“A gie ye mae thenks fur tha bed an mate,” she toult them — an helt out thrie wee wudden boxes, whuttled richt cannily. As she spauk, she keeked up at tha femlie fur tha furst time frae ablow her glimmert een — an John an Grace wur fair tuk bak at tha balefu divilry o her watthery leuk.

“This yin’s yer ain,” she sayed tae wee Dan. Oan tha tap o Dan’s box, gye sonsy, wus cairved a perfec epple. Tha epple wus laik tae growein frae tha wud, it wus that real-lukkin — an Dan wantit tae ate it! “An this yin’s fur ye”. Tha wumman turnt tae Grace and gien her tha saicond box. Tha lid wus cairved wi a bonnie rose — sae sonsy an guid-leukkin at ye wudda thocht ye cud fin its sweet smell.

Tha last gift wus fur John. Tha tap o his box wasnae cairved but tha oul wumman haed buft it up tae mak it sleekie. Richt in tha middle o’t wus a wuid gnar — an she’d polisht it sae weel ’at it wus amaist staunin up oot o tha wuid — glentin an shinin.

Tha aul craw sayed naethin mair an hirpled awa slowly, wi John, Grace an Dan gawkin ahint, aa gled tae see tha bak o her.

A wheen months gaed by an Grace’s wame wus big got as it cum near time fur tha babbie. Tha Dowlings wur weel-settle’t noo an tha craps wus comin oan in tha fiels.

Yin o tha days, Dan wus ootby tha hoose playin an rinnin aboot whun, abune his heid, jinkin frae a heich brench oan a tree, he saa a bonnie rid epple. It was perfec, sappy leukkin an bricht — an och! It wus ayont his airm’s lenth. Richtaway, Dan wus speelin tha tree an spraughlin on his belly alang tha brench. The brench wus a guid thickness at tha trunk but was spindly gettin as Dan wiggled oot. Dan wus gettin a weethin feart an wus aa fur giein up whun a breeze shoogled tha brench an pit tha epple fornenst his haun. Streetchin oot, Dan med a glam …

Ben tha cottar hoose, Grace heerd a wile crack an a wechty dunt. Frichtit, she gien a spang til tha dure an then, hairt-scaured, rin tae her sin’s wee boadie whaur it lay oan tha grun. Aa roon his wee heid wur faa’en leaves — an in his nieve wus an oul, shrivel’t rotten broon epple.

Fur twathrie weeks, tha Dowlings wur hairt-sair. Tha shoartenin nichts an couler wather med it aa tha waur, tha grey moss an apen muir empie laik thur sowels. Aa wus lown an misslie. The’ pit Dan intae tha grun forenenst tha cottar-hoose an John cairved a wee heidstane frae tha haggit brench o tha thoarn tree.

It wus tha hinner-en o October whun, dannerin roon tha yaird ootby, Grace leukked ower tha boag tae tha sooth. Aboot a mile ayont tha hoose, oan a tummock o gress, her ee lit oan some bricht thing. It wus deep rid, glentin in tha dull grey moss laik a licht.

Grace wus wantin fur tae see whut it wus an set aff owre tha boag. Comin nearhaun, she fun a bonnie smell aa aroon. “Thon’s laik roses,” she thocht tae hersel, fair tuk-bak. Then, as she wun tae tha rid thïng, she saa growein thur oan tha bleak muirlan, a beautifu wile rose-bush, covert wi perfec flooers smellin affa sweet.

Aa delichted, Grace stairted pickin tha roses, eneuch fur tae fill a jug ben tha hoose an a wheen mair fur tae pit on wee Dan’s grave. Wi tha poakits o her pinny an her airms fu o tha flooers, she set aff fur hame.

Beck at tha hoose, as he wrocht in tha proota fiel, John heerd a cry oan tha wun.

“Grace,” he guldered. Then, mair loud, “Grace, ir ye thur?”

A byornar fear tuk hoult o him an John run tae tha hoose. Grace wasnae tae be fun. Caain her, John leukked ben an ootby an wus govin aa ower whun, tae tha sooth, he fun tha byue o Grace’s pinny — amaist oot o sicht ahint a tummock o muir gress.

John hared ower tha moss, lowpin frae yin dry airt tae anither, niver takkin his een aff tha byue. He wusnae suin eneuch. Grace’s apern wus floatin oan tha scum o a deep boag-hole. Castin hissel doon on a tummock, John plunged his airms intil tha deep swamp an hoked in tha coul scummy watther. His hauns fun somethin an, takkin hoult, he pu’ed wi aa his micht. His puir guidwife’s droondit boadie liftit wechty tae tha tap an, wi a heft, John haul’d Grace oot o tha glar an ontae tha grun aside him. Her boadie wus clabbert, her hair snarlt wi weeds — an John saa, drippin ootae tha poakits o her pinny an gruppit in her nieves wus rottin clumps o bog-gress, plaistert tae tha roon’ness o her swollen wame.

Efter he haed buriet Grace an their unboarn wean, nixt Dan in tha grave, an efter he haed cairved anither heidstane frae tha wuid o tha thoarn tree, John gaed intil hissel. He grew mair and mair oorie. Life wasnae worth ocht wi his femlie awa. Days gaed by an his thochts wur blecker an blecker got. As the coul wunther nichts set in, John cud thole nae mair. Takkin doon a rape frae tha oothoose, he gaed tae tha cottar-hoose dure.

John langelt tha rape intae a noose, then speeled tha thoarn tree. Lappin yin en o tha rape roon a brench, he pit tha ither en ower his heid an slipt aff tha brench.

Ben the cottar-hoose, oan tha deep wundae sole, wur tha oul wumman’s gifts. Oan tha third box, John’s box, tha glentin wuid knot slowly apent an a sleekit, watthery aul ee gien a devilish smile.