The Skrayling Tree Read Free

substance, the house gave the impression
     of not quite belonging here. That, coupled with the age ofthe architecture, began to alert me that we might be dealing with some supernatural agency. I put this to my husband, whose
     aquiline features were unusually troubled.
    As if realizing the impression he gave, Ulric’s handsome mouth curved in a broad, dismissive smile. Just as I took the magical
     as my norm, he took the natural as his. He could not imagine what I meant. In spite of all his experience he retained his
     skepticism of the supernatural. Admittedly, I was inclined to come up with explanations considered bizarre by most of our
     friends, so I dropped the subject.
    As we advanced through the sweet, rooty mold and leafy undergrowth I had no sense that the place was sinister. Nonetheless,
     I tended to go a little more cautiously than Ulric. He pushed on until he had brought us to the green-painted back door under
     a slate porch. As he raised his fist to knock I noticed a movement in the open upper window. I was sure I glimpsed a human
     figure.
    When I pointed to the window, we saw nothing.
    “Probably a bird flying over,” said Ulric. Getting no response from the house, we made our way around the walls until we reached
     the big double doors at the front. They were oak and heavy with iron. Ulric grinned at me. “Since we are, after all, neighbors”—he
     took a piece of ivory pasteboard from his waistcoat—“the least we can do is leave our card.” He pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord.
     A perfectly normal bell sounded within. We waited, but there was no answer. Ulric scribbled a note, stuck the card into the
     bell-pull, and we stepped back. Then, behind the looser weaving of thedownstairs window, a face appeared, staring into mine. The shock staggered me. For a moment I thought I looked into my own
     reflection! Was there glass behind the lattice?
    But it was not me. It was a youth. A youth who mouthed urgently through the gaps in the weaving and gestured as if for help,
     flapping his arms against the window. I could only think of a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.
    I am no dreamthief. I can’t equate the craft with my own conscience, though I judge none who fairly practice it. Consequently
     I have never had the doubtful pleasure of encountering myself in another’s dream. This had some of that reported frisson.
     The youth glared not at me but at my husband, who gasped as one bright ruby eye met another. At that moment, I could tell,
     blood spoke to blood.
    Then it was as if a hand had gripped my hair and pulled it. Another hand slapped against my face. From nowhere the wind had
     begun to blow, cold and hard. Beginning as a deep soughing, its note now rose to an aggressive howl.
    I thought the young albino said something in German. He was gesticulating to emphasize his words. But the wind kept taking
     them away. I could make out only one repeated sound. “Werner” was it? A name? The youth looked as if he had stepped from the
     European Dark Ages. His unstirring white hair fell in long braids. He wore a simple deerskin jacket, and his face was smeared
     with what might have been white clay. His eyes were desperate.
    The wind yelped and danced around us, bending the trees, turning the ferns into angry goblins. Ulric instinctively put his
     arm around me, and we began to back towards the shore. His hand felt cold. He was genuinely frightened.
    The wind appeared to be pursuing us. Everywhere the foliage bent and twisted, this way and that. It was as if we were somehow
     in the middle of a tornado. Branches opened and closed; leaves were torn into ragged clouds. But our attention remained on
     the face at the window.
    “What is it?” I asked. “Do you recognize the boy?”
    “I don’t know.” He spoke oddly, distantly. “I don’t know. I thought my brother—but he’s too young, and besides…”
    All his brothers had died in the First War. Like me, he had noticed a strong