Under The Oak Tree 273 Novels & Stories

Trecking up to an old oak tree on the old outer walls. Everyone knew this was the tree that Thomas Black had harvested an oak tree seed and planted it in the village. But I had no idea that it was even more woven into the Black family history than that. “You see,” Steph had told me, excitement evident in her voice, “It wasn’t until Granny had said about the Oak tree that I began to think. She mentioned that the tree in the ruins was planted by Melinda Black, sown from a seed of an oak in her hometown.” She gentured to the massive oak that towered about us. Its lush green canopy stretching out at all angles.

Robert replied. The high beams cut through the dust on the road. Kat could see the drive was lined with thick trees. “It is going to be impossible to find Jude in here if he wonders off.” She glanced worried at Robert and back at the barbequed covered boy. “Don’t worry babe. There’s a gate around the property itself.” He rubbed her shoulder. “Well this isn’t creepy or anything.” Ray snarked. “Its only creepy because its dark RayRay. Things always look different in the dark. It’s just new, new always feels uncertain, until it’s not new anymore.” Kat smiled back at Ray through the rear view.

The good thing about being Butterfly with Carson — as I've come to enjoy — was I didn't need to any longer. Carson turned to me with a perked eyebrow. In the bright white light from the ceiling and floors I could now see the slight redness in his otherwise perfect eyes and I was glad we stopped. “Where is everyone?” I waved my hand about indicating the empty space. “Don't tell me you didn't see those cars.” Carson chuckled and drew a hand over his dark stubble, an action that made me involuntarily clench my thighs. “That. Well, you did not hear this from me, but, Jaime Crawford junior also hosts an underground and very illegal poker game every Tuesday night.”

The old oak tree still stands at the center, its branches spreading like gnarled fingers against the sky. Dante pulls a shovel from his truck bed. "Thomas said the north side of the tree, three feet down." They walk to the oak in silence. Sera's heart pounds as Dante starts to dig. Every shovelful of earth feels like they're excavating their own graves. "There." Dante drops to his knees, brushing dirt away from something metallic. A small lockbox, rusted but intact. He pulls it free and sets it on the ground between them. The lock is simple—Dante breaks it with one sharp twist.

POV: DARIUS The first light of morning creeps slowly through the trees while the forest still smells like smoke and broken magic. I stand at the edge of the clearing and stare at the well dug ground in front of me.. No one speaks. The entire pack stands quietly beneath the branches of the Moon Tree. It is the oldest tree in our territory. Huge. Ancient. Its trunk is so wide it would take five wolves just to circle it and the branches stretch out over the clearing like giant arms. Pale white bark glows faintly under the early morning light and the leaves whisper softly every time the wind moves through them.

My body betrayed me with a warm ache between my thighs. 'Alright,' I said finally, voice steadier than I felt. 'But where? Right here on the road?' 'Nah, too exposed.' He jerked his head toward the woods. 'Follow me.' We trudged into the trees, branches snagging at my jeans, the ground soft and muddy underfoot. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in silver slivers, casting shadows that danced like secrets. He stopped maybe fifty yards in, by a massive oak, its trunk wide and gnarled. The air was thicker here, alive with the scent of wet earth and pine. Far enough from the road that no one would hear...or care.

“We made sure not to touch the scene, it’s exactly as we found it.” Matthias nodded, expression grim as he stepped past her. And there she was, laid out at the base of a oak tree that was older than the pack itself. Its branches twisted up ahead in a ghostly sort of canopies, leaves swaying in the airless night as strips of moonlight filtered in through, falling to the forest floors like ribbons of silver.

Birds chirped melodiously, their songs harmonizing with the rustling leaves and the distant howls of the pack. We ventured deeper into the heart of the pack lands, where the ancient oak tree stood tall and majestic. Its branches reached toward the sky, casting a protective shadow over the surrounding area. The ground beneath it now teemed with life, lush green grass and delicate ferns adorning the soil. "This is where it all began," Lady Loretta said softly, her voice filled with reverence. "The oak tree, the source of our pack's prosperity, and the testament to your power, Royal."

Birds and cricket songs are replaced by total silence, we can even hear the twigs and branches breaking underneath our legs as we walk on them. I can hear Owen's heavy breaths, even his hard swallowing. The air suddenly changes, when we get to a small opening after the thickets. There are seven tall trees, taller than the rest, which surround an old cabin. It practically looks deserted. The trees look so strange and peculiar. I have been to the woods before, but I have never come across such trees. I walk slowly towards the cabin, Owen is one step ahead of me and his hand is wrapped protectively around my waist.

The oak tree leafed out over four days — Tuesday the buds, Wednesday the first unfurling, Thursday the specific tender green of new leaves fully open, the canopy restored. The ribbons were partially hidden again, as they were every year when the leaves came back, the twenty-two years of them — the new ribbon her mother had tied in November, the ribbon Anya had tied at the solstice, all the accumulated years of marked moments — held by the tree in the private way the tree held things when it was in full operation. She stood under the oak tree on the Thursday morning and looked up through the new leaves at the sky beyond. She’d been doing this for twenty-two years.