Under The Oak Tree Ep 1 Novels & Stories

“He hasn’t released me.” “He will.” The certainty in her tone leaves no room for doubt. “What if he never does?” Her head tilts slightly. “He will.” Silence hums between us. “Where?...Where can i find you?” I ask. The clearing shifts. The trees blur and rearrange. The vision expands outward like a map unfurling. I see forest stretching westward denser, darker. A narrow trail barely visible beneath overgrowth. A river cutting through stone. Then a massive oak tree. Its trunk is split clean down the center, blackened along the jagged seam as if lightning once struck it from sky to root. The top half leans precariously but still lives, branches heavy with leaves.

“Glee . . . shit.” Another tremor jolted them, and the centuries-old cottonwood tree—the only thing left out there—twisted and leaned, losing its foothold on the remainder of the crumbling bank. Slipping away. Richard felt something at his elbow. This time it was Owen tugging at him, a clogged warning in his throat. Pulling him back from the decimated park area. Toward the waiting vehicle. “Daddeee . . . ” Katie fretted. Richard took heed and went.

--- I told Damon about the tree. He was in the study. Reading something on his computer. He looked up when I walked in. "A tree?" "A tree. For Sam. In the garden." "What kind." "I do not know. Something that will last. Something that will not die." He thought about it. "Oak." "Oak?" "Oaks live for hundreds of years. They grow slow. They get big. They do not die easily." "That sounds like Sam." "How." "He was stubborn. He was loud. He took up space. He did not die easily. He was not supposed to die at all."

Every life a story. Nova stared in awe. The tree radiated warmth. Peace. Sorrow. Love. The emotions washed through existence like waves. The Graveyard's voice softened. This is the Last Tree. Silence followed. The First Memory immediately began crying. The Witnesses stared in wonder. The Forgotten fell to their knees. Even Origin looked humbled. Nova couldn't look away. Because beneath the tree sat someone. A figure. Waiting. Watching. Smiling. The person looked ordinary. A simple traveler.

Then a voice echoed. Soft. Ancient. "WELCOME." The group froze. Immediately. Then the tree moved. Not the branches. Not the leaves. The trunk. A face slowly emerged from the bark. Eyes opened. Ancient eyes. Older than kingdoms. Older than crowns. Older than memory. Then the tree smiled. Then: "THE HEIRS HAVE RETURNED." The clearing trembled. Then Darius slowly lifted his hammer. Then: "Trees aren't supposed to talk."

"Stop acting like you could survive a week, without us" "When you say us, you mean your money, food and shelter." "When I say us, I mean, you could impossibly live without a roof over your head" I said in return. "Okay, dad whatever you say. Stop at the next turn" Ruby said, and I took the last turn to the house of Kehna. Once I stopped, Ruby didn't think twice and got out of the car, she didn't think of waiting for us. The only thing we could do was yell her name for her to wait.

Okayo remarked. Okech put on the black dress, plucked up a strand of grass and walked into the garden. He searched among the purple flowered plants till he found one of the salvia plants. He then looped the strand and placed it on the tree-let. "See, it's over here. Don't forget," he shouted at Okayo. When he had come out, Okayo wore the dress and walked into the garden to uproot the tree. Just then, the python snake they had encountered on their first visit appeared from a point in the garden. He stood back in shock. Seeing how shaken he was, his brothers moved closer to the garden to check what was wrong. When they beheld the reptile, they cried out at once, "Get the plant and leave!"

The white tree was there too, smaller now, but still standing. A pup asked him: “Were the old wolves stupid? To fight over trees?” Oka laughed. “No, baby. They were brave. They taught us that choice isn’t between right and wrong. It’s between different kinds of right.” “What kind are you?” the pup asked. Oka looked at his moon. Pink, with one white spot. “I’m a Thorn who takes naps under white leaves. What kind are you?” The pup thought hard. “I’m both too.”

The bracket was redirected — she could see that even in the dark, even in the storm, the downspout angled away from the foundation the way he had described — so he had finished, he had done what he came to do, which meant he should have been inside already, which meant — Where is he. She turned. And then she heard it. Not over the storm. Under it. The kind of sound that bypassed the ears and went straight to the spine — a deep structural crack that she felt in the soles of her feet and the base of her skull simultaneously, the sound of something enormous making an irreversible decision. She turned toward the forest edge. She saw the oak move. Eighty feet of tree and the root ball had let go

But every year, at the same time, one of her comrades delivered a pack of shortbread cookies. At 60, I taught my final class. Before the bell rang, I looked out toward the hillside. A flourishing willow tree stood there. My son lay beneath it. "Cyrus, Dad misses you." —The End