The Old Oak Tree (EPISODE 4)

‘My child, Father. My child!’
 
Jack held Bridget close to his side. She was sobbing.
 
Jack heard murmurs of support around the church. The folk of Orlow wanted to do something, needed to do something. Thrice now, the Others had attacked them, gnawing at the fabric of their lives. And now, young Isaac was gone. An innocent, little boy, stolen by those on the other side of the old oak tree.
 
Father Gregor held up his hands, his cassock shifting. He faced down the congregation from the front of the church. ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘I know that you are grieving. We are all grieving.’
 
‘We are not grieving,’ Bridget spoke up, sniffling through her tears. ‘My boy is alive!’
 
Father Gregor’s face settled into a sympathetic smile. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, without conviction. Jack felt something stir in his blood. He clenched his fists.
 
‘We have to do something!’ Jack shouted. ‘First Dan, then the blasphemy at this church, now this, this –’ His voice broke. ‘– my, my boy…’
 
‘When Dan crossed that Line, he went to save his wife and new-born child,’ Nick said, stepping forwards. His voice was level, even as his lip quivered. ‘He never came back. We all heard the screams. The crashes of violence. They murdered him.’ He stepped to the front of the congregation. ‘Father,’ he said. ‘Please. We have to do something. If anything can be done, if young Isaac can be saved, we have to do something.’
 
‘And what something would you do?’ Father Gregor asked. Raised slightly above them, he peered down at them in a faintly disapproving way.
 
Nick faltered. Jack filled in the gap. ‘We cross the Line,’ he declared. ‘Every man and woman that wants to do something, come with me. Pick up any weapons you have, cross the root of the old oak tree together. Together, we’ll demand they bring out Isaac.’
 
‘And what if they refuse?’ the preacher pressed.
 
‘Then we take one of theirs!’ someone shouted at the back.
 
‘And do what with them?’ Father Gregor asked. ‘My friends, my brothers and sisters, these things – they are evil. We can’t even guess at their depravity. We don’t even know if they love their children!’
 
He paused. ‘They are monsters,’ he said gravely. ‘By the grace of God, they keep away from this side of the old oak tree. Don’t you realise why?’ He gestured about himself. ‘The church!’ he announced. ‘The sanctuary of God, His protection.’
 
‘But you said so yourself,’ Vanessa shouted. ‘They are evil! They’re monsters! Just look at them! Shouldn’t we do something?’
 
Father Gregor shook his head. The congregation muttered among themselves, a rising static of buzzing noise.
 
‘This is going nowhere,’ Bridget murmured in Jack’s ear. ‘He’s afraid.’
 
Jack frowned. He knew that his wife was right. And, moreover, Father Gregor had good reason to be afraid. The Others were monstrosities. Mutated abominations, dragging their fleshy, bulbous appendages about them, muttering in guttural, broken words. And they were numerous, too. The great root of the old oak tree had split the town neatly in the middle. There could be no action without consequence, no violence without heavy cost.
 
‘But our son, Jack,’ Bridget urged, sensing his hesitation, and Jack knew she was right.
 
‘I don’t know what we can do,’ he acknowledged, raising his voice. The congregation fell to hushed murmurs as Jack took a step forward. ‘But I have to do something. And I’d be grateful of any man or woman who’d come with me.’
 
Hoping to God that someone would follow, Jack strode towards the door.
 
When he opened it, he froze.
 
One of the Others sat in the middle of the path, halfway between the church and the old oak tree. It sat cross-legged, loose skin rolling over its knees, its flesh seeming to shift and roil like tremorous seas. Its eyes were hidden in the shadow of an overspilling brow, an abundance of skin, an excess of skin, seeming slick and sloppy in the shadow of the falling day. Most of its hair was swallowed up by those wrinkles of flesh, disappearing into epidermis crags, spotted with spider leg shoots of black bristle. And yet, despite its grotesque appearance, despite the bleak evil that leaked from it, malevolent and wet, Jack recognised the man it had once been. Peter. The children's teacher, before the old oak tree bifurcated the schoolhouse, breaking it in two.
 
The thing glanced up. Beneath the overhanging brow were wet, yellow eyes. It stared at Jack, and Jack stared back.
 
With that, all bluster and bravado flushed from Jack’s system. All the rhetoric and promise of action shrivelled and died, sagging the shoulders of those behind him, forcing them back in anxious steps. Jack loved his son, but this – this unequivocal, brazen act of simply sitting – had eaten up his courage. The sheer, effortless power of the monster seeped from its malefic soul like floodwater pouring from a gusset.
 
Jack felt as Father Gregor gently pushed him aside. ‘What do you want?’ the preacher asked the abomination, almost managing to keep the apprehension from his voice. The thing fixed its wet, yellow eyes on him. Its lips moved around a lopsided smile.
 
‘I want…’ it began, grinning wider. ‘… to… understand you.’
 
‘Thing of the devil!’ Father Gregor shouted. ‘You shall not know us, you shall not understand us, other than this: we are god-fearing, and we are not afraid! We are not afraid! Now go! Begone!’
 
But it didn’t leave. Indeed, it barely moved, even as the congregation awkwardly parted around it, afraid to come too close as they shuffled to their homes. It simply watched them with its wet, yellow eyes, glancing at each face as if fixing it to memory.
 
It did not leave even when the sun fell, and the shadow from the old oak tree spread across all of Orlow.
 
Nor had it left by the time the sickly sun rose and strained through the woodland foliage, pale and weak.
 
It did not leave; it did not leave.
 
It just sat there. Waiting for something that no one else could fathom.
 
Or someone.