Poison Oak and Thorny Dreams

Last night I had a dream, a strange dream involving a conversation between myself and my mother. We were talking about writing as we often do, and I mentioned that I had an idea for a new story. "You'll love it," I promised her. But something was missing. I needed a period in time in which to set the story. Since Enura had already claimed the American Revolution for its setting, I knew that I would need to choose something else. The first thing that came to mind was The War of 1812--same enemy, different circumstances--so I went with it.

I proceeded to tell the tale to my mother right off the top of my head. (I'm a panster at heart, so outlining is optional.) The words were beautiful and poetic. I knew that I needed to write them down and innately sensed that I would have to break the spell of my dream in order to do so. Reluctantly I woke up, and promptly forgot what I had conjured.

For a moment I was frustrated, but I did not let it bring me down. I thought back to something, anything that I could remember, and a few words came back to me: There stood an oak...

While I was unable to write down the exact words from my dream (I'd rambled on for about a paragraph or so before waking), I was able to capture the spirit of the story. This continued back and forth over the course of an hour. I'd wake up, write down what I was thinking, go back to bed, and then think about something else. Finally I stayed up and finished it off.

It's ironic that this short work could be used as backstory for wickwood (enchanted trees) in my vampire thriller Enura. Obviously The War of 1812 happened approximately 35 years after the American Revolution, but such details can be changed. To document what I originally came up with, I left it as is.

Will it find its way into the lore of Enura? Who knows?

These dark dreams--What to do with them?...

© Mythja Photography

POISON OAK AND THORNY DREAMS

There stood an oak off Mulberry Road. Gray at its base, tentacles reaching towards the sky. At the end of bitter winters, which the county was apt to endure, children emerged from their snowbound strongholds to play on its mighty limbs, hoping to snag one of the many fruits that spawned from its branches.

Such a tree it was, the talk of town, that at one time shared the company of a president and his first lady on the humble Maryland backroad. Everyone wanted to partake of its sweet flesh that proved medicinal, a rare delicacy of the soul.

Like every age, as man is apt to err, of opportunity, debt and political suffering, war broke out. That same president's house burned down, as did much of Washington. For a time, the tree sat forgotten, along with its intriguing effect. There was little space, not even a dim corner for it in the politician's mind. Many had perished and needed to be laid to rest. The capital had been razed, many of its buildings burnt to the ground. Worse still, they did not occupy all of their proud land. The British now had a piece, and intended on wresting more away.

He no longer looked farther south to the tree that occasionally occupied his thoughts, and in time, wished he had. For an enemy troop wandered down Mulberry Road, intent on making the Americans pay for their newfound freedom. The families that had befriended the curious tree were rounded up, shot, and stabbed in the chest with the red coats' bloodthirsty bayonets.

While they watched the community burn, bodies scattered amidst the fire, the soldiers gathered under the shade of that same oak to catch their breath. Content they were at the suffering they had inflicted, and laughed amongst themselves. The cries in the distance were no more. They had taken every life on Mulberry Lane.

Save one.

When the soldiers spotted the fruit dangling from its branches, they smiled at their good fortune. The apples were large and ripe, and the sunlight seemed to play tricks on them--the shade an impossible blue.

All but one feasted in haste, the ashes of the deceased collecting in the branches above. Like the strange apples that had mysteriously fallen down on them, the red coats' numbers fell, too. "Poison..." a soldier cautioned the last remaining man before expiring.

The swiftness in which the afternoon had deteriorated sent the young man running. But he did not get far; the trusty oak made sure of it. With its long, wiry tendrils, it scooped him up. Without a mouth to communicate or snap off the man's head, it poked at him, not sure what to do.

Not all humans could be bad. The children who had warmed its limbs were proof of it. The new company had to have at least one in its ranks with a heart, much less a soul.

How wrong the oak was.

Somehow the soldier managed to load his gun and fire at the base of the tree.

Never before had the tree felt such pain, a deep wound that would take decades to heal. Unwilling to absorb another blow, one that might prove fatal, the magnificent oak tore the man asunder, and dumped his mangled body in the fires that stretched down Mulberry Lane.

Into the forest it receded, wounded by the touch of man and his devilish ways. Wandered for a while it did, far from his influence, so that nary an eye could be cast upon it. In turn, it surrounded itself with its own company, warning its brethren of what was to come when the humans found the poisoned oak once again, and the inevitable actions that must be taken.