The Wailing Tree

By Kate Hill




As a child I spent summers with my uncle. He was my mother's oldest brother whose hair had already turned gray before I was born, but whose presence was of eternal youth and strength.

He spoke often in a quiet voice which I so loved, but more important, he listened and observed.

"You're an odd boy, Max," he would tell me. "But odd is good. It means you're not afraid to think on your own."

Other children might have been concerned about being referred to as odd, but I had never been preoccupied with fitting in. Conformity instilled more fear in me than peer pressure ever could.

"Keep doing what you feel is right, and you'll have few regrets."

My uncle often gave such advice, but then I was too young to understand his wisdom. I packed his words in the back of my mind like I stored old baseball cards in a shoe box, not realizing how both the cards and the words would increase in value.

When I was ten years old, he moved into a lighthouse on the Cape. Together we hauled in furniture, his worn easy chair, the bed he'd made for me with the headboard carved into the shape of swordfish, and his collection of books and wooden carvings.

The first night I spent there, he made hot chocolate and I stretched out on the floor at his feet while he read the most exciting parts from "The Three Musketeers."

I stared intently at his dark, expressive eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses which were the same color gray as his curling, shoulder-length hair. He reminded me of a character in one of Dumas' books, a charming gentleman with subtle skill and a passionate spirit.

When he finished reading, we climbed the winding steps to my room where he waited with a candle until I was safely in bed. I watched the flame fade as he disappeared down the corridor. My mind still whirling with sword fights and chases, I slept.

In the midst of a dream, I heard the low rumble of voices. So many conversations mingled that the voices were indistinct, yet as I awoke, rather than fading, the chattering became louder and more real.

I opened my eyes to a whirl of spirits floating about my room like fog on the beach below.

Though I should have been terrified, I felt only curiosity and pity. The only discernible sound was that of wailing.

All around me spirits wept, and I had no idea of how to console them, so I called for my uncle.

The glow of the candle cut a yellow path through the ghostly fog, and my uncle sat on the edge of my bed, intensity in his dark eyes as he said, "You hear them too. I thought it might have been my old imagination misguiding me."

"What are they, Uncle?"

"I don't know. I felt them the moment I arrived. No one ever mentioned this place being haunted, and I never believed in wandering spirits until I came here."

"They sound so sad." I gazed at the clusters of wailing, translucent shapes and felt overwhelming grief as I longed to help them.

The following morning, when I awoke from a nightmare-plagued sleep, I joined my uncle in the kitchen where we made plans over a breakfast of juice and banana pancakes.

"The local library will have the history of this lighthouse," he said. "Perhaps we'll find answers there."

I was shocked that the town's library was even smaller than the one at my grammar school back home. The building was in the shape of a refinished barn and contained only a single room filled with shelves of leather-bound books. My uncle explained that there was a larger library in the town square, and this was a historical landmark which contained old books that focused on the town's history.

As we settled at a simple wooden table at the back of the room to search through the books my uncle had chosen, the librarian, Maria, approached. A tall, rangy woman with silver-gray hair swept back from her face with two mother-of-pearl barrettes, she made a stunning appearance. Her strong features had aged gently, and her eyes were as blue as the flowers on the flowing, ankle-length cotton dress she wore. She winked at me as she placed a slim, brown book beside my uncle.

"I believe this will help you," she said.

Pushing his glasses up on his nose, my uncle glanced at her, and even my youthful ignorance couldn't mistake the attraction between my gentlemanly uncle and the statuesque librarian.

She continued, "It's the diary of one of this town's first citizens. He was a doctor and student of the occult."

My uncle reached for the book, entirely consumed by its content. He carefully turned the fragile pages as both the librarian and I watched. He became so absorbed in reading that around lunchtime Maria cut a large red apple to share with us, and my uncle scarcely seemed to notice.

He finally looked up from the yellowed pages and said, "This book has been very helpful, but it takes time to decipher the handwritten passages. I know that books can't be checked out here, but..."

"I could let you take that one overnight." Maria gazed at him through her lashes.

My uncle nodded, smiling at her. "I'll have to repay you for the favor. Would you join my nephew and me for supper tonight at the lighthouse?"

That night I was nearly as excited as my uncle to have Maria visit. While he had been reading the journal, she had told me stories which were nearly as exciting as his, and I imagined them marrying and sharing their love of books.

My uncle cooked a seafood dinner and Maria brought a homemade cherry pie. Though I mainly focused on consuming as much of the tasty morsels as my stomach could contain, I noticed neither adult was much interested in the meal but rather in smiling at one another and touching hands across the table.

After dinner, we went to the library to look through my uncle's book collection, and the wailing began. The distorted sounds echoed softly at first, but grew louder as the room swam with elusive spirits. Though Maria reached for my uncle's arm, she didn't seem at all surprised. The spirits disappeared as quickly as they'd arrived, leaving the three of us huddled around the fireplace, the journal resting on my uncle's knees.

"When you came to the library today and asked about the history of the lighthouse, I knew you'd seen them," Maria said.

"You knew?" My uncle lifted an eyebrow.

"I'm probably the only one in this town who does."

"In the doctor's journal, he wrote of the old cemetery down the road. He claimed to sense the spirits of the dead and wondered what would happen to them when no mourners were left to visit their graves. During his studies, he found that sprits which no longer had a host body depended on the company of the living for happiness."

"No one's visited the cemetery for years," Maria said. "All the relatives and friends of those people are long dead themselves."

"So the spirits left the cemetery in search of living companions," continued my uncle dreamily.

"This lighthouse is the closest place to the graves, so the spirits came here."

"But it doesn't make sense." I shook my head. "If they're happy around the living, why do they sound so sad?"

My question brought disturbed silence. As my uncle and Maria read through the remainder of the journal, I brought out my harmonica and played a soft, sleepy song.

As I played, the spirits once again filled the room, but this time they didn't speak, didn't wail, but merely watched and listened.

"They like the music," whispered my uncle. Maria touched a finger to his lips to silence him, and I continued playing until the spirits faded. They didn't appear again that night.

Each evening I played for the spirits. Maria visited often, and she and my uncle would sing while I played.

"I have an idea," my uncle said one night. "These spirits need a living companion, one that will last for years. The lighthouse will eventually be as empty as the cemetery."

"What do you suggest?" Maria asked.

My uncle led us up the winding steps to the highest window in the lighthouse and pointed to the cliff across the beach. The thick, dark silhouette of an ancient willow shone against the vast circle of the moon.

"That tree will live longer than any of us," said my uncle. "And when the breeze from the sea blows against its branches, it sounds like music."

"How will we convince the spirits to go there?" Maria asked.

My uncle smiled.

I played the harmonica and Maria and my uncle sang as we walked from the lighthouse followed by a translucent trail of spirits. Through the salty breeze and up the rocky cliff, we brought the spirits to the willow tree. There they melted into the trunk, slipped among the branches, and faded from view.

A week passed with no sign of spirits in the lighthouse. Sometimes, in the evenings, we looked out the window and saw dim shapes slipping among the tree's wafting branches. Only on windless nights would we hear wailing from the cliff, and together we would sit beneath the tree and sing until a stronger breeze blew from the sea.

At the end of summer, I was best man at the wedding of my uncle and Maria. I was glad for them, though I would miss my uncle as I was certain I wouldn't be spending entire summers with him again.

I was wrong. They kept a room for me, and each July on the first day of my visit, my uncle would meet me at the airport and Maria would have a fresh cherry pie waiting for dessert. We would search through the old books, I would play harmonica, and on still, windless nights, we would walk the twisted path up the cliff and sing to the wailing tree.

The End

© 1999 by Kate Hill

Bio:Kate Hill is an enthusiast of dark and romantic fiction. She especially enjoys works which explore both the good and evil sides of paranormal beings.

E-mail: katehill@sprintmail.com

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