The Indie Collaboration Presents
Summer Shorts
A eclectic collection of stories from various authors. From action filled science fiction to dark sinister chills, humorous mystery, and wild impish fun. Ideal for for relaxing in the summer sun.
ISBN: 9781310171154
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Contents
SARAH'S TREE BY PAUL RAVEN
THE KITCHEN IMPS BY A. L. BUTCHER
BOOTS? BY DONNY SWORDS
THE CASE OF THE SIX BROKEN MILK BOTTLES BY CHRIS RAVEN
HENRY'S WINDOWS BY ALAN HARDY
TALIA SARAN: SUMMER ON INDIGO PRIME BY D.C. ROGERS
WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW BY MADHU KALYAN MATTAPARTHI
DREAMING BY SONYA C. DODD
NEWPORT MEMORIAL REGATTA BY KRISTINA BLASEN
BRITISH SUMMER TIME BY A.L BUTCHER
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
OTHER PUBLICATIONS BY THE INDIE COLLABORATION
Sarah's Tree By Paul Raven
In the Kentish countryside tucked away in the folds of the North Downs, lies the small village of Midas Green. I doubt very much if many people have heard of it, yet only a few years ago it was associated with a tragedy that was both macabre and strange. Midas Green has been classed as a village since before history was recorded and it is first noted in the Doomsday Book as having the grand population of sixty-one. With that one exception, fame or popularity had never disturbed the tranquility of village life that was strictly tied to the never ending rhythm of the passing seasons. It grew larger of course, but it remained essentially the same. Built in roughly the shape of an horse shoe surrounding a large green, it remained unspoilt by the changing times.
I spent my childhood there. Free to roam the fields and woodlands of the surrounding countryside with the other village boys, almost without restriction. The local farmers tolerated our escapades with the good humored outlook that 'boys will be boys', and even treated our seasonal scrumping raids on their orchards with only token severity. The fact was that we were country-bred and, as such, had an innate respect for the farmers fields as they well knew. So it was that we had fields to roam, trees to climb, and streams to fish or paddle in with no one to say yea or nay.
There was only one place we were not allowed to play and it was enforced by every adult in the village, whether it was their child or not. That place was Sarah's tree and it stood like a permanent temptation to every tree climbing boy in the center of the village green. An old elm, it stood gnarled and twisted by time, reputed to be the headstone of the only witch the village had known. The story was that she had terrorized the village during the Civil War, cursing people, animals and crops alike until the village feared and hated her so much that they reported her to the church authorities at Canterbury as a heretic and devil worshiper.
The reaction of Canterbury was swift and terrible. Within days of the report being made, a Franciscan Monk with his authority backed by four Cromwellian troopers, arrived at the village and interrogated Sarah in her cottage. The result of which was that on the Monk's orders the troopers dragged Sarah screaming to the center of the green and burned her alive. The pyre was the entire contents of her home and, even as the fire was still flickering, they left the stunned village as suddenly as they came.
The legend was that the elm tree had sprouted almost over night from the ashes of Sarah's final resting place. In the years that followed the story goes that anyone damaging that elm tree was dogged by ill fortune, sometimes ending in tragic and violent death. My grandfather told the story of the three village lads who were called up in the army for the duration of the nineteen fourteen war and they all vowed to meet back in the village after they had given the Bosch the lesson they deserved. They each picked a leaf from Sarah's tree and placed it in their pocket books to remind them of home and left to go to war. At the end of the war only two returned, the other having died in the Flanders mud. Of the two that returned, one was minus an arm and the other had a racking cough that he had as the result of a mustard gas attack on the Somme. The one-armed man took his leaf and buried it one night at the foot of Sarah's tree, to expiate the angry spirit he said. The other, having lost his, died several years later when he had coughed until one of his lungs collapsed.
As a child, I absolutely believed that the tree was cursed and when I reached manhood I left the village for the big town and began to doubt and then finally disbelieve the story as superstitious nonsense.
I kept in touch with the village over the years, first by the occasional visit then, after my father died, by letter to a boyhood friend who had stayed to run his father's farm. I thought no more of Sarah's tree until in the September of 1973 I received the following letter from my friend in Midas Green.