The Missing Years

the back of the photograph and the tales of others? Snatches of phrases, half-formed images, crafted in a child's mind into a castle worthy of the Brothers Grimm, the type of castle in tales that have nothing to do with fairies. I weigh my answer. I have an irrational feeling that Carrie isn't the only one listening. The Manse has been waiting a long time for me--a quarter of a century, give or take--but I imagine stone can be very patient.

 

I'm imagining rather a lot today. Tiredness from the long drive, presumably. Stick to the facts, Ailsa.

 

"Do you?" prompts Carrie.

 

"Yes," I say finally. "I remember. At least a bit."

 

Suddenly there is an earsplitting crack. Instantly I'm turning, scanning around, grabbing Carrie's arm with one hand to pull her with me. "Ailsa," I hear her say as I search the area wildly. Then, louder, more urgently, "Stop! It's all right. It's just a branch. On the oak. It broke." She catches me with her cool silver-gray eyes, so like our mother's, the only part of her that is. There's a drumming in my ears. It takes me a moment to realize it's my heartbeat. I take a breath, then another, staring into those pale eyes. "It's okay," she says gently. "Just a branch. Look." I follow her pointed finger. There's a very old oak tree that I hadn't noticed but somehow knew was there, to the right of the house. The lowest branch, thicker than the width of a well-built man, has cracked and is dangling at an odd angle. The twisted wood looks dead and dry. The tree is uncomfortably close to the house; its roots must be irreversibly tangled with the foundation. They must have burrowed into the dank earth, thin tendrils slipping through cracks in the brickwork below, growing and expanding over time, tightening around the bricks and pushing out the mortar, inveigling themselves until house and tree became irrevocably entwined. Rot in one can only lead to the same in the other.

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