Falling Trees. A different sort of love story. The domain of the Wood Witch. (standard:fantasy, 5868 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 30 2020	Views/Reads: 1439/968	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Deep in the Maine woods sits a small town of around five-thousand individuals.It doesn't particularly welcome strangers -- especially tourists or people different from the normal, especially witches..

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

He loved the isolation, the house being positioned two acres into the 
woods at the end of a long winding crushed-stone driveway -- invisible 
from the nearest road, County Road #163. 

He sighed. "I'll check it out, see what I can do." 

A week later, after settling in, he went to town and bought a large
chainsaw. Taking the heavy tool outside and filling it with fuel, 
according to directions, he tried it out on a small tree that might 
threaten his electric line. 

John found the saw cut through that spruce as though it were made of
butter, throwing chips out in a dense cloud. He first cut a chunk out 
of the back, a foot from the ground, in order to guide it when it fell. 
In a few minutes, the small tree dropped where he wanted, with no 
problem. He left it lie until later, to cut up for kindling wood. 

Checking over the much larger elm, though, showed he would have serious
problems. It was, as his wife said, leaning toward and almost over the 
house. The task didn't seem impossible to him, but beyond his 
expertise. Walking around the obstacle, he noted that someone had 
obviously, at some time or other, attempted to doctor the tree. 

There was what looked like a rather large cement plug on one side near
the base, darkened by years of exposure to the elements. The filling 
was two-feet in diameter and six high, rough and shoddy-looking as 
though the tree had been sick at some point and a chunk cut out of its 
living flesh. That, John thought, could be a real problem. Who knows 
how deep the repair goes, or how hard the substance? 

"I'd better hire a professional," he mumbled to himself, storing the saw
in a nearby shed and going back into the house. 

*** 

"We can handle it, Mr. Evans," Peter Sells, of "Acme Tree Surgeons" told
him. "We'll cut it from the top down, a section at a time. When we get 
down to that patch, we can handle it easily." He grinned. "Not a 
problem at all. By the way, do you want us to cut it up into firewood? 
That's another of our services." 

"Na. That's okay. Just get it down and I'll see if I can cut it myself.
I have my own saw." 

"A lot of work for an amateur. Call us later if you need help. You want
us to get at the job? I can do it next week if you want?" 

"Guess you better, get it out of the way. It's been standing there for
hundreds of years and the house has been here since the seventies, but 
the thought still scares my wife. Sort of a Damaculies syndrome." 

"You mean the sword of Damocles, the king that ruled with a blade
hanging over his head by a thread?" Peter asked. "I wouldn't worry too 
much. Although mostly dead, the tree looks sturdy enough. Whoever done 
it seems to have known what they were doing. It's a very old patch and 
hasn't killed the tree yet." 

*** 

The next Wednesday, John and Margie watched from their rear patio as the
tree service began their task. The men seemed professional and worked 
quickly. Every half-hour or so, a chunk of trunk or huge limb would 
fall, crashing to the ground to be towed to a pile away from the house. 
By the noon break, the tree was so low that they couldn't see it from 
their window. 

After the large truck, loaded down with workers, left for their lunch
break, the two walked over to see what was left. 

At that point, the trunk was only ten-feet tall, no longer imposing.
Seven to ten-foot lengths of trunk lay in a neat pile near the forest. 
They must have used their truck to pull them around, John thought. The 
sections certainly didn't fall that way. He remembered a compact but 
powerful looking power-hoist on the back of the truck, somewhat like an 
auto wrecker's. 

"Maybe we should just leave it like that?" Margie asked. 

"We paid for them to level it. Might as well let them, dear." 

"I was thinking. I wonder if they can cut it down to, say, three feet
from the ground and even across the top? We could polish the stump and 
use it as a sort of outdoor table. Maybe pour a concrete surface around 
it? What you think? Sort of a patio?" 

He shrugged. "It wouldn't hurt to ask." 

When the workers came back, John was told they didn't have the equipment
for such a cut. That they had to take the remainder out in sections, 
and carefully. Much of the work would be done manually, with axes, 
because the large plug could wreck their saws. There was no guarantee 
as to what the surface would look like. Besides, the plug would 
probably extend below the three-foot table level. 

The couple stayed around to watch the final phase. 

At one point, the truck was backed up. First, a chainsaw and axes were
used to clear a couple of feet of the plug, then a chain wrapped around 
the top of the filling and tightened. The truck revved up as it pulled, 
finally jerking the plug out to slide along the ground. 

Something rolled out of the cavity, bumping against Margie's foot. She
looked down and shrieked. 

It was a petrified human head, long white hair streaming out along the
ground in its wake. 

Margie felt faint, staggering to sit on a nearby stump. 

“What the hell!” John exclaimed. Reaching down, he started to pick it
up, then changed his mind. “What the flaming hell,” he repeated. 

“We better report this to the sheriff,” Peter Sells said, shaking his
head. “Damn. This has never happened before.” He nudged the back of the 
head with a toe of his work shoes. “I'll do it. You don't have a 
telephone yet. We'll check back here tomorrow and, hopefully, finish 
this up.” 

John nodding, the crew left for town. An hour later, Margie revived,
they were sitting in the living room when Sheriff Adams knocked. 

“I found the rest of the body inside the tree, Mr Evans. Looks old'ern
the hills to me. Nothing I have to be concerned with. No suspects at 
this late date.” He laughed. “I'll send some guys from the university 
to dig it out and carry it away. Hopefully this place won't be declared 
a historical site. Christ, that last one on your land was a humdinger. 
We had to pull security on it for years to keep the kids out.” 

*** 

Abigail Parsons's parents knew she was different, even as a small child.


"Have you noticed how she seems to be attracted to plants?" her father
mentioned to her mother. "The way those bushes reach out to clutch at 
her when she walks by? It's unnatural." 

Indeed, unnatural or not, the Parsons' crop seemed to be the best in the
colony. Even during the year 1689, when their neighbors suffered a 
drought, Jeb Parsons grew a bumper crop of corn and beans, a great help 
in feeding their neighbors. 

Little Abbie spent most of her time in the fields, tenderly nurturing
the plants with water, cuddling with and even talking to them as though 
they were human. They seemed to respond, growing huge flowers and 
vegetables. 

Jeb and her mother, Jane, couldn't help but notice and even fear the
child's powers. 

"Never, never, let anyone know, honey," they cautioned the child. "Some
people wouldn't understand. They would consider you a wood witch." 

In those days, and that place, there was no organized schooling. Her
parents, though not reclusive, kept her on the farm as much as 
possible. They tried to hide her very existence from most of the 
colony. 

The girl's best friend seemed to be one particular elm tree. At the time
Abbie was born, the tree had been ill, limbs drooping and sickly 
looking. The ends of its branches were mostly dead and worms cavorted 
in its bark. About the time the child could walk, she found that tree 
and befriended it. Within a year it was well, growing tall and proud. 
Even as a teenager, the elm tree was her favorite. She'd sit under it 
for hours at a time while reading the few books her religion would 
allow. 

In the year 1704, word came to their village of hundreds of witches
being found there in Maine, Massachusetts, and as far away as Virginia. 
There were meetings of the village elders, their purpose to ferret out 
any such evil creatures in their area before they could take hold. One 
known type was the wood witch. To the colonists, there was no such 
thing as a "good" mutation. 

Of course, supposed deeds of local witchcraft were discussed. The
elders, including Preacher Edmonds, talked about such things as cows 
giving sour milk, a cat birthing thirteen kittens, and crops failing 
seemingly at random. 

"And what about the Parsons?" Alfred Johns, a seventy-year-old retired
miller, asked. 

"What about them?" Preacher Edmonds asked. 

"As long as I've known them, they've never had a bad crop, even back in
'89." 

"Jeb and Jane come to church regularly. I can vouch for that." 

"And their daughter? Has anyone here seen their daughter?" Johns asked. 

"They have no daughter," Edmonds said. 

"They do have one," Johns told the group. "Two-three years ago, I was
out that way, and saw a little girl in the fields, hoeing." 

"Maybe they have a slave or a niece?" from another elder. 

"They have neither. It's a daughter, looks just like Jeb," Johns
insisted. 

"Even so, she couldn't be a witch. They've had no troubles or I would
have known," Preacher Edmonds said. 

"But, if there is a daughter, why doesn't Jane bring her to church? You
tell me that?" Johns asked. "And maybe she's responsible for bad luck 
on other farms, not her own?" 

"And maybe you're full of manure?" another elder replied. They all
laughed, except Alfred Johns. 

With no witches found, the meeting adjourned. But once Alfred had a
presentiment he wasn't the type of man to let it lie quietly to die on 
the vine. Wherever he could cadge a free drink, he spread the word 
about his suspicions. 

The next year was a drought, and the one after that. Villagers began
praying to their god while looking for explanations. Meanwhile, Jeb and 
Jane freely fed the village from a bountiful harvest. Alfred grew more 
certain, and actually acquired listeners. 

Eventually a small mob was formed, mostly from lazy slackers, but the
elders talked them out of a witch hunt. 

Having plenty of free time, Alfred Johns used it to spy on little Abbie,
gathering evidence of her affinity with plant life. He saw bushes bend 
to embrace the teenager when there was no wind, how she coddled them, 
and was convinced she was a wood witch, wreaking evil on her neighbors. 


His persistence eventually led to a few other men going with him to spy
on the farm. They saw the same things, even the large elm tree moving 
its smaller lower branches to shelter Abbie from the sun as it moved 
across the heavens, and were convinced of the child's evil nature. 

Another mob was formed without the elders or preacher knowing, gathering
one day right after sunrise. Everyone knew you couldn't catch a witch 
at night. They would simply turn into bats and fly away. 

Armed with sticks, hoes, and rakes, they stormed the Parsons' farm, bent
on vengeance. 

At the time, Abbie was clearing weeds in a cornfield near her elm
friend. She became frightened as she saw all those angry men running 
around their property, yelling and running into and out of the cabin. 
Some of them spied the child and ran toward her through waist-high 
corn. 

She saw her father run out of a smoking house to struggle with the
invaders, only to be struck from behind by the blade of his own ax 
which had been resting in a stump. Her mother suffered the same fate as 
she crouched over her husband to succor him. 

Not knowing what to do or where to go, she ran toward her friend, the
elm tree. Crying loudly, Abbie backed against sun-warmed tree bark, 
knees quivering in unsuppressed horror. In response, the tree swept its 
lower branches down to protect her, causing several angry invaders to 
pause at the sight. 

As they watched, unbelieving, the tree trunk itself opened wide, the
youngster falling into its depths. The trunk snapped closed almost 
completely, leaving only a long wide ten-inch deep indentation. 

For entire minutes, the frightened townspeople stood around, afraid of
the tree, its branches still waving and reaching for them. 

Finally, one of the mob had an idea. He went back to the barn and found
a barrel of cement powder, then mixed it with loose stones and creek 
water. Among ever diminishing moans and pleas from within the tree, 
they sealed up the indentation to keep the wood witch inside. 

Waiting until sundown to be certain, the killers returned to their small
village, congratulating themselves along the way. After all, they had 
killed a real witch ... a wood witch, no less. 

On returning, they couldn't wait to tell Preacher Edmonds who, horrified
by the violence, left the next week for Boston, never to return. Since 
no other minister would accept the mission, the church itself sank into 
disrepair and eventually burned to the ground. 

The next few years brought additional hardship to the dozen families
still comprising the colony. Three years in a row, locusts descended on 
ripening wheat and corn. A cow gave birth to a three-legged calf and 
Mrs Samson's child was stillborn. A snowstorm in August froze their 
fields into a winter wonderland. A brown bear came out of nowhere to 
kill three children, then disappear. One by one, frightened families 
left for better climes. 

In a final effort, remaining villagers, remembering the fecundity of the
abandoned Parsons' farm, moved there and built new homes. It did no 
good. That land also remained fallow. 

In the course of time -- maybe because of that witch hunt along with
guilt from killing Abbie's parents -- the colony failed, leaving homes 
to deteriorate in the weather, land to return to nature and with no 
written records left behind – evil rumors. 

Years became centuries, abandoned buildings turning to dust blowing in
the wind as though the colony never existed, only a few stone 
foundations remaining. Nearby townspeople habitually shunned the area, 
although in time the reason was forgotten. 

*** 

"I can't get over her condition," Doctor Simpson said, sipping coffee.
"According to tree rings, she's been encrypted in there for at least 
three-hundred years. There shouldn't be anything but a skeleton, if 
even that. Her flesh is dessicated, dried into a leathery condition but 
still complete. Even the bugs didn't touch her. They ate her clothing, 
if she had any, but not the body itself." 

"I can't understand it either, Jack," Jane Tompkins, his assistant,
answered. "X-rays show all internal organs in good condition, no 
apparent cause of death." 

"Even the flesh on her fingers is complete. If she'd been sealed in
alive, I'd think she'd have at least attempted to claw her way out. And 
there are no such indications on the inside of the plug, either." 

"She could have been poisoned first? We couldn't cut into the body for
an autopsy. 

"We tried, but none of our standard saws worked and it wasn't felt
important enough for digging up or buying diamond-cutters. We managed 
to drill into internal organs. Again, they were dried but no poisons 
found. 

“We've got enough financial problems right now without spending all of
it on that one corpse. And those special interest groups were making a 
stink about reburying her," Doctor Simpson explained. 

"Well, it's over now. The activists buried the body today. They raised
money for a funeral and she's under the ground by now. Guess we'll 
never know that story, and it would have been a humdinger." 

*** 

Abigail was, indeed, under the ground -- the cold nonliving ground. Her
head, placed carefully onto the stem of a neck, gradually merged with 
the body. Rain and ground-water slowly softened dehydrated flesh, 
seeping in through pressed lips to reinvigorate internal organs. 

In time, a finger moved. A single hesitant heartbeat tried and failed to
warm her. Weeks later, it tried again, eventually working to pump vital 
fluids. 

An arm emerged from the earth, clearing space as dirty long white hair
emerged into sunlight, startling a bunny rabbit digging for roots 
around bushes. Lungs drew in air, even as long-unseeing eyes flashed 
open. The other arm emerged like a bony spider. By dawn, Abigail the 
wood witch was free, disappearing into a wooded area behind the 
cemetery. Unerringly, gathering strength from the October woodland, she 
made her way home. 

*** 

On the western edge of town a small house stood, surrounded by fields of
corn. Inside, two old ladies sat over glasses of iced tea, the instant 
type. 

“Heavens, Edna,” one spoke, glancing out a window, “I don't know what to
do. That garden is going all to hell and I can't do anything about it.” 
She appeared close to tears. In prior years, her garden had been both 
pride and joy. “Blood pressure, you know. I can't bend down, or even 
crouch for very long before falling over.” 

“Tell me about it, honey. Those times done been here ... and gone. The
only thing saving me is a power-chair. Simply walking to the toilet's a 
painful chore with this arthritis.” 

“I asked Preacher Feltcher.  He said he'd try to find a volunteer to
help around the house, but how can I ever pay, even a teenager?” 

That night, a three-hundred-year-old teenager happened to pass by on her
way home. Acutely aware of her nakedness, certainly not condoned by 
biblical passages, she stayed to shadows, trying to avoid the many 
barking dogs she passed. 

Spotting a shed half-hidden by darker moonlit shadows, she tentatively
approached. Inside, a row of dusty dirty outer clothing hung on wooden 
pegs. “Uhhhh, aaaaa, ah ah,” the girl mumbled through 
barely-functioning vocal cords. 

Finding a pair of bib overalls that almost fit and a torn raincoat, she
looked around to find footwear. Her feet were tender from the grave. 
Being deeply religious, she searched a so far partially-reinvigorated 
mind for a way to pay for the clothing.  Of course Abigail had no gold 
or brass coins with her. 

“Ahhhh, gii.” She spotted a nearby garden overgrown with weeds, though
she could sense other plant life yearning to emerge. They were 
desperate, pressed down by thick roots and uncaring rough stalks 
unwilling to share even a smidgen of sunlight with others. For hours, 
the girl crawled along ill-kept rows, digging with still-tender fingers 
at dried clods. At times, her digits killed and shriveled, at times 
caressed and encouraged enhanced growth. Although she loved the weeds 
in their own right, she couldn't ignore tortured dimly-heard cries of 
their victims. Some plants willingly shared space, others not. 

By the time the sun rose over the horizon, the garden sprouted with tall
flowers. Leftover tomato seeds from the year before bloomed though out 
of season. A small patch of long-forgotten corn stalks rose, 
tentatively, toward the heavens. 

The wood witch had returned. 

Later, there were reports of a strange woman seen walking down county
road #163, though no one seemed to give an accurate description and she 
wasn't found. 

“I dunno, guys,” farmer Joseph Diamond told his cronies. “Kinda skinny,
looked like a bum to me. What I noticed mostly was that white face. 
Like a whitewashed doll, it was.” He giggled. “An she kinda staggered. 
Must'a been drunk. Meb'be one'a those hippies from at house on Juniper 
street?” 

Even as she walked, Abigail's strength increased, skin taking on a more
human-like tinge. Life force as given and reinvigorated by the sun 
flowed into her body, giving strength and renewing long-dormant mental 
facilities. 

Eventually, she arrived home, surprised by the lush growth of forest
sitting by itself among surrounding fields of grain and beans. Well 
within the fifty wooded acres stood her family's home turf. Before, it 
had been cleared and planted by her father's sweat, then deified by his 
blood. She instinctively knew it as her home. 

Abbie moved through towering trees now bent forward in welcome, lower
branches bowing down to caress her shoulders and head, even as bushes 
reached out, threatening to entangle legs only recently recovered 
enough to walk straight. Smiling, emitting a wide aura of love and 
care, she made her way down dimly-remembered lanes toward her best 
friend – the elm. 

As the returning wood witch spied only a rough-surfaced stump where her
elm had stood, a loud cry, more a hoot, escaped quivering lips. Then, 
then her eyes lit on a huge pile of logs lying nearby. 

Breaking down into unbidden tears, she threw herself onto what remained
of her best friend, clutching bare wooden flesh with questing loving 
hands. “whoooooooom, wawhooooooooo.” 

Abigail felt emotions, including anger -- strange to her. Abbie was a
wood witch, a creature loving nature and all its ramifications, not an 
avenger, nor used to anger. Her nature was love of all things. Quickly, 
fleeting anger became resolve. 

This was HER land, a bequest from her family. She would take care of it,
and to hell with the rest of the world. It was HERS, and anyone 
objecting would be damned. Especially the townspeople who had killed 
her family. Although resolve took charge, that feeling of anger still 
simmered below its surface. 

*** 

“What was that?” Margie asked, sitting up in bed. “I thought I heard a
wolf?” 

“Na. No wolves here in years. Too many people around,” John replied,
rolling over to go back to sleep. 

“Don't you think you should at least check?” 

“It'll wait till later. Go back to sleep.” 

After breakfast, John intended to start on his firewood by cutting up
those felled trees. He'd rented a hydraulic log-splitter and a diesel 
wood chipper, along with a flatbed truck to carry them. 

Stepping off the back porch, ready for a day's labor, he thought he saw
a youngster dressed in a raincoat walking near that elm stump. 

“Hey! You! What you think you're doing?” 

As he walked that way, the apparition seemed to grow faint, merging with
nearby brush. Shaking his head, John turned and reached for the 
chainsaw. Must be the morning mist? he decided. Time to get to work. 

*** 

It took a month of labor, a little at a time, for John to cut all his
firewood. Once, when he'd have sworn it was half done, he found a new 
pile of logs stacked near his splitter. All he could figure was that 
one of his neighbors brought them during the night. Shrugging, he 
buckled down and added them to his stack of firewood, figuring he'd 
find out sooner or later. He never noticed a corresponding lack of dead 
trees on his own land. 

Almost immediately, though, once-weak trees regained new life. Bushes
became untangled in order for the branches to gather more sunlight. The 
woods around his home seemed to grow more lush, more healthy. The land 
began to look more like a park than a wild area. 

The greatest change was the lack of insects around and in the house,
itself. There were plenty of them in the forest but they avoided the 
clearing. 

A little-known fact is that land accumulates life force from the sun. It
expends it on all living things in close proximity. It's one of the 
many unseen and little-understood forces of nature. 

In this case Abigail, having control over that life force, jealously
used it on her own land, taking from nearby fields. Oh, the change 
wasn't immediate, all encompassing, or consistent. Many small grain 
fields were missed, others had built up a strong reserve of their own. 
But, over the space of a few years, the imbalance became evident. While 
her land blossomed, areas nearby fell sallow. It was especially evident 
in nearby fields. Crops began failing or were at least undernourished 
outside John's property. 

Since Abigail didn't have any interest in nearby fields, she ignored the
evidence. Maybe that disinterest was in part due to the killing 
hundreds of years in the past? If so, it wasn't a conscious effort on 
her part. The thought of revenge had been forced far down in her 
psyche. She only cared for those acres she loved, which required 
sucking life force from many miles around. 

She found a home between and under the roots of a large spruce tree,
sleeping on bare ground which invigorated her recently dead body. From 
there, she could hear and sense everything in her small kingdom – even 
inside the Evans' home. 

As with all in that kingdom, she loved the Evans' and their attempt to
improve the land. To that end, John had paid a landscaping company to 
bulldoze the remains of the archaeological dig into a hole they dug, 
then spread earth, grass and wildflower seeds on top. It had seemed to 
him to be an eyesore – as it did to Abigail. 

One unexplainable point was a lone seedling that sprouted on top of the
old elm stump. Not only that, but the way it seemed to grow every 
month. In only three years, it reached six feet tall. Both John and 
Abigail nourished it, her with her powers and he by including it 
whenever he watered the new lawn. 

One day, while resting on the stump, he noticed something shining on its
surface. Funny, John thought, he hadn't seen it before. Using a pocket 
blade, he carefully pried the object out, finding it was a small silver 
crucifix. 

“Honey. Look what I found in that old tree.” He showed his wife. “It was
shining there. I wonder if it worked its way out or something?” 

“I don't know a thing about biology,” Margie said, looking the object
over. “Looks like writing on the back. I'll clean it up and we'll see 
what we've got.” 

“Maybe something we should give the sheriff, you think? It might have
belonged to that poor girl in the tree.” 

“Over my dead body, you will. We're keeping the darn thing.” She was
adamant on that subject. Cleaning it with modern chemicals brought out 
the writing, actually scratching obviously made by a sharp object. It 
was hard to read, partially because of some of the letters being 
extended off the edge as if done by a rank amateur. Maybe that poor 
girl? Margie thought. 

“It says 'Abigail', I can tell that much, and ... 'person' or 'parson',
something like that,” she told her husband. “We'll hang it over the 
fireplace. We can see it as we burn that old tree it was in.” 

The words filled Abbie with pride. Elm would like that, she knew, which
must be why he gave it up to John. She realized that there were many 
forces in nature even she had no control of, such as her returning to 
semi-life. In that context, she could feel something – a personality? – 
stirring in the seedling on the stump, suspiciously reminding her of 
her old friend. 

While satisfied with her lot, Abbie still remembered her childhood and
wished she could be completely alive again. Although having powers, she 
missed being able to feel like a real living person. That thought was 
amplified whenever she felt the love between her two tenants. 

*** 

Along with other creatures in the forest, John and Margie also seemed to
reverse in age. In their sixties, they felt twenty years younger. With 
the resultant increase in energy came that of fading illnesses 
attributed to old age. John felt refreshed in the morning, limbs stiff 
no longer. Margie eventually felt strange stirrings in her tummy. 

*** 

“I don't know how you did it,” Doctor Johanson smiled, showing Margie a
chart. “But you're pregnant.” She shook her head. “And at age 65. We'll 
have to keep a constant watch, though. At your age it might well be 
stillborn or incomplete in some way.” 

As the baby developed normally, Abigail took to sleeping under the house
so as to use her powers to help it along. She loved the fetus as much 
as the Evans' did. Strangely, even to her as she expended energy to 
keep it from being imperfect or premature, her own body seemed to 
lighten in substance. Eventually, she could see sunlight through her 
own hand. 

Abbie would spend more and more time with the seedling, also helping it
mature and develop into a copy of her old friend. Between her expending 
life force to the two of them, tree and fetus, she was often worn out, 
sleeping deeply in order to absorb more and more energy from the earth, 
only to pass it on to the two seedlings -- inadvertently leaving the 
rest of the land to its own nature. 

*** 

“It's developing perfectly, Mrs. Evans. And the tests show a normal
female,” Doctor Johanson said, “Have you decided on a name for a girl? 
And don't say you'll name it after me. Half this damned town has done 
THAT already.” She laughed. 

“We've talked it over,” Margie replied, feeling her tummy and enjoying
motion within, “and think we'll name her Abigail.” 

“A grandmother's name or something?” the doctor asked. 

Margie shook her head. “No. After a cross on our wall. An ancient name
that we agree should be passed down over the generations. After someone 
who deserves to be remembered.” 

Unseen to her new family, when the new baby was brought home the old
Abigail dissolved completely, turning to a roughly human-shaped coating 
of dust under the house as she heard the baby's first cry over her 
head. 

The townspeople still weren't very friendly, but Margie didn't give a
damn as she proudly wheeled baby Abbie down cracked sidewalks. A third 
person at the house seemed to erase a loneliness that had developed 
from the anti-social atmosphere downtown. It was three, rather than 
two, against five-thousand. That made all the difference. Maybe, she 
dared to think, it might increase to four ... or more? 

*** 

“Ma,” little Abbie asked, “who's the other Abigail? The one on the back
of that cross?” 

Margie grabbed her by the shoulders. “What have I told you about
climbing around on that fireplace? You know better than that. You could 
crack your head if you fell off.” 

“Sorry, Ma. But who was it?” 

“A lonely little girl from long, long ago, honey. Your father and me
never knew her, but loved her just the same. Enough to name you after 
her.” 

“Anyway, Ma, I'm gonna go out and sit under my buddy, that little tree
Daddy said was planted just for me.” In a serious tone, “It's my 
special, special friend, you know?” 

Later, while calling her family in to supper, Margie saw Abigail sitting
under the young elm tree isolated on that stump. She'd swear immature 
limbs were caressing the little girl's face. 

“Come and get it, John ... Abigail. Supper's getting cold.” 

The End.


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