The Great Grey Alder
By Samuel Carty
Have you ever been trapped?
Properly trapped? Of course. I have.
How did you get out?
​
Heather woke from his dream to the familiar sight of the thatched ceiling and the sound of the cockerel crowing. In the dead of winter, his regular wake-up was still in the dark and would be for the next three hours.
​
As he left the farmhouse, a frustrated cacophony of shouts and animal yelps came from the field behind. Father must have caught another fox. Heather looked longingly at the gate leading to the town road. In years gone by, he and his parents would have ventured between the stoney streets on a Thursday morning buying pastries from the bakery and eating them in one of the closes, smiling in silence as they indulged in their weekly treat. The grassy verges on either side of the path had been frozen stiff by the wintery dew and the path itself was probably going to lead to a bruised arse and palms, rather than the burgh of Lanark. But the bruises wouldn't last forever. The back-breaking labour and the crack of his fathers whip-like voice had left enough scars and they would stay with him much longer than any bruise a slip on the ice could give him. Even if he broke his arm, it would be healed long before this farm was behind him.
​
"Heather! Git yer skinny erse intae that cow shed, ye useless wee shite!", bellowed his father from the field gate, waking Heather from his butter-pastried daydream. "They cows urnae gawn tae feed themselves!"
Heather looked to the top of the hill, at the shadow of the distant town. He loosened his grip on the near rotten gate. As he tried to walk away, he was yanked back sharply. His hand was firmly fixed on to the flaking wood.
How did you get out?
​
"Whit the hell are ye lookin' at boy?!" his fathers voice cracked like an insane school teacher. "Get yerself tae that fucking cowshed!"
Heather wrenched his hand from the gate and nursing his swollen red fingertips, trudged over the grass-patched mud to the cowshed.
​
The cowshed had stood for 38 years, since his father was a young boy, only in the last seven years had it shown any signs of disrepair. It had started with a slight lean to the left before the roof slats started to fall out like the teeth of a six year old. The floor had gradually turned squishy in certain places, like a wet mossy layer on stone. The three cows left in the barn avoided those areas, Heather did the same. If animals as gormless as those cows were smart enough to avoid the sagging parts of the floor then he would be a fool not to as well, he thought. The last bull had been swallowed whole by a sinkhole in the field last summer, so there hadn't been any new cattle born this year. His father swiftly gave up on the idea of meat produce, as well as dairy, the same way he had given up on his son as he grew to be a scrawny and tiresome mouse, opposed to the stubborn bull that he himself had grown to be.
​
Heather opened the hay bin. The scant tuft of hay in the corner of the bin rustled. The vermin are back, thought Heather. Underneath the browning crop lay a rat as thin as a pencil. Twitching but near death. He lifted it out by the tail and looked into its vacant eyes. The ribcage began to pulsate and a thousand little lumps bubbled under the skin. The rat's bones cracked, its skin tore and an armada of black beetles burst from the decicated torso. They ascended the corpse to his hand, spiralling around his forearm before spreading to his neck and down into his throat. Like a million rapid pin pricks, the beetles burrowed into his flesh. Heather froze as the small black claws scraped below his surface and through to his bones. His mouth widened to scream and he woke, under the thatched roof. His sheets were grey with sweat, his breathing was laboured, as if his lungs were made of stone.
Morning slowly broke behind the window above his bed. It was summer, as it had been when he went to bed the day before. In the wee field, he could see the modest flock of eight sheep grazing under the greying alder tree. The tree had been planted the day he was born, at the time his father seemed to curse it as much as he had come to curse Heather. It had been his mother's idea to plant it and it seemed that only she had liked it. The day's chores were as menial as they were the day before and the day before that, but they were nonetheless exhausting. Night had shrouded the valley as quickly as the day had lit it. Heather's father called him in for dinner.
As his senior said grace, Heather couldn't help but feel a pang of aching nostalgia, for a time when his father would pull outlandish faces to make him and his mother laugh or when the scent of fresh bread would hang in the air till dinnertime when it would mix with the smell of broiling meat. The lukewarm feeling in his gut evaporated into stinging helplessness upon hearing his father's pleas to God as if it was God's job to mend the lives of his creations and ignore their arrogance in times of trouble. God didn't build a half-sunken cowshed or infest the field with crop-eaters. God didn't put blame on his newborn daughter for his wife dying in childbirth. God didn't treat his son like a slave or accuse him of bringing curses onto their house. God didn't put what meagre food they had on the table. Would things have been different if his mother and sister had survived? he thought. "Amen," and Heather suddenly didn't feel hungry anymore. His father had cleared his plate not a minute after his prayer and looked over at Heather's. "Eat, boy." Heather sighed and reluctantly put one of the minuscule potatoes in his mouth. His father rubbed his face, rested his work-beaten hands under his chin and sat forward, "Tomorrow I want ye tae take the axe tae the wee field, cut doon yer mother's tree." Heather looked up from his almost empty plate and looked at his father. He had known him to make jokes in the past but this wasn't a morbid sense of humour he was used to. "Ye heard me, boy. It's aboot time that curse was gone fae oor lives. E'er since 'at tree died, we've hud nuhin' but trouble. Ye willnae grow tae be a real man until it's gone for good."
"But... it's her tree."
​
"It's the mark ae a blight! A blight on oor land!" His father thundered, his nose twitching like the tongue of a dying rat, "Ye forget yer place, boy. I'm yer faither. Ye do as I say. Now, go to yer bed. I want ye working early tomorrow."
What he had once considered a relic of his lost childhood, he now saw as his mother's hand beckoning to him. The branches wobbled slightly under the evening's cool wind. Tears streamed down the side of his face as he stared up at the ageing thatch above.
Heather stood in the wee field. His boots were slowly engulfed by the gluey mud, pulling his feet downward like lost souls dragging him to the underworld. The cadaverous great grey alder loomed over him. Yanking his feet from the starving earth, he tightened his grip on the butt of his father's axe and struck the waning trunk. A trickle of red sap escaped from where he had embedded the axe. He struck it again. The distinct smell of freshly slaughtered sheep saturated the night's air. The axe blade drove itself into the wood again. The bloodied sap began to flood over Heather's feet as thin red tentacles wandered down the field.
Have you ever been trapped?
The soft echo of a voice came from a crumbling knot in the tree trunk.
Properly trapped? Of course. I have.
How did you get out?
​
My dear son, I didn't. Your father's fate is not your own. Run before it's too late for you.
​
The first signs of sunlight split the sky as Heather neared the town gate. He turned to look at the wee field. The great grey alder stood intact again, its withering branches cast in shadow before the rising sun. He took a deep breath and unlatched the gate. The path before him led to the town of Lanark and the wider world. Heather adjusted his satchel holding some stale bread and water and walked down the road, the farm had faded fast from his memory as he reached the end of the road.