Faithful Pebble
Part Seventy-One
"What is the tree? You keep mentioning a tree?"
He was staring absently at some random bush half listening for Pebble's answer. That was when he saw it, a sudden rustle of the limbs, a slight unnatural crackle of a branch. He had seen not one animal larger than a squirrel or a bird or an insect. As deserted as it was, it was unnerving to see anything in the forest move, let alone the voluptuous branch swaying eerily before him. So unnerved was he, the wanderer at first started, but then suddenly he caught himself. He remembered green emerald eyes, a small freckle-spotted nose and ten dirty itchy fingers. He wondered if he squinted and stepped close enough if he might see the child's signature purple cap, his blushing yet mischievous milky smile.
The wanderer almost smirked at the possibility of the child following them. He almost smiled at the thought of having perhaps found him, but then another thought struck him hard. It successfully wiped his budding grin from his face. It struck it dead at the slightest reminder of what the consequences were for anyone trespassing on the land they were now treading. The forest lay silent beneath his feet. The wanderer licked his lips.
"What tree are you referring too?" he said tightly—no steady–no. He took a breath and pulled his gaze away from the bush.
"It's poisoned," Pebble answered. "It's what became of the apple, they say, the villagers, the elders, those elder even to them. The seven left it, like everything else, and from where it fell grew a tree. From the seven seeds, it grew large, a twisted and cursed and dead looking thing with deadly apples the size of a small child's head. Its leaves are a dark purple and its sap a milky white. The whole thing in entire is just as poisonous as the woman who first created it, birthed it from the heart of a fowl ill-fabled dark magic mirror.
It is said that the poison seeped into the forest, into the ground and into the cave, into the very diamonds themselves. While some believe the diamonds were cursed to begin with, most blame the tree for making them the treacherous things they are. They believe that it was the tree's fault for what happened."
You know, I thought this thing would just be a small short story. It's now nearly 30,000 words and practically a short novel. I so didn't see that coming. Oh well. As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. Your continued support mean so much to me. Please enjoy further as you feel led. - Calla