The Face Tree

By Antony Mann

Dissatisfied with his lot, Stephen Davison drifts disconsolately through his life in Oxford as a poorly paid tour guide. Then, walking one day in the woods outside the town, he meets Sarah Middelton, a slender, ethereal woman who tells him she is a local artist. She shows him the face of a man in an oak tree, and Davison gathers that she has carved it into the bark. Davison is soon beguiled by Sarah, and sees her as possible way out of his dismal existence. But there is more to Sarah than meets the eye. Why is she so drawn to the forests around the town? And what will be Davison's ultimate fate?

A 9000 word novelette, The Face Tree was first published in Interzone 245, March/April 2013.

"This story had me gripped from start to finish…underneath the fantasy element of the tale is a vivid description of how British town centres have degenerated, Oxford being the example in this case. Clearly narrated with the gift of a true storyteller, this is this issue's best by far."
Steve Rogerson.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Antony Mann
• Release date: Apr 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780987460622

Antony Mann

Antony Mann's short crime fiction has appeared many times in Crimewave and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. He is a winner of the Crime Writer's Association UK Short Story Dagger and has been nominated for the same award.  

Book preview

The Face Tree

Antony Mann

Published by Antony Mann, 2018.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

THE FACE TREE

First edition. April 21, 2018.

Copyright © 2018 Antony Mann.

ISBN: 978-0987460622

Written by Antony Mann.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

The Face Tree

About the Author

The Face Tree

IT WAS SPRING, THE time of new growth, and the leaves on the trees were pushing out from the axils, tight rolls of green waiting to unfurl. Davison had stopped at The Prince of Wales on his way back from the city, sitting on his own in the corner, reading the paper and glancing at the crossword while he sipped on his pint and let the quiet soak into him. It had been another crappy morning. Business was slow. He was getting so little money now from the walking tours that soon he would be forced back into teaching English to the foreigners. Something was keeping the tourists away. Maybe it was the downturn, or maybe it was just him.

But the beer had lifted his spirits — or else had dulled his senses enough so that, temporarily at least, he didn’t give a damn. Sod the tourists. It wasn’t as though he didn’t despise them, didn’t resent their holiday faces and remorseless cheerfulness and all that disposable cash they brought with them which went not into his pocket but instead into the tills in the cheap souvenir shops on Cornmarket. Already as he crossed The Slade and turned up the path beside the culvert the sun felt warmer on his back, his step on the path lighter. He began to think about the day ahead. His house needed a clean, there was no doubt about that. And it was spring. But maybe he would leave that for another season.

He cut through to the Old Road, taking the hill west over the A34 to Shotover.  Suddenly, almost before he knew it, he was out of suburbia and on the edge of the wild wood. Behind him, the spires of Oxford that he knew so well were obscured by trees. The road had taken him up, narrowing and turning to mud, opening out then into a grassy, enclosed field. He went through a small car park crisscrossed with bike tracks — deserted but for a lone Renault with a Greenpeace sticker on the bumper — then through a wooden gate. Following the path down and left, immediately he was in the green forest.

It was cooler here. He could feel his head clearing, as though with every step the shade of the trees and the quiet and the damp soil underfoot was painting him a new picture of