Tree Magic: The Tree Magic Series, #1

By Harriet Springbett

A life fractured into parallel worlds. A quiet magic to accept or ignore. A decision to make.

Escape from difficult family dynamics is teenager Rainbow's desire. When she discovers a strange gift for communicating with trees, she thinks she's found her salvation. Even better, a mysterious but gentle man living in her Dorset village helps develop her powers.

But when tragedy strikes, Rainbow's life is torn apart, creating parallel worlds in the process. In one life, the vulnerable Rainbow strives to salvage her family. In the other, her alter-ego, Mary, flees her past. Over the next few years the two versions of Rainbow follow very different lives. The source of their grief, however, is the same – a confession buried deep within their memories.

Could France offer more than a mere escape? As the two worlds draw closer and memories resurface, Rainbow and Mary's futures must be determined. Can they receive the healing they need? Or will the renewed pain be too much to bear? Only by risking their lives will they know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Impress Books
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781911293644

Book preview

Part One

The Trunk

1990

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Chapter One

Rainbow wriggled the last few metres home through the August-long grass on her belly, aiming for the hole in the chicken-wire fence. It made her feel like a kid again, playing Red Indians with an invisible friend, though at thirteen she was too old for games. Her knees and elbows were an angry red and she was itching all over, but she daren’t stand up. She had to know whether Fraser was there.

She parted the grasses in front of the fence and peered into the garden. There was no sign of Fraser’s red Porsche but this wasn’t reliable evidence, as he sometimes walked up from the village to work with Mum and Bob. She sidled round the back of the rhododendron bushes to the weeping willow and then climbed up the rope ladder to her tree house.

Everything was quiet. She sat down on the floor, let her legs swing over the edge of the platform and surveyed her hilltop kingdom. A crown of woods around the house separated it from the village at the bottom of the hill. It could almost be a castle, except that castles were grand and her house was just big and untidy, and overgrown. She had a good view of its crumbling walls from her tree beside the front gate.

The kitchen door slammed. She stilled her legs. Bob appeared, followed by Fraser. They strolled to Bob’s white van, which was parked in front of the house. Rainbow’s tree was a good twenty metres away; there was no reason for them to look up and see her.

"Jasmine’s so clumsy, man. I mean … the mixing desk! I’m always telling her not to take her coffee in there," said Bob.

Most of his thin, grey hair was scraped back into the ponytail he’d made of it last week. The rest straggled around his frown-lined face, and he was slouching from a bad mood.

She didn’t do it on purpose, said Fraser. Anyway, the insurance should cover it.

They leant on the open doors of the van, waiting for the heat to escape. Fraser smoothed down his hair and looked around the front garden.

What’s Rainbow up to? My Becky said she couldn’t go to the fair with her today because she’s too busy.

Bob looked up to where she was sitting. Rainbow drew her legs back inside the tree house and closed her eyes.

In there, as usual, he said to Fraser. Rainbow heard him suck a last drag out of his cigarette and stamp it into the stony drive. Up to no good; as bad as her mother.

Footsteps came down the drive towards her tree. Hi, Rainy, Fraser called.

She opened her eyes and saw him standing below, his fatherly smile beckoning her to share confidences.

Why aren’t you at the fair with Becky? You told me you loved all those dizzy sensations. School starts on Monday and it’ll be too late then, said Fraser.

I hate the fair, she replied.

It was easy to resist his warmth, now that she knew she couldn’t trust him.

Worried you’re not tall enough for the best rides? He chuckled.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and glared down at him.

Actually, Rebecca and I don’t hang out any more.

She slithered backwards into the far corner of her tree house, where she was invisible to him, and wound her arms around the trunk of her tree.

Fraser’s voice invaded her den: Make up with her quickly, then. I’ve missed not seeing you around.

His feet crunched back up the drive to the van. She hugged her weeping willow hard. She had to grow. Mum wasn’t short, but for all she knew about her dad, he could have been a midget. Maybe that was why she was small for her age. If she could catch up with her classmates, she’d no longer be the odd one out. Mum said it didn’t matter if she was different from everyone else. But Mum didn’t understand. She didn’t notice the way normal people looked at her.

An ant scuttled up the trunk to her arm. A trickle of others followed the same path. She moved her arm to a nearby branch and watched the ants continue along their highway. Could the tree feel their scurrying feet? They must make it itch … all those ants, flies and birds: even her. She tickled the branch in front of the ant, imagining the tree swaying a branch-rippling response and giggling. Nothing happened. She let her hands rest on the branch and listened to Bob continue to moan about Mum.

At last, the men got into the van. The doors slammed and the engine grunted into life. It whined as Bob backed along the drive and into the lane. Rainbow looked at her hands against the rough crevices of the bark. A strange warmth emanated from the branch. She pressed harder. The heat increased. She plucked off her hands in surprise and turned them over. Her palms carried a slight imprint of the bark. She ran a finger over the subtle ridges and watched them fade away. The sensation made her shiver. Her neck was goose-pimply, reminding her of Mum’s expression about someone walking over her grave.

She shook off both the sensation and Mum’s saying, picked up her sketch pad and leafed through the pages. The drawings of Patti’s kittens, which had seemed so perfect when she’d sketched them that morning, now looked flat and amateur. The real kittens were rounded, lively and perfect. How could she persuade Mum and Bob to let her have one of them?

Rainbow, lunch!

Rainbow slid down the ladder and jogged to the house. She pushed the door to the point where it stuck on the curling lino and then squeezed through sideways into the dim kitchen. Mum was leaning against the cooker. She was smoking, as usual, and stirring something in a saucepan.

Rainbow wrinkled her nose. She could smell tomatoes through the smoke.

You haven’t made soup, have you? she asked.

Mum glanced into her saucepan as if she’d forgotten what she was cooking.

Don’t you like soup?

Rainbow raised her eyes to the cobwebs on the ceiling and sighed. Most mums knew what their children liked and disliked. Sometimes she wished Mum was normal, like Rebecca’s mum.

Not home-made. You know I don’t. It’s not fair. How come Bob gets to eat out while we have to use up his tomatoes? Aren’t there any tins?

Home-made soup is better for you. It’ll make you grow, love.

Mum served them both a generous helping of orange, grainy water and then draped herself over the chair opposite Rainbow. She fixed her eyes on the music manuscript beside her bowl as she ate.

Mum, was Dad a midget?

The spoon paused on the way to Mum’s mouth, wobbled and then slowly delivered its contents.

A midget? Short. Like me.

Her mum snorted. He was lacking in everything, including height. Eat your soup.

Rainbow knew there was no point in persisting. Her searches for photos of Dad in the cardboard box on top of Mum’s wardrobe had been fruitless. She’d given him imaginary features according to the snippets she wormed out of Mum. Now, she readjusted her image of Dad, giving him short arms and short legs, and shortening his brown ponytail into a crew cut. He still smiled and had twinkling green eyes, though he was only five foot two.

Mum finished her soup. I’ve got to work on Jeff’s song this afternoon, love. Are you all right on your own?

Rainbow nodded.

Good girl. Mum scooped up her Indian box and a pouch of tobacco, then swept across the corridor into her creative corner. Rainbow knew what was in the box: pellets of hard, brown hash. The one she’d licked had made her think of dirt. It had an aftertaste of Dettol and chocolate.

She washed up the dishes, put a bar of chocolate into her pocket and then peeked into her mum’s workroom. Mum was sitting at the piano, one hand jiggling a keep-fit routine while the other spidered words over a scrap of paper. She was a blues songwriter when she was in this room. When she crossed the corridor to the recording room, she became a blues singer. Bob accompanied her on his guitar and, more recently, Fraser had started to join them on the keyboard.

Rainbow wandered back outside. The tomato experiments in Bob’s vegetable plot stood to attention against their wooden posts. She stopped, the taste of soup still sour in her mouth. An idea fizzed in her mind. There were dozens of tomatoes, enough for a month of soup.

She carried a bucket to the plants and gathered most of the ripe ones, leaving a scattering in the way Mum had shown her when picking wild flowers. Then she lugged the bucket down the drive.

It was awkward to carry, so she paused by the front gate to change hands. She rubbed her left hand down her jeans to ease her stiff fingers and looked up at her tree. The thick willow branches tapered into yellow fronds, like a shaggy haircut, and her tree house lay behind like a half-hidden face: a tatty, ugly face. It needed a facelift.

The tree house had been there for years. Bob had built it for her one summer when he’d been given a lorry-load of second-hand wood. It had a leaky, sloped roof, planked walls, a solid floor and one window for spying. At first she’d been proud: it was the smartest tree house in the world, and she would skip out to it after lunch every day while Mum and Bob had their siesta. Later, when the novelty wore off and she wanted to stay indoors, Bob got angry.

I haven’t spent all that time making you a den for nothing, he’d say, pushing her outside.

She left the bucket of tomatoes by the gate and climbed the ladder. She’d spent her summer holidays here rather than in the house with Mum and Bob’s storms, and it was starting to feel cramped inside. The ceiling was too low for her to be able to stand upright. She ran her hands over the crocheted rug she’d taken from Mum’s wardrobe. What could she do to make her den feel bigger? Maybe she should take down her summer holiday sketches and paint the walls white instead. She didn’t want to have to ask for Bob’s help.

She turned to the trunk side of the tree house and watched the line of ants. There was a mutiny in the ranks. When they reached a certain point on the branch, they hesitated, turning right, then left, before scurrying back down and upsetting those following them.

She moved closer. The point causing the problem was where she’d pressed her hands that morning. She thought about the heat flow she’d felt; the goose pimples. Then she put her hands back in the same place.

The tree felt warm, then warmer still. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the trunk, concentrating on the bumpiness of the bark under her palms. She could sense the sap flowing beneath them.

The tree really was alive. Yes, alive: not just living. It was breathing, had a heart that was beating, was growing. She knew because she could feel it. The bark was stretching under her hands, warming them with its effort.

She opened her eyes and drew back her hands. The bark was lighter in colour. She circled the branch with her hands and then slid them backwards and forwards. The branch was narrower where her hands had rested.

This was weird. She must have imagined it.

She moved her hands up the branch and tried again. Heat. Pulse. Melting hands.

She hadn’t imagined it; the branch had stretched.

Her heart thumped and her hands trembled. She turned them over and stared at the slight bark imprint on the palms. Other than that, they looked the same as ever: stubby, fat-fingered and rough.

She had magic hands!

Exhilaration swept through her body. She jumped up and whooped. Her head hit the ceiling. She rubbed it hard, and kept rubbing. It had to be a dream. People couldn’t grow trees like this in real life.

She slithered down the ladder, raced indoors and burst into Mum’s workroom.

Mum! Pinch me.

Mum was stretched out in the armchair. She opened her eyes and blew out a funnel of smoke.

Rainbow, I’m working. What’s the matter?

Rainbow leant over the sagging armchair and thrust her arm into Mum’s lap.

Sorry, but you’ve got to pinch me. I think I’m dreaming. I’ve just made my tree grow.

That’s nice, love.

Mum pinched her gently with the hand that wasn’t holding the joint and then took another drag. Her eyes closed.

Mum! She shook her mum’s shoulder. I’ve got magic hands!

Then magic yourself away, love. I really must finish this song.

Rainbow looked down at her unimpressive, magic hands and shrank to her normal size. She backed out of Mum’s workroom, eased the door closed behind her and went into the kitchen. She was stupid to have expected Mum to be excited. Magic was part of Mum’s everyday world, though she called it spiritualism. It was what started the arguments with Bob.

She thought about Mum’s seances, her Ouija board, her crystals and tarot cards. What she’d just done with the tree didn’t feel spiritual in the same way. It was real. It was fun. It could even be useful. It was nothing like Mum’s boring magic.

She sped out of the house and climbed back into her den. She hugged the trunk and searched for the part of the branch she’d grown. When she found it, she stroked the lighter bark, feeling for cracks. Had she hurt her tree? She laid her ear over the branch and concentrated on the tree’s breathing. It didn’t seem to be in pain. It felt normal. Apart from excitement constricting her chest, she felt normal too.

She tried again on a different branch, and laughed out loud when she saw the branch had stretched. Then she stood up, her head and shoulders hunched under the ceiling, placed one hand on her stomach and the other on her back, closed her eyes and willed herself to grow.

Nothing happened.

Perhaps she could use her magic hands to raise the ceiling. She’d only need to stretch the trunk, because the two branches that held up the roof came off the same part of it. She wound her arms around the trunk and rested the side of her face against it, listening for its sap-beat. There it was. She closed her eyes and breathed in the dust of its dry odour. Then she asked it to grow. Silently, squeezing with her arms, she willed it to stretch.

It creaked a slow sigh, stiffer than the branches. Tree dust swirled before her nose. She sneezed and then opened her eyes. Her arms were heavy, as if she’d lifted the tree. There was no change to the ancient bark of the trunk, no lighter colouring, no warmth. But there was a gap between the walls and the roof of her tree house.

Thank you, Tree, she whispered.

She stood up. Her tree seemed to have known why she wanted it to grow, because her head was now slightly lower than the ceiling. She raised her chin and looked through the all-round gap. She had a great view of the fields and woods around the house now. Tree-growing was dead useful.

She rubbed the trunk and pulled the chocolate out of her pocket. She wanted to do something for the tree in return but couldn’t imagine what would give it pleasure. Not chocolate, she was sure of that. She cracked off two squares and let them melt on her tongue.

Outside, Mum was leaning from the kitchen window, staring over the side garden towards the woods. She must have finished the song and was probably contemplating going on one of her treks.

Rainbow dropped the rest of the chocolate into the wooden box she’d sneaked out of Fraser’s car last week and climbed down the ladder. She must deal with the tomatoes before Bob got back.

Chapter Two

Rainbow hooked the bucket of tomatoes over one arm and lugged it out of the front gate. Then she changed arms and began the march down the lane that led to the village a mile away.

Three of the first four houses were empty and she had only sold enough tomatoes to earn two pounds by the time she arrived at the Drunken House, on the outskirts of the village. The Drunken House was the local horror spot, the place you had to go into alone if you lost at Forfeits. She’d only lost once, but the memory of invisible eyes watching her as she’d stood in the hall and counted to ten had been burnt into her mind forever. She’d stopped playing Forfeits with the village kids after that.

The house lurked on the inside of a bend in the dank lane and had been empty for years. Ivy-clad trees grew on the steep bank opposite, and its cold brick walls huddled in their shade. There weren’t any neighbouring houses. It crouched alone, full of ghosts who were just waiting for her to run home alone on a dark night so they could reach out and grab her.

Rainbow hurried past, clutching her bucket. She could feel the house’s dampness creeping out to her. It willed her to push open the rotting door and sacrifice her warm body to its hunger.

She broke into a run. An urge to look into the front window nagged at her. She steeled herself against it and fixed her eyes on the road. Then she was safely past. She dared a glance back at the window.

A man stood inside. White light sizzled from a wand in his hand and he was holding a mask to his face. He was too solid to be a ghost. She stopped. He lowered the mask, examined something in front of him, and then made bright light again. She blinked and looked down at her feet. There was a white stain in her eyes as if she’d stared at a naked light bulb for too long. She dropped her bucket and rubbed them. Then she blinked again and looked around. The image started to fade.

Behind her, the front door of the Drunken House creaked open. She grabbed the bucket.

Can I help you?

She turned around. The man was standing in the doorway, the mask in his hands. A heavy, brown apron hid all but his shiny head and scuffed boots. He was old – about the same age as Mum and Bob – and limped. He had warm, brown eyes and crinkled skin, a bit like Bella, her friend Patti’s dog. He took a step towards her.

She took a step back.

What are you doing with that mask? she asked.

He looked down at his mask, back at Rainbow and then in through the window.

Did you look at the arc?

I was watching you make light, she replied.

You should never look directly at the arc. That’s why I wear a mask. Can you see all right?

He bent down and stared at her eyes.

I’m fine. Why are you in the Drunken House? She’d never seen anyone inside before. Are you exorcising it?

He started to smile. His lips curled at the corners like Hercule Poirot’s moustache.

I’m renting the cottage. I arrived yesterday. The removal men broke one of my sculptures, so I’m welding it back together. Why do you call it the Drunken House?

Because it’s haunted.

Is it? He didn’t look particularly worried. Have you seen the ghost yourself?

Yes. It was over there in the corner, said Rainbow.

How do you know it was a ghost?

She’d expected him to tell her not to be silly, like Fraser had done.

It was kind of vague, she said.

I haven’t seen anything vague yet but I’ll keep an eye out for it. My name’s Michael, by the way. Michael Jallet. And you’re …?

Rainbow Linnet.

He dropped his mask. Rainbow?

She nodded. People often reacted like that when they heard her name. It usually marked the beginning of the sideways looks.

That’s unusual, he continued. Do you live in the village?

Up on the hill. She picked up the mask and handed it to him. Would you like to buy some tomatoes?

In Wymer Hill House?

She nodded. I’m selling tomatoes. Do you want some? Michael glanced into the bucket.

How much?

He wouldn’t have any tomatoes in his garden if he’d just moved in.

Twenty pence each.

That’s expensive. Did you grow them yourself?

Of course, she lied.

So you’re a gardener. Will you give me a reduction if I buy them all?

Okay. That would save her dragging the bucket any further. But I need at least three pounds.

Come in and we’ll count them, then we can agree on a price.

He turned and limped the few steps into the house without waiting for her answer.

Rainbow hesitated: he was a stranger. But he was disabled. She could easily run away. And he seemed harmless.

Things had begun like this with Fraser. He’d been interested in her because she was Rebecca’s friend. He’d invited her on family outings. She’d been to the zoo and the cinema with them, and soon she’d started to wish he were her father. He’d teased her, listened to her, given her advice and made her laugh. He’d been everything that Bob wasn’t – and that Dad might have been, if only he hadn’t died.

Rainbow wasn’t sure she wanted to take the risk of getting to know Michael. She decided she’d sell him the tomatoes and then leave.

She followed him into the Drunken House. The invisible eyes were watching her. She concentrated on Michael. From behind, she could see that he wore a faded black T-shirt and a patched pair of shorts under the apron. His bad leg was criss-crossed with purple scars.

What’s the matter with your leg?

I had a motorbike accident.

She left the front door open behind her. Does it hurt?

Only if I stand for too long.

He led her through the dim hall. The fug of damp bricks she remembered hung indoors. In the front room, this mingled with a new, blacksmithy smell of hot metal. Cardboard boxes were piled up around the room, which still had a desolate feel to it. She shivered. Michael eased himself into a chair at a wood-wormy table.

Put the tomatoes there, he said, tapping the table.

She caught sight of his hands and spent longer looking at them than she usually would. They were the opposite of her own: as delicately shaped as a princess’s, yet veiled with old man’s skin.

The tomatoes on the top were still whole. She counted them out and tried to stop the bottom ones squidging through her fingers.

Thirty-eight, she said. That would be … sixty … eight … well, more than three pounds.

Michael screwed up his blob of a nose.

The last ones are a bit squashed. I wouldn’t pay twenty for those. How much for the lot?

Five pounds.

Four.

Okay. She frowned at his outstretched hand.

Always shake on a deal, he prompted.

She shook his hand. The warm shock of its scaly dryness mesmerised her. Their hands fitted together in the same way her hands fitted the bark of her weeping willow. He was a tree, a human tree, and for a perfect second she was cocooned in safety.

Nice to do business with you, Rainbow, he said. Would you like a drink?

No, thanks.

She looked around the room. The physical contact with Michael had changed the atmosphere. She couldn’t feel the invisible eyes anymore and she no longer wanted to leave, despite her resolution not to get to know him.

There was a crate on the bare, stone floor in front of the fireplace. On top sat a metallic fish shape. A thick lead linked a black box to a clamp, which held the stick she’d seen in his hand.

Is that your welding kit?

Yes. And that’s one of my sculptures.

The way he said it, proud in a careless kind of voice, made Rainbow look at him instead of the fish.

You made it?

Yes. Do you like it?

She studied the flat sculpture.

It’s odd. Is it supposed to be a fish?

It’s a flying fish. Look, the metal around the edge holds the resin and chips of coloured glass in place.

He picked it up and passed it to Rainbow, who turned it over. It was dead cool, apart from the metal rod sticking out of its belly.

What’s the rod for?

It goes into the ground to make the fish look as if it’s flying. You have to see it outside with the sun on it. Do you want to see the others? They’re in the garden.

Her previous visit had been too fraught with terror to allow her to explore. She was intrigued by the idea of a garden hidden from the road.

Okay.

He led her through a tiny kitchen to the back door. He was right: with the sun rippling through the blue, green and yellow glass of their bodies, the fish looked exotic in the weedy jungle of his garden. There were other sculptures on the flattened-grass side of the yard: a huge spider made from metal; a sun-eye; and several figures she couldn’t identify. She picked her way around the nettles to look more closely while he explained how he’d made them. Then he showed her a tumbledown shed.

This is going to be my workshop and art studio, he said.

Really? Do you draw and paint as well?

I sketch.

Can you do caricatures of people?

Of course.

Perhaps it would be worth getting to know Michael after all.

Would you teach me?

If you like. He smiled his curly smile.

When?

He rubbed his bald head. It’ll have to be after work.

Oh. Isn’t sculpturing your job?

Yes, but I need another job to pay the bills. A day job.

Rainbow twisted her finger into a loose curl of hair.

Michael perched on the huge spider. You look puzzled.

It’s just that Mum and Bob haven’t got jobs. They’re musicians. I thought artists were like musicians.

Well, if they’re commercially successful, I suppose they don’t need day jobs too.

So you’re not successful?

Not anymore, he said.

What do you mean, not anymore?

I used to make sculptures to sell, ones people asked for. That made me plenty of money but it stopped being art. And I lost a lot of things that were important to me. Sometimes, if you use your gift to earn money, you end up making sacrifices.

She nodded, pretending to understand. He talked as if she were a grown-up.

Michael continued: So is your mum successful?

I don’t think so.

He was waiting for her to say more, but it felt wrong to talk about Mum to a stranger. She picked up her empty bucket.

I must go, she said. I’ve got to get to the village shop before it closes.

He stood up and accompanied her to the front door. "Come back and see me soon. If you’d like drawing