Once there was a magnificent magical tree. It stood in lonesome majesty upon a hill with densely wooded slopes. The tree were widely known and talked about, even pictured in art. But none had ever visited the tree itself. For at the bottom the hill were protected by nasty long thorny brambles and an icy, frisky, current filled stream that acted as a natural mote.
Local legend held that the tree and hill belonged to a witch. Not that anyone had ever seen anything but bramble, rabbits, dear, lynxes, bats, owls and any number of birds moving upon the hill.
One night an unnatural stormed blew up, lashing the hill, and only the hill, with torrents of rain, thunderclaps that shook the earth, and spear upon spear of dazzling lightning strikes.
In the morning the tree stood bare, broken and burnt. Stretching gnarled twisted branches low over the hill. The stream had burst its banks and flooded part of the plain with broken pieces of forest and burnt animal carcasses.
When the water receded the earth laid bare, burnt, but infertile. Like the scorching of the hill had killed every living thing, down to the smallest microbes.
So it stands to this day. The once proud tree, brought to its knees. Bare skeleton, picked clean of all life. The hill and surrounding plain dusty and windblown. No greenery has ever crossed the threshold.
The sanctuary of the Witch, forever broken. All spells torn asunder.
My sanctuary, my spells, my tree, my forested sloped hill. All living things in my domain. Lost, dead. My only safe spaced, invaded, crushed, lying in ruin.
I recall the sudden storm. It’s unnatural ferocity. I could feel the ill will behind it. Knew who had decided to try to break me by taking away my safety, my sanity.
After that I only recall running, hiding, fighting for my life, losing my way and part of my mind as my fortress fell and burned.
But I didn’t die, just disappeared a while.
Now I’m back, without a place to call home.
Posted in response to Weekly Scribblings #7 This is a Tribute.