Forgotten Dream - Graig Du Theatre Players

Shepherd:   I told you I will tell all and I will, damn you! There is no truth because its never been a part of me. My life's blood is lessened the longer I hold my tongue. Do not judge me until you have heard all speak. Well, the oak tree, obviously hundreds of years old, looked ravaged with disease as the woodcutter stumbled, taking a deep breath. He could not understand why he felt the dull ache down his right-hand side. The walk alongside the old path had taken forever and he felt unsure of himself for the first time since he had told his master he would fell the tree. His friends told him he was a fool, for the area was sacred and the villagers had witnessed strange happenings over the years in this forest.One branch broke as the woodcutter snapped it. He threw it to one side and remembered that his first sighting of the oak tree reminded him of a cross. A weathered section, resembling a worn seat, perched precariously in the centre of the aged oak. This will take two hours at the least, he thought, and he would be returning home having a late supper with his wife and children. The whorls on the trunk resembled faces, desiccated, weeping for untold wrongs they had done. The breeze became stronger, cajoling the woodcutter’s trepidation, as he thought he heard voices. A ringing started in his right ear as he swung the axe, splintering the wood. The sap flowed freely, its tincture more rust coloured, then turning scarlet. He turned quickly, believing he heard a woman and two children wailing. He pulled the splintered wood away, seeing at once a cavity within. His eyes did not deceive him as he saw the axe had struck the fleshy upper thigh of a young woman and was bleeding copiously. “What chicanery is this?” he cried, turning to see if any of his friends were hiding in the nearby foliage, having played this terrible prank on him.The anguish of the three tormented him as he saw indistinct human forms that were theirs, trapped within the oak tree.

“You wretched fool”, said a man’s voice. “You have violated the sanctuary of those who were here when the world was just a reflection in my eye. Sleep is just a moment for them, for they have seen nothing of their true paradise.”
“What am I supposed to have done?” replied the woodcutter anxiously.
“They cannot remain now you have disturbed them. They will seek a new abode during the darkest hour before the dawn. “
“I did not know this, sir. You must believe what I say.”
“Why did you not leave this tree untouched, imbecile?”
“My family need food to survive this winter. I needed the money that cutting down the oak tree would have brought me. There was no disrespect intended.”
The woodcutter could hear no sound around him as the voice replied within his mind now. “Yet you, whose family have lived on this land for generations, thought differently. What you once knew has long been forgotten, my friend. You will remain here for one year as punishment before you can return to your family. That will give you much to ponder, while others believe you are food for the worms.”
The voice whispered one more word; the woodcutter wept for he knew he would remain here, unobserved by anyone of a curious nature. The man’s voice faded like a dying breath as the woodcutter saw the cut he made on the tree dissipate as the evening drew in. He laughed, believing the year would soon pass and he would return home and have to explain himself. Never forgotten were the old ways. People still were frightened of the dark. One last image the woodcutter saw before he closed his eyes were of three white butterflies dancing on the night air around the oak tree. . .

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