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eBook Category: Science Fiction
eBook Description: Strange line drawings show up at the family Victorian on the driveway under an old oak. Galen, an art teacher, suspects his dead daughter is doing them, haunting the old oak where she died in a bizarre accident. But he discovers Rennie is not doing the drawings.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Men and Women of Letters, ed. John Yewell, 1988
Fictionwise Release Date: November 2002

24 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [83 KB], eReader (PDB) [34 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [21 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [19 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [71 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [92 KB], hiebook (KML) [77 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [50 KB], iSilo (PDB) [17 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [22 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [49 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [32 KB]
Words: 6016
Reading time: 17-24 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

The tree was old.

It had sprouted from an acorn on the West Coast about the same time Mary Easty was making her famous petition before the special court at Salem. As it grew the tree became a part of a green corridor that meandered the length of the coastal valley, a continuous grove of live oak growing along both sides of the river, providing cover for thirsty game and a plentiful drop of acorns which drew the attention of Wappo Indian hunters and gatherers. Later most of the oaken corridor and surrounding area were included in a grant from Mexico to General Mariano Guadlupe Vallejo, whose men cleared the land of both indians and trees.

But the old oak remained, growing massive in a horizontal sense, its major branches reaching out instead of up, as if to claim all that it shaded. In addition to its exceptionally broad dimension there was something else curious about the tree's appearance: Not one strand of Spanish moss drooped from its limbs, nor was there a speck of lichen mottling on any part of its rough trunk. Given the warm climate and coastal fog, this was more than strange. It had developed none of the parasites common to oaks of the northern California coast.

So the tree stood alone, its black-green leaves glistening as if freshly lacquered, its branches stretching out.

Galen Hendry almost had it--the melody bobbing near his threshhold of consciousness. Dum, dee, dum ... So close, now; but the noise in the classroom increased to a din, jarring the elusive tune from his head.

Brrrring. The din died as the bell rang.

"Thank God, it's the Governor calling," he joked lamely to Pat, the classroom aide, as he slumped down on the corner of the teacher's desk. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, trying to pull the melody back.

"W-w-w..."

Someone was touching Galen's knee. He opened his eyes.

Bobby peered up at him through thick glasses, a blue mustache smeared across his upper lip. "W-wake up, teacher," the chubby boy stammered, "t-t-t ... time to go home." He patted Galen's knee affectionately with his stubby fingers. "T-time to go--"

"I know, Bobby, I know," Galen said, escorting the boy to the door of the Special Ed trailer. Outside Pat had the rest of the class boarding the bus.

"Bye, bye, teacher."

"Goodbye, Bobby," Galen answered, watching the boy shuffle slowly out to the curb and waiting bus. Bobby always had all the time in the world.

Galen finally turned back, his eyes sweeping over the mess--wads of butcher paper thrown about, overturned jars of poster paint, dirty brushes scattered everywhere. What a disaster. He should've saved time for cleanup instead of playing name-that-tune with himself.

"Oh, no, Galen." It was Jaime Morris, the classroom teacher. She peeked in at what was left of her room, making Galen feel like a student guilty of a class misdemeanor. She leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. "Boy, it must've been at least a nine on the Richter.'

"I guess it got away from me, Jaime," Galen said, shrugging apologetically. "I didn't watch the time. I'll stay over and help clean up." He sighed and added, "I just don't know if I'm actually going to survive the whole year--"

"Hey, Bub," the young woman said, smiling, "forget the big cleanup. Let's go over to the Blue Willow. I'm springing for tea and whatever." She brushed at the wrinkles in her white blouse and ran her fingers through her short, kinky, brown hair. "Come on." She took Galen's arm, marching him down the trailer steps, then across Taner Street to the cafe facing St. Helena Elementary School.

Inside the Blue Willow Jaime ordered a pot of herbal tea for them. "Hey, don't worry about it," she counseled, pouring tea. "Most teachers get the first year blues--feel ineffective, even consider quitting. Special Ed is even worse, the kids more demanding, more problems--"

"Ah, Jaime," Galen interrupted, "you know it's more than that. Hell, I'm not a teacher. I'm not prepared in any way. Only a provisional art credential for crissake."

"Prepared?" She chuckled. "None of us are really prepared. Do you think education courses--or even student teaching--help much?" She held up her hand and continued. "No one is prepared, Galen. Oh, it may be a little tougher for you, being itinerant, seeing all kinds of disabilities, but hang in there, Bub. A year from now you'll be tough and scarred like the rest of us." She grinned, her eyes radiating confidence. "It do get easier."

Galen nodded, then sipped his tea.

"Now, forget the kids," Jaime ordered in a mock stern voice. "How's the art coming? Back to sketching yet?"

Galen rubbed his right hand, massaging the stiffened fingers. The drugs helped the pain, but he had been unable to do any art since the arthritis had hit his hands a year ago. He'd given up trying. "Oh, pretty well. I haven't got back to my drawing board yet, but the exercises are helping." He dropped his hands out of sight into his lap.

Jaime nodded and changed the subject. She enthusiastically described preparations for a backpacking trip planned for the Sierras during Easter vacation with her friend, Stan, an aging mountain climber. The conversation lulled as they sipped their tea. Then Jaime mentioned something about Lynn, Galen's wife, and their property on Oakwood Lane near Napa.

Glancing at his watch, Galen groaned and jumped up from the table. He'd forgotten! "Hey, Jaime, thanks for the tea and everything. I've got to go by the old place today on the way home and put up a for-sale sign. We've got an ad in the Register."

He dashed across Taner and slid into the bucket seat of his yellow VW Beetle. He waived at Jaime as he pulled away from the curb. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the Blue Willow, laughing and waving. Great gal, Galen thought, easy-going, helpful....