The Laila Mythology

Laila and Mr Tree

Chapter one

Laila and Mr Tree

The Otherworld exists. But to discover it we must use our imagination. Yan Overton

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In the halcyon woods of Epping, beneath the spreading canopies of deciduous trees, nestling hidden amongst the glades of dappled shade there lies a pond.

A tiny oasis of rippled light that shines like a jewel amongst the variegated shadows for all to admire and delight in contemplative calm. And where, for countless generations young children would frequent on mild spring afternoons in pursuit of Tadpoles and great adventures.

Whilst nearby in silent observation upon a steep gravel bank overlooking the pond there stands the grandest and most majestic of all trees, the magnificent Warren Oak.

It looms tall robust and regal like some custodian of the forest. Indifferent to the changing seasons, yet gnarled and lambasted by the relentless storms of time in centuries past. It's myriad of out stretched roots resembling the wrinkled bony fingers of some gigantic primeval hand grasping desperately into the earth around for support, while all about the eroded soil gradually crumbles away to reveal its scars. Huge deep basal cavities and tunnels that gouge throughout its core like caves or small rooms, and to all intent and purpose could quite easily be mistaken for the long lost dwellings of Fairy folk or other such beings. A source of great fun for those who with a wild imagination would venture into the forest to clamber amongst its roots and hollows.

Now such a setting as this would appear commonplace to the wayfarer, who tramps the tracks and bridleways of southern Britain. Venerable oaks and ponds in woods throughout this pastoral land are an abundant wealth, but a series of strange occurrences were about to unfold in this lowly nook, miraculous events that would one day alter the course of time forever.

It all began one cold crisp morning on the day of the vernal equinox, when the early frosted buds of spring pervade the sprawling boughs of rousing giants, and the bright azure sky was vast yet unblemished by a single cloud, broken only briefly by the transient flocks of Canada geese heading for Connaught waters.

A quintessential English dawn like any other for a young girl by the name of Laila, who would frequently visit the forest near her home.

Like so many of the jaunty children that visited the old pond, she would frolic beneath the spreading limbs of the great oak, losing herself in the land of imagination and claiming to all on her return that the tree, who she aptly named Mr Tree was a gathering place for Fairies.

"He is the king of the woods", she would proclaim, referring to him as if he were an old friend. And could often be seen holding fanciful conversations with him while spending time there alone by the pond. He was as real a person to her as any person she care to have known, and with a great fondness would visit him religiously every weekend.

Laila was rather atypical of most eleven year old children her age. Solitary and aloof yet content in the fantasy world of her thoughts and full of adventure, often returning home from back wood jaunts looking as if she had come second place in a mud-wrestling bout with some wild animal, her pockets baring the remnants of obsessive forages. Wonderful treasures such as scraggy crooked pigeon feathers, pebbles, assorted leaves, and sometimes the occasional dried up earthworm.

She was also deceptively prim and reserved in appearance. Her clothes were always neatly pressed and the colours were made to complement. Her long auburn hair was brushed tightly back into two plaited ponytails creating a centre parting, and with an angelic look to complete the ensemble, you could almost be forgiven for thinking that she was a proper little madam and that butter wouldn't melt, but this would be short lived. For she liked nothing more than climbing trees and tearing everything she wore. Even the rumbustious urchins who gathered in a troop by the pond respected her eccentricity, if somewhat apprehensively.