Dryad
Created | Updated Aug 15, 2005
Synopsis: Dryad tells the beautifully written story by Joanne Harris. The story is centred on a memorable chance meeting in the Botanical Gardens between two women, one an elderly eccentric lady, Josephine Clarke, and the other - the narrator of the story then aged 25.
Josephine Clarke tells the narrator of her unhappy marriage to Stan, and how in the early days of their unfulfilled marriage she finds a special kind of love - a beech tree at the bottom of the garden. She sleeps, eats, breathes and even sketches her beloved tree, escaping from her carpenter husband into the arms of her lover as often as she can. That is, until one night, creeping back into the house still in her nightdress, she finds a suspicious Stan waiting for her.
The narrator, pregnant and disillusioned with her own marriage, is on the brink of a divorce. As Mrs Clarke story begins to unfold, something strikes a chord within her own heart.
The story is told by the narrator - who now aged 50 is looking back on that one fateful meeting, and the subsequent events. We join the story as the narrator recalls the moment Josephine reveals what happenes when Stan confronts her about her mysterious lover.
My version of end of story
"Who is it?"
“It’s The Beech,” I said proudly. There, I’d finally owned up to it, admitted it out loud!
I studied the look of confusion on Stan’s face. Fighting back the years of pent up emotion bubbling to the surface; I defiantly looked him in the eye. Now that I’d begun to reveal my ‘secret love’ the truth came streaming out. As Stan’s face hardened, I knew he’d never understand, yet I couldn’t control my tongue a moment longer. I had passed the point of no return.
“Ye Gods woman! I always knew you were a strange one, but have you completely lost your grip?” Stanley mocked, traces of fear creeping onto his face. “What about me, and what about our Daniel?” he demanded angrily.
As my confession unravelled further, Stanley’s face changed from total disbelief to blind rage. When he made a sudden dash for his workshop, I guessed what was in his mind. I cried out to him, “Please don’t do it,” but he wouldn’t listen, and I was no match against his growing fury, powerless to stop him.
“Think you can steal my wife?” Stan screamed wildly into the cool night air. “I’ll show you exactly what a lump of wood is good for.”
Terrified, I stayed inside the house, covering my ears as best I could, to drown out the sound of Stan’s raging, the sudden rising wind, and the terrible dull thuds of steel on wood. Finally, an enormous cracking sound as my beloved slowly toppled, crashing helplessly to the ground. Then there was nothing more, except an eerie silence.
That night Stanley never returned from the garden. Early next morning, I discovered him lying cold and stiff, next to my fallen hero. I stared at his cold lifeless shell. I wanted to feel love for my husband, yet I felt nothing except remorse, and deep regret for the heavy price my ‘secret’ had forced us all to pay. Stanley, Daniel, The Beech, and me, we had all paid dearly - one way or the other.
Mrs Clarke sighed heavily, continuing her story.
The official version on the death certificate had attributed Stanley’s death to a heart attack, yet I always suspected The Beech had played a part in his demise. The wind had howled so ferociously, it was as if the ‘Wood Spirits’ had heard The Beech’s anguished cries, and knowing Stanley’s intentions, had gathered together in great force, to seek retribution. Each time I gazed upon the vacant spot where The Beech had stood, I experienced such an overwhelming sense of grief; it was as if my own spirit had been felled. Of course, I still had Daniel to care for, had to soldier on for his sake, but oh, how I yearned for my fella.
Then, the following spring, after yet another restless night’s sleep, I awoke with a sudden start. There was a gentle breeze, flowing in through the open window, and I could hear something familiar calling to me. I jumped out of bed, barefoot, and still in my nightgown, I quickly made my way into the garden, towards the beckoning sound.
A sapling was in the very same place where The Beech had stood. It was already deeply rooted, emerging from the ground in all its shining glory. The very sight of it caught my breath, as I reached towards a tender leaf I felt it quiver beneath my touch, then pulse with new found energy and life. I recognized the sensuous feel of him immediately. The Beech! My one true love was reborn through this proud young sapling, his ancient mysteries and wonders still intact."
“Finally, the bird in my heart had wings to soar,” she said, laughing joyfully.
Then, as if party to my own dilemma, Mrs Clarke patted my arm reassuringly. With growing conviction in her voice she declared, “Hold on tightly to the important things in life my dear. Experience has taught me that if you nurture and care deeply enough for the things you love, they may change shape or form, but they need never die.”
Expressing tiredness, Mrs Clarke left the Gardens shortly after this revelation, but not before she’d unexpectedly pressed her precious sketchbook into my hand, then vanished out of sight.
Alone at last, I reflected long and hard, the unborn child stirring deep in my belly, flashing images of David with his lopsided grin and tousled hair, and Mrs Clarke’s heartfelt words playing over and over in my mind like an old familiar melody. All at once, it was if I was noticing bright light from the end of my own dark tunnel. That evening, when David arrived home from work looking tired and anxious my heart softened. Excitedly, I showed him the wonderful drawings. “Isn’t that our beech,” he asked?
I quickly began to recount Mrs Clarke’s compelling story. As I finished, I experienced such a sudden rush of emotion, I began to weep uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry about our silly argument this morning, I don’t want to lose you” I sobbed.
As if he shared my sentiments, David had, without a word, taken me into his arms and held me tightly. We remained wrapped in this warm cocoon for the longest time. I can’t explain what transpired between us, yet it was if something significant was shifting in our relationship. Later, we strolled into the garden. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, The Beech stood tall and strong, his limbs stretching out like welcoming arms of comfort.
And now, twenty-five years on, both girls grown, I’m drawn back to this place, to the Gardens where it all began. The paint on the bench is fading, yet in every other respect it seems time is standing still in this quiet secluded corner.
As I sit, I open the worn, yet much loved sketchbook I carry with me. Fondly running my fingers across a page of summer leaf, it immediately brings to mind, as to how, in our one brief meeting, Josephine Clarke has touched so poignantly upon my life, how differently it’s all turned out after all.
David and I never did divorce. Oh, I’m not saying it’s always been a bed of roses, by any means, yet despite it all; it’s as if The Beech is always present in our lives, giving us strength, and symbolising our purposes and hopes.
“Excuse me,” says a weary voice interrupting my chain of thoughts, “do you mind if I sit?”
I look up to see a young woman looming in front of me, heavily pregnant, wearing the same disillusioned look I had worn so many years previously. I smile invitingly, indicating the empty space beside me. She sits heavily, and then leaning over, glances at the open sketchbook.
“What a beautiful tree,” she sighs, “it looks exactly like the tree in my own garden.”
Suddenly, a soft chill sweeps across the Gardens, and I sense a familiar presence in the air. I feel sure I can hear Mrs Clarke softly whispering, “Share the mysteries of The Beech, my dear.”
All at once my purpose here becomes quite clear, I smile knowingly. Turning towards the young woman, I begin to tell the story....
Josephine Clarke tells the narrator of her unhappy marriage to Stan, and how in the early days of their unfulfilled marriage she finds a special kind of love - a beech tree at the bottom of the garden. She sleeps, eats, breathes and even sketches her beloved tree, escaping from her carpenter husband into the arms of her lover as often as she can. That is, until one night, creeping back into the house still in her nightdress, she finds a suspicious Stan waiting for her.
The narrator, pregnant and disillusioned with her own marriage, is on the brink of a divorce. As Mrs Clarke story begins to unfold, something strikes a chord within her own heart.
The story is told by the narrator - who now aged 50 is looking back on that one fateful meeting, and the subsequent events. We join the story as the narrator recalls the moment Josephine reveals what happenes when Stan confronts her about her mysterious lover.
My version of end of story
"Who is it?"
“It’s The Beech,” I said proudly. There, I’d finally owned up to it, admitted it out loud!
I studied the look of confusion on Stan’s face. Fighting back the years of pent up emotion bubbling to the surface; I defiantly looked him in the eye. Now that I’d begun to reveal my ‘secret love’ the truth came streaming out. As Stan’s face hardened, I knew he’d never understand, yet I couldn’t control my tongue a moment longer. I had passed the point of no return.
“Ye Gods woman! I always knew you were a strange one, but have you completely lost your grip?” Stanley mocked, traces of fear creeping onto his face. “What about me, and what about our Daniel?” he demanded angrily.
As my confession unravelled further, Stanley’s face changed from total disbelief to blind rage. When he made a sudden dash for his workshop, I guessed what was in his mind. I cried out to him, “Please don’t do it,” but he wouldn’t listen, and I was no match against his growing fury, powerless to stop him.
“Think you can steal my wife?” Stan screamed wildly into the cool night air. “I’ll show you exactly what a lump of wood is good for.”
Terrified, I stayed inside the house, covering my ears as best I could, to drown out the sound of Stan’s raging, the sudden rising wind, and the terrible dull thuds of steel on wood. Finally, an enormous cracking sound as my beloved slowly toppled, crashing helplessly to the ground. Then there was nothing more, except an eerie silence.
That night Stanley never returned from the garden. Early next morning, I discovered him lying cold and stiff, next to my fallen hero. I stared at his cold lifeless shell. I wanted to feel love for my husband, yet I felt nothing except remorse, and deep regret for the heavy price my ‘secret’ had forced us all to pay. Stanley, Daniel, The Beech, and me, we had all paid dearly - one way or the other.
Mrs Clarke sighed heavily, continuing her story.
The official version on the death certificate had attributed Stanley’s death to a heart attack, yet I always suspected The Beech had played a part in his demise. The wind had howled so ferociously, it was as if the ‘Wood Spirits’ had heard The Beech’s anguished cries, and knowing Stanley’s intentions, had gathered together in great force, to seek retribution. Each time I gazed upon the vacant spot where The Beech had stood, I experienced such an overwhelming sense of grief; it was as if my own spirit had been felled. Of course, I still had Daniel to care for, had to soldier on for his sake, but oh, how I yearned for my fella.
Then, the following spring, after yet another restless night’s sleep, I awoke with a sudden start. There was a gentle breeze, flowing in through the open window, and I could hear something familiar calling to me. I jumped out of bed, barefoot, and still in my nightgown, I quickly made my way into the garden, towards the beckoning sound.
A sapling was in the very same place where The Beech had stood. It was already deeply rooted, emerging from the ground in all its shining glory. The very sight of it caught my breath, as I reached towards a tender leaf I felt it quiver beneath my touch, then pulse with new found energy and life. I recognized the sensuous feel of him immediately. The Beech! My one true love was reborn through this proud young sapling, his ancient mysteries and wonders still intact."
“Finally, the bird in my heart had wings to soar,” she said, laughing joyfully.
Then, as if party to my own dilemma, Mrs Clarke patted my arm reassuringly. With growing conviction in her voice she declared, “Hold on tightly to the important things in life my dear. Experience has taught me that if you nurture and care deeply enough for the things you love, they may change shape or form, but they need never die.”
Expressing tiredness, Mrs Clarke left the Gardens shortly after this revelation, but not before she’d unexpectedly pressed her precious sketchbook into my hand, then vanished out of sight.
Alone at last, I reflected long and hard, the unborn child stirring deep in my belly, flashing images of David with his lopsided grin and tousled hair, and Mrs Clarke’s heartfelt words playing over and over in my mind like an old familiar melody. All at once, it was if I was noticing bright light from the end of my own dark tunnel. That evening, when David arrived home from work looking tired and anxious my heart softened. Excitedly, I showed him the wonderful drawings. “Isn’t that our beech,” he asked?
I quickly began to recount Mrs Clarke’s compelling story. As I finished, I experienced such a sudden rush of emotion, I began to weep uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry about our silly argument this morning, I don’t want to lose you” I sobbed.
As if he shared my sentiments, David had, without a word, taken me into his arms and held me tightly. We remained wrapped in this warm cocoon for the longest time. I can’t explain what transpired between us, yet it was if something significant was shifting in our relationship. Later, we strolled into the garden. Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, The Beech stood tall and strong, his limbs stretching out like welcoming arms of comfort.
And now, twenty-five years on, both girls grown, I’m drawn back to this place, to the Gardens where it all began. The paint on the bench is fading, yet in every other respect it seems time is standing still in this quiet secluded corner.
As I sit, I open the worn, yet much loved sketchbook I carry with me. Fondly running my fingers across a page of summer leaf, it immediately brings to mind, as to how, in our one brief meeting, Josephine Clarke has touched so poignantly upon my life, how differently it’s all turned out after all.
David and I never did divorce. Oh, I’m not saying it’s always been a bed of roses, by any means, yet despite it all; it’s as if The Beech is always present in our lives, giving us strength, and symbolising our purposes and hopes.
“Excuse me,” says a weary voice interrupting my chain of thoughts, “do you mind if I sit?”
I look up to see a young woman looming in front of me, heavily pregnant, wearing the same disillusioned look I had worn so many years previously. I smile invitingly, indicating the empty space beside me. She sits heavily, and then leaning over, glances at the open sketchbook.
“What a beautiful tree,” she sighs, “it looks exactly like the tree in my own garden.”
Suddenly, a soft chill sweeps across the Gardens, and I sense a familiar presence in the air. I feel sure I can hear Mrs Clarke softly whispering, “Share the mysteries of The Beech, my dear.”
All at once my purpose here becomes quite clear, I smile knowingly. Turning towards the young woman, I begin to tell the story....
