The Blackberry Walk

A small short story based on a dream my girlfriend (who henceforth on this blog shall be called RiceIsNice) had last night. I’ve tried to doll it up as a kind of Gothic horror, and hopefully it’s a good read. 21st of January, 1869 Many moons have passed since my wife’s accident. We were traveling down to London from our old house in Nottingham to see friends when our train had a head-on collision with a freight train. The signal-man was at fault, the inquiry said; but such tragedy is never remedied by fault and finger pointing. My wife Julia was crushed in the pile-up, whilst I managed to escape unscathed. If only the roles were reversed, I find myself saying - yet it never feels as if I mean it. Such pleas I say for they sound chivalrous, but they never come out full-blooded and courageous, only ever watery and dilute. I wish I were strong enough to mean it. After the accident, we moved into an old estate named Goswick Manor belonging to her mother who had recently passed away, deep in the dales of the Peak District. And what a wondrous place it is. Away from the smog and squalour of Nottingham’s factories, there’s a freshness and cleanness to the air, breathing life and vigour into the soul. I now go on long walks of contemplation across the dips and crests of the green-shod hills, thinking about Julia, about the spirits of Nature, and the lonesomeness of man. When not another soul is in sight, I can relax, and find peace in knowing I am but a spec on this vast and ancient land, and am but one piston in nature’s engine. My wife unfortunately is not so lucky. After the accident, she is paralysed from the waist down and wheelchair bound. During much of the day, I tend to her, and we read Romantic poetry together, like Keats, Shelley, and Wordsworth. Our family butler, Geoffrey, and our family maid, Rosemary, moved with us to the country. Rosemary has been incredibly gracious in tending to my wife, dealing with her in dressing, and any more discrete issues following from her condition. Geoffrey also has been supremely kind to Julia, pushing her vehicle of confinement to wherever she asks; although she rarely wants to be anywhere but the conservatory. The manor has a wonderfully large conservatory built of wrought iron and glass, home to many beautiful flowers soon to be in bloom and a grand view of the vast hills beyond the confines of the house. To my wife, this house is a kind of bird-cage, for after the disaster, any amount of travel wearies her, and the nearest town, Buxton, is several hours travel by coach. My life may sound isolated and miserable, and my wife’s a far worse misery still, but we make do. We both try to make the best of our situation and live to support one another through the hardship. And whilst at times my social isolation maddens me, and her confinement sends her into fits of rage and curses against God, most of our time is spent at peace and appreciating nature. The art she’s begun painting has improved in leaps and bounds, detailing the nuance of the flowers and fruit in the conservatory with such lustre and precision. Again, whilst our lives are hard we find sweetness in its fruit, for it is all we can do. To whomever may one day read this, John. 17th of February 1869 Our usual days of steady peace have been uprooted by a disturbing report from Rosemary. She has said that when bathing my wife Julia, she has observed small wooded sprouts from just below her shoulder blades. On hearing this, I was truly shocked, and had assumed this were some kind of distasteful joke she was playing upon me. But Rosemary insisted, and her sincerity shone through in her words - after all, she has never been the kind to play such jokes - and I followed her, troubled as to what she had said. I went with her to the bedroom, to see my wife lying on the bed on her stomach with her back exposed. Her pale back was as it always has been with the exception of two small brown stubs, one at the bottom of each shoulder blade, just as Rosemary had informed me. I walked over to my wife in disbelief, and sat next to her on the bed. I ran my hands down her back and felt the wooden stubs. The stubs decidedly felt like shoots of an aged fruit tree; and the seam between these shoots and her skin was much like the seam between an antler and a deer’s head. I asked Julia if it hurts at all if I touch the wooden shoots, to which she said that it didn’t. In fact, it seems as if she had no sensation in these tree shoots attached to her. Rosemary helped Julia put back on her shirt and righted her on the bed. I could see my wife was truly fearful at this discovery - as if our previous calamity weren’t enough! Her eyes were slumped and her lip quivering at the horror. I sat beside her on the bed and put my arms around her, upon which she burst into tears on my shoulder. I stroked her head, recommending we ask Dr Burnham for advice as to how to proceed. At this point her limp body ceased all at once. She begged me not to call for a doctor out of a sense of shame, and a fear as to what people might say should word spread. I agreed not to for the time being, but sternly told her that I may soon have to should the issue progress. We were at an impasse. Julia lay down back in bed and tightly wrapped the duvet around herself so as to cocoon away from my influence. After this incident, I went for a hike along the hills to find my quiescence in nature. Nature is so grand, but I didn’t feel small in the slightest. These events which have occurred, nagged, clawed, and dug into me, yoking me to the immanency of the present. What should I do? I can only request that God helps me. To whomever may one day read this, John. 29th of March 1869 Our woes have only multiplied between last month and this month. Julia has spent much time in sorrow weeping, her heart only stilled by painting. She has become so engrossed with her painting now, and the art she’s produced has only become more beautiful. The painting, she says, puts her at ease, bringing her a kind of clarity of mind from the fear and pain of the branches growing out of her. There are the two main branches whose whereabouts are mentioned in my previous diary entry, but several more shoots have emerged: one from her hip, another from just beneath her left breast, and another upon the right side of her clavicle. The two original branches are now about eight inches in length each, with small budding leaves from the twigs parting from the main bough. Whilst still jostling the branching causes my wife little to no pain nor sensation, their presence has been a great irritation and obstacle to her. Sitting is awkward and painful, for she can’t lean back in her chair for fear of snapping the branches; she has resigned herself to sleeping and lying on her side, and painting leant forward. How we will deal with this discomfort once more shoots begin to grow, I are unsure. Today was a day of experimentation. I conjectured that much like how hair can be cut, or more precisely how a rhinoceros horn can be cut off without causing much pain, Julia’s branches can be pruned for the sake of her comfort. In the conservatory, Rosemary assisted me in lifting Julia’s loose blouse, as I cut off the two emergent boughs with garden sheers borrowed from Geoffrey. Forgiving a mild discomfort Julia felt during the procedure, I can report the experiment a success. Whilst the new buds which are appearing are a certain worry, the branches can be pruned, eliminating the majority of the discomfort. Our lives have certainly been rent upside-down, but these minor successes ought to be tallied, lest our morale fall in facing this foe. To whomever may one day read this, John. 3rd of April 1869 My cheer of success may have been premature. Whilst there certainly was an initial victory in pruning the boughs, these past few days have been physically difficult for my beloved. Ever since last Wednesday, which was the 31st if I recall, Julia has been supremely thirsty and hungry, craving specifically sugary sweets. She has eaten nearly every bonbon stored in the pantry, and has drunk nearly two gallons of water a day. Her consumption of water is absurdly excessive, but if she doesn’t receive the water she requires at once, her mood flips between desperate pleas for her thirst to be slaked and fits of hysterical anger. Without the water she seems to be genuinely parched, which I cannot understand, for she hasn’t excused herself to the bathroom any more frequently than before. The answer to this riddle only dawned on me earlier today, when I noticed the boughs on her back, and the ones elsewhere on her body had grown incommensurately with how much time had passed. The growth that had previously taken months had been achieved in but days. The theory horrifies me, for it seems as if some secondary force or parasite has attached itself to Julia, controlling her instincts and urges to its own end. I can’t bring myself to share my findings with my dearest. It’ll only worsen her already falling morale. To whomever may one day read this, John. 8th of May 1869 Julia’s condition has been one of steady decline this past month. After the vicious abreaction to pruning the whole bough last time, I’ve instead contented myself, with Julia’s permission, to trim the boughs which are most uncomfortable. The hunger for sweets and thirst are still present, however Geoffrey has since stockpiled on bonbons when he last headed to Buxton, and we agree that the attack of instincts is but a small trade off for the relief brought. Any branches impeding her right arm have also been pruned, for they impede the last joy she has left: her art. And how it has improved! Her brushwork has a kind of earthy quality like nothing I’ve ever seen before - it’s a true marvel to be seen. Despite her condition, she has begun to see the flowers of the conservatory so vividly now; and her landscapes are so rich with the endless undulations of the hills. I could dote longer, but I ought to address the most recent happening. A couple of days ago Geoffrey sent for Dr Burnham to inspect Julia’s condition. I could see the sweat build on the doctor’s brow, and a nervous disposition make itself apparent on his face as he inspected the shoots and boughs. I gave a short history of the difficulties we faced, to which Dr Burnham was only made more uncomfortable. He began with denial, claiming we were playing some kind of farce upon him. But the gravity of the room was such that he couldn’t appear to believe his own accusations. Stumped and at a loss, the doctor departed, promising not to tell a soul what he witnessed. Thankfully Julia didn’t take the doctor’s inability to help as too much of a blow. I reckon in her heart she had little hope a doctor could help, for the condition is too absurd for scientific reasoning. I suppose our search must continue. To whomever may one day read this, John. 16th of June 1869 Julia’s condition has only worsened still. Her joints ache, as if she’s becoming arthritic. There is however a creek as she moves, as if her arms make the sound of branches swaying in the wind. The curse, as we are now wont to call it, appears to be taking over her whole body. Some youths, who could only have been between twelve to sixteen years of age, were trespassing the estate about a week ago, and had crept up towards the conservatory. There, they witnessed me pruning Julia’s branches. They looked at us shocked yet thrilled, and we looked back with faces of terror. Since then word has been passed around through the gossiping housewives of the local villages of the ‘demonic forces’ at work in our manor. Geoffrey, who regularly travels to Buxton to restock our pantry, has been treated with great distance and revile after the rumours spread. The townsfolk want nothing to do with the ‘Birdnest Queen’, as they have dubbed my wife, owing to the bristled twig hair she has begun to develop. Julia’s spirits are now supremely low, owing to our household’s smeared reputation. The way she talks is as if she believes this curse will devour her and end her life; there is no shimmer of hope left in her eyes, only a kind of resigned acceptance. It pains me dearly to see her in this state. Whilst we are not a particularly religious household, I’ve called for our parish priest against Julia’s wishes. Since childhood, she’s been afraid of priests, but, though it may be clutching at straws, straws are all we have to clutch. To whomever may one day read this, John. 20th June 1869 The priest looked at Julia’s condition, and did not curse her as demon, as if this were some parodied literary depiction, but was instead very gentle with her. I left the room as they spoke together for a time in confidence. After their conversation, which could possibly have been an hour or so long, the priest left the conservatory and came to talk to me alone. He told me that there was no miraculous act of healing the church could do for her, but that all we can do is pray for her condition to improve. He said he’d pray every morning and evening for her, and recommended I do likewise, and off he went. Julia’s attitude improved ever so slightly after the visit; the black, vacant look in her eyes now has a little colour once more. I think for Julia simply being able to talk to someone other than myself about her predicament has been a great relief. Hopefully we can invite him around to talk to again soon. To whomever may one day read this, John. 16th of August 1869 Our situation has gotten much worse. Julia’s legs have begun to become wooden. Since the accident, they have never moved, but now her lifeless withered legs have begun to develop a bark covering and a somewhat hollow resonance when knocked. To be more precise, they have begun to look like roots, with smaller roots parting off from her legs. No leaves grow off this part of her body. My wife’s arms are now stiff and creek so much that painting has become an impossibility. Her voice has become thin and husky. Her one request come the morning is to be wheeled outside of the conservatory and bask in the summer sun, much like how trees absorb the sun’s light. Much like with the parched-ness prior, this tree curse has begun to change how she acts - which is what worries me most. Her personality has begun to change. Before - even after the accident - she had a jollity to how she held herself, and a kind of joy of innocence and naivity. Nowadays, she speaks in grand pronouncements and oracular confidence, only to look over at me with a knowing look so as to suggest she were a wise sage. Is she still the woman I married? Once her body is taken over, and her personality overwritten, is she still my sweet Julia? A couple days ago, Julia grew an apple. Absurd, I know, but an apple grew upon one of the boughs of her back, which now jut out two feet long like demonic wings. Yet she didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Nay, she plucked off the apple and offered it to me smiling. Not with a smile of understanding the absurdity and accepting this new reality, but an earnest smile as if she was giving me a most treasured gift. Since then I haven’t been able to bring myself to see her as much. Rosemary has very kindly been taking care of Julia. I myself have spent much time at the local inn, alone, drinking to my sorrows. I know it isn’t what I ought to do, but to see my beloved be enveloped in such a curse has driven me to the end of my wits. The end appears near. This curse has only progressed further and further, deeper and deeper, and there appears no sign of its subsidence. I need to begin to let go of her. To whomever may one day read this, John. 1st November 1869 This past month of October myself and Julia have slept apart. These past few days, it seems as if she hardly recognises me, only ever able to look past me into the rolling hills, to which she stared with shimmering eyes. She spoke when I’m there, but never to me - only to some kind of abstract sense of me, or rather some abstract sense of another. But she’ll speak no more as of last night. I awoke at a deep hour of the night to screeching and pained noises from Julia’s quarters. Such screams and full-blooding signs of life as I haven’t heard from her in so long! I rushed to her room to see what was the matter, but she was gone, and no where to be seen. But how, I thought. Not only is she now mostly wooden, but her lignification has hardly aided her paralysis. The screeching appeared again, now in the conservatory. En route, I met with Geoffrey and Rosemary, both of whom shared my bafflement at Julia’s method of transportation. Rushing to the conservatory, we lit oil lamps, illuminating just enough to see what was occurring outside. Just outside the conservatory, Julia’s legs, which now are indistinguishable from tree roots, burrowed into the soil, and we saw Julia anchor herself into the topsoil. That which hadn’t been yet turned to wood, namely her torso and face, rapidly lignified, her face crying out my name, “John, John, please help me John!” she cried, but I didn’t go out to help. O how this final burst of lucidity has tortured me since! But what could I have done. Up to this point she has been mute and distant, blind to my presence - why only now does she call for me! As she became fully tree, her night gown fell from her body, revealing her uncanny wooden and knotted torso. Then, at surreal speed, her various boughs and twigs grew, each then being populated with leaves, her body bolt upright in a scarecrow-like tee-shape, fruiting many more ripe apples. And that was that. The initial pain and sorrow at her lost was alloyed with a guilty relief and joy. For whilst her grievous hardship has caused my Julia immense pain, it has also been a great weight upon myself, and the household. Maybe I am free of this curse upon me... no. No. Julia has always been my light, and I’ll sorely miss her. Nowhere now on these rolling hills will I feel at one with Nature. Nowhere will I want to feel small by Her vastness. For Nature saw my wife as small and insignificant, and took her as one of Her own; Mother Nature holds no love for us, but sees us as matter, as part of some cycle. O how I wish my love for Julia could claim her as one of our own. O how I wish we could have a normal life, a happy life, a real life. O how I wish we belonged to Him, and not to Her.