In Midsummer, In Midwinter by Steph Lay
“You’re all too young to remember, but there used to be the most beautiful tree out there.”
Sandra took a deep sip from her tar-thick tea, and nodded towards the atrium outside the shop. She’d worked in Next longest, and this year’s crop of Christmas temps hadn’t even been born when the shopping centre had been built around the Midsummer oak. Freya and Henry were glued to their phones, but Elizabeth leaned forward, interested. She liked being on shift with Sandra; she always had the best stories.
“Really? Where that daft upside house is now? What happened?”
Sandra sighed. “The centre killed it, poor old thing. Actually, it drowned, all that concrete wouldn’t let it drain properly. But once, at Christmas, I saw it come back.”
That got their attention. Sandra glanced at the clock, ten minutes left till the end of their break. Just enough time. She closed her eyes, and remembered…
It was late on Christmas Eve, the year they’d finally called time on the old tree and sawn it down. Sandra had just sent the final frantic shoppers on their way and was standing at the front door, locking up. It had been a long day, and she yawned, looking out into the dark absence where the tree used to stand. Hundreds of years it had been there, before people came along and interfered. Such a shame. Such a waste. Out in the chill December gloom, she could see something moving. She frowned, thinking it was early for the first security patrol. She could just hear something too, a song faintly shivering through the air. The guard sometimes hummed, but she’d never heard him singing…
But no, this wasn’t Phil with his walkie-talkie and his torch, the figure she saw crossing the empty space was too small. She realised it was a little girl, bundled up against the cold, pacing slowly and singing in a high, sweet voice. As Sandra watched, more children followed her, filing in and forming a circle in the bare mud where the tree used to be. Their voices grew, and Sandra thought of open skies, of rolling fields and the endless cycle of death and rebirth, of seasons rolling by. She felt herself growing up from a tiny shoot into a majestic, spreading oak. Her arms felt like branches, her feet like roots spreading down, deep into the earth. As she watched, the song seemed to take form and coalesce into a cloud of tiny lights, each one a glowing bright point that shimmered in the darkness. The song reached a crescendo, and the lights swirled into the shape of a ghostly oak tree, its magnificence restored in an ethereal display of glowing brightness. It was so good to see it again. Sandra realised she was crying, and wiped her tears away. When she opened her eyes again, it was all gone.
The break room had fallen silent.
“So,” Sandra said brightly. “Who wants to work Christmas Eve?” Every hand shot up.
© Stephanie Lay, November 2024
About this story
The Milton Keynes Literary Festival team regularly run writing competitions for local authors, often themed around topics relevant to the city, or to celebrate a particular season. In winter 2024, they ran one called ‘Never Mind The Baubles’, calling for flash fiction all about the festive season. Now, this was a bit of a challenge as it’s not a natural fit for my dark tales, but for some reason, I immediately thought of the story of the Midsummer Oak. It used to stand in the middle of Midsummer Place, and it was a beautiful focal point for many years before eventually dying several years ago. It turns out that trees like being outside more than they like being in a shopping centre! I’ve been reading a lot of folk horror, and I liked the idea that legends might spring up around the tree… so I wrote one!
On this occasion, my submission wasn’t successful, but I liked the story too much not to share it 🙂