The Mysterious Disappearance of Contessa Willoughby: Part One
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Part One
This is the way that Contessa would remember it.
There were several cherry trees and yew in her grandfather’s back garden, but the one she loved most of all was an oak. It was a curious tree. Its branches grew from the trunk in twisted mass, gnarled arms holding tight to some secret.
In the summer, when she stayed with her grandfather, he would take her to a weathered bench beneath the oak and tell her stories about places he had been. She would lay across his lap, looking up towards a canopy of green, as he filled her head with tales of places where trees spoke and people moved like lightening.
In the same way that people might resemble their dogs, they can also look like the trees they love. Contessa’s grandfather was no exception. Like the oak tree, he was ancient, and as long as she knew him, he was stooped low to ground with a warm face rough as bark. Unlike the oak, though, he wore funny clothes and used strange expressions.
One day, instead of taking her to the bench, her grandfather brought Contessa close to the oak tree and placed her tiny hand on its swollen trunk.
“Do you hear its heartbeat?” he whispered.
“It doesn’t have a heart, Papa.” She wriggled her hand free and put it on her chest, “Not like me!”
“Oh, but Contessa, all living things have a heart. If you believe this, then the tree will share its secrets with you.”
That night, Contessa made a wish on the first star she saw from her bedroom window: May I hear the great oak’s heartbeat.
In the middle of the night, Contessa awoke to a roaring sound and the smell of smoke. She pushed the drape away from the window. A fire lit up the sky, but what was burning? Contessa dashed out of her bed, down the hall.
“Papa, papa!” A bell clanged, neighbors emerged from their homes in nightdresses and caps. Contessa’s grandfather was nowhere to be found. Contessa began to cry. A crowd gathered near the back corner of the garden. An older woman reached down and wrapped a robe around her. It was too late to hide from Contessa what she already saw. The great oak was burning.
By daybreak, Contessa was safely tucked into bed again. Unable to find her grandfather, she stayed with a neighbor until her mother arrived. When she woke again, she saw something in the room that wasn’t there the night before. She pushed herself to the foot of her bed where a large, lumpy object sat covered with a white sheet.
She pulled it back. It was a rocking horse! But where did it come from? She ran her fingers down the smooth, polished neck of the still animal. She gently pushed down on its nose. The horse bobbed up and down. Contessa pushed her legs off the bed onto the floor, and then over the seat of the horse. She wrapped her arms around the neck of the wooden beast.
Was it possible? It was the faintest throbbing at first. She pulled back and sat up straight on the stiff saddle. She put her hand to her chest. Was it a heartbeat? She leaned forward again. There it was. Stronger this time. She eased the horse forward, then back, and forward once more.
If you were in the room, you would have seen Contessa rocking on the horse. Then suddenly, only the horse without its rider.
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