Sycamore Gap

 I was horrified and sickened by the news of the terrible destruction at Sycamore Gap.

Here's a sketch I made of Sycamore Gap, and a short story about a tree that was an important refuge for me. 

All the best, 

Lynne

 

May’s call had been frantic, so George drove home as quickly as he dared.

‘Ella’s missing. She went out first thing this morning and hasn’t been seen since.’

His daughter had always been a solitary soul, but it wasn’t like her to go missing for this long.

‘Yes, I’ve called the police and the City General,’ she confirmed. ‘We should never have argued like that in front of her last night.’

‘But if you…’ George stopped himself. ‘What about friends?’

‘I’ve called Helen and Sue’s families, but they haven’t seen her.’

‘Has she taken anything, a coat, a book?’ He’d never known Ella be far from a book.

‘Her coat’s gone.’ May bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what book she might have; she went to the library yesterday.’

‘We’ll have to search.’

In a field above Wetley Moor stood a tall sycamore. A drystone wall next to it gave Ella a foothold to climb up onto a branch she called the armchair, a broad branch with a comfortable seat against the trunk.

The view down over Wetley Moor was superb; she could see where she and Helen had picked bilberries in the summer, the rolling, heather-clad hills they’d run down, pretending to fly. Now the trees were turning colour.

She wished she’d brought more than the apple and packet of crisps she’d snagged on the way out, but she couldn’t face going home to all that shouting and screaming. She bent back to her book, getting lost again in her story.

George asked Sue’s parents if they knew where the girls played. Sue Adams’ father said they played by the stream that ran alongside the path from the school, so he’d go and check there before it got too dark.  Joe, Helen’s father, suggested Wetley Moor.

George shuddered, thinking of the news about recent killings on Saddleworth Moor, some forty miles to the North.

He set off to Wetley Moor himself, striding up Armshead Road.

As he turned onto the moor, he could see shadows advancing through the evening light.

‘Ella, Ella,’ he called, hoping against hope that she hadn’t fallen and hurt herself behind one of the tall tussocks of heather.

‘Dad?’He heard her voice above him and climbed to the highest point.

‘Ella, where are you?’

‘Up here, Dad.’

He heard rustling from the big sycamore that stood sentinel over the moor. Ella’s face appeared between the russet leaves.

‘I’ve been away in the magic faraway tree,’ she said, and reached down for her father to carry her home.