Chapter 1

My name’s Burton Dogwood. Yeah, I suffered from that all through school, both the ‘Burton’ and the ‘Dogwood’. I daresay that if I’d been less sensitive I could have bulled through and ignored the teasing, but there we are. I wasn’t, and I’m not. To this day I cringe when my nickname is spelt ‘Bert’ rather than ‘Burt’. I never enjoyed sports, which set me apart from other boys, and my shyness kept me from any friendship with the other (I was going to say gentler but they mostly aren’t) sex.

So here I am, a loner. A gardener, mostly. Odd jobs a speciality. Now I won’t say I don’t detect the interest from older women I work for, but I never had the confidence to pick up on even the most blatant ‘come-ons’. There I was, then, late winter or early spring, depending on your point of view, walking near my little flat through one of the many green spaces nearby. This one a cemetery, not sure when the last burial was, but most of the area is now landscaped, only an occasional monument standing, or gravestones set flat among the grass. Mature trees, overgrown shrubbery where the growth has been uncontrolled, derelict chapels which have had a minimum of attention to stop the whole structure presenting a danger to passers-by. It’s a quiet, pleasant spot, the haunt mainly of dog-walkers and, later in the day, parents with young kids, or a group from the nursery school.

But my eye was caught by a glint of white amongst a patch of leaf-litter. The first snowdrop of the year, for me, anyway. Galanthus Nivalis ... or ... I stepped closer. No, too big. Galanthus Elwesii. I really like snowdrops, which is why they are one of the few plants I know the fancy name for them. They have also been called ‘Candlemas Bells’, ‘Fair Maids of February’ and ‘White Ladies’. Superficially, a snowdrop is plain and uninteresting, but as you might gather, I definitely don’t think so.

I stepped right up to the flower – carefully, need I say – and went to one knee to reach out and touch it. I delicately caressed the bloom with one finger. “So beautiful,” I whispered.

“Thank you.” A very sweet, but very high-pitched voice.

‘I must be dreaming’ was all I could think, as my finger was touching the cheek of a creature ... no, a tiny girl. Or ... woman? Nine inches tall, maybe. Slim. Green hair. Pale skin. Green garments, a shade darker than her hair. A white collar, actually like the flower, around her neck.

“Oh, my...” was all I could say. I mean, how do you react to meeting – what? – a fairy?

“No, I’m not a fairy,” she said, with a giggle. “I’m not magic.”

Well, I wasn’t so sure about that, but, “Are you reading my mind?”

The little figure shrugged.

“Okay. You’re not a fairy, so what are you? If you don’t mind telling me?”

“I’m a Sylph.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t much wiser, and I’m pretty sure she could tell.

“You know that some trees are nature spirits, and some rivers and streams have spirits, too?”

“Dryads, and naiads,” I nodded.

“Very good! There’s hope for you yet! I’m a λευκόἲον ψυχή,” she hesitated, “spirit of white violet. Like a hamadryad, in a way, except as a flower, not a tree.”

“Are all snowdrops like you?”

“By no means. Like trees. Very few trees are actually hamadryads. Actually, it’s a bit lonely. I can’t talk to the other flowers, and mine only blooms for a few weeks at this time of the year.”

“So ... what do you do, the rest of the year, I mean?”

She shrugged. “Sleep. Sometimes warn off a squirrel. Walk a little.” She smiled, “Pay homage to Chloris, Goddess of flowers. I wish...” She trailed off, head down.

“What do you wish?”

She jerked her head up. “Oh, I didn’t mean to say...” She hesitated. “I suppose I wish I could be somewhere I had someone to talk to.”

“Can ... can you move?”

“Well, I was brought here. But if I stay here, next year there will be two of me. Moving might change that.”

“What’s your name? I’m Burt.”

She giggled. “My everyday name is Galanthea. You could call me Thea, if you like, Burt.”

“Thanks ... Thea. Shall I come back to see you?”

“Oh, please! Any time!”

I straightened, stepped back, watching her. I didn’t see the actual transition, but suddenly there was a tall snowdrop there, rather than a diminutive figure.

I had a garden to deal with that afternoon, and snatched a sandwich when I got home, and a mug of tea before heading there. My customer was an elderly lady, who obviously loved her garden but was just not able to do very much in it any more. She usually stayed out with me as I weeded, trimmed the grass, pruned or planted for her. I finished up and left about five o’clock, thirty pounds in the new, horrible plastic, notes in my wallet. Good enough. As it happened, the old cemetery was directly in my line towards my little flat, and I happily walked through, only to pause by the snowdrop ... but which one? There were now three blossoms gleaming in the half-light of dusk. I knelt next to them.

“Hey, Thea!”

One of the blossoms ... became Galanthea. “Hello, Burt!”

“You have company,” I commented.

She shrugged. “I do. There will be more in a day or two.”

“I love snowdrops,” I said, “hope for the new year. And beautiful.”

“Thank you. I think most humans don’t really think about us.”

“I think you’re right.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice behind me said, “What are you doing?”

I glanced round and saw a girl in lycra and running shoes. When I looked back for Thea, there was only three ordinary, if large, snowdrops.

“I was admiring the snowdrops,” I said, looking back. “I really look forward to the first ones this time of year.”

She tilted her head, looking at me. Then, after a moment, “Weren’t you talking to them?”

I suppose I must have blushed. Certainly my face heated. But I shrugged, and said as calmly as I could, “Sure. Don’t you talk to flowers? I like to encourage them to bloom.”

“I never thought about that. You must be a gardener.”

“Yes, I am.” Then, in for a penny, in for a pound, “Being a bit shy,” Okay, that was the understatement of the year, “I find it easier to talk to plants than people.”

She giggled, a very pretty sound. “You should talk to people as well. My name’s Chloe. What’s yours?”

“Burt,” I said, “with a ‘u’.”

Another giggle. “Well, Burt-with-a-u, it’s been nice talking to you. Do you have cards or anything for your gardening?”

I straightened up in order to get in my pocket, pulled out my wallet and found a card, which I handed to her.

“Thanks! I’ll be off, then.” And off she loped. I couldn’t help watching. There’s something about an athletic woman that feeds into my ... imagination! Not to mention the swinging ponytail and other motions as they run.

I didn’t see Chloe again for several weeks. Meanwhile, I stopped by in the cemetery each time I was passing. Thea appeared, but only when there was no-one else nearby. Sadly, snowdrops don’t last long. Some varieties bloom at other times of the year, but Galanthus Elwesii is an early spring bloomer, and she faded and shrank down into the bulb. Even so, I stopped perhaps once a week and spoke, though I didn’t get a response.

In the middle of March, though, my mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number, but it was another mobile number, so probably not a canvassing call. I answered.

“Burt Dogwood gardening.”

“Hello! This is Chloe. Do you remember me? From the cemetery?”

“Oh yes, of course!” I hesitated, but quite against my usual way, said, “I could hardly forget you.”

Giggle. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it that way. How can I help you?”

“I don’t know if you can, but it’s just ... well ... the way you were talking to that snowdrop. I wondered if you might have any insight into why our magnolia is looking very sad. In the past it’s been really pretty, but last year there were hardly any blooms, and this year, well, I’m not sure if there’ll be any.”

“I’m no expert, Chloe, but I’m happy to call and have a look. I don’t think magnolias are particularly sensitive, but I’ll read up and see if I can find anything.”

“Thank you so much! It’s twenty-six, Grange Crescent.”

“Not far, then. Day after tomorrow? Afternoon?”

“After four pm?”

“Certainly. See you then.”

The next day and a half was pretty routine. I usually use my customers’ mowers and such like. In some ways it’d be nice to have my own, but then I’d be faced with the problem of moving it around. I do have a petrol hedge-trimmer, though. But I got to Thursday afternoon quite pleased with the work I’d got done – and was paid for, quite important – and made my way to Chloe’s house. Rather, to Chloe’s parents’ house. But Chloe was there and her parents were at work. She led me through the house to the back garden where stood a tree, about three or four metres tall, with naked branches. It was in the middle of a grassed area, the grass a little shaggy after the winter, just beginning to grow again.

As I told Chloe, I am no expert. There are between two and three hundred varieties of magnolia, varying considerably in size and the shape of the blossom. Usually the blossom precedes the foliage in early spring. I would have expected some signs of life in late March. I shrugged, and walked over to the tree. When I touched it, I was aware of something there.

“Hello,” I said. Then, “Ni hao.” I was guessing at the language. “What is the matter?”

In place of the tree stood a young woman, asiatic or oriental, with dark hair and eyes, sallow skin, dressed in a pale cream garment. She gabbled something.

“I’m sorry,” I shrugged, “I don’t speak any Chinese, really. Only English.” Let me say, if I hadn’t encountered Thea, I would have been completely at a loss at encountering any nature spirit. But in a way, it’s something I suppose I’ve longed for.

Haltingly, but understandably, she spoke after a few seconds, “How are you called, sir?”

“I am called Burt,” I said. “I am pleased to meet you...”

“Yùlán. Please call me Yùlán. You, you are, a druid?”

“No, just a human who loves plants and trees.”

She cocked her head, consideringly. “No. You are human, certainly, but I think you are a druid, even if you don’t know it. Otherwise, why would you call to me?”

“It just seemed the right thing to do.”

“Just so ... Burt. Who is with you?”

I turned, and saw Chloe standing a few yards away, just outside the back door of the house. “Chloe? Please come here.”

She did come, if tentatively. “Burt?”

“It seems you have a hamadryad in your back garden, Chloe. Her name is Yùlán.”

I turned back to the nymph. “Yùlán, this is my friend Chloe. She asked me to come here because you seemed unwell.”

Chloe stepped up to the nymph, began to hold out a hand, but then spread her arms in invitation for a hug. I think women have another sense or way of communicating, because nothing was said that I could hear before they were embracing. They separated a little, and Yùlán said, “They cut down my friend. Tilly...” she trailed off.

The local council began a process of removing the trees which line many of the city streets. Planted by the Victorians, mostly Lime and London Plane, unfortunately many of the trees have shallow roots which lift the pavement or the kerb-stones. In some cases they are considered a hazard to traffic and in others diseased or otherwise unhealthy. There was, immediately the idea was put forward, a growing resistance movement, which became both vocal and active, leading to arrests. However, a later enquiry into the process found that the council had not acted transparently, and that there were a number of defects in the process. The protesters – reasonably enough – felt justified in their stance, and the removal of the trees stopped with a few exceptions. Clearly, one of the trees which had suffered from the council’s actions was ‘Tilly’.

Chloe released Yùlán, but kept hold of her hand. “Burt, did you know...”

“No, Chloe. In fact, a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have even thought about nature spirits as real. Fantasised, maybe. But I think you have the answer to your tree problems.” I hesitated, but continued, “At least, part of your tree problems. You realise you can’t talk about this, don’t you? Maybe your parents.”

She stared at me. But Yùlán spoke before I could respond. “I ... we ... are not permitted to show ourselves to ... Bùxìn zhě, no ... not ‘unbelievers’ ... Mámùbùrén? No. I ... sorry. I have not a word. I could tell, Burt, if he didn’t realise it, he’s ... in touch ... with ... the essence of things. And you were with him, had brought him here,” she added, looking at Chloe. “Can you trust your parents to protect me? Not reveal what I am?”

“I...” Chloe began to speak, but stopped, forehead furrowed. “I was going to say, ‘yes, of course’, but no, I am not quite sure. I can trust them to care for me. A revelation like this? I don’t know.”

Yùlán smiled. “I will be able to tell. Next time you are out here with them – and no-one else – just say, ‘our tree is special’. I will change for you if I am sure of them. But...” we heard voices from the house, and instead of a young oriental woman, there stood a tree.

On bare branches appeared buds which weren’t noticeable before. One, in particular, swelled and began to split, revealing a glimpse of pale cream.

A woman appeared at the back door and approached, followed seconds later by a man.

“Burt,” Chloe was smiling, “This is my Mum, Daphne, and Dad, Stan. Mum, Dad, Burt came to look at our magnolia tree. He’s got a gift with plants.”

“You have a very special tree, here,” I said, shaking hands with her father.

He stared at it. “It’s certainly looking better already. What did you do?”

I laughed. “I just spoke to it ... her.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, so he missed the actual transition as Yùlán appeared in place of her tree. “I trust you both not to betray what I am,” she said.

The older couple stared at her, open mouthed.

“Please?” she added, nervously.

“My dear,” the older woman spoke, sympathetically, “I doubt if anyone would believe us, but even so, we will keep silence. You are a gift, a beautiful gift.”

She looked at me, though, frowning. I suppose I need to mention that I have a mixed ancestry, with a somewhat dark skin and hair. There is some Native American, Briton and Norse there in varying proportions, which was another source of problems in school. It seems that certain Westerners can’t accept that everyone is of mixed race. Hell, Westerners are about six percent Neanderthal! I met her eyes. “I am of mixed race,” I told her, “very mixed. Perhaps the Celt and Native American are why I’m so good with plants ... and plant spirits.”

“I see.” There was a longish pause, but she went on with a smile, “You may be right.” She paused again, looking at Yùlán. “My name is Daphne, and my husband is Stan. Can you tell me why you were ... sad?”

“I am Yùlán,” the nymph said, “I am pleased to meet you. I was sad because my friend Tilly was cut down, and I have been lonely.”

“Tilly?” Daphne queried.

I chuckled. “The tree outside your house. Was it a Lime?”

“Well, yes, it was. It was the first one felled when they started on this street before the campaigners got here to protect the others.”

“There you are,” I shrugged, “I’d guess ‘Tilly’ would be the use-name for Tilia x Europaea, the European Lime, or Linden tree.”