Crazy Mac Morgan

"YOU MUST NEVER GO NEAR THAT ABANDONED GRAVEYARD IN THE WOODS," Charlie's mother explained in no uncertain terms that morning. "Some people say that grave keeper’s lost his marbles, and keeps lost children locked in his basement. No one has seen him for many years. You must stay away." Indeed, the once pristine graveyard was the best around. Now it was just dead. No curtain from the old man’s house ever flickered in the breeze, and even the path past the grounds looked as if it were too frightened to get any nearer. It was of course such a shame, for in that graveyard was the only willow tree for miles around.

Charlie was poring over the collection of leaves which he had collected from the woods. He already had many – Sycamore, Maple, Oak and more. But his favourite were the rare ones – Yew and Water Pine to be precise. He was a wild, independent child who wandered the dense forest searching, often aimlessly, for the rarest leaves he could find. He was something of a ‘Darwinist’. At least that’s what he called himself. He was even named after the person he looked up to most. Coincidence? Charlie thought not.

Stomping across the crisp, leaf-covered tracks, he would pretend that he was the great man himself – searching for his next discovery. Charlie had no time for friends on his hunt, nor mobile phones, wrist watches nor even maps for that matter. The prize was just too great for distraction. One thing was for sure, Charlie would always remember that blustery, wet afternoon when he set off to search. The drizzle drenched him and the wind banged heavily on his face as he trudged through the woodland.

As Charlie staggered deep into the misty, darkened woods, the howls above the canopy grew louder. The heavy, rain laden air sprayed his face whilst the wind tugged him away from the signposted trail. Deeper and deeper into the woodland he strayed, determined to find his prize. He forced his tired body onward, as the angry, storm clouds behind him crept closer. The rain became torrential. He could barely see 3 metres in front of him. His heart was pounding fast. Charlie knew of the worsening weather but there were still elusive rare leaves to find.

As he looked up, Charlie realised that he had strayed close to the rugged graveyard.  He clambered up onto the outer wall, to see if he could spot any signs of light, any signs of hope. The panic was stricken across his face. He was lost. He struggled across the loose stones of the sprawling, hand built wall and inched his way cautiously forwards. Tears came streaming down his face as the thick weeds snatched at his ankles. Charlie knew as he tripped and fell that he was in deep trouble. Although very short, his lifetime’s work of painstaking collection flashed before his eyes, as he hit his head hard on the ground below and rolled carelessly down the steep bank.

Lying in the deep, freshly dug pit where the fall had dumped him, he was lifeless. The damp, stale air brushed against his cheek and awoke him dreamily. He turned over to see that it was night. The moon rode on the storm clouds and the stars twinkled. Charlie scrambled to his feet and heaved himself up out of the earthy grave. Beckoning lights of the grave keeper’s house were his only hope of finding shelter and safety. If he ignored the shelter he might not even find his way home that night. His mother and father would be worried sick. Charlie stood by the door nervously waiting for the right moment to knock. He knew she must. Surely what awaited him was nowhere near as horrific as what he had already endured...

There was a reason why this place was forbidden by his mother, yet all he could think of was the hope of getting home. He knew that he couldn’t wait, and lightly knocked on the door. The rotten, oak door screeched as the old man pulled it inside. “Excuse me,” Charlie whispered hesitantly. “I was walking in the woods when I got lost. I was looking for leaves to add to my collection. I want to get home but I don’t know the way.”

“Home?” replied the man harshly as he beadily peered at the rain sodden figure standing in the doorway. “Home?”, he repeated, this time with a quirky chuckle. Charlie was puzzled by the old man’s response. Whilst staring at the very confused little boy, he continued, “Many people have come by here lost and confused. Time they realised that this place claims us all in the end.”

At once, the warnings from his mother rushed through is throbbing head. Never go near that house. Never. He started to panic. His heart began to race. What had he got into this mess for? A leaf; a tiny, insignificant leaf. He’d end up locked in a basement with the other lost children, all for a leaf. He couldn’t think straight; his life was in danger, grave danger. At that moment the old man’s cracked hand reached down towards Charlie’s face and covered his eyes. Everything went black.

“You ok now boy?” came a gruff, husky voice from what seemed to be a hundred yards away. The bright white light began to subside; the man’s face (somewhat friendlier than before) was hovering over him once again.

“You passed out.” His voice closer now, he seemed almost amused. “Can’t be having that in a graveyard, people will think you’ve passed on. Reckon you believed all the stories you’ve heard about me huh? Thought I was going to throw you in my basement, didn’t you. Crazy Mac Morgan – I know what they call me.” Charlie was more confused than ever. Was he dreaming? What on earth was going on?

“I noticed your satchel full of leaves…” The voice trailed off into the darkness of the serene stone cottage. It was not a bit like the outside, in fact it was quite the opposite – warm, welcoming and with a perfectly stacked and lightly smouldering log fire. Charlie’s eyes continued to adjust as the grave keeper returned with a beaming smile on his face. “A dying breed we are.” Rather ironic, Charlie thought, for a man who tends a graveyard. The man presented his hand, and a large hand made, leather-bound book filled jam-packed with leaves, all perfectly preserved and documented, pages and pages of them. He eased-open the book, to a page he seemed particularly proud of – the  Willow.

“Mr Morgan. Call me Tom.” And the pair shook hands, like old friends with many a story to tell of their time apart. Finally it all made sense… Mr Morgan did not tend the graveyard, but the Willow tree; the only Willow tree for miles around.

Mr Morgan pointed Charlie towards his parents’ log cabin. It was only a short walk back through the woods. His mother and father would be so pleased to see him. They never liked him being out after dark. As he approached the house, Charlie noticed the moorland rescue truck parked in the drive. He felt sad as he saw his mother crying. In her hand was the specimen jar he had been carrying protectively before he fell from the wall. The silence was disturbed by the soft, low voice of the recue man. “You’re sure this plastic box is his?” Charlie’s mother nodded her head solemnly. At once Charlie stormed into the kitchen to lift the mood, and shouted at the top of his voice, his lungs suddenly filled with energy, “Leaf it out mum, I’ve only been gone 5 minutes!” He hoped his humour would cheer the mood. He often found a way of making his mum laugh. But she was not laughing.

Clutching the prized leather-bound book under his arm, Charlie began… “Let me tell you the tale of a man named Crazy Mac Morgan…”