The Secret of the Treehouse

Everything Starts with a Dream

Charlie watched the big city disappearing from his sight as the train sped across the bridge. It was a late summer afternoon and the temperature was still soaring high. The tiny, grimy windows on the overcrowded train were open, with people gasping desperately for fresh air in the blazing heat, and Charlie could not help but feel over the moon thinking how much he looked forward to his summer holidays. Six long weeks of freedom, no vomit-inducing school dinners, no tedious and repetitious homework and most of all, no Miss Wilde. Miss Wilde, a short, gaunt woman, would always have her jet-black hair up in a tight bun, overly shiny and greasy, with the smell of too much coconut oil making Charlie queasy. And to top it all, the only clothes she would ever wear were of a beige colour, beige skirts and bland, polyester blouses, that would hold a lifetime of odours in their threads, plain-mushroom coloured dresses and high-knee beige, nylon tights. She would never praise, encourage or smile, and Charlie often wondered if Miss Wilde, or Miss Beige as the children called her these days, even liked children as she most definitely enjoyed tearing the pages out of their homework books, when she wanted them to do it ALL OVER AGAIN!

      According to Miss Wilde, there were two kinds of children - the unruly, troublesome ones who ought to be bundled up into a pile, loaded into the back of a rubbish truck and discarded on to a far island, as far from her classroom as possible. These children made her eyes pop out of her eye sockets whenever she would yell her terrible insults at them. The other kind were the placid, well-mannered children, who would never do anything foolish and would speak to others with the utmost respect. Still, Miss Wilde would despise their 'goodie-goodie' sickening manner. And then, there was Charlie, a boy somewhere in between, not quite heading for the rubbish pile on the deserted island and not quite the 'goodie-goodie' type. But mostly a boy in a world of his own, feeling slightly out of place amongst the nose-picking, football wannabe look-alikes and the girls covered from head to toes in pink and glitter. Simply put, Charlie was a dreamer.

By the end of the summer term, all Charlie could do was to count the days before the holiday in his grandad's small, almost remote village, away from the rigid rules and the nauseating sameness of every day. Maybe, it was because it was there, he felt the closest to his father, a tall, strong-looking man with curious eyes and a gentle smile, he only knew from photographs. Or perhaps it was the abandoned treehouse hiding behind the wild branches of the lonely ancient oak standing in his grandad's garden that fascinated him. Some would say, the old oak is five hundred years old, and remembers all. And the large hollow in the tree trunk, some believe, holds secrets and mysteries, which should remain untouched... ASLEEP.  For they, who dare to climb the ladder and enter the hollow in the tree, will be snatched by the shadowy figures lurking around at night...🦇

Charlie remembered very well what the people around the village would say about the old oak but he did not believe a word of it. After all, his grandad would just laugh off any such gossip as an utter nonsense.

Sitting next to Charlie was his cousin Eric, a boy few years older than him, dressed all in black with a neon orange sign on his T-shirt that read 'Rebel and Deal with It', not paying any attention to anything around. Nor anybody. That included Charlie. 'Are you all right Bighead?' Eric would take his headphones off every so often and mumble unwillingly. Charlie would nod. He knew Eric would not engage in any other conversation with him. He was simply there to be his chaperone for the journey. And that was it. Eric was thirteen years old, his dark brown hair reached to his shoulders, he played an electric guitar in a band and he was extremely cool. Well, at least, he thought so but most definitely too cool to hang out with Charlie, 'his annoying baby cousin' who would often get reminded to stay out of his way. It was going to be a long six hours, Charlie thought - his big brown eyes curiously observing a man sitting in front of him, wearing a sad, grey suit - his overindulgent, fat belly bulging under his white shirt with creamy patches of sweat under his armpits. The harder Charlie tried not to stare at the porky, pink-faced man, the more transfixed his eyes were at the desperate sight in front of him. Quite often he was reminded by his mum not to stare. Right now, however, it was difficult not to. With every laboured wheezy breath, the man's stomach would lift up like an angry volcano ready to erupt, the buttons holding onto their weak threads for dear life. Still gawping, a thought had crept into his mind. What if the man's skin-tight shirt was to suddenly rip open, the buttons would fire all around at the stunned passengers...and then, the hairy, pink, plump belly with two cloudy wide-opened eyes would reach for him with fork-like arms and stuff him in its greedy mouth. He closed his eyes, trying to escape these images zig-zagging madly in his head. One - two – three – his voice deep inside started counting. Hoping his imagination would finally stop running wild, he leaned his head against the window and contented himself with the plain view of houses and straw-coloured fields zooming past, listening to the regular rattling of the train. His eyes felt heavy, with the sun streaming a bright yellow light on to his face with the hues of pastel orange dotting around in his vision. Charlie squinted. His chestnut hair, big and unruly, bounced playfully around his face and as the train entered a tunnel, he drifted off to sleep and had the most peculiar dream.