The Tree
Chelmsford Castle is a large, imposing stone edifice built on the rocky coast of New England by a rather eccentric millionaire in the early days of the twentieth century. The unfortunate man had lived in his palace for fewer than five years when late one stormy winter night he went mad, murdered his wife and then hanged himself from one of the turrets. Given the size of the place and its remote location—not to mention its gruesome history—it is no wonder it stayed vacant for decades. Eventually, though, in the early 1960s, a nonprofit organization purchased the site, restored the castle and its grounds and opened the property to the public.
Throughout most of the year, there are relatively few visitors to the historic stone edifice. Tourists who journey to New England prefer going to Plymouth, Salem, Cape Cod, Newport, Old Orchard Beach, Bar Harbor and the Native American-owned casinos. There are, however, several times during the year when visitors throng to Chelmsford Castle: for three weeks each December when it is festooned with holly, pine boughs, Christmas trees and all the trappings of a Victorian-era Christmas; during the month of October when the grounds are decorated with cornstalks, jack-o-lanterns and scarecrows, and the castle becomes a haunted house attraction; and when it hosts the Celtic Heritage Festival, a week-long extravaganza held the second week in June.
Nathan Whittier had never been to Chelmsford Castle, even though he lived within an hour's drive of it. Watching grown men in kilts play bagpipes was not his idea of a good time, nor was singing Christmas carols in front of the castle's huge stone fireplace or wandering through its dark hallways waiting for a costumed actor to jump out and scare him. So, when a friend gave him two tickets to the Celtic Heritage Festival, Nathan was less than enthusiastic about attending.
"You've got to go," his friend urged. "You'll have a great time. There's plenty to do and see there. Maryanne will love it, too. There are dozens of vendors, and you know how much that girl loves to shop."
"Haven't you heard? I'm not seeing Maryanne anymore," Nathan announced, hoping to avoid a discussion of the matter.
"All the more reason for you to go then. You should see the girls who show up at these events. If I wasn't happily married, I'd go myself."
A handsome young man with a good job, Nathan never had trouble attracting women. However, one day a clear blue sky and temperatures in the lower seventies tempted him to leave his stuffy apartment. It was too beautiful for him to remain in the city, so he decided to take a drive up the coast and visit Chelmsford Castle.
It probably won't be much fun, he thought pessimistically, but at least I can get some fresh air and exercise, and maybe a bite to eat.
As he walked along the castle grounds, he stopped to watch the performers, most of whom were dressed in traditional Celtic attire. Highland dancers kicked up their heels in a fling while kilt-clad regiments marched across the field playing bagpipes and drums. As much as he enjoyed them, he preferred the musical groups who blended Celtic instruments such as the bodhrán, uilleann pipes and the tin whistle with guitars, drums, fiddles and even the Australian didgeridoo to create an eclectic mix of new- and old-world sounds.
After he had his fill of toe-tapping rhythms, rousing drinking songs, poignant folk ballads and bawdy humor, Nathan strolled over to the area where a dozen or so muscular men in kilts and T-shirts were competing in highland games such as the sheaf toss, Scottish hammer throw, caber toss and clachneart (an early version of the shot put).
The morning wore on, and Nathan's appetite awakened with the approach of noon. He passed up the typical festival fare—cock-a-leekie soup, bannocks, colcannon, stoved tatties and the godawful haggis—and bought himself a hamburger and fries. His only concession to Celtic culture was the pint of Guinness he ordered from a buxom serving wench.
While he was sitting at a picnic table in the shade of a large oak tree, an attractive young woman sat down across from him.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked politely. "Everything else seems to be taken."
"No, go right ahead," Nathan replied with a warm, friendly smile.
The young woman, a redheaded beauty, clearly of Irish or Scottish descent, was wearing a long tartan skirt and matching sash.
"Do you work here?" Nathan inquired.
"No," she replied. "I'm just visiting. I come here quite often. You see, I'm a descendant of the man who built this place."
Nathan raised an eyebrow and asked, "You mean the guy that went nuts and murdered his wife? Oh, I'm sorry," he apologized. "That was a terrible thing for me to say."
"Don't worry about it," the pretty redhead laughed, not in the least bit offended. "To answer your question, yes, old Hamish did go mad, kill his wife and then commit suicide. People around here say he lived under a curse and that Hamish's spirit still walks the halls of this old castle," she teased, her green eyes twinkling mischievously. "Of course, I've never seen him myself."
It took several moments for Nathan to realize that she was being facetious.
"Well, it wouldn't surprise me if this place was haunted," he commented. "By the way, my name is Nathan Whittier."
"Nice to meet you, Nathan. My name is Kyla Drummond."
"Is that Miss Drummond or Mrs. Drummond?"
"Miss."
Kyla's smile answered the unspoken question in Nathan's eyes: not only was she unattached, but she was also interested in getting to know him better.
* * *
A week later, Kyla and Nathan commenced with the time-honored social ritual of dating, and in the autumn of the following year, the two were married. Kyla, who could not abide living in an urban environment, suggested they leave Boston and move to Marblehead, a picturesque seaside town in northeastern Massachusetts. When the couple first explored the town, Kyla fell in love with a restored eighteenth-century saltbox, set back from the road on several acres of property.
"This house is just perfect!" she told the real estate agent, as she looked out the bay window toward the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.
Nathan did not share his wife's enthusiasm. A confirmed city dweller at heart, he did not relish the idea of mowing the lawn during the summer, raking leaves in the fall or shoveling snow in the winter.
"Why don't we compromise?" he asked hopefully. "We could get a condominium somewhere in the surrounding area. That way we wouldn't have to worry about maintenance."
But Kyla had her heart set on living in the saltbox, so in the interest of domestic harmony, Nathan conceded and agreed to move to Marblehead.
For several years, the Whittiers were happy, but eventually, Nathan's eye began to wander. He had grown accustomed to Kyla. Their romantic life had become too predictable, and he was a man who enjoyed variety in his relationships. He longed to be single again, to feel the thrill of the chase and the sweet taste of victory.
When he accepted a job in Providence, Rhode Island—a position that brought with it a grueling commute along congested highways—Nathan found the perfect opportunity to stretch the tight bonds of matrimony. He had only to tell Kyla that he had to work late and would spend the night in the city, and he was free to wander the night spots in search of female companionship. Whenever his wife complained about his frequent absences, he would insist the fault was hers.
"We could spend a lot more time together if you would agree to sell the house and move to Providence."
"I could never be happy living in a city," she insisted.
"And jobs in the city pay better than those in the sticks, so I guess we've got ourselves a Catch-22 situation."
As much as Kyla missed her husband, she could not leave the home she had come to love so dearly. As a consolation for her unraveling marriage, she lovingly took care of the saltbox and its grounds, planting flowers, fruit and vegetables in the fertile soil. She even went so far as to get oak saplings and plant them in the yard.
"It must be the Celt in me," she laughed. "My ancestors were probably Druids. That's why I have such an affinity for oak trees."
"Trees," Nathan would grumble. "I don't see the big deal. They may look nice when the leaves turn color in the autumn, but what a hassle it is to rake them up after they fall."
"Why do you have to look at the negative aspects of everything? You're such a pessimist," she joked.
"Excuse me if I'm not one of those aging ex-hippie tree huggers."
"It's not just the environmentalists who love trees. To the ancient Druids, trees, especially oaks, were sacred."
"Oh, really?" Nathan asked without any real interest.
"Yes. Among other things, the oak tree was regarded as a door that connected the world of the living with the world of the spirits of their ancestors."
"Trees are doorways to the hereafter? What a lot of nonsense!" her husband scoffed. "Where do you get these ridiculous ideas of yours?"
"I read books," she replied defensively.
"Then maybe you should stop."
Kyla left Nathan to his newspaper and went outside to work in the garden. As she toiled in the dirt, she took comfort from the close proximity to nature and to its miracle of life, death and rebirth.
I wonder if my marriage will ever experience a similar revival, she thought as she pulled weeds out of her flower bed.
Sadly, it was a relationship that would never blossom again.
Three months before the couple's fifth wedding anniversary, Kyla approached her husband and brought up the subject of children. Since they were both nearing thirty, she naturally assumed it was time they started a family. She was devastated to learn that Nathan did not want kids.
"I never dreamed you would feel this way," she cried.
"I suppose we should have had this discussion before we tied the knot."
"You're being selfish," Kyla complained.
"You're the one who's being selfish. There are close to six and a half billion people on this planet. Why bring another child into an already overcrowded world?"
In truth, Nathan could not have cared less about the mounting world population. He simply did not want the responsibility that accompanied fatherhood. Also, the time for starting a family—even if he had wanted one—was all wrong. Only recently, he had met a beautiful, blond legal assistant, and he was falling in love with her. The last thing he needed was to be crippled with alimony and child support payments when he divorced his wife.
Unfortunately, just as Nathan was adamant about not wanting to father a child, so, too, was Kyla unbending on the subject of divorce.
Months went by, and Nathan lost his patience with his wife. He had long since moved out of the saltbox and into an apartment in Rhode Island. He wanted to extricate himself from all marital ties and get on with his life, but Kyla continued to fight the divorce. Finally, he went to Marblehead to meet with her, hoping to persuade her to cooperate.
* * *
Nathan Whittier sat in the living room wing chair, oblivious to the growing darkness around him. When the waves of nausea that had swept over his body at last subsided, he stood up slowly, fearful that his legs would not support his weight. Night had fallen, and he was forced to walk across the room with his hands outstretched, careful not to bump into any walls or trip over any furniture.
Slowly, he made his way to the bathroom and turned on the light. He could not bring himself to look in the vanity mirror, could not face the reflection of a killer. He turned on the faucet, reached for the soap and tried to wash the guilt from his hands. There was no blood since he had strangled his wife, not stabbed her.
Eventually, he had to face the consequences of his crime. He went to the telephone, intending to call the Marblehead police and confess his guilt, but then he saw his wife's body lying on the hardwood floor. Kyla's green eyes, now void of life, were staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, and her long red hair fell in disarray about her shoulders. One time he had loved her, yet he felt no sorrow about her death—just regret that his evil deed would probably cost him his freedom. Instead of a life with his beautiful legal assistant, Nathan faced a long prison term, perhaps even life without parole if he had an unsympathetic jury.
Would the Massachusetts legal system care that he had not intended to murder his wife, that he had only acted in a moment of passion when their argument escalated into a full-blown fight?
Suddenly, Nathan felt sick to his stomach and ran outside, hoping the fresh air might help.
There was another oak sapling there, waiting to be planted.
"I must have interrupted her gardening when I arrived," he surmised when he saw the shovel sticking out of a freshly dug hole beside the tiny oak.
Hope unexpectedly flared in his heart. Maybe his life was not over after all.
* * *
Nathan woke up late the following morning, his body aching from the exertions of the night before. As he made himself a cup of coffee, he looked out into the yard at the small oak tree under which Kyla was buried.
"I could have sworn that sapling was smaller," he said. "It must have just seemed smaller in the darkness."
He took his coffee cup into the living room where he concocted a story that he would tell the neighbors should any of them ask about Kyla's disappearance. He decided to simply tell them that his wife had finally agreed to relocate to Providence and was at the moment house-hunting while he saw to the disposal of the saltbox.
After finishing his coffee, he phoned his girlfriend. She was delighted to learn that Kyla had agreed to a divorce, and he would soon be a free man. The two lovers talked for more than an hour, and during that time the beautiful legal assistant never guessed that the man she adored had murdered his wife the previous afternoon.
"I'll see you in a few days," Nathan promised as he prepared to end the conversation. "I love you," he added and hung up the receiver.
The rest of the day he packed Kyla's clothes in suitcases and old boxes he had found in the attic and basement. He would lease the house—furniture and all—since he could not sell it without his wife's signature on the legal documents.
"Besides, I could always use the extra income," he declared, looking on the bright side of the situation.
It was nearly 7:00 p.m. when he put the last of Kyla's personal belongings in an old duffel bag.
"I'll have to rent a U-Haul and take all this stuff to a self-storage center. Eventually, I can give it—little by little—to the Salvation Army or to Good Will."
When the growling in his empty stomach reminded him that he had not eaten, Nathan went to the freezer, took out a frozen pizza and popped it into the oven. Then he poured himself a large glass of wine. After finishing his meal, he kicked off his shoes, put his feet up on the coffee table and lay back on the couch. He soon fell asleep, but he was awakened when he heard a tapping sound on the kitchen window. He cocked his head and listened closely. The tapping grew louder.
A squirrel, he thought, or maybe a bird.
The sound continued and began to get on his nerves. He got up and walked to the kitchen to investigate the source of the disturbance and to refill his wine glass. As he neared the room, he heard a large crash and the distinctive sound of breaking glass. Nathan turned on the light and saw that a large tree branch had broken through the window and was hanging over the kitchen sink.
"Where the hell did that come from?" he wondered. "There are no trees near the window."
Nathan put down his wine glass, walked to the front door and opened it. A mass of limbs and branches blocked his way.
"That fallen tree must be enormous! I hope it didn't damage the roof."
He went to the phone to call 911, hoping that the police or fire department would send someone over with a chainsaw to free him. However, when he picked up the receiver, there was no dial tone.
"The tree must have torn down the phone lines."
Nathan headed for the stairs. His cell phone was in the bedroom in his jacket pocket.
Suddenly, the floor under his feet shifted, and he fell.
"What was that?" he cried. "Could it be an earthquake in Marblehead?"
In answer to his question, a giant oak limb crashed through the catslide roof of the saltbox. Nathan screamed and scrambled for cover, but several more branches burst through the ceiling and the windows. He tried to cover his ears, to block out the horrible sound of the house being ripped apart. He watched in mindless horror as a thin oak branch grew before his eyes and wrapped itself around his legs.
"Kyla!" he sobbed. "This is your doing, isn't it? Please make it stop! I didn't mean to kill you. I swear it."
As the branch crushed his legs, another one reached for his neck. Mercifully, Nathan's cry of agony was soon cut off by the limb that was pressing down on his windpipe.
* * *
"I've never seen anything like it. What do you suppose happened?" the Marblehead police officer asked his partner as the two men stared at the rubble—all that remained of Kyla's beloved saltbox.
"Explosion caused by a gas leak?" the other policeman suggested.
"It can't be. The houses in this part of town are all electric."
The two officers searched the property. In the backyard, several feet from the ruins of the house, they found the body of a young woman lying on the ground near a small, uprooted oak sapling.
It was a case that would baffle the Marblehead Police Department for years to come. That Nathan Whittier murdered his wife was obvious, but no one could determine how the killer himself died.
"He just stopped breathing," the coroner declared. "There's no other medical explanation."
And the house? Its destruction, too, remained a complete mystery. No one ever connected the small oak sapling or the body of the former Kyla Whittier to the death of her husband, Nathan. Who would ever believe, after all, that the descendent of Druids and of Hamish Drummond, an insane murderer, had the power to reach beyond the grave and exact vengeance on her killer?
The picture in the upper left corner is of the Nathaniel Hawthorne birthplace, located on the grounds of the House of the Seven Gables in Salem, Massachusetts.
Salem was once stuck in a tree, and I phoned the fire department to rescue him. When they turned the high-pressure hose on him, he got out of the tree fast!
