Near a meadow, at the very edge of Horsingdon Woods, this curious growth stirs from bitter soil; ancient beyond reckoning and virtually fossilised, the Crooked Tree speaks of a moment of critical ontological instability: of different worlds and different times briefly intersecting, producing in their wake this monstrum.
Repulsive abomination and praeternatural portent in equal parts, it is said that the guardians of the Black Bowers gather at the Crooked Tree during certain seasons to tap its oracular power, seeking to discern whether the time is yet nigh for the return of Those Who Wait. More often than not, though, the only thing they divine is which of them should be offered up next as sacrifice to their nameless gods.
It is also said that, in honour of the ancient deity Nodens, James Boreham enacted a rite of terrible potency beneath the Crooked Tree: a rite only ever vaguely alluded to in certain Romano-British texts as 'The Marriage Beneath the Shade', and in its aftermath begetting upon Boreham's faceless wife an equally-faceless child of dubious heritage.
Indeed, the origin of many of the awful and hideous things which have blighted both the history and landscape of Horsingdon have been auguried in the shadow of the Crooked Tree.
Indeed, the origin of many of the awful and hideous things which have blighted both the history and landscape of Horsingdon have been auguried in the shadow of the Crooked Tree.
No comments:
Post a Comment