The Ashplant (short story)

   “Made of Ash tree”. The voice of my creator was soft, more like a whisper. His beautiful Irish accent  mentioning my name – Ashplant - almost stroke me like his hands did. I knew already that I was going to miss his company.

I was the very first stick he made with a curved handle and therefore carefully selected from the many roots of the Ash trees. Usually roots grow with a natural handle but the customer was a little more demanding.

Maybe it was because of this that my creator and I got attached to each other; he found it very difficult to let me go although he received a generous sum of money.

   Reluctantly he handed me to my new owner. For a few seconds I floated between my creator and the former headmaster of the local school; these few seconds I belonged to no one, just my own little space.

Then the headmaster touched me and I was surprised to learn that hands differ in feel.

I left the hand with the hard skin and the smell of wood. I entered a soft hand with the smell of paper and ink. The difference could not have been bigger.

   My new owner looked at me and smelled, then he nodded in agreement and gave the money to my creator who left the house but not before he looked at me for one more time. At that moment I knew I would always be his one and only stick with a curved handle.

   The soft hand weighed me and waved me a few times before the owner walked a few steps with my iron base pointed downwards. I wasn’t purchased to support him during walking; my owner was still fit. I reminded him of the days he was a headmaster using the Ashplant to point to the blackboard or to point to a child.

I heard of Ashplants used to punish children, leaving read swellings at their hands. I hoped I was treated nicely and not for hitting disobedient family members! Though I soon learned that the man  was nice and that he lived on his own; an elderly lady from the village was his housekeeper.

   I was his nostalgia, the memory to the old school days. The feel and the colour attracted him but than designed to walk. I gave him some sort of status when he walked through the village; a straight posture and his fore-arm and hand elegantly folded against his back, only removed to raise his hat greeting the ladies of the village.

   He must have been a good headmaster; people bowed with respect. He must have taught many generations and he knew almost everybody by name.

It did not take long for me to recognize the red haired boy that delivered the bread covered by a white linen cloth in a large wicker basket. Or the butcher with his pale complexion and fingers with short nails permantly covered in blood, waving with the sharp axe with the short handle when we walked by.

Who I liked most was the lovely lady from the haberdashery shop. Her soft and round cheeks always coloured to a dark pink as soon as she noticed my owner. I understood she liked him very, very much but unfortunately the headmaster, although friendly and always polite, did not return her feelings.

I wondered if she was still a spinster because of this.

   Still an Ash root, I lived underground and only knew about the seasons when the temperatures changed or when it rained. We grew during Summer and slept during Winter.

But as an Ashplant I could see and smell the seasons.

Resting against the bench on the village green I enjoyed the sunshine and looked at the patterns designed by the sunbeams filtered by the leaves of trees.

During Autumn I kicked the beautiful red and golden rustling leaves which became soundless and viscid when it rained. I loved the smell of the wet leaves and the fungi.

I loved the sight of the snow that covered the village in a white blanket. It muffled the sound of footsteps; the cold air changed the smoke that came from the chimneys into straight thin clouds.

But most of all I loved Spring when the tender soft green leaves sprung from the branches and flowers coloured the gardens of the white cottages with the roofs decorated with reed that turned into a golden brown. It reminded me of the time I was ready to grow further until found by the woodworker who transformed me into an Ashplant.

But at home I rested next to his chair, my owner never let me out of sight as if he knew that one day, he also needed me indoors. I rested while he read books or wrote letters. He was not the man to sit still.

   They day that he needed my support arrived sooner than expected. A very bad cold had a devastating effect on his physical condition; he never recovered despite the caring efforts of the housekeeper and even the lady of the haberdashery shop. They spoiled him with healthy food, drinks and attention.

   It worried me tremendously that he became a very old and tired man. His energy left him day by day, I compared it with the halt to my growth during the Winter months.

I supported him where ever I could, he needed me every step in the house; very seldom he went outdoors.

   When he also stopped reading and writing, the lady from the shop and the housekeeper arranged to take him to a care home where he would be well looked after all day long.

My owner was too tired to object. Resting on his bed, he closed his eyes and I could hear him pray to the Cross at the wall behind him, as if he asked to be taken Home before being moved.

His lips moved constantly; noticed by me at the end of his bed close to his feet but not by the housekeeper who packed his suitcases and shoes which she placed under the bed until the ambulance would take my owner away.

As soon as she walked downstairs, the lips of my owner were still. His hand moved as if he wanted to hold me but he never reached me.

Photo: @alexandre.katuszynski

   Seasons went by; the room as cold as ice during the Winters that kept people indoors, damp and smelly during the rainy seasons that fed the soft green pastures and hills of Ireland. Dust dancing in the sunbeams during Spring and Summer.

Over the years the silence in the house got deeper and deeper. No voices, no scratching pens. Even the smell of paper and ink disappeared.

   I still rest against the bed, left alone with my memories.




Word of thanks: the photo of @alexandre.katuszynski (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given persmission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very gratefull. Thank you Alexandre!

Link: please visit the beautifull acounts of Alexandre on Instagram and Flickr


Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!


Helen