The Tale of the Mourir
The villagers of Peurton Abbot still called the oak in the center of their village, Mourir.
The one-hundred year old oak stood dead in the middle of the village, its twisting, blackened branches snaked upwards as if reaching for the sky, and the roots dug so deep into the earth that the inhabitants of Peurton Abbott wouldn’t have been able to move it, even if they wanted to.
But despite the fact that nobody, not even Lyron, the village priest, would step more than five foot near the tree meant that it simply could not be removed. It would not be removed.
There was a fear that emanated from every crack and crevice in the village of Peurton Abbot, some call it irrational, some call it nothing at all, but those who lived in Peurton Abbot long enough knew that this fear was far from irrational. In fact, it was, as fears go, quite rational.
That is where the song of the Mourir came from.
Come, little children, come to the tree.
Come to Mourir, who waits silent for thee.
Abandon thy fears, children, come to the tree,
Come, little children, wait as silent as she.
Come now, children, come to the tree,
Come to Mourir, she waits silent for thee.
Come on, dear children, time waits for me,
Come to Mourir, who waits only for thee.
The words of the Mourir hang on the lips of every person in Peurton Abbot. Spiralling round in their heads indefinitely, and yet nobody dares to utter them, for the fear is mightier than the courage in their hearts.
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