"Good morning, your majesty!"

Every morning since he came of age, Robird had greeted the old oak on the hillock thus. And every evening walking by, homeward bound from his manorial labour, he bid the "majesty" good-night, ever with the same bow and flourish. Well, every morning and evening except on homage days of course, when all people, high and low, had to take time off to pay service to your house deity in communion with your family.

It seemed proper to honour the imposing tree in this fashion - as a venerable king out of the old tales it looked, commanding the land about it with its mighty sceptre and magnificent crown. As a boy, he had often climbed into its crown, sitting in the nook of a great limb with just the right bend, imagining it his throne and himself the king of the hill.

Now childish play was a thing of the past and he, third son of a lowly villein, laboured for the landlord all day, every day, leaving his elder brothers free to work the family's own tenured land. He didn't mind the labour, he was young and strong and willing to work and the landlord's daughter was fair to look at and dream of - just dreaming, to be sure, but in the tales dreams could come true.

Especially if you were secretly the servant of a venerable old king out of a tale. Every homage eve, after his last workday of the week, he would climb up to sit again in his throne and tell the tree of his thoughts and dreams. Tonight he looked forward to visiting his make-believe king again.

Though he didn't mind the life he had, of course he dreamt of better, of being his own master, getting to keep the best of his own labour. It helped to think of the oak as his deity away from home, blessing his work spirit in the morning and his deed well done in the evening. Blessing him and reassuring him that one day, dreams just might come true. If you had faith.

But faith hadn't prepared him for being answered by a creaking, rumbling voice.

"Good morning, my fool."

Startled, he looked around, seeing no one and expecting no one. Few if any save himself ever used this winding, overgrown path around fields, through coppices and under knolls. Most preferred the well-worn and straighter cart track.

And the voice had scarcely sounded human, either...

Slowly, he raised his eyes to the top of the hill and swallowed.

"Your... your majesty?"

There was a rustling and a creaking as of silent laughter. It might have been all in his mind, like the smile he seemed to read on the gnarled bark, just beneath the broken limb he had always imagined as the nose of the old tree king.

But just as he was about to dismiss it as a waking dream and walk on, the voice came to him again.

"My loyal subject. Come to me."

This time, there was no doubting it. Either he had lost his mind, possessed by whatever malignant spirits hovered along this forsaken path, hearing voices that were not there just like poor old Yerken in the village. Or the oak really talked to him.

Both thoughts were terrifying. Pretending was one thing, child or no. Pretence turning out to be true, meaning that he had spent so much time in the presence of someone... something... that could actually hear him and answer him was chilling. It made him feel very, very small and very, very alone.

It was not as chilling as the thought of losing your mind to evil spirits, though.

"You want me to climb up to you... to your majesty?"

The top limbs of the oak swayed slightly.

"That was indeed what I said."

Knees all a-tremble, it was all he could do to just remain standing and hold his gut.

"Sire, I... they... I am expected at the manor, there is digging to be done and then there is..."

His voice petered out when a subtle groan and rustle floated down to him, whether of displeasure or of humour.

"Then go and serve your landlord. When your work is done, your liege lord will be expecting you here. Go."

Robird bowed and stuttered.

"I will, your majesty! Indeed I will!"

He backed away still bowing, then turned and ran for the manor.

Headache. He had never had one in his entire life and not so now either. Yet that was what he told his workmates when they pressed him about his unaccustomed reticence. None of his usual thoughtful comments on little things he found or noticed while working, things that others just shrugged at. Not even stealing his furtive glances at the landlord's daughter, riding by to tease the men as she so relished. His hands knew their work - most of it endless ditch digging to claim more farmland from nature's unused wetland - leaving his mind free to dig into the uncharted depths of his heart.

Dreams come true, indeed, after his own hard work and a bit of luck, so he had imagined it. He had never ever dreamt that his childish fantasies would actually be true in themselves. He hoped and dreaded they were not. But now the workday was past, shadows were lengthening and he was on his way to knowing.

At the foot of the knoll, he stopped. Dropped to his knees and waited. A faint rustle of wind in leaves was heard from above, but no voice. Relief and disappointment washed through him and he smiled at himself. It must have been a lingering dream then, that voice he thought he heard in the morning. Regaining his feet, he nevertheless started up the hillside. It was, after all, homage eve and the king was due a visit.

That oak was the only tree on the hill - well, save for a young birch that sprouted defiantly in a little hollow on the south side. Straggly grass and wiry shrubs, often sharp-thorned, made up the rest of the vegetation. Especially on the gentle southern slope, making that side near impenetrable, but also to the east and west. On the steep and shady north side, there were fewer shrubs, but there it was easy to slip and lose your footing.

From below, it was a forbidding sight, as if the oak had fortified its domain against intruders. To Robirds knowledge, he was the only human to ever visit it, the smaller life all the more abundant in this undisturbed sanctuary. He started scrambling up the path he had found and trod over the years, winding between and sometimes beneath shrubs on the western slope, invisible to the unfamiliar eye.

The hill itself wasn't very tall, roughly one-score fathoms, but he was always a little winded as he reached the top. The oak was as tall as the hill itself, making it seem as great as the world tree. Climbing it was easy, the lumpy, gnarled old trunk and its twisting branches offered holds aplenty for hands and feet.

Robird always thought of oaks as frozen dancers, with their strong and graceful branches flowing out from the trunk in beguiling patterns. Or perhaps they were not frozen, only that their dance took hundreds of years to perform, too slow for the human eye. Some oak dances seemed peaceful, thoughtful, others powerful, belligerent, still others quirky and playful, and so on.

The dance of the king of the hill was, of course, majestic, unchallengeable. In one beckoning hand of a limb, about one-third of the way to the top, was the nook that Robird had made his throne. Once seated there, the king bade him admire the view over his land. From the very top of the tree, the view was still more breathtaking, but even down here, you had a splendid view over the treetops and lesser hills, all the way towards the dim horizon. Under the lowering sun, the reds, yellows and browns of the autumn foliage, soon to return to the earth that gave it new life every spring, turned into a frothing sea of gold.

Despite his woollen jacket, Robird shivered in the chill evening breeze. This would be a brief visit. In any case, it was really time to return home for the homage eve meal with the family.

"You know, your majesty, this morning I thought I heard you talk," he said, smiling and shaking his head.

"Did you indeed, my fool?"

Robird froze, limbs paralysed, hairs prickling, heart racing. The voice seemed to whisper straight into his ears out of the branch against which he reclined.

"Y... your majesty..." he croaked. A soft chuckle seemed to float around him.

"You came, like the loyal vassal you are. Very good."

Robird swallowed a few times and moistened his lips.

"I came on homage eve, as I always do."

"And now you know that your wishes have been heard by your monarch. So, my loyal vassal, would you like your dreams to come true? All those longings you have confided to me? Or will you be content to go on with your life as the third son of a lowly villein, knowing I could help you?"

Robird breathed deeply. This was what he had wondered during the workday, what the king of the hill wanted with him. But also why.

"Thank you, your majesty, it is very kind of you to offer to help me, lowly as I am. Can I ask, by your leave, what service you expect from me if you help me, and what help you would give?"

There was a heavy silence before the voice returned.

"A fair question. The help and the service are one and the same. But I cannot tell you here, it must be shown. I wish to invite you into my hall. There my intent will be revealed."

"I see. And when and where should I come to your hall?"

"Here," the oak rumbled quietly, "and now."

"But..." Robird looked around. "Is this your hall? And I am already getting late. My family..."

"I will open the door for you, if you dare," the oaken voice interrupted. "Do not fret over being late. I offer you this now and never more. Tomorrow, I will be going to my winter sleep. If you pass now, you might live your remaining days wondering what might have been. Will you not enter and listen to my offer?"

Put like that, what choice was there? With a taste of iron in his mouth, Robird mutely nodded. At once, a light fell on him from above. Looking up, he saw a shaft of sunlight setting the dry, brown leaves ablaze like embers. His eyes fell on a crack in the trunk, left behind after a branch fallen long ago to winter storms, about three fathoms above his head. It had always been there, but it looked wider now than usual.

It was quick work to ascend to the crack and look inside. He could have sworn he had done so several times before, but he had never seen before that there was no floor inside the crack. Instead, he looked down a round, smooth shaft hollowed out inside, sloping downward inside this limb of the trunk.

This limb was one of three that were each in itself as great as the trunk of a full-grown oak. They leaned away from each other from the same point at about man-height, where the massive trunk divided, leaving a floor between them where enough soil had gathered for weeds to grow. The limb was still of far greater girth than himself so he would readily fit inside.

There seemed to be a light at the bottom of the shaft.

"Is this the entrance?" he asked.

"Follow," a faint whisper came from below.

"How do I get back up?" he asked, voice slightly trembling.

This time, there was no answer.

Drawing a deep breath and letting it out again slowly, he made the sign against evil spirits and, feet first, crawled inside.