The young man stood there, under the ancient crooked oak. It had lived a thousand years. And more.
Hollow inside, now in the dusk, it appeared to him as a great ruined grey tower.
He blinked, looked again with clearer eyes, it was the Tree,
the vast living ruin of Grandfather Oak, the King Oak.
Yes, hollow and broken but still alive and vigorous pushing out new shoots.
The branches that hung over him as ever they had all his life.

The Old Ones told it was over a thousand years old.
He knew it measured roughly thirty-five feet around by arm-stretching, for he had done it.

Now here he was again.

He had been, and gone, and come again.
Now, here he stood, feeling like a child again under the ancient one.
And totally unafraid.

Yes, the King Oak had been known to drop a branch on them as insulted or harmed the village and its folk,

whether the folk be plant, animal or human.
They were village.
They were family.
The Oak’s family.
He would protect them.