It's just a tree

Cyrus left his office in chaos. His departure had sent little ripples through the place, people had looked at him with a respect bordering on fear when he'd told the boss he was quitting. A sense of freedom and purpose rose in him.

As he walked the grass carpeted streets he noticed a change in the city that went beyond the greenery.

People out and about around as usual, heading to work or school. There were more smiling faces though, less slumped shoulders. Less cars on the road and more people walking or cycling. 

Strangers were talking to each other, marvelling at the sudden spurring of life around them. Almost everyone who Cyrus passed said 'Good morning' to him and at one point a complete stranger, brimming with apparent joy, stopped to talk to him excitedly about the growth around them.

The city seemed vibrant, colourful, where before it had been drab and depressing.

As he made his way home a weight lifted from his shoulders. He'd been afraid, afraid of what people would think about the transformed city. The enchantment of the grass seemed to affect the people as well though, they were happier.

At one point he came to the shopping plaza, a place he normally avoided. Once it had been a concrete square of utter drabness. It was transformed though. Ivy vines had worked it's way over all the buildings. Windows peaked through thick foliage. 

The square, usually brimming with people, shoppers and workers, had been transformed into a beautiful meadow. Tall grass and bushes grew. A single stag stood in the middle of it all lazily munching on the grass.

When Cyrus passed it's ears swivelled towards him, it's head darted up to stare. Instead of running it watched him, locked eyes with him and bobbed it's head down low in a bow. It turned and walked off into the bushes.

Cyrus watched it go, joy swelling in his chest. He wanted to laugh out loud or shout. He'd never seen a real, live deer before. Never imagined they'd look so elegant.

As he continued his walk he found it wasn't just the deer, there were small animals everywhere. Birdsong filled the city, small furry things scuttled in the grass. Nature was returning to the city.

When he arrived home, he found a crowd of about ten people standing outside his building. Anxiety was his first reaction. What were they doing there? What did they know? He approached them with trepidation, considered turning around and going back.

As he neared he heard raised voices.

"I told you, this is a private residence. Go away." That was Mr Scrivens, his neighbour, sounding stern.

Another voice, this one he didn't recognise was arguing, pleading almost. "We just want to see it, that's all. There's no harm in that."

"No!" A firm, strong ladies voice called out. 

Cyrus stopped in his tracks. That had been the old lady, Greta. He couldn't see them because of the other people in the way.

He pushed his way through the throng of people, using his elbows to make room. 

"Cyrus!" 

A strong pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him out of the crowd. Mr Scrivens' smiling face greeted him.

"What's going on?" He asked in a low whisper.

"These people want to see your tree," Scrivens' said, turning him around so he was facing the crowd.

The faces before him weren't angry, not really. They looked frustrated more than anything, desperate almost.

"So it's your tree?" A man asked. He stood at the front of the crowd, dressed in Jeans and a long leather coat. Messy, black hair cascaded over his shoulders. Cyrus couldn't guess at his age, he could have been anything from 30 to 50. 

"It's not my tree," Cyrus said, holding up his hands. "It's just a tree."

The crowd of people all seemed to start talking at the same time and the man hushed them. He appeared to be their leader. 

"Can we see it, please?" HE asked. His tone was reasonable.

Cyrus immediately said no and the crowd all started clamouring at the same time. The man hushed them again. 

"We mean no harm to you or the tree. We just want to see it."

Cyrus didn't understand how they even knew about the tree. He didn't trust this smooth talking man though. He might be another Undertower man. Perhaps he knew about the enchantment they'd put over the door and thought if he was invited inside it wouldn't work.

Come to think of it, Cyrus didn't know if it would work.

"Like I said," Cyrus said loud enough that everyone could hear. "It's just a tree."

The man's smile was knowing, his voice calm. "Can I ask your name?"

"It's Cyrus."

The man inclined his head slightly. "I'm Eugene," he said. "Eugene Coyle, but my friends call me Gene. We're friends, Cyrus." He reached into his coat and pulled out a pendant on a chain. It had a symbol on it that Cyrus vaguely recognised. A cross like a crucifix with a loop on top.

Eugene seemed to think that this cross explained everything, as though they were both part of some club and the cross was their secret handshake.

Mr Scrivens and Greta who had been guarding the doorway, watched the exchange between the two of them. Cyrus looked at them in confusion. Scrivens shrugged. He didn't recognise the symbol either.

"We were drawn here," Eugene went on. "I sensed the tree." He looked around him. "We all were."

"This is private property," Greta said, her voice not at all the weak, warbling thing it had been before. "None of you are coming in." She crossed her arms over her chest, her face set, daring them to argue with her.

Eugene tucked his cross back away. "Perhaps just I could come in, see the tree. I just want to see it," he pleaded.

Cyrus made a decision. He would see what happened when the man entered the garden. Surely if he meant the tree harm their door enchantment would stop him?

"Okay, just you though, send the rest of your friends away first."

Eugene told the rest of his group to wait down the street. "Thank you, Cyrus, lead the way," he said.

Cyrus waited for the crowd to disperse and asked Scrivens and Greta to wait at the door. He led the man into the stairwell and to the back door.

"It's out there," he said, indicating the door.

The man nodded his thanks and opened the back door, stepped thorugh it and nothing happened.

No barrier sprung up to trap him. Frowning, Cyrus followed.

When he saw the tree, Eugene stopped walking, made a little sound halfway between a groan and a squeak. "It's glorious!" He whispered as though afraid to disturb the solemnity of the garden.

The tree was thicker than before, larger, older looking. It's canopy towered above them, stretching out to completely cover the garden.

Eugene fell to his knees on the grass, bowed his head to the ground.

Cyrus watched him, unable to believe what he was seeing. Was Eugene actually praying to it?