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Uncle Montague often asked this question, and my reply was always the same.

'No, Uncle,.' I said, not seeing the need to mention the village children, as I could not imagine they would be of interest to a man like my uncle. 'I did not see anything in the woods.'

My uncle smiled strangely and nodded, taking a sip of tea. He sighed wistfully.

'There is nothing quite like a wood at night, eh, Edgar?' he said.

'No,.' I replied, trying to sound as though I might have some knowledge of nocturnal woodland.

'And where should mankind be without trees?' he continued. 'Timber is the very engine of civilisation, Edgar: from the plough to paper, from the wheel to the house, from tool handles to sailing ships. Man would have been nothing without trees, lad.' He went to put another log on the hearth and the flames seemed to almost leap out and wrest it from his grip. 'After all, what could symbolise man's separation from the animal world more than fire - fire's warmth and fire's light?' We both looked into the fire, mesmerised for a while by its dancing flames.

'The Norse people believed that the world was suspended in the branches of a great ash tree. Did you know that, Edgar?'

'No, Uncle.'

'Yes,.' he said. 'The people of the northern forests have always had a special relationship with the tree. After all, those ancient wild woods were their storehouse of building materials and fuel and food . . . But they were also dark and mysterious, filled with bears and robbers and who knows what else . . .'

'Do you mean . . . witches, Uncle?'

His eyes twinkled. 'Witches, warlocks, wizards, wood sprites, werewolves -'

'Werewolves?' I said with a little gulp.

'Perhaps.' Uncle Montague gave a little shrug.

'The point is they respected the forest and they respected trees - feared them - worshipped them.'

'How did they worship them, Uncle?' I said, taking a biscuit and noticing that the sugar was already gone.

'In many ways, I am sure,.' he said. 'The Roman historians tell us of sacred groves, of oak trees splashed with blood -'

'Blood?' I said, spluttering a little on my biscuit.

'Yes,.' said Uncle Montague. 'They tell of sacrifice - sometimes human. The Celts were partial to taking the heads of their enemies as trophies in battle. To them, the hanging of the heads on an oak was probably as festive as the hanging of baubles on a Christmas tree is to your dear mother.'

I raised a doubtful eyebrow on both counts and Uncle smiled.

'But why worship a tree?' I said.

'I can think of many things less deserving of worship,.' he replied. 'Look at how long some trees have been alive. Think of what they have seen. Why, there are yew trees in churchyards that may be more than a thousand years old - older still than the ancient church nearby. Their roots are in one millennium and their branches in another. And who cannot stand in awe when they see a great oak or ash or elm standing alone like a mournful giant?'

He tapped his fingertips together and I saw his wolfish smile in the shadow. 'I know a story about just such a tree,.' said my uncle. 'Would you like to hear it, Edgar?'

'Very much so.' After all, that was why I was there.

'It may be a little frightening for you.'

'I don't mind, Uncle,.' I said with more courage than I felt, for I was like someone who, having been hauled to the highest point of a fairground ride, was beginning to have second thoughts.

'Very well,.' said Uncle Montague, looking into the fire. 'Then I shall begin . . .'

The garden was enclosed on all sides by a high stone wall that was splashed and speckled with yellow, grey and cream-white lichen. To the east this wall housed tall gates of dark wood that opened on to a long gravel drive. To the west the wall had a smaller opening. Set between two fiercely spiked shrubs was a scratched and weathered, arched, bottle-green door with a heavy wrought-iron hoop to lift the latch that held it shut.

Beyond this door was a pasture of about two acres, bordered by the garden wall itself on one side, a hedge of hawthorn, hazel and dogwood on another, and a wooden