The Fig Tree Vigil

The cottage we rented on the Greek island of Serifos was a chalk-white box with blue shutters, clinging to a hillside above the Aegean. The village, Paleochora, was a maze of stone alleys and sleeping cats, quiet after the last ferry left. I had brought my two children, Leo, six, a whirlwind of scraped knees and loud questions, and Maya, eight, with her serious eyes and a sketchbook she never let out of her sight. We arrived on a Tuesday, the 16th of July, and as the taxi drove away, a hot wind rolled down from the hills and slammed the heavy oak door behind us. I laughed it off, blaming the meltemi, and started lugging our bags inside.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was turning the sea to hammered gold. I was trying to find the fuse box because the kitchen light was flickering, and I called for Maya to help me hold the flashlight. No answer. I called again, then for Leo. A cold stone settled in my stomach. I searched the two tiny bedrooms, the bathroom, the storage closet with the dusty icon. Nothing. I ran out to the small patio, and down the path to the lone fig tree that overhung the cliff edge. There they were, sitting on the roots, cross-legged, facing the sea, their backs to me. They were perfectly still, like statues, their heads tilted slightly.

I called their names again, my voice cracking. Maya turned her head slowly, and her eyes looked through me. She pointed to the tree. ‘The man in the leaves,’ she said, matter-of-factly. Leo just kept staring at the horizon. I grabbed their hands—they were cool to the touch—and pulled them back to the house. I made them sit on the sofa, and I knelt in front of them. ‘What man?’ I demanded. Maya opened her sketchbook and showed me a drawing: a tall, skinny figure with long arms, woven from twigs and leaves, its face a dark hollow. ‘He told us to wait,’ she said. ‘He’s going to come back tonight with the rest of him.’

I forced a laugh and told them they were being silly, that they probably saw a shadow. I gave them dinner, but they ate listlessly, and both fell asleep on the same mattress in Maya’s room, huddled together like they used to when they were babies. I checked on them every hour. At midnight, I woke to a sound like dry branches scratching across the roof tiles. I went to the window. The fig tree rustled, though the air was still. Then I saw it. A shape detaching from the trunk, immense and ragged, the same proportions as Maya’s drawing. Its head was a nest of twigs, and it was reaching out a branch-like hand toward the house.

I screamed, or tried to, but the sound was choked. I stumbled back to the kids and wrapped my arms around them. ‘Wake up, wake up, we have to go!’ I shook them. Maya opened her eyes, and they were clear now, and terrified. ‘He’s coming,’ she whispered. Leo started to cry. I pulled them out of bed, toward the front door, but it was stuck. It wouldn’t budge. The branches on the roof curled down, tapping the glass, and through the window, I saw the thing’s face press against the pane—a face of woven bark and soil, with two pale, hollowed nuts for eyes. It opened its mouth, and a sound came out like a thousand leaves scraping together.

We ran to the back of the cottage, into the storeroom. I bolted the door, and we huddled in the dark, listening to the slow creak of the floorboards outside. Then a branch snaked under the door, thin and green, growing, reaching for us. Leo screamed. I grabbed a rusty pruning hook from the wall and slashed at it. It withdrew with a hiss, and the creature outside let out a low moan. We huddled there until dawn, when the first light of the sun turned the walls pink. The sounds stopped.

I finally unlocked the door, and we crept out. The cottage was silent, covered in dead leaves and small twigs. The fig tree at the cliff edge was bare, its leaves scattered across the ground in a perfect circle around the base. I packed our bags in minutes, and we ran to the port, catching the first ferry. Maya never let go of her sketchbook, but she never opened it again. I burned it on the ferry deck, and I felt a brief relief. But that night, in our safe Athens hotel, I woke to see Leo standing by the window, staring out at a potted plant on the balcony. He turned to me with a smile that was too wide. ‘He says he’ll find us,’ Leo said. ‘And he’ll bring his brothers.’