The Sour Tree

I was nine when I first saw the field. It wasn’t in a dream—it was in the space between blinks, a flash of green and a single crooked tree. I told my mother, and she said it was just the sun in my eyes. But the image lingered, like a burr in my mind.

A week later, my older cousin Tomas came to stay with us for the summer. He was seventeen, with a laugh that filled rooms and a habit of picking sour green plums from the old tree at the edge of our property. I loved him fiercely, the way only a child can love someone who treats them like an equal. We spent our days by the river that ran behind the house, fishing for silverfish and skipping stones until our arms ached.

One sweltering afternoon, Tomas said he wanted to show me something. ‘A secret place,’ he said, his eyes gleaming. I begged to come, but he shook his head, his expression turning serious. ‘You can’t, Ana. It’s not for you.’ I pouted and stomped, but he wouldn’t budge. That night, I cried into my pillow, feeling the sting of rejection.

That night, I dreamed. I was walking through a field of tall, dry grass that rustled like whispers. Ahead, Tomas walked, his back to me. I called out, but he didn’t turn. He just kept walking, his steps steady. I tried to follow, but my legs felt heavy, as if wading through water. He spoke without looking back: ‘Go back, Ana. You can’t come with me.’ But I was stubborn. I pushed forward.

The field seemed endless. The sky above was a pale, endless gray, and the only feature was a single tree in the distance—a sour plum tree, its branches heavy with unripe fruit. When I finally reached it, Tomas stood beneath it, his face unreadable. ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘Now you can go back.’ I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay with him, but his eyes hardened. He yelled, his voice cracking, and pushed me. I stumbled and fell into the grass. I woke up gasping, my body drenched in sweat, my limbs aching as if I had run for miles.

That morning, I stumbled to the kitchen, still exhausted. My mother was frying eggs, the smell of garlic filling the air. ‘Tomas is here,’ she said. ‘He wants to take you to the river.’ My heart leaped. But when I saw him, something was off. He looked pale, his usual smile replaced with a tight, forced grin. He avoided my eyes. ‘Ready for swimming?’ he asked, his voice flat.

We walked down the dirt path to the river, the same path we had taken a hundred times. But as we walked, the familiar sounds of birds and insects faded. The air grew still, too quiet. The river came into view, but it wasn’t the river I knew. The water was dark, murky, and sluggish. The banks were lined with tall grass that seemed to lean toward us. And there, on the opposite bank, stood a single sour plum tree. My breath caught. It was the tree from my dream.

Tomas stopped at the water’s edge. He didn’t turn to look at me. ‘I’m sorry, Ana,’ he whispered. ‘I should have told you.’ I asked him what he meant, but he just stared at the tree. The air grew colder. I noticed that his reflection in the water wasn’t his own—it was a shadowy figure, taller, darker, with empty eyes. I screamed, but no sound came out. I tried to grab his arm, but he pulled away.

The sky dimmed, and the grass around us began to sway, as if stirred by an unseen wind. I heard a sound like a thousand whispers, the rustling of dry leaves. The tree on the bank seemed to grow taller, its branches reaching out. Tomas took a step into the water. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘This is where I belong now.’ I screamed for him to stop, but he kept walking. The water rose to his knees, then his waist. I waded in after him, but the current was too strong. I was dragged under.

I woke up on the riverbank, coughing up water. My mother was shaking me, her face white. ‘You were sleepwalking,’ she said. ‘You fell into the river. Thank God Tomas was here to pull you out.’ But Tomas wasn’t there. He had disappeared. They searched for days, but he was never found. They said he must have drowned, but I knew the truth. When I close my eyes, I see the field, the gray sky, and the sour plum tree. And I see Tomas, standing beneath it, his face turned away. He had given himself to the tree, so that I could come back.

The tree still grows at the edge of our property, its fruit sour and bitter. Whenever I pass it, I feel a pull, a longing to follow. But I remember his words, and I stay. I am older now, but the dream still comes. And in the dream, Tomas always says, ‘You can’t come with me.’ But I know, one day, I won’t be able to refuse.