Elspeth and the Whispering Tree

There once was a little girl named Elspeth who loved to climb the mountains above her grandfather’s cottage in the Scottish Highlands. She delighted in the flight of birds overhead and watched the clouds roll slowly past the peaks. She ran barefoot through the meadows, chasing butterflies, the hem of her woolen dress catching thistles and dew as she made her way up the path that led to Grandfather’s stone house.

Her grandfather, a quiet woodcutter with a silver beard and hands worn from carving, lived just beyond a rise where the bracken grew thick and the wind sang soft songs through the pines. He was a man of few words but warm smiles, and when Elspeth came to visit, they would sit together by the hearth, sipping strong tea while she told him all about school, and the peculiar things her parents said and did.

One autumn afternoon, with the hills bathed in the warm light of a sinking sun, Elspeth took a shortcut through a part of the meadow she usually avoided, where the grass grew strangely high and the ground sank underfoot like a sponge. That’s when she saw the tree.

A great ash tree twisted and tall, with bark the color of old pewter and leaves that seemed to flicker between green and silver. It wasn’t there yesterday. She was certain of it.

Elspeth stepped closer.

The Ash Tree

The air grew still, then the tree whispered.

Not in words exactly. Not at first. It was more a feeling than a sound, like a lullaby someone once sang long ago. Her heartbeat slowed. Her feet moved without asking, and she touched the bark.

“Elspeth...” it sighed. “He has forgotten. Bring him.”

*** 

That night by the fire, she sat beside her grandfather, clutching her mug, unsure how to speak of what had happened.

“Granddad,” she said at last, “do you believe trees can talk?”

He didn’t answer straightaway. Instead, he leaned back, gazing into the fire as if the answer were hidden in the flames.

“There was once a tree,” he murmured. “High up in Glen Brae, where no one goes now. My mother used to say it remembered things folk had lost. Names, songs, and promises. She called it the Ash That Whispers.”

“I think I found it,” Elspeth said.

His eyes, suddenly bright, turned to hers. “That tree hasn’t been seen since before the war.”

“I saw it,” she said simply. “It spoke to me. It said you’ve forgotten something.”

His hand trembled slightly as he set his mug down. “Then I suppose I must remember.”

***

The next morning, they climbed the slope together, Elspeth holding tight to her grandfather’s calloused hand. The fog rose like breath from the earth, curling around their boots and catching in the folds of their coats. The ash tree stood waiting. As they approached, her grandfather slowed, his breath sharp in the cold.

“It looks just like she said,” he whispered. “Silver leaves. Bark like moonlight on stone.”

He reached out—and the moment his fingers touched the trunk, a shudder passed through the ground. The wind stilled.

A voice, low and ancient, filled the space between them.

“Alasdair Fergus Campbell. You buried me beneath the snow.”

Her grandfather paled.

“Isobel MacLeish,” he murmured. “My betrothed. She vanished in the blizzard of ’42. I searched for days.”

“You stopped,” the voice said.

“I thought she was gone,” he whispered, eyes wet. “I was told to give up hope.”

“Hope is not a thing one gives,” the tree replied. “It is a thing that waits.”

The branches parted then, slowly, like opening hands, and within the tree’s heart, a hollow revealed itself. Elspeth gasped.

There, nestled in a pocket of glowing bark, was a silver locket. Inside: a photograph of a young woman with laughing eyes and windswept hair. On the opposite side, a lock of golden hair, still soft despite the years.

“I gave her this before the storm,” he said, his voice breaking. “I thought it was lost.”

“No,” said the ash. “You were.”

Alasdair stood unmoving, eyes fixed on the silver locket nestled in the hollow of the ash. It shimmered faintly, as though it was lit from within. Elspeth, wide-eyed and still, dared not speak.

"She was the baker’s daughter," Alasdair said at last. "Isobel MacLeish. Laughed like a girl who’d swallowed sunshine. We were to be married come spring."

His voice was thick, and the wind held its breath.

"The storm came early that year. Fierce and fast. She went up the ridge to fetch herbs for my cough—stubborn, that girl. I begged her not to. But she just kissed my cheek and said, ‘You’ll not be marrying a woman who lets her man wheeze like a winded bagpipe.’"

He gave a breath that was half laugh, half sob.

“She never came back.”

The tree’s bark shifted subtly.

“She tried,” the wind said.

A flicker appeared in the hollow. Elspeth saw it, though she couldn’t explain how: a young woman with wild curls wrapped in a plaid shawl, pushing through thigh-high snow, her cheeks raw from wind. The mountain loomed behind her. Her hand clutched the locket tightly.

“She made it to the ash,” Alasdair whispered, his hand over his heart. “That tree… it wasn’t a legend, was it?”

“No,” came the answer. “It listens. It remembers. But it cannot choose who will return.”

Elspeth stared into the hollow, and a strange warmth filled her chest. “Did she… did she die here?”

“She stayed,” was all the tree said.

There was silence, then a rustle. A branch curled downward, delicately. At its tip hung a single silvered leaf—longer than Elspeth’s hand, its surface etched with lines too fine to read.

Alasdair stepped forward, and the leaf dropped into his palm. The moment he touched it, he gasped.

“I see her,” he whispered. “I feel her. She’s here.”

“She became part of the grove,” the tree said. “Bound by sorrow. Rooted by love.”

“You mean—” Elspeth began.

“She lives,” the tree murmured. “But not as she was.”

The wind shifted, and suddenly Alasdair sank to his knees. The years seemed to lift from his shoulders. He closed his eyes, and his voice broke.

“I should’ve come back. I stopped looking.”

“You mourned her,” the tree said. “But mourning is not the same as remembering.”

“Can she hear me now?” he asked.

The leaves rustled, and a second hollow appeared, just beside the first.

Inside was a figure—still and soft, like a woman made of bark and breath. Her eyes were closed; her hands were folded over her chest. And there, on her wrist, a thin silver bracelet glinted in the dim light.

Isobel

“Elspeth,” Alasdair said hoarsely. “That was my mother’s. I gave it to Isobel.”

The woman stirred, and slowly, her eyes opened. They were deep grey, like loch water under mist. They found Alasdair first, and something ancient flickered in them. Memory, recognition, and sorrow too deep for words.

He dropped to both knees.

“Isobel,” he breathed, as if the name alone could stitch time back together. “My heart. My lass.”

She did not speak with her mouth. Her lips never moved. But Elspeth felt her voice like wind through branches.

“You remembered me.”

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered. “But I was a coward. I let the years bury you.”

A gentle smile touched her eyes.

“You mourned me well, Alasdair. But memory is the price of love, and I paid it gladly.”

Elspeth stepped closer, unable to look away. “What are you now?” she asked softly.

Isobel turned to her. There was no fear in Elspeth, only wonder.

“I am what the grove made of grief and devotion. The storm took my breath, but not my soul. The ash sheltered me. I became its keeper. Its watcher. Its whisper.”

She lifted one hand, bark-browned and leaf-veined, and touched the tree’s trunk with something like tenderness.

“This tree holds lost names, forgotten vows, stories cut short. But someone must hold them, must tend them. So I stayed and I listened, and I remembered.”

Alasdair’s voice cracked. “Can you come back?”

She shook her head. Her hair, now twined with ivy and blossom, rustled like silk in the breeze.

“No, mo chridhe. My roots are too deep now. I would wither in the world you walk.”

A silence followed, filled only by the soft swaying of leaves.

“But you came,” she said. “And so, I am whole again.”

She turned to Elspeth, her gaze kind but serious.

“You are a listener too, child. The tree chose you for that.”

Elspeth blinked. “Chose me?”

“You hear what others forget. You believe in what breathes beneath the bark and behind the veil.”

Then Isobel’s voice grew soft, like wind through heather.

“Take this.”

From the hollow, a small bundle appeared: a pouch woven from silver-threaded moss and lined with silk. Inside, Elspeth found a tiny carved charm—an ash leaf bound in a circle.

“This will open the path when the time is right. There are others who have forgotten. You’ll help them remember.”

Elspeth clutched the charm tightly. “Will I see you again?”

Isobel smiled.

“I live in every hush before the wind stirs. In the hush before someone says, ‘I remember.’ That is enough.”

When Elspeth and Alasdair walked back down the trail, the fog had lifted. The meadow shone gold with late light, and behind them, the ash stood still and silent, as though it had never moved at all.

But Elspeth knew better. And in the pocket of her coat, the charm warmed gently, like something breathing.

As they reached the edge of the meadow, Alasdair and Elspeth paused and turned one last time toward the ash. The wind stirred faintly, and for a heartbeat, they thought they saw Isobel standing tall and smiling in the dappled shade. There was no sorrow in Alasdair now, only a deep, steady warmth. He pressed a kiss to the silver leaf in his hand, then tucked it into the pocket over his heart.

“Rest well, my love,” he whispered. “You are remembered.” And with Elspeth’s small fingers curled into his own, they turned toward home, the path ahead clear and golden in the fading light.

Teacake Tidbits

1. Symbol of Connection in Mythology

   In Norse mythology, the ash tree (Yggdrasil) is the great World Tree that connects the heavens, earth, and underworld. It’s seen as a bridge between realms—a fitting image for a tree that “remembers” or guards lost souls in your tale.

2. Winged Seeds Called "Keys"

   Ash trees produce distinctive winged seeds known as “keys.” In folklore, these were believed to hold magical properties—sometimes called “fairy keys” said to unlock hidden doors in the forest or open a path to secret knowledge.

3. Resilient and Long-Living

   Ash trees are known for their strength and flexibility, making their wood prized for tool handles, bows, and walking sticks. Their resilience through storms and wind lends them a folkloric reputation for protection and endurance.

If you enjoyed this fairy tale of a tree, please read about two fairies that guard an oak and a maple, by clicking the links or seeing the posts below.