by Gillian Taber

Created on: July 10, 2009

Green George

The boys sat round the campfire, huddled deep in their hoods, fingers spread out to catch the warmth of the flickering flames. With only a week left 'til school, they'd been desperate to go off on their yearly summer campout. One thing after another, parents, summer jobs, vacations, had prevented the traditional trip, but it had finally come together yesterday afternoon. Eight boys, all around their tenth birthday, with one tent that added up to total freedom.

The woods on the edge of town weren't deep, and it hadn't taken long for the boys to traipse out to their preferred spot, leaving the sounds of the highway behind, deadened by the dense foliage. They'd set up camp by Crooked Creek, lit their fire and indulged in a final round of cowboys. The game had been fun, but there remained an air of melancholy, perhaps due to the fact that they would soon be heading to senior school, such games fading into the past.

They'd settled to cook beans and sausages on the fire, relishing the rare treat of baked potatoes brought by one of the more thoughtful lads, and then waited. Someone always started, usually the oldest boy, and breath was held until the ritual words were spoken. As twilight deepened into full night, James, oldest by three months, spoke up.

"Anyone know a good ghost story?"

With a collective sigh of satisfaction, the boys began relating tales, old and reliable alongside new and untested. The boys were old enough to make fun of such tales, but when the youngest member of the group, Jimmy, spoke up; they found themselves drawing closer to the fire, the protective circle shrinking closer, seeking safety in numbers.

"Have you heard the story of Green George?" Jimmy asked and everyone nodded or murmured a reverential 'yes'.

Their answers weren't urging Jimmy to tell another story, but the cue for him to continue. It always seemed to be the youngest member of any group that told the sorry tale of George. Perhaps it was an unconscious passing of the baton from one group to the next, ensuring the tale survived. Whatever it was, it didn't concern the boys and they huddled even closer as Jimmy began the well-worn narrative.

"One hundred years ago this month," Jimmy intoned in the time-honored fashion of tellers of ghostly tales everywhere, "George Jones went out to work with his father. George's dad felled trees in this forest, which was much bigger then. Whilst his dad was chopping down trees, George, who was ten that day..."

Jimmy paused

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