The Door in the Hawthorn

There was an old hawthorn hedge at the edge of Marek's grandparents' field. The hedge had been there longer than the field. The hedge had been there, possibly, longer than the village.

In the middle of the hedge, where the thorns were thickest, there was a small wooden door.

The door was not much bigger than a kitchen cupboard. It was painted a soft green that had weathered to grey. It had a small iron handle and an iron keyhole. The thorns of the hawthorn had grown around the door's frame, but they had not grown across the door itself, which was odd, because nobody had ever opened it within Marek's lifetime.

Marek's grandfather had always told him: leave the door alone.

"Why?" Marek had asked.

His grandfather, who was usually full of stories, had only said: "Some doors are not for opening."

For ten years Marek had not opened it.

This summer, Marek was eleven, and he was tired of not knowing.

He did not just charge in. Marek was a careful boy. He had decided, after long thought, that he would not open the door without first asking properly.

He started by asking his grandmother.

His grandmother had thought about it.

"Your great-grandfather built that door. I never knew why. He said something about a promise. Then he died, and the promise went with him. Your grandfather has always said: don't disturb it."

She paused.

"But your grandfather was nine when his fatherdied. He doesn't know everything either."

Marek thought about this.

He went to the local library. The librarian found, in the parish records, a record of the field having been part of an older estate. Before that, the estate had been church land. Before that, it had been — the records ran out. The hedge was older than the records.

Marek went home. He sat on the field-edge, looking at the door, for a long time.

Eventually he stood up. He had decided.