It’s the cusp of Winter and Spring. Abundant silver birch saplings, their teenage siblings and maturing elders are not yet in leaf, their trunks glistening white in the afternoon sun. Loreta finds the trees beautiful and takes a photograph. She walks on through the wood and emerges onto Spalford high street and fixes a notice to a fence – ‘Woodland for Sale’. 

Settled in the empty bar of The Wig, the pub where she will spend the night, she downloads the photographs she’s just taken onto her iPad. She trembles with excitement as she enlarges the image again and again, sits back, and thunderstruck, thinks, What the hell is that? At the right of the frame there’s something, caught in a beam of sunlight amidst the trees. The creature is tall, has a huge horse like head, around which a ruff of white branches shimmers. Its single eye stares straight at her; she blanches.

An elderly man enters the bar where Loreta is the only customer. Welcome, young lady. I heard we had a rare visitor to this god-forsaken hole. I’m Grenville, 
Hi, I’m Loreta. Join me for a drink?
Thanks, I will. A half of bitter would be good.
Loreta returns to her table with two beers.
You live here, Grenville? 
One of the few left.
Can I show you something that’s bugging me?
Loreta shows him the photograph of the creature. What is that?
Folklore has it that he’s a male dryad that guards our wood. Some say he makes folk disappear. 
Bit far-fetched, don’t you think?
Maybe. Why did you put up that for sale notice? 
That was quick.
Word soon gets around. So why?
The regional plan has designated these woods as unmanaged, not qualifying as an amenity, not economically viable, and will be sold for housing to the highest bidder.
They’re not for sale.
It’s approved government policy. People need homes not woods.
And what of beauty?
We must forfeit things, even beauty, for the common good.
How magnanimous! Grenville stands. It’s time for me to go.
I’m sorry I’ve offended you. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.
Maybe. 

Later, in her bedroom, Loreta wraps up in a duvet against the cold and studies the photograph of the dryad. Finally, exhausted, she sleeps. 

Waking, in darkness, the room’s lights no longer work. Wind howls in the trees. Astonished, she smells rich loam. She sees the dryad has vanished from the photograph. She scrolls back and forth; it’s gone. 
A haunting laugh from the darkness frightens her. 
Who’s there? 
The creature lurches forward, its huge skeletal wooden body creaking. It’s one staring eye terrifies her. 
What are you? she whimpers.
I am the wood, and the wood is me. 

In the bright light of a new day, Grenville pats the trunk of a silver birch. You’re safe now, Loreta: a thing of beauty, and no more stress, ever.

Days later, Loreta is reported missing. The police find no evidence that Loreta had ever been in Spalford.