A stone’s throw from the river sat Elam’s house – a beautiful hodgepodge of a home, all rustic timber and worn masonry. But it wasn’t the house that fascinated Nila, it was the garden.

Further and further Nila ventured into the meadow, until her grandfather’s waving hand was gone from sight, and fingers trailing by her side through the long grass, she skipped to the Old Oak.

No sooner had she reached the tree than a pompously plump bee floated lazily from the branches. The young girl, scared of the sting the very presence of the bee seemed to threaten her with, quickly picked up a stick and lunged – but all of a sudden, a firm hand was gripping Nila’s shoulder, and the stick flung to the ground.

“No need for that, is there Nila? If you don’t hurt the bees, they won’t dream of hurting you!”

Nila looked at her grandfather, confused and slightly scared. Elam sighed, and smiled down at her.

“I think I ought to tell you a story, young one…”

A fire burned under the Oak until long after Nila’s bedtime.