The Mosslight Treehouse

At the edge of Moonvale, nestled among the branches of an ancient oak tree, stood the Mosslight Treehouse. It was where the village’s younger residents gathered whenever they needed warmth, friendship or simply somewhere they could belong.

The treehouse earned its name from the luminous moss that covered its bark walls. During the day, it shimmered faintly beneath the leaves, but after sunset, it glowed with a soft green light that guided the young people of Moonvale safely through the woods.

The Mosslight Treehouse was run by Old Man Basil, who had grown up in Moonvale and understood the importance of giving young people somewhere they could feel secure. He welcomed everyone without question and never demanded an explanation from those who arrived looking troubled. There was always a warm drink waiting, and nobody was ever made to feel as though they had overstayed their welcome.

The treehouse had several floors, each representing a different mood. Strangely, visitors always seemed to know which one they needed, even if they could not yet name what they were feeling.

The first floor was reserved for solemn days. Filled with soft chairs, heavy blankets and quiet corners, it offered solitude to anyone who needed it. The other visitors knew not to disturb those who rested there, though a cup of tea or a small plate of biscuits would sometimes appear beside them without a word.

The second floor belonged to joy. It was the loudest part of the treehouse and contained music, games and a pool table that Old Man Basil guarded with surprising competitiveness. Laughter frequently shook the branches, causing the glowing moss outside to shine a little brighter.

The third floor was where Moonvale’s young lovers could be found hiding beneath the rafters and sneaking sweet kisses when they thought nobody was watching. Old Man Basil knew, of course, but he pretended not to notice. He still fondly reminisced about his own youthful days with his beloved wife, Bethel.

There were no rules about how long someone could remain on any floor. A solemn visitor might climb to the second before the evening ended, while someone who arrived full of joy could quietly make their way down to the first. The Mosslight Treehouse never asked anyone to pretend to feel differently.

It was said that no young person who entered the treehouse was ever truly alone. Whether they needed silence, laughter or somebody’s hand to hold, there would always be a floor waiting to welcome them.One moment, Moonvale’s market square would be empty, with nothing but moonlight resting upon the cobbles. The next, there would be stalls upon stalls of enchanted wares, their colourful awnings swaying beneath strings of floating lanterns.

Gertrude, the owner of the market, could always be found among the first row of stalls, surrounded by baskets of delicious fruit. Her moonberries were the colour of the night sky and were said to sweeten even the sourest of moods. One bite could soften a bitter thought, while an entire handful was said to make the world shine extra brightly for the next day or so.

Nearby stood Boris and his famous home-grown potatoes. There was nothing particularly magical about them, but Boris prided himself on his potatoes and refused to believe that enchanted produce was necessarily better. He would happily spend the entire night explaining the merits of each variety to anyone unfortunate—or fortunate—enough to pause beside his stall. He often found himself in arguments over which form of potato was best. In his opinion, if you said anything other than mash, you were incorrect.

Clarissa sold flowers whose perfumes could make their receivers fall hopelessly in love. Visitors were encouraged to tread carefully around her stall and never smell a bouquet without first asking what it did. More than one unsuspecting customer had left the market hopelessly devoted to the person standing nearest to them. On the odd occasion, wedding bells would soon be on the horizon, much to the joy of Mayor Tilsbury.

Beyond the enchanted fruits, ordinary potatoes and dangerously romantic flowers, right at the very end of the market, sat Ethel and Asteria. They were as happy as Larry beneath the warm glow of their lanterns, handing out freshly baked cinnamon buns and cups of hot coffee. Asteria remained curled upon her favourite chair, occasionally opening one golden eye to inspect those who passed.

Ethel claimed that midnight was no excuse for anyone to be cold or uncomfortable. She made certain that every merchant and visitor had something warm in their hands before they wandered home. Even Boris received a cinnamon bun, although he always suggested that it might be improved by the addition of a potato.

As the Town Hall clock prepared to strike two, the lanterns would begin to fade. The awnings would fold themselves away, the merchants would gather their remaining wares and the Moonberry Market would disappear until the following Sunday.

By morning, nothing would remain in the square but a few rogue moonberries, the lingering scent of cinnamon and, every so often, a single muddy potato that Boris had forgotten to take home.