She hadn’t let me anywhere near them the closest I’d got was collecting a few scat samples. Alzbeta, the local warden, was fiercely protective of the dragons. My stint in Slovakia had gone well, although I was annoyed at spending so much time on the dryads. I just needed a permanent job with the Phoenix Foundation: I couldn’t afford to keep doing voluntary placements. I looked forward to tagging my initials across the world, as we strove to restore the magic it had lost. This was my fourth project since graduation, and my second outside England. My parents christened me Jeremy Benedict Kemp, but at university I dropped the first name and began signing “Ben” to the emails and Christmas cards I sent home. The tag contained a project code, a dryad number, and my initials: “BK”.

The reintroduction zone was secluded, but not secret. The plastic looked nasty and artificial in the rugged Slovak countryside, but it would biodegrade in a few years.įinally, I recorded the location in my log-book and tied a small metal tag to the tree. I staked a large plastic tube around the sapling to protect it from sheep, rabbits, and other nibblers. There were hazards enough for a dryad, for a tree, without me being careless. I was tempted to get out my magnifying glass for a good look, but I didn’t want to risk scorching her in the sunlight like a small boy torching ants. I peered at the sapling to make sure that the tiny young dryad still clung to the stem. I threw a handful of compost into the bottom, then lowered the tree into the ground and trod down the soil. Soon I had a hole big enough to receive the sapling’s earth-encrusted root-ball. I fetched my pack, took out the trowel, and began to dig. Instinctively, I felt that a dryad would thrive here.

An earthworm crawled away into the moss and leaf-litter. I pulled up tussocks of grass to inspect the soil, and found it damp but not sodden, thin but not barren. Behind an outcrop, in a small gully, the wind dropped to a light breeze. The grey rock felt warm under my hand, retaining the heat of the autumn sun. I saw a south-facing escarpment, and scrambled across to investigate.

Birch and goat-willow dotted the exposed slopes, hardy species that withstood the storms and chills of the High Tatras. When I had climbed high enough that my breath came in great panting gasps, and the sheep in the valleys looked like tiny flecks of fallen cloud, I heaved off my backpack and looked for the best spot to plant the final sapling.

Neverland's Library by Roger Bellini