The Druid of Skells

Miles Hardisty, riding homeward from his errand at the Big House, suddenly drew reign. What a strangely-twisted dead tree that was, outlined against the fading orange horizon. He turned the horse for a better look. Yes - it was no tree but a tall gaunt figure against the skyline, a loose robe flapping against it in the sharp wind. It stood quite still, fists raised as if in threat, while twilight thickened behind it. After a while, Miles could no longer make it out with any certainty. He rode on, quickly. He would take good care not to be caught by twilight at Skells again.