In the spring, a new road was built.

Bulldozers and tractors of no small size tore up the prairie grass and wild flowers. When they were finished, a new patch of bright black asphalt lay, suddenly, sodden and shimmering in the cool afternoon sunlight.

A week later, the telephone poles were put in.

More tractors, more men with their trucks laden with brilliant orange reflector barrels, swarmed over a road so new, the lines hadn’t even been painted down the center. They dug at the brown earth with their shovels and steel-toed boots, erecting towering wooden masts as evenly spaced as fence posts; each one still glistening with a sappy, molasses coating that smelt of benzene and pine needles. The wires went up, and the linemen’s cleats covered the naked poles with a rough bark of soft mud.

When all the men had gone, the only sound to mark their coming, besides the hum of the Mid-Western breeze blowing over the telephone lines like harp strings, was the occasional gust of a semi moving too fast on too small a road with still no paint to part the way.

A crow, perched at the top of a telephone pole, sat watching one of those semis come, with a tiny acorn in his beak. The rush of wind as it passed startled the bird, and he dropped his treasure as he took flight.

The acorn fell and settled in the bare groove of a tire-tread.

Years went by.

A tiny sapling began to grow in the thin, sun-dial shade of that telephone pole. When she was old enough to speak, she asked the trunk beside her if they weren’t, in fact, related.

“ME?” the telephone pole laughed, “related to YOU? What ever gave you that idea?”

The sapling swayed, surveying the vast, empty prairie all around them. Like a race of giants, the row of telephone poles lined the fantasies of the young tree. Titans in an arbor mythology, she wanted, desperately, to grow to be just like them.

Years went by.

The sapling sprouted branches and broad leaves, but still swayed, green and pliant as a blade of grass, with the roll of every passing car. Finding courage, at last, again to speak, she asked the telephone pole, if they weren’t related, then where had she come from? There were no other trees there besides them, and, certainly, the sapling reasoned, we must have come from somewhere.

“Certainly YOU came from somewhere,” telephone pole sneered. “I came from a field full of pine trees as tall and straight as I am. We were planted and tended and looked after, grown and pruned and fashioned by hand to be knot-less and rigid and perfect. We grew that way, until the plaid-shirted, bearded lumberjacks with their sharp axes chose only the best and the most beautiful to become what we are now; to be cut down, stripped, planed, polished, and replanted exactly here, for a single purpose. To do a job. I hold these lines, and these lines, in turn, allow the twitter of human conversation to transcend this vast land.”

“YOU,” he said, “have no purpose. You are an accident!”

Years went by.

The sapling had grown into a thick oak tree, just tall enough to reach her branches up and touch the wires; to feel them tickle the leaves in her lush, green foliage.

In autumn, she turned a beautiful, sunset shade of burnt-umber and orange, and then, to a crisp, clean brown, before all her leaves fell and danced in the whipping prairie wind. Squirrels had burrowed homes in the knotted, twisted spaces between her thickest branches, nesting in stockpiles of acorns gathered from the grassy floor where they fell.

“Look at you,” telephone pole said. “All you’re good for is making a mess fit for a vermin.”

That fall, the linemen returned. They came wearing bright orange gloves and helmets and carrying chainsaws. Hardly the bronzed-god lumberjacks the oak tree had long dreamed of -- rather than come to bring her to a higher purpose -- they instead hacked off her topmost branches.

When they were done, the oak was a stunted, bald version of her earlier self.

Telephone pole looked on and smiled.

That very night, an ice storm came. The usually calm Mid-Western breeze became a swirling black monster. The wind howled and lashed at them; steely icicles formed and the lines snapped under the weight.

The entire row of telephone poles were pulled from the ground, yanked by their wires like a sea anchor; flattened like a collapsed fence.

Telephone pole screamed as he fell.

Oak tree caught him.

All night, she held him by her shorn branches. She hugged him to her trunk through the storm until it was over.

The linemen came back the next morning; ice, everywhere, sparkling a kaleidoscope in the cold, calm light of sunrise. All the other telephone poles around them had snapped and broken. All except for one: the men gently lifted telephone pole from the oak tree and righted him, set him back in his place.

When they’d gone, the telephone pole turned to thank the oak tree for her help...

...But she hadn’t survived the storm, either. Her trunk was split down the middle by the added weight from all the ice and shock of catching telephone pole.

In the spring, five new saplings sprouted.

There were no clouds in the sky, only dust and wind. The low hills were treeless, save a lone cottonwood near the river. It was hot, nearly a hundred degrees, even though the sun was still low in the sky.

The deputy gazed up at the pale blue sky as his old chestnut stallion plodded his way along the riverbank. The horse whinnied at the delicious scent of running water; the deputy flicked the reins to shush the thirsty animal. The horse picked up the pace, trotting the last few yards to the tree. He knew the way – the deputy had ridden him here every week for three years. Sometimes the deputy sat on a rock and stared at the tree; often he would keep his eyes on the ground and walk around aimlessly, never once shooting an eye towards the cottonwood. The horse didn't give a damn what the deputy did as long as he got a drink.

The deputy pulled the reins and dismounted with a grunt. He reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a rope, then patted the horse on the flank. The horse snuffled happily and wandered down to the river. He stuck his muzzle in the cool water and drank deeply. Up near the tree, the deputy tied a knot in the rope, his hands working the rough fibers with practiced movements. He flung the loose end of the rope over a low, thick limb. The rope settled neatly into a shallow notch worn into the bark. He tugged the rope until the noose was ten feet off the ground, then looped it once more around the limb. Pulling the rope tight, he coiled the remaining length and hung it on the stub of a broken limb.

His task done, the deputy sat down to wait.

_______________________________________

"We gotta do this now? It's a furnace out here."

Sheriff Laughton glanced at the prisoner. "What do you care? You won't be feelin' the heat much longer."

"I guess you're right." Everett laughed. "I'm a dead man, right? A breathin', sweatin' dead man."

The sheriff pulled a handkerchief from his coat and wiped his face and neck; the linen came away muddy with dust and sweat. He wrinkled his nose at it, then shoved it back into his pocket. "You don't have to die alone, kid. Heck, we might even let you take a swim before you swing and cool off a little." He leaned over and caught Everett's eye. "We'll get 'im anyway, you know that. No sense in lettin' 'im run free when you're hangin' from a tree."

Everett sneered at Laughton. "You think I'd give up my brother for a swim in the creek, you got another thing comin'."

The two men lapsed into silence in the back of the cart. Laughton peered thoughtfully at the prisoner as he mulled over the few lines of questioning he had yet to pursue. Threats and incentives were useless to a man with less than an hour left in life; the time for plea bargaining was long past.

Everett closed his eyes and turned his face to the sky. His heart pounded with fear and rage, but no way on God's earth would he dare show it. The wind roared in his ears, easily drowning out the shouts and taunts of the townspeople eager for an execution. Everett didn't mind dying, but he hated that he had to spend his last minutes with the bloodthirsty mob.

Weary and somber, the deputy stood to watch the cart roll the last few yards to the cottonwood. The townspeople were not far behind, and he was sorry to hear that the heat and dust hadn't made jeering too much of a hassle for them.

Sheriff Laughton watched Everett climb out of the back of the cart. "Look, I know it was an accident," he whispered. "You never killed no one before, not even when they had you cornered."

"Well," Everett began, "it don't matter now, does it? I gotta pay for what I done." He turned to the Sheriff. "I gotta pay. Just me, you hear?"

The sheriff shook his head and helped Everett mount the old chestnut stallion. "You see this tree, kid?"

"Yeah, I see it," Everett sighed.

"You see them townspeople too?" He gestured to the crowd. "They're gonna go after your brothers, all of them, and they're gonna bring 'em to this here hangin' tree, and, well, you know exactly what they'll do next." Everett looked away, jaw clenched in anger. "You know I can't stop 'em. Me and Johnson are the only law in a hundred miles, and no way can we stop a mob."

Everett said nothing.

"You give me your partner in that robbery, and there won't be no mob."

"So instead of killin' all four of my brothers, it'll be just one."

The sheriff nodded.

"And his name's gotta come from me."

The sheriff nodded. Everett motioned for him to come closer, then whispered in his ear.

Laughton sighed and slipped the noose around Everett's neck. "I kinda figured it would be that way. You're condemning them all to death, kid."

Everett smiled. "They gotta catch 'em first." He spurred the old chestnut stallion into a canter.

The hanging tree did its job.

Methuselah swayed in the wind, hardly perceiving the creaking movement as his gnarled and twisted body shifted. The temperature was well below zero and the snow was deep around his trunk, but the old bristlecone pine barely noticed. He had stood in this same spot in the middle of the Forest of the Ancients for almost 5000 years, giving him more than enough time to adjust to the brutal weather.

Another 200 mph gust roared across the mountainside causing Methuselah’s needles and cones to shake high above his split misshapen trunk. It could not, however, dislodge them as they clung closely to his branches. The tree did not mind. He recalled the Little Ice Age when the temperatures had been colder and the winter had gone on and on. He had survived then and he would survive this storm as well.

The ancient tree surveyed the outcropping of snowy land where he clung tenaciously to the rock 10,000 feet up the side of the mountain. Soon enough the long days of summer would return with their soaring temperatures. The thought caused the bristlecone to shudder slightly. He did not mind the baking sun, for it would cause his cones to open and disperse their seeds, littering the sandy soil with his possible descendants. But once the snow melted, the humans would return. And, the humans both fascinated and terrified Methuselah.

Long ago, there had been a group of humans that had come and visited the grove every year. They had brought strange objects including bits of bone and skin and had left them at the base of Methuselah’s trunk. They had danced and sang around the trees. They had also brought fire, but they had been careful with the burning embers and had only used discarded branches gathered from the ground to feed the fiery beast.

As the humans had returned, year after year, Methuselah had increasingly begun to anticipate their presence. It was this growing sense of anticipation that had marked the first flickering of sentience. This turned out to be the true gift that the humans had given him. As the years had passed, Methuselah had grown increasingly aware and had truly enjoyed their companionship.

Those had been wonderful days. Methuselah thoughts quickly turned to his older brother Prometheus. Prometheus had been the first to become self-aware and had been waiting to greet Methuselah when he broadcast his first tentative greeting.

The tree’s first message had floated out in the whispering wind, “Helloooooo.”

Prometheus’ reply had rustled and chuckled back, “Hello my brother. It is good to finally hear something other than the sound of my own needles.”

The brothers had remained, of course, rooted to the ground; and they were only able to communicate when the wind was kind enough to provide them with their gusting voices. But, it had been enough. They had spoken with one another and they had teased the small animals that crawled among their branches.

Sometimes, they were even able to communicate with the humans who came to them seeking wisdom. Those humans had called them the Great Ones and they had made the long and dangerous trip up the mountainside just to speak with the two brothers.

Then their human friends gradually stopped coming to visit. Many years went by with no human contact, but then new, different humans began to visit. Thoughts of these new humans caused Methuselah to feel sorrow and fear. Although they did not come with the same regularity of his old friends, when they did visit they could bring death and destruction.

He trembled as he recalled the first time one of the humans had come to “core” him. The humans had seemed happy and excited, and it hadn’t really hurt; but still he had felt so invaded as they had screwed that foreign object into his trunk and pulled it back out.

Poor Prometheus. He too had been cored many times. After the humans left, he would joke about it with Methuselah, saying the humans were like little insects. But then one day, one of the humans tried to core him and broke his boring tool. Instead of leaving, he had returned with a howling, snarling, toothed instrument of death and cut Prometheus down. Methuselah didn’t think he would ever forget his brother’s screams and howls as they echoed around the mountain.

And then he was gone.

That had been over forty summers ago. It was the last time a human had come to cut down one of the trees, but it did not matter. Prometheus was gone.

Methuselah still called out once in a while, but there were never any other trees that answered him. He was 5000 years old and he was alone.

From the Milltown Weekly Herald, April 13, 1831

Local Merchant Dead in Curious Circumstances

Mr. Thomas Barrie, aged 67, of Number Five Bleeker Street, was lately found dead in what the constable has described as a bizarre accident. Mr. Barrie's maid found him crushed to death in his home, a large library table having tipped on top of him.

Mr. Barrie's will be probated this Friday, following the burial of the carpenter John Montague, also recently deceased.

The aforementioned table and certain other property have already been seized by the courts, and may be sold at auction to settle debts incurred by the late Mr. Barrie's estate.

****

From the Last Will and Testament of Thomas J. Barrie, IV

And finally, we arrive at the matter of the table in my library — the very table upon which I am writing these words.

It is by all appearances an exquisite piece, of sturdy construction and handsomely finished. However, I do not bequeath it to anyone.

I am a bachelor with no kin living nearby; those who are present for the disposition of my personal effects are distant relations. Because you are likely unfamiliar with the history of the surrounding areas, let me tell you something of a story.

I have prospered in business, and when I acquired one hundred acres overlooking the Morris River, my plan was to build a grand retirement home atop the highest hill. All that stood in my way was a tree, an oak so massive that many of its pendulous branches rested on the ground. Such trees can live for centuries, and I have no doubt that this specimen was tall when these lands were still inhabited by savages.

I rented a townhouse while preparing for construction to commence, and I dispatched my employee, Mr. Collins, to have the oak chopped down. He hired three men, and reported later that their bloated remains had been fished out of the river. The coroner suggested they had drunk themselves senseless on rum.

More workers were found, led by a laborer named Rutland. He went out to the tree on a Tuesday to measure its circumference and hew some of the smaller limbs. Collins found him there that Friday. Rutland had been hanged from the thickest branch. His axe, still sharp, lay nearby.

Collins and I began to delve into the history of the hill, and of this hoary old tree in particular. In the town archives we found accounts dating to before Milltown's founding. We also interviewed a great many subjects, including old Joseph Parsons, who gives his age at one hundred and three.

A tree, a towering white oak, and nothing more. And yet what emerged is a portrait of an entity — for a tree lives and breathes, does it not? — with a decidedly mysterious past.

No fewer than forty-nine nooses have dangled from the stout limb upon which Mr. Rutland met his grisly end — criminals mostly, and some unfortunate Negroes, and twelve suicides. One of these was a gambler overwhelmed by debts, but another was a lawyer's newlywed daughter, happy by all accounts.

Many years back, a couple was in repose beneath the tree when some outlaws chanced upon them. The husband was murdered ... his bride suffered a worse fate. She ended her days in an asylum, and the rapist's child she bore would come to be known as Mad William Lowe, who butchered three families before his arrest.

A young boy, a farmer's son, once climbed the tree while at play. He tumbled out and broke his back. Another child was struck dead by a falling limb.

And there are other stories ... older, more apocryphal accounts of covens of witches who gathered on that hill, and of strange cannibal tribes who worshiped there, performing blood rituals beneath the glowing eye of a harvest moon.

I defeated that tree, I'll have you know. I oversaw a team of twenty woodcutters, and though some fell ill and one later perished from a fever, they went to work with saws and axes and took the monstrosity down.

Wishing for some reason to make a trophy of the tree, I called upon a craftsman named Montague and commissioned him to turn it into a writing table. I vowed that one day I would sit at this table in my house on the hill, but that never happened. Two workers dropped dead erecting the foundation where the tree had stood, and I had the project scrapped.

I have no idea why I wanted this awful table in the first place. Collins has refused to arrange for its removal. His health has been failing since the oak came down, as has mine. I'll be dead soon enough.

The families of my workers are seeking recompense — I fear that my estate will fall into arrears. If nothing else, I pray that my instructions will be honored regarding the fate of the table. In accordance with my last wishes, I ask that upon my death the wicked thing be hacked to pieces and burned. I make the proviso that its ashes be buried under salted earth.

This document revokes all previous wills and codicils. Its signing is witnessed by Mr. Collins, who will testify that I am of sound mind.

Whatever cursed power is at work here, dear God, let this put an end to it.

Mac pushed his way past an ancient lace curtain separating the living room from the kitchen to find his grandmother sitting at an old oak chair, staring out the window, a chipped coffee mug clenched between her arthritic fingers.

“Mee-Maw, Mom told me she called you and told you the news. She said you wanted me to come see you.”

Her rheumy eyes continued to gaze out the window at the lone tree in the yard. She rose without a word, and clunked down her coffee mug, splashing it onto the scarred tabletop. Mac reached out a hand to help her, but she shrugged him off, and instead grabbed the shawl draped over the chair back and swung it over her shoulders.

He followed her through the back door with the broken lock, and to the tree in the back yard. Her lips were moving soundlessly. He craned his neck to hear what she was saying, and caught the tail end of a prayer.

“Mee-Maw, is everything all right?”

Instead of answering, one ancient hand reached out to stroke the darkened bark of the tree. Years ago his mother had told him it had been charred in a fire, but she’d refused to elaborate.

His grandmother’s eyes finally met his. “Let me tell you about this tree, and the night your grandfather died.”

***

Laura and Jim were awakened by the chanting outside their bedroom window. Laura sat up, clutching her nightgown to her chest, and met Jim’s frightened eyes.

“Stay here,” he told her. “Protect the kids.” He reached under the bed and pulled out a baseball bat, and then rose and slowly approached the window. She saw an eerie glow reflect off the dark planes of his face, scarred by the jagged shadow of the large maple in their back yard, and saw his grip on the bat tighten.

“What is it?” she whispered, when he finally stepped away from the window.

“Klan,” was his tight-lipped response.

Laura began to shake, and Jim rushed across the room to comfort her. “I’ll take care of it. They’ll leave. I’ll just go downstairs and call the sheriff, and then-“

He was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. Down the hall, he could hear his daughter cry. “Go, get the kids,” he told Laura. “Go hide in that room I built behind their closet.”

Laura shuddered and remembered the small room he’d built a few weeks ago, without explanation, and the false closet in front of it. Jeannie had complained about her room shrinking, and Laura had argued that it was unnecessary. Now she wondered if Jim had known before now that the Klan would be paying a visit.

Laura gave Jim one desperate hug before turning away from him and rushing to protect her children. She ushered them into the tiny space, and the three of them huddled there until dawn listening to shouts and breaking glass. Daylight was just creeping under the doorway when finally, all was quiet.

They continued to huddle in the room waiting for Jim to return. He never did. When Laura finally gathered up the courage to check, she found his charred remains hanging from the tree in the back yard. A note was pinned to his chest.

“No Negro is going to be principal of our school.”

***

Mee-Maw’s teary eyes met Mac’s.

“I never knew,” he said with wonder. “Nobody told me.”

“Nobody was going to tell you. I kept this tree here, all these years, as proof of that night, and proof that they were right.”

“Mee-Maw, they weren’t right. A black man can do anything these days – even become president.”

“They were right then. But they’re not right now. A black man is principal of the school now,” she said with pride, referring to Mac’s recent promotion.

She ran her hand along the darkened bark one more time. She was quiet for a very, very long time, before she turned to Mac with new resolve on her face.

“Get the axe.”

9/25/28

Dear Journal,

Today was the best day ever! I met Samuel down by the river and we spent the evenin’ under that big oak tree again. It was perfect. The sun was settin’ and the sky was pink and purple and blue and just stretched out forever. I had my head on Samuel’s lap, as he stroked my hair and talked about how it shimmers in the sun and smells like flowers. Sometimes when he talks like that and looks at me with his eyes so dark, my brain gets so muddled up no words come out proper at all. He must think I’m awful dim!

After supper, he climbed up high and found some initials and a love heart carved into a branch. He said they looked real old. He carved our names on a branch up there too and now he calls it the lovin’ tree. Oh he is the most amazin’, charmin boy I ever met! I love him, I really do!

9/27/28

Dear Journal,

I snuck out to meet Samuel again tonight. It was nearly dark when I got there and he was hot and sweaty from cotton pickin’ so we stripped down to our underwears and went swimmin’. The water was cold but Samuel held me real tight, his strappin’ arms wrapped around me; it felt so good. We kissed so long I thought I would faint from lack of air! But his lips are the softest thing ever, I just never want to stop kissin’ him!

Afterwards, we lay under the oak tree, still wet and the moonlight shone down through the leaves. Oh, how Samuel’s skin glistened. I just laid my head against his chest and felt him breathin’ while he made up a story about those initials he found in the tree. It was the sweetest, most romantic story I ever heard. Oh, I wish I could tell the whole world how much I love this boy! It’s an eternity ‘til I see him tomorrow!

9/28/28

Dear Journal,

I had the most amazin' time tonight! I got down to our lovin’ tree a little later than usual on account of Pa givin’ me a thousand chores to do. But Samuel was there waitin’ for me. He told me he’d wait for me forever. He is the most charmin’ boy ever.

We just lay together kissin’ for the longest time. Then Samuel took one of the leaves off the tree and ran it all up and down my body with the lightest touch. It sent shivers up and down my spine!

It was a full moon and the moonlight was shinin’ down bright as can be. Samuel said my skin just shimmered in that light. He said he loves all my freckles and he was goin’ to kiss every freckle on my body one day. And to think I always hated my darn freckles, splattered all over my face and body like a big mess. Well he made me blush plenty good! We are meetin’ up again tomorrow night….forever ‘til then!

9/30/28

Dear Journal,

Oh, the most horrible thing happened tonight! We were under that big old oak tree foolin' around and suddenly Pa and Uncle John appeared out of nowhere. I screamed enough to wake all of Alabama, I reckon. My Pa was so mad, I ain’t never seen him look like that. He dragged Samuel away, while I was kickin’ and hollerin’ at Uncle John to let me go. Pa’s got me locked up now and he says come dawn I’m going to stay with Aunt Merryl in Montgomery. I got to turn out the light now ‘cause Pa just come home. I’m praying that Samuel is okay. I love him so much!

********************************************************

The body hung from a low branch slowly twisting in the slight breeze.

“What did he do?” Thomas asked, eyes wide. The boys stood near the large oak tree, mesmerized by the corpse. Black flies buzzed incessantly, occasionally ceasing their hum to land on decaying parts of the body.

“He done forced hisself on a white girl, ‘s what he done. My dad, he reckons he got what he had comin’,” Jackson replied. He stepped a little closer, covering his mouth and nose against the putrid smell.

“How come his hands and feet and pecker’s missin’?”

“Well, people come and cut him apart after he was hung here. You sure missed a good show, Tom.”

“My mama, she says a lynchin ’s a terrible bad thing to do to someone, colored or not. She wouldn’t let me out of the house yesterday on account I might come down here.”

“Yeah, next time you ought to sneak out,” Jackson muttered. He picked up a rock and threw it at the lifeless body. It thudded softly as it hit the midsection and dropped to the ground.

“It sure smells awful bad here. You want to go swimmin’?” Thomas asked.

“Race ya there!” Jackson shrieked, and the boys raced down to the river, forgetting about the body almost instantly.

********************************************************

12/15/28

Dear Journal,

I hate it here at Aunt Merryl’s place. First chance I get I’m runnin’ away somewhere North. Pa told me they run Samuel out of town, so I got to find him. We got to get far away from Alabama, this place is poisoned. I been so miserable, it’s made me sick to my stomach every morning.

The crime scene tape fluttered in the spring breeze, forming a cheerful yellow circle around the old tree. I noticed it was almost the same color as one of the kites soaring and dipping on the other side of the park.

So was the blood.

O’Harnigan lifted the tape as I ducked under.

“We need to quit meeting like this, Detective,” he greeted me. “People are going to talk.”

I grunted. O’Harnigan had been the beat cop on a case I’d pulled last week.

“What you got?”

A beefy hand gestured to the tree. “A stabbing with a twist. This one you got to see.”

We walked closer to the victim. A gust of wind carried the sound of kids laughing and screaming – and the stench of death.

“Looks like – ”

I silenced him with a glance as I took in the scene.

The victim was in his mid-forties and, judging by the legs sticking out of his jogging shorts, in good shape. Probably would have lived to a ripe old age if it hadn’t been for the stab wound in his stomach. Expensive running shoes and a more expensive watch told me two things; the man had money and so did the perp. No junkie would have left that watch behind.

But it was the knife in his hand that caught my attention. As I bent to take a closer look, O’Harnigan tapped my shoulder and pointed to the tree.

LEY. The three letters had been freshly carved into the trunk. Small, amber drops of sap were still forming at the base of each letter. And each stroke was highlighted in blood. I looked at O’Harnigan.

“Yep,” he nodded. “The techs said the blood is a type-match for our victim's. Looks like he pulled the knife out of his gut and scratched out those letters before he bled out.” He shook his head. “Too bad he didn’t finish.”

“What do you know about him?”

The cop looked at his notes. “Bob Cutler, 48, employed by one of the big banks downtown. Investment banker, probably upset at losing his big bonus.”

I hid my irritation at his running commentary. “Personal life?”

“Twice divorced, no kids, typically worked 12 to 14 hours a day at the office six days a week and logged in from home on Sundays. Worked even longer days since a recent merger. No hobbies. No arrests. Jogged the same path at the same time every morning. Probably ate the same thing for breakfast every day, too. A real exciting guy.”

I looked at the victim again. He had been facing the tree when he lost consciousness and was slumped against the trunk, his arms wrapped around it in a final embrace. Long strands of pollen fell from the tree like tears, drifting down to cover his body. The new spring leaves shifted and sunlight flashed off his watch.

“Did you say something about a merger?”

“Yeah, his bank gobbled up another bank. I mean, ‘rescued’ another bank.”

“Get me the names of his coworkers at both banks. Peers only.”

I studied the tree as O’Harnigan tracked down the names. One of the largest trees in the park, Cutler hadn’t been the first one to leave his mark. Hearts covered its trunk, each filled with different initials. The tree was a silent testament to love – and now to death.

“Got ‘em. There are fifty associates working now, only thirty-five will be left after the merger’s complete.”

“Sounds like there might have been some competition for those positions. Any names that start with Ley?” I asked.

O’Harnigan consulted his list. “No. His blood trail starts fifty feet away and he lost a lot of blood before he got to here. Probably didn’t know what he was writing.”

“Our guy sounds like a typical Type-A personality; my bet is that he knew exactly what he was doing. Anybody on the list have a name that ends in ‘ly’ or ‘ley’?”

The canopy of leaves above us swayed and shifted in the breeze, sending pollen raining down on us as O’Harnigan read the names.

“Shipley, O’Malley, Jalaley, Donnelly, Oakley, Hartly – ” He paused to brush pollen from the list.

“O’Harnigan, how many trees do you see within fifty feet of here?”

Startled, he looked around us.

“I don’t know, ten, maybe fifteen. It’s a park. It’s full of trees.”

“So why’d he pick this one?”

He shrugged. “First one he stumbled to?”

I pointed out a maple twenty feet up the path. “That one was closer.”

“Maybe he ran as far as he could, and this was it.”

“I think our boy was smarter than that. I think he picked this tree for a reason.”

“Yeah, he was dying and this was the end of the road.”

“Where’d you grow up, O’Harnigan?”

“Here in the city. Why?”

“Me, too. But my grandparents had a farm where I spent the summers. They had a huge tree in the front yard with a tire swing. Every spring, that old tire would be full of of pollen, and every fall it would fill up with acorns.”

“So?”

“It was an oak tree. Just like this one. Cutler knew he wouldn’t be able to carve the whole name, so he picked this tree to help him.

“Bring in Oakley. Charge him with murder.”

The night was cold and clear, but Rob didn't care about the way the moon turned everything to black and silver or the musk of decaying leaves. Carrying the length of rope and the stool up the hill to the ash tree at the back fence meant his t-shirt was actually damp from sweat. He dropped the rope on the ground and puffed for a minute until he could move again. Now he felt the bite of the cold, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

“Damn you,” he whispered, “Damn you. I will be back. You won't stop me.” Rob began the painful process of extricating himself and returning to his bedroom.

Ten years after the humiliation of that autumn night. Rob returned to the top of the hill. He carted the heavy rope, and his other gear up to the tree. He took several trips to get everything he needed in place. This time he was barely breathing hard.

“Bet you don't recognize me.” He put the coil of rope over his shoulder and leaned the ladder against the trunk.

“I almost don't know myself.” He kicked the base of the ladder into the dirt.

“Wouldn't want to tumble down the hill again.” With the ladder secure, he scrambled up into the lower branches.

“That poor fat kid couldn't get anything right, and you weren't any help were you?” Rob soon reached his goal, a split in the trunk some forty feet above the ground. He took a moment to look around. The warm sun illuminated the countryside. He could smell the fresh cut hay. Some birds pin-wheeled above him.

Rob tied the rope to one trunk then threw the rest effortlessly away from the tree. Back down on the ground he tied the rope to another tree.

“That will keep you in line.” He went back up the tree, this time with safety harness and chain-saw. The roar of the saw sent the birds streaking away, and as he cut the smell of sawdust and exhaust overwhelmed the scent of the hay.

He cut first one trunk, then the other. Rob worked his way carefully down the tree cutting the branches off above him as he returned to the ground. After an hour or two only the main trunk of the ash tree remained. The naked trunk was a stark contrast to the verdant green of the other trees.

Rob put the saw down to cool and began dragging branches down the hill. At the bottom he used his father's lighter saw to cut them into firewood length and stack them against the fence. His father came out with a cold beer.

“Let them season for a year,” Rob said, “Then I'll split them for burning. You'll be able to heat your house all winter with this tree.”

“I'll miss that old tree,” said his father, “Danged bugs.”

“Time to finish the job.”

Rob walked up to the tree. He checked the rope again, and looked where the trunk was going to fall. He didn't want it rolling into the house. He started the chain-saw and cut away the suckers that grew at the base of the tree. They were the sign of a tree that didn't think it was dead yet.

The end was quick. A creak became a groan became a cry of tortured wood. The tree crashed to the ground exactly where it was supposed to.

“How did you know?” Rob switched off the chain-saw again. “How did you know that the fat kid would find a way to love life again?”

He knelt down and counted the rings on the stump.

“One hundred and sixty years, give or take a few. I guess you learned patience.” He saw one sucker that he had missed with the saw. Suddenly the rings blurred and he felt tears washing the dust from his face.

“I guess I can return the favour. Grow strong.” He picked up the saw and went to finish his work.

“Thank you.”

When I was young, my grandfather told me the story about a tree that was planted at the house where he had lived for his whole life. The day he was born, his father planted the tree to signify the beginning of a new life, just as his father had done when he was born.

During his toddler years, he would always play with it through the sun and through the rain. Although it didn’t protect him from the elements like the bigger trees did, its unimposing presence gave a warm feeling of acceptance that the other trees didn’t whilst still looked over him.

When he was 6, he learned that the tree was an apple tree, and waited patiently for the fruit to appear. One autumn, he walked up to his father and said: “Daddy, is it true that apples grow in the autumn?”

My great grandfather smiled at him and said: “yes son, that’s when the apples are at their most ripe. However, some apple trees don’t spring fruit until the winter, when the leaves have gone and the other fruit has begun to rot. When the fruit blossoms at this time, son, it tastes much sweeter than you ever could imagine.”

Although my grandfather sat by that tree every day that autumn, the tree wouldn’t produce fruit. He would also wait every day by the tree during the winter, fighting off the snow and the rain like a windscreen wiper in a car wash. Yet the tree didn’t spring forth apples that season.

Years went by, and as my grandfather grew, the apple tree also shot up vertically, the tree always being one head taller than my granddad until he turned 16, when the tree got tired of waiting for him to catch up and shot up towards the sky. Yet he never saw the tree produce the apples he so desired.

Years went past and as the tree collected rings, my grandfather was giving them away. On a warm August evening under the shade of the tree, he proposed to his childhood sweetheart, the tree looking over him as it had done for all of his life. While a million fireworks went off in their heads, the tree had no intention of celebrating, remaining as it always had, barren and fruitless.

Over the next few years, whilst happily married, by grandmother was constantly annoyed by presence of the tree at the bottom of the garden. “Why keep an apple tree when it remains barren?” she was heard to mutter from time to time. However, my grandfather would hear of no such thing, constantly telling her: “Just wait until winter. Then you’ll see.” So the tree remained, as loved and fruitless as it always was.

Time went by, and my grandmother passed on. My grandfather, although he missed my grandmother terribly, still carried the hopes of a man half his age. He tended to the garden almost daily, taking especially good care of the apple tree, making sure that it received all the right nutrients is needed, keeping it safe just as it had done for him all those years previously.

However, tragedy struck when one day, whilst tending to the tree, he suffered a major stroke. Now bedridden, the doctors optimistically stated that he would only have a few weeks to live. However, with a level of resolve not normally seen in an 85 year old, he kept his morale high, joking with the doctors and playing with his grandchildren, or at least as much as a bedridden stroke victim can. Throughout this, he kept an eye on the tree through his window; with the same hope a young woman must feel waiting for her partner to return from sea.

Then one day, on a cold December morning, the moment that my grandfather had waited all his life for finally happened: the tree spring forth its only fruit, a reddish-green apple. My grandfather summoned me to his room and asked me to bring the apple to him. Although his mouth had more gum than the Wrigley’s factory and he hadn’t eaten a solid meal in months, I watched as he slowly bit through the apple, gnawing through each new layer like an oil drill. As he took his final bite, he whispered his final words to me, and then fell into his eternal sleep.

That night, the tree that had been with him his whole life was brought down by a ferocious wind that seemingly left the rest of the garden unscathed. Knowing how much that tree meant to him, I cut off a branch of it and placed it in his coffin, knowing that he would always have the memory of the tree wherever he was going.

Years later, when my own son was born, I too planted a tree in our garden to mark the beginning of a new life. One day I told my son the story about my grandfather and the tree. Rather confused by the story, he said to me “but that’s stupid! Why would a tree wait so long to grow apples?” Smiling gently, I said to him the same words that my grandfather told me before he died:

“Because when that happens, the fruit is sweeter than you ever can imagine.”

The traveler frowned at the map. He wasn't an expert navigator, but he knew enough that he should be in the center of the village Asela by now. The road had worsened after Briarton. It was now a mired mess of grasses and shrubs, as well as a sinister strain of bramble vines that seemed to leap in and out of the earth, like a thread sewing two lands together.

The sky above was a dull iron sheet with black bruises smudging the horizon. He smelled the approaching rain and made his way toward a nearby hill with a large, ancient tree atop it. It was a variety he wasn't familiar with, a gray giant in the twilight of its life. The largest boughs jutted straight out from the thick trunk in all directions, stretching skeletal tendrils toward the darkening sky, like the hands of the damned grasping for salvation.

He hammered some mounts into the trunk, and was perplexed by the thick crimson sap that issued from the wounds. It smelled sour, and he dare not taste it. The ill-omens were offputting, but with his vantage point, he saw he'd have no other shelter this evening. He shook off his uneasiness and sat beneath the tarp, packing his pipe, and awaiting the rains.

The sun broke through the overcast gloom on the western horizon, illuminating the flatlands below briefly as it bid farewell, and good luck to its children, leaving them to the chilly mercy of mother night and her stormy companions. He surveyed the plains below, where the village of Asela should be. He noticed the way the grasses thinned routinely in large swaths, where tilled earth had been reclaimed. Bleached white foundation stones glinted, peeking out amongst the tall plants and bramble vines.

The vines. They were everywhere. Thick, choking, they spread outward in a death-grip from some unknown epicenter, fanning across the area where the village had been. Plague the likes of which he had never seen before, it was no wonder they had packed up and moved on. He took a pinky of ash from his pipe, and made a dark "X" through the village on his map, deciding to spread the word at the next city he visited. Perhaps he'd even get more information about the exodus.

Droplets of rain pattered the leaves as he finished building his fire. They seemed to flutter to life at the arrival of water, happily drinking deep and deflecting the life-giving waters down the branches and boughs, to the trunk itself. The traveler shivered, pulling a blanket to his chin and leaning against the cold core of the tree. It made a numb ache in his back, like resting upon a chilly marble gravestone.

His eyes grew heavy as he stared out over the plains, onto the village grounds, turning the uneasy riddle over in his mind. The flames from his merry fire licked up from below and seemed to engulf the ghostly images he painted in his brain. As he pondered the portents of this vision, he fell into a deep slumber.

The village appeared now, in full detail, something painful wrenched at his head. He stared at his hands, and noticed the cuffs of a crimson dress, folded neatly upon slender arms. A dream? As fire lanced the back of his head, he realized it was a nightmare. A rough hand was forcing him to look upon the village, clutching a handful of his hair.

"Look at it!" the man screamed, "Lay your demonic eyes upon it for the last time, you shall not meddle with our village any more, witch!"

A mammoth hand slapped at his face, the stone blow sending him reeling to the ground near the mouth of a ditch. He reached for the edge as a sense of black urgency washed through his mind upon the sight of it. He needn't struggle long, as the rough-handed man who slapped him, soon stood him upon again to stare down into it.

An icicle of dread bit into his heart, though he knew nothing of the women sprawled into the grave. Their bodies were pale, the earth beneath them muddied with the blood that leaked from their smiling necks. The dread numbed, and began to grow into a fire; anger, rage. He was muttering now, staring out across those who had done this, marking their faces. A boot into his legs knocked him to his knees. He frantically searched the ground around him for something, anything, groping in a panic as the steel kissed his neck, still a mess with his sister's blood. His hand closed around a tiny object and clung fiercely.

"You'll see 'em again, in hell," the executioner whispered into his ear, as a strange tickling sensation swept across his skin. He felt a heavy boot hammer into his back, sending him down into the ditch. With his last reserves of strength he rolled onto his back to stare up at the men, as dirt rained down upon them. A strange gurgle welled up from his throat as he clutched the acorn to his chest, nobody but the traveler knew that it was delirious laughter.

He started awake from the nightmare vision. As he tried to leap to his feet, away from the cursed tree, he felt the bramble shackles that held him fast clench tighter. A taste of sour dirt filled his mouth as the hungry vines pulled him into an earthy abyss.