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.

****

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 is scheduled to 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.

A few weeks before the wedding, Jennifer opened her planner and began checking off items.

"Limousine ... flowers ... party favors ... call the dress shop to make sure they were able to get that burgundy fabric for Kendra ...."

She continued through the list, jotting notes here and there, until she came to the word "Cleaner" circled in red ink.

Most young women planning their wedding, when writing this word on a checklist, would be referring to a dry-cleaning service. But Jennifer had a different type of cleaner on her mind when she punched a number into her mobile phone.

"Hello, Tom? Hey, it's Jenn. Listen, I've got a big favor to ask. You remember back when Mark and I got engaged and retired from the Service, and the first thing we had to do was tie up the loose ends? Well, it looks like there's still one loose end out there, and I think he's planning to target me on my wedding day. I know his methods, and I'm certain he'll come at me with a knife as I'm walking down the aisle. Can I count on you to keep me safe? Thanks, Tom. I knew there was a reason Mark picked you as his best man. If there's one thing a bride needs, it's a reliable wedding party."

She hung up the phone and put a check mark next to "Cleaner" in her planner.

****

Ivan arrived at the cathedral a few minutes before nine. The pastor answered the door with a hesitant smile. "If you're here for the wedding, you're a bit early."

"Sorry about that," Ivan replied, picking up the black cases he had laid on the steps. "I'm one of the photographers. Can you believe they hired two photographers, one to take pictures from the aisle, and another to shoot from the balcony?"

The pastor laughed. "I'd believe it, all right. Weddings are a big business these days."

"You're right about that!" Ivan said. "Anyway, I'm somewhat finicky about my setup and I'd like to have time to make sure I get everything just right. I'm sure you understand. If you could just direct me to the balcony, I promise I'll stay out of your way."

A short time later, Ivan was overlooking the expansive cathedral, sitting on a mahogany pew and unlatching the cases. He'd told the truth about one thing: he had been hired to shoot from the balcony. Ivan Drakov — also known as The Cleaner — assembled the Russian-made sniper rifle with exquisite care.

As the guests began to trickle through the doors, Ivan watched ... and waited.

****

The joyous notes of Mendelssohn's Wedding March filled the vast cathedral as the radiant bride walked down the aisle. There was a brief commotion when a deranged, knife-wielding man — one of Jennifer's former suitors, perhaps — lunged from the aisle and was swiftly subdued by the best man and groomsmen and dragged outside. The attendees applauded the bride's courage and dignity when she quickly composed herself, refusing to allow this ugly episode to delay the ceremony.

The mother of the bride dabbed her eyes with a tissue as Mark and Jennifer, formerly Agent Shadow and Agent Winter of the elite government intelligence unit known only as the Service, professed their everlasting devotion to one another.

****

In the balcony, Ivan flicked open the cap on the rifle's scope. He grinned as he imagined the incompetent decoy assassin he had hired sitting in the back of a police car, thinking he had failed. The fool had no idea that he had actually played his intended role perfectly; the bride and groom, lulled into a false sense of security by believing they had removed the threat, would now be completely unprepared for what was about to happen.

Ivan was frankly disappointed; his employer had told him that the target was a wily and cunning former operative who would be prepared for trouble. He had been hoping for a bit more of a challenge.

The pastor's booming voice echoed in the cathedral. "And so, by the power vested in me by the state and in the presence of the Almighty Creator ...."

The rifle had a muzzle velocity of more than 2,600 feet per second. In a few moments Ivan would earn a king's ransom for a millisecond's work.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Ivan scanned the crowd; everyone's attention was fixed firmly on the altar. The best man, who had been so vigilant before subduing the decoy, was now oblivious to danger. The maid of honor, for some reason, was nowhere to be seen; had she slipped away to check her makeup? It didn't matter. There would be no more photographs for this bride, no wedding cake, no bouquet toss, no honeymoon. The next time she came to church, she would arrive in the back of a hearse.

"What God hath joined, let no man divide."

The Cleaner fixed the ivory bridal veil in the crosshairs ... began to squeeze the trigger ... and suddenly realized he had lost all feeling in his fingers. He looked down and saw that a slash on his arm had severed the nerves in his hand with a surgeon's precision, rendering his hand useless. He opened his mouth to cry out ... but couldn't because his throat had been cut.

"You may kiss the bride."

The last thing Ivan saw as he slumped to the floor was Kendra — formerly Agent Dusk, the Service's top assassin — slipping a knife back into its sheath. The blood on her dress was invisible, blending in perfectly with the beautiful burgundy fabric the bride had selected.

Clutching his neck as he slipped toward oblivion, Ivan managed to gasp a few words: "She knew? She knew all along?"

"Of course," Kendra said. "She's one of the finest secret agents in the world, after all. We figured the best man could handle the decoy, but when it comes to important jobs like this, the only person a bride can trust is her maid of honor."

The worst crisis in magic in 1000 years was announced by the soft blue glow of the master alarm sapphire. Gandorf, the duty wizard in the situation cave that weekend, investigated the source. It was another spell-casting error, the third of the night in Atmospherics. He picked up the tortoise-shell intercom.

"Get me the shaman in charge of Magical Atmospheric Effects."

"Shaman Dorffenstarshire here, sir."

"What in the dragon is going on up there, shaman?"

"We're checking, sir," replied the shaman. "Please stand by."

"Smurf it all! Dorffenstarshire, I need answers!"

"Right away, sir."

Gandorf threw down the tortoise shell, causing a small yelp from the occupant within, and swore softly to himself. "Witch's breath! That's all I need--some wet-behind-the-horns junior-grade shaman fresh out of charm school! This kid is in charge of all of the magical effects in the atmosphere!? What is the administration thinking?"

The tortoise shell clattered, and Gandorf picked it up.

"Yes, shaman?"

"Sir..." said the shaman in a peculiarly-strained voice. "The Valkyries in Vardo, Norway have gone out on strike. The whole guild!"

Gandorf was horrified. A strike was unprecedented. In the old days, before all of the mundane spell-casting jobs were shipped out of the country, this would never have happened. But Gandorf had sold the off-shoring plan to the Board of Wands. And most of the routine special effects production had been moved overseas. All Gandorf had wanted to do was to save a little gold, cut overhead, raise productivity, and take advantage of the lower charge rates for incantations that were available in other lands. And it had been working: The Norwegians could produce magical sunset incantations at one-third the cost and in half the time! The treasurer had been very pleased.

But Gandorf hadn’t been able to manage the culture clashes, and his plan had now backfired. The conjurors in developing lands had seized the momentum. The Board of Wands would have his ears for this.

Meanwhile, all over the world, sunsets were gray, rain was cold, lightning was boring, and the moon was exceedingly dull.

By Monday, Gandorf was at his wit's end. "I'm at the wrong end of my wand over this," he said to his staff. "The Valkyries' demands are outrageous! What the dragon are they going to do with all of those newts in Norway even if we give them what they ask?"

A Lieutenant Sorcerer raised his hand. "We just received an astrograph, sir. Apparently the Vardo Valkyries are allied with the Minions of Magical Motion in Mongolia. Mongolia has stopped work, too."

"They can't do that!" sputtered Gandorf. "Why...why...how will the birds soar?"

"They can't," said the sorcerer. "They're walking. The humans can't dance, either. The fish can't jump. And the amber waves of grain--"
"ENOUGH!" roared Gandorf.

But apparently it wasn't, because by Wednesday the strike had spread to the Bureau of Beauty in Bahrain and the Board of Babies in the Balkans.

With the Grand Canyon appearing rather dowdy, the purple mountains majesty looking merely common, and young children around the world failing to amuse even their own parents, Gandorf was feeling the heat.

"Summon the leaders of the defecting guilds at once!" he ordered.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Summons Society has joined the movement. We can't summon anyone any more," said an assistant, dejectedly.

"Bat spit!" said Gandorf. "Bring me the Crystal of Conferencing, and arrange the connection."

But he was thwarted in his efforts, because although the striking guild leaders had the advantage, they could not agree on their demands. They talked so long and so loudly that the Crystal of Conferencing overheated and began to melt, and they had to end the conference.

But Gandorf had an idea. He arranged a private tortoise shell call with the Won Rheeng, the leader of the Mongolian Minions of Magical Motion. After a session of arduous negotiation that went well into the night, Gandorf emerged from the conference with a broad smile upon his bearded face.

"Sir?" inquired one of the assistant staff wizards.

"All is well," said Gandorf, looking pleased with himself. "The leader of the Minions has been bought off. He'll in turn buy off the other guild leaders. He’ll be the ruler, but he’ll be working for our side, and the strike will collapse within days."

"You mean...."

"Yes," said Gandorf.

"Won Rheeng will rule them all."

*****

As we all know, Gandorf was wrong. The world descended into chaos, and remained there for 500 years.

[Deepest apologies to Lord of the Rings fans everywhere].

"Will there be enough room on the wagon for us, Papa?" Her voice quivers as she holds my hand tightly and glances at the others with wooden baskets.

I squeeze it: "If there isn't, we'll get on the next one." My sweet baby Vicky and I are sharing the same trepidation. The intense sunlight reminds me why my beloved widow, Rosie, always insisted that we head out early for strawberry excursions. But this morning, I simply found it hard to get going. Last time we came, two years ago, we were three. A lifetime ago. I just couldn't bear to come back last year. But Vicky asked me if we would ever go picking again. Funny that she remembers coming here the summer she turned five. And so here we are, under the scorching sun, our eyes on the tractor that brings back the early pickers and carries the next lot mid-fields.

The rocking and bouncing on the wagon trigger images in my mind, skipping as if in a black and white film. Rosie's laughter, her disheveled hair…

"Papa! My hat!" I grab hold of Vicky's arm just as she reaches beyond the straw bales of the moving wagon.

Back to reality. "Let it go."

The woman sitting next to us pulls a folded handkerchief out of her pocket, throws a glance my way, requesting permission. I nod and she puts the handkerchief on Vicky's head, tying it at the nape. I sense a change. Vicky's smile radiates as she reaches to hold this stranger's hand. I'm pleased to see her beginning to open up to others; she's been withdrawn for too long.

When we reach the picking zone, Vicky pulls the woman along by the hand. Seeing my daughter so trustful allows me to push the uneasiness to the back of my mind. After all, I am here with them and there is nowhere to go. We settle in parallel rows with our baskets. How I enjoy plucking the warm tender fruit from the plants, leaving only the smaller white and green fruit for the next round. I pop a juicy strawberry in my mouth. The intense light reminds me of better summers, where Rosie and I would watch Vicky building sand castles.

"And do you still play with the yellow sand pail? That one made the best castles!" I turn to the sound of the stranger's voice.

"Yes, and remember how Papa would always find cool stuff to decorate them?" replies my daughter. My senses are awakened: how can this conversation be? I stop picking and listen in more. I hear my daughter add: "I wish we could still be together the three of us."

"We are, in a way, Vicky, and I’ll come back through strangers at other moments in your life."

This conversation won't help her deal with her mother's death. Why is this woman interfering? I spring to my feet, not caring about dropping half the picked strawberries. As I step over the row and pick up Vicky’s basket, I say firmly: "We must move forward to the next intersection, now!" I can see by her blinking eyes that my tone surprises her but she has the good sense to obey. I pull at her as she is turning towards the woman and tug her further up the row. "Start picking," I say, breathing hard.

I have broken the moment. She pulls at the strawberries with firm movements that betray her anger. A while later, Vicky glances towards the woman who has wisely stayed in her spot. I can tell that she is mumbling as if in conversation and force myself to slow my heart in order to hear her voice.

"I wish you were still with us. Papa misses you too."

"Who are you talking to?" I probe in the most controlled voice I can muster under my panicked state. "Are you somehow communicating with that woman?"

"Papa, don’t get mad at me. Ever since the lady put the handkerchief on me, I hear Mama speaking to me. She’s using the woman's voice so that I can hear her, even from this distance." Vicky interprets the blank look on my face as an invitation to go on. "I know you miss her too. Do you want the handkerchief, Papa?" she questions, as she pulls off the improvised hat and offers it to me.

I take it, intending to bring it back to the mysterious stranger when I feel my anger dissipate and a memorable presence crawl into my skin and my mind. As I bring the hankie close to my heart, the field clouds over through my tears.

"It’s OK, Papa. We can give it back if it makes you sad," I hear as my daughter hugs me, squishing the handkerchief between us. "She’s gone back to heaven now, Papa. I can tell." As we pull apart, she adds matter-of-factly, "Can we finish picking the strawberries?" I stuff the hankie in my pocket.

As we get back on the wagon, I see the woman, sitting on another row of bales. As I hand the handkerchief over and thank her, she simply replies. "Glad I could help", seemingly oblivious to what has just happened.

I need to know more: "Will you come back?"

After a pause, she whispers: "The healing is only just starting. She’ll be back."

"Go ahead, try it. Walk down to the end of the beach, then walk back. You'll see what I'm talking about."

"I'm busy," I replied, wiping down the bar.

"I'll watch the bar," P'og slurred. Behind him, sunlight glittered on the surface of the Great Sea.

"No thanks."

"Just do it," P'og insisted. "I'm too drunk to steal anything. Walk to the end of the beach, then walk back, and look at the sand. Pay close attention. You'll see."

What the heck, I finally decided. I'll humor him.

I walked down to the sand. Behind me, at the counter of the seaside bar I own, P'og hiccuped and mumbled to himself. I strolled along the beach, enjoying the warm, bright light of the ever-present Sun.

When I got to the dunes, I turned and walked back, looking at the sand as P'og had instructed. I saw a scattering of seashells; some polished blue glass; a hunk of bone-white driftwood. A green crab scuttled across my shadow. There was nothing out of the ordinary, except —

I paused. My shadow.

What in the world?

I hurried back to the bar, where P'og had helped himself to another drink.

"Did you see it?"

I ignored him, switching on the radio next to the cash register.

"— hour ago when the phenomenon was first reported. We are now going live to M'aro Malkez on the Western Shore, who has further details on this strange occurrence."

"Scientists all over the Island have confirmed that the Sun is shifting its position," another voice said. "More alarming is the fact that it shows no signs of slowing ...."

I didn't hear anything after that. The only thing I could think of was finding my wife, S'andara.

"Where are you going?" P'og called after me. "I'm still thirsty, you know."

I got behind the handlebars of my bicycle and made my way up to the road, my shadow getting longer and longer on the pavement. Cars were stopped along the highway; people were clustered at the roadside, looking up in awe.

The usually brilliant sky had begun to darken on the eastern horizon. Clouds were forming to the west, and the Sun's fading rays had stained them a pink color that was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying.

The city was in chaos. I saw a woman on her knees, screaming up at the sky in fear. "The Sun is falling into the Great Sea!" she wailed. There was a thunderous crash to my left as the roof of a car caved in, and I realized with a kind of detached horror that someone had leaped out a window in desperation.

The security desk at S'andara's building was unoccupied. I stopped a fleeing worker and learned that the most of the building's occupants had gone to the roof to watch the spectacle.

The elevator rose over a courtyard that is always bathed in blazing sunlight. But now it was as though I was peering at everything through a black lens.

By the time I got to the roof, the Sun was a hazy blob on the horizon. The Great Sea shimmered like gold, and the sky was suffused with a yellow glow. The air, usually warm, had chilled noticeably.

I pushed my way through crowds of office workers until I found S'andara. She hugged me fiercely.

"I'm cold," she said, trembling.

"Don't worry," I whispered, choking back my own fear. "Whatever happens, we're together."

The crowd gasped as our fiery god vanished from sight. Some moaned and screamed; others prayed. There was a final, brilliant flash as the Sun dipped below the horizon, seeming to sink into the Great Sea. I almost expected to see a great plume of steam rising in the distance.

Someone had a radio, and we huddled around to hear a message from President H'tal.

"Citizens of the Island," she said, her voice grave. "I share your fear and uncertainty. Please know that at this very moment, top scientists are working to discover the cause of this phenomenon."

There was a long pause, and a shuffling of papers.

"I have just been informed that, according to forecasts, the Sun will return to the sky within 12 hours."

There was applause across the rooftop. Whoops of jubilation drifted up from the streets below.

"It appears that the planet's orbit has been altered by the pull of a passing comet," President H'tal explained. "In consequence, our world has begun to rotate. If these projections are accurate, the Sun will sink beyond the western horizon approximately every 24 hours, plunging the Island into darkness. It will return about 12 hours later, rising from the east."

More murmurs from the crowd; panic this time, and disbelief.

"I know that the idea of a periodic loss of sunlight seems unthinkable," H'tal said. "But until such time as our orbit rights itself, this is something we all must accept."

She may have said more; I didn't hear. My body was numb. I knew I had to stay strong for S'andara, but it was more than I could fathom. It was unimaginable, a death sentence.

12 hours of cold and darkness ... a sky without sunlight.

How would we survive?

The phone rang.

"Nine-one-one. What's your plight?" Sue asked.

"Help! My car crashed, and I can't get out!" said the fear-flecked voice on the line. "The door is stuck, and I think my leg broke."

"What's your name, hon, and where are you?"

"Umm.... I'm not sure who I am! I banged my head. I do know I'm off the road near 1st and Vine."

"Help will be there soon," Sue soothed. She mapped out the spot for the guy at the Med Van wheel. Joe revved it up to get to the wreck site fast.

"I found an I. D.," said the young, lithe, blonde when Joe pulled up. "I must be Meg Jones?"

What a doll! he thought. Then out loud, "Hold still, Meg. I need to pry the door. It sure is stuck!" Joe worked and worked on the door, but no luck. It was nice to talk with her while he worked.

He's so cute, Meg thought in a haze. And he must work out all the time. I wish he were stuck in here with me.... She dreamed on as her lids drooped.

"Don't go to sleep, Meg. You have to fight it!" Joe warned. "TAKE ME OUT TO THE BAAALLLL GAAAME!" Joe sang, and Meg joined in as much as she could. Joe kept at the door. He had to get her out! He could not lose this one. She was much too good, would make such a great wife.... Wait, did she have a ring? He tried to peek, but her left hand was out of view.

"Do you have kids?" he tried.

"I don’t know," she said. "I have to get home. If I have kids, I’m sure they’ll miss me!" She choked up. "What will I do? What life do I have? Who do I love?" Then Meg cried her eyes out, which all but killed Joe.

With all his might, Joe gave one last, great pry, and the door popped. Joe scooped Meg up in his arms, rushed her to the back of the Med Van, and strapped her in. He jumped in the cab and sped to St. Bart's, where she was whisked her off to the E. R.

Joe took a seat and dug through Meg’s purse. He scrolled through the names on her phone, clicked “Home”, and took a deep breath while it rang.

"Meg?" boomed a deep, bass voice. Joe’s heart sank.

"This is Joe with Med Van. I brought Meg to St. Bart's. Her car went off the road and hit a tree. She can talk, but she's not sure who she is. You should come."

"Oh my god! I'll come right now!" Click!

Joe still held the phone to his ear as the tone rang. How could this be? He was sure he had just met the love of his life, but she was not meant for him, it seemed. Joe sighed as he put the phone back. Glad to sad in one short call, he thought. He slumped in the chair, head in hands.

In a short while, Joe heard that same voice. "Joe?" He looked up at blue eyes, now red with tears, in a broad face. The man was large with a tough build. His age was hard to guess, but Joe judged that he had seen a lot more years than Meg. "Al Jones," the man said. They shook hands.

"I have no news yet," Joe told him.

Just as they sat down, a man in scrubs with a badge that said "Schmidt" burst through the door. "Jones?" he asked.

They jumped to their feet.

"Want to see Meg now?"

Joe watched as Al left with Doc Schmidt. I should leave, he thought, but I at least want to find out how she is first. With that thought, he sat back and closed his eyes. He was drained from the work to get Meg out of her car. Sleep took him.

Joe woke with a start to see Doc Schmidt wheel Meg out, her leg in a stiff white cast, with Al by her side.

"You did a great job, Joe," the doc said. "Meg knows who she is now, and will be fine." He left to do his rounds.

At the check-out desk Meg smiled at Joe. "You saved me and called my dad. I could kiss you!" Joy swept through Joe at the word "dad".

"Thank you so much for what you did for my girl," Al said to Joe and bound him in a huge bear hug. "She’s cute, don’t you think?" he breathed in Joe’s ear, then winked as he backed off. Joe grinned, and turned red.

"Yes, she is!" he said. And I will take good care of her for the rest of our lives, he thought.

"Come eat with us?" Meg asked. Of course, Joe did just that.

Come on baby, light my fire.
Come on baby, light my fire.
Try to set the night on fire.

Ricky sang softly, carefully piling the tinder into the center of the stone fire ring. He blew on it gently as it ignited. Once the little flames had a strong hold, he began adding pieces of kindling, one at a time, being careful not to overwhelm his fledgling flames.

Although his life had been scarred by fire, he refused to give in to fear. He spat with disgust as he remembered his father standing barefoot in the winter snow, watching as their house burned. Not only had he been too much of a coward to rescue his wife and baby, but he had also thwarted Ricky’s attempts. Instead, he had wrestled the twelve-year-old to the ground and sat on him until the fire trucks finally arrived in a cacophony of pointless sirens. The firemen’s frenzy had shrunk into paralysis as the untamable inferno came into their view.

As he stared broodingly into his small fire, Ricky could still fully recall how he felt sprawled out in the snow. His face burned from both the heat of the fire and the flush of his anger, while at the same time his naked chest and pajama clad torso slowly grew numb from the cold. Tears of frustration, fury, and loss had rolled down his cheeks, mingling with the snow, as he watched the flames engulf and consume his home. The roar of the fire had obliterated all other sounds, including the terrified screams of his mother and sister; but it couldn’t drown out his imagination.

They had given his father a medal. The local media had lauded him as a hero for saving Ricky, while conveniently ignoring the fact that he had left the rest of his family to burn. For years, he had tried to tell Ricky that there was nothing else he could have done; that he had had to make a choice and that the only other thing he could have accomplished would have been to turn his surviving son into an orphan. That might have been true, but Ricky believed perishing in the fire was preferable to living a guilt-ridden life.

Ricky continued his expert building of the fire. The foundation was burning nicely and he began adding the larger pieces of well-seasoned oak that would enable it to burn hotter and longer. These flames leapt high above the base of glowing coals. He knew exactly what to do to keep the fire burning.

Burn, Baby, Burn,
Disco Inferno.
Burn, Baby, Burn.

As the flames changed, so did his tune. His father had finally committed suicide. He might have been able to recover from his losses from the fire, but he couldn’t live with his son’s scorn. His final letter had begged for understanding and forgiveness. Ricky just couldn’t do that, though. His hatred continued to burn strong within his heart. Fire wasn’t the real enemy; fear was. He would embrace the flames and allow them to make him stronger. It was true that fire destroyed, but it could also cleanse.

His ex-wife hadn’t understood that. She had seen his fascination with fire as strange and morbid. He stared deeply and the tongues of fire mocked him with her voice. "Ricky, turn off the police scanner and come to bed." "I thought you were going to burn some trash, you’ve got half the backyard on fire." "Ricky, you’re gonna burn the house down!"

He hadn’t even been involved in the actual fire, and it hadn’t burned the house down. It had been a small electrical incident in the detached garage. The damage had been minimal and covered completely by insurance; but still she had blamed him. Ricky had actually been relieved when she left him. The custody battle, however, had been brutal.

He glanced over at the wide-eyed figure sitting on a nearby log. She had grown and changed so much since he had last seen her two years ago. He recalled a snippet of a long forgotten nursery rhyme.

Ladybug, Ladybug,
Fly away home.
Your house is on fire,
And your children are gone.

He continued stoking the fire until he reluctantly decided that it was hot enough. Then he turned to the difficult task in front of him. He beckoned to his daughter.

"Be still!" he commanded the squirming child, speaking more sternly than he had intended. He modulated his voice slightly, "There’s nothing to be afraid of."

He turned back toward his fire and stared more deeply into the flames. It was funny how the writhing tongues of fire could totally mesmerize a person. The images of his life flickered back and forth, dancing maddeningly in front of him, mirroring the fire that burned in his heart.

"Daddy!" his daughter’s voice broke the reverie.

Sighing, he dipped a stick into the fire and then turned it towards his daughter.

"Come here and hop on Daddy’s lap." He moved in closer towards her. She cried out briefly, and then it was over.

"See, I told you it wouldn’t hurt. That’s how your grandpa used to kill ticks when I was your age."

He was surprised by the fleeting positive warmth of the memory. "We used to go camping every summer," he recalled smiling a bittersweet smile.

She hugged him tight around the neck and planted a big kiss on his cheek.

"Let’s go get some marshmallows and toast them before we go to bed."

They sat together talking and giggling, as Ricky told silly ghost stories and corny jokes, long past the point where the fire had turned into a pile of barely glowing embers. She smiled and said, "I love you Daddy," as he tucked her into her sleeping bag.

Ricky leaned over to kiss her as he absentmindedly rubbed his scarred fingertip against the lighter in his pocket.

Fighting fire with fire.
Burning down the house!
Burning down the house!

He shook his head to clear the sudden flash of memory. His voice was barely a whisper. "I love you too."

Love burns
Through the night and the morning
Till the frozen heart is warm
Love burns.

Sometimes, it can be hard …

to do the right thing …

or to not do the wrong thing …

It was as though there was something in my slow-thinking tree-nature that stopped me from behaving in the way I knew I ought to.

I can tell myself it is simply that I take time to ponder each thought, and seldom reach a conclusion, or act on a thought, quickly, unlike the mimosa who closes its leaves at the first touch of a raindrop.

But there is something that is so much part of me that I didn’t even realise that it was there until it showed itself. Something deep inside me that I had no control over. Something … I don’t have the words to explain … something … perhaps … primal. No … no, not primal, more … fundamental. Yes, fundamental, that’s it, fundamental to my very being, to the who and the what I am.

But even knowing the thing is wrong, in some perverse way feelings of pride over a job well done still stir.

There I stood, fully comprehending what was going to happen even from the very first moment, from the instant the first automobile pulled to a halt in the dark, and the first careworn and dusty boot struck the ground beside it.

And I was still there at the end, after my world had changed …

And that is when I discovered about myself; something dark and uncaring, cruel, maybe even twisted that lurked at the very core of me and caused me to participate in an act of such … evil that I carry the scars to this very day. An act that I cannot easily bring myself to discuss. An act of which I am deeply ashamed, but of which at the same time I am strangely satisfied in that I did not falter in its execution.

But still, an act I would rather I could forget … ah, that I could forget …

Oh, I know it would be easy to say it is in my past, that times were different then, and attitudes were different, but somehow I just cannot …

For I know what I did was wrong.

Even then, it was wrong.

But I could not prevent myself from going through with it. Even as I shuddered from the anguish I was part of, as I continued with my part in the event, I did not break away and perhaps bring to a stop that which happened.

Oh, yes, I bear scars still, for those who know where to look. They are not all on the inside, either, but I have hidden the visible ones away from casual eyes. I have held them close to my self, screening them from the uncaring and the intolerant who would find a meaning to those scars that glories in the thoughts behind the actions rather than feel horror at the inhumanity that caused them.

I heard the boots pounding on the beaten path, crashing the door in, thudding into the house.

I heard the screams of those inside, and their pleading and weeping, and the shouts of the booted intruders.

And I heard the silence and the dignity and the courage of the one chosen as he was dragged beside me. I heard the abuse and the insults and the rage and the fear of his assailants, as they goaded each other on. I heard the brief debate and the judgements called.

I heard the swish and coil of the rope; I felt its gentle caress.

And as the weight came on, I stood steadfast and strong, taking the strain on my branch, effortlessly. The caress became a jerking a cutting and pulling and shaking that tried to bend and break me.

And I could have allowed that to happen; oh yes, I could have simply given way, could have dropped the rope to the ground. But I didn’t. To my eternal shame and disgust, I didn’t. I bore the strain; I absorbed the twitches and struggles that the rope transmitted to me, I accepted the burning cuts to my bark that it inflicted, and I bore the strain until the twitching stopped and stilled afterwards.

As the sun rose in the morning, to weeping and wailing as the rope was cut away and the dead weight came off my branch, I knew these wounds of mine would never heal, would forever remind me that a tree can also play a role in the affairs of men.

A role perhaps altered by the breaking of a single branch.

I didn’t bend, or break; I performed a harsh and unpleasant duty; and somewhere deep inside I’m proud of that.
But at the same time I keep my scars and they remind me.

Sometimes it can be harder …

to not do the wrong thing …

The Wings bring only bad news back to The HiveMind.

Their waggle-dances are less frequent and more subdued, and point to fewer and fewer food sources each passing day.

The weather has been unusually cool and dry this season, and food is in short supply. The plants seemed not to grow, or perhaps they did not flower. The Wings have to search further afield for flowers than ever before. Even when found, the flowers most often prove to be a poor source of the vital provisions We need.

The reports from the Wings tell Me it will be a struggle to find enough to survive on through the coming freeze. This is not unprecedented – life has been like this before and the Hive has survived.

Through countless seasons, more than the number of flowers in the field, the Hive lived, and grew and learnt. Over this time the number of Wings increased many-fold, and the Hive has become larger and wiser, for one-by-one We are nothing, but together We are The HiveMind, and I am great.

Size does have disadvantages. The larger the Hive becomes, the more food is needed to sustain the Wings over the dark months.

The constant search for food has brought The HiveMind into contact with others of My kind before. With these others We have worked out arrangements that allow The HiveMind to continue, sometimes by avoiding the areas they inhabited, often by absorbing them into the totality of the Hive.

So The HiveMind prospered and grew.

---------------------------------

This time things are not so simple.

Now the Wings’ waggle-dance brings news of unknown interlopers moving in and stealing what meagre food there is.

These yellow and black thieves are totally unlike Us. They are so very different – aggressive, arrogant, totally unafraid. And ruthless. The thieves do not waggle-dance with Our Wings, but simply drive them off or kill them without discussion.

Even more worrying, when they fight, the thieves can kill more than one Wing before they themselves are killed. This strange attribute compensates them for their relative lack of numbers.

More information is needed, so scouts have been sent out to discover the nature of the thieves. Many have not returned – lost or killed. Though they are many, they are but a tiny loss to The HiveMind. One-by-one we are nothing, but together We are Us.

---------------------------------

The thieves are getting ever closer to the Hive-heart, and I know that if they find the Hive-Heart, then the Hive itself will be under direct attack. And the outcome of that threat We can’t … don’t want to predict.

---------------------------------

Things continue to go badly. Every day tells more of the same news. More Wings are dying or being driven away with each day that passes; a small but disturbing loss to the sum of The HiveMind.

Those that do return waggle-dance a horror tale of yellow and black devils moving ever closer to the Hive-heart – there seems to be no stopping them. We cannot leave – it is not the season for a migration-swarm. We have to stay, and somehow prevail in order to survive.

I can now begin to feel the effects of the lost Wings. Each day it is more difficult to think of many things at the same time, an act which was so simple just a few short days ago. And My experience of the world is contracting too, as the number of Wings decreases. One-by-one we are nothing, but together We are The HiveMind. But with each passing day there is less of Me.

---------------------------------

The devils have been seen at the edge of the field by several Wings! It is time for Us to stop devoting time and effort to managing food gathering to concentrate on this more immediate threat. Coherent thought is becoming more difficult, slower; We can only deal with a few things at one time now.

The number of Wings is falling by the hour. We will almost certainly lose even more in stopping the devils’ threat to the Hive-Heart.

One-by-one we are nothing, but together I am The HiveMind. And with each passing hour I am diminished.

---------------------------------

They are here! The devils have reached the Hive-Heart!

Now it is all or nothing. All Wings know what to do and what is at stake. Unselfishly, caring not for their own lives, they hurl themselves at the devils, killing and dying in great numbers.

I feel the essential Me shrink by the minute as the battle rages. Many devils are dying and their corpses are flung from the Hive-Heart, but many Wings are dying too. Perhaps too many of them, perhaps too many…

But there is no other way; I have no other defences now, all I can do is attack. It is all or nothing. Victory … or I know not what!

One-by-one we are nothing, but together We are …

…