The Bitching Tree

by Scott Hungerford

  “Deal.” Fetching wood from the tarp pile took only a single pass and Torvo was already waiting to reward him with a bottle of water. Once he set down the heavy triangles of wood, he guzzled down the bottle’s contents as Torvo knelt down, knees popping, and started teaching him how to build up a fire.

  Breakfast, or better to say lunch, consisted of a kind of oatmeal with crumbles of jerky added to provide a salty, meaty flavor to it. While it had a weird texture, it tasted pretty good to Cobb. True to his word, Torvo didn’t talk about anything but firewood and his little island and neatly dodged any of Cobb’s questions that dealt with anything else. But Cobb didn’t mind. Sitting in his chair in front of the stove, warm and full and his muscles stretched from the morning’s initial work, he felt good. Relaxed. Ready to learn and to meet whatever challenge Torvo had for him next.

  Once the dishes were cleared and the oatmeal pan set to soak, Torvo gave him a pair of worn work gloves from the back room, telling him that they would help prevent damage to his hands. Cobb noted that word—prevent. It didn’t mean stop, and he suspected that in time things were going to get ugly. But after he shrugged on the peculiar mittenlike objects, he took a piece of right-size firewood from the pile to use as a measuring stick and went out and got to work.

  The first batch of pieces split easily enough. He was able to cut nearly twenty pieces in the first hour. But after that, the easy pickings by the log pile became harder to find. Of the dozen long logs resting on the shore, some had been there for a season or two, but many others were still damp to the touch. There were some chunks, some rounds, and some raw pieces of rough-barked tree limbs that Cobb could roll on the ground—but had no idea on how to start to split them apart.

  In the end he chose his target, a large fifteen-foot long piece of dried tree that seemed attackable. He managed to roll it to the stump, and by sheer willpower gut-lifted one end up on the chopping block. Then, taking his ax, he got to work on cutting the thing in two, to chop off a section on the end that would hopefully be the right length.

  A half hour later he wasn’t much further than where he started. Despite the chill air Cobb was soaking with sweat. The palms of his hands were starting to burn, even with the gloves, and the pitiful chink he’d cut in the log was no more than two handspans deep. Setting the ax down again, well away from the water, Cobb went up the stairs to the tent. Torvo was sitting inside, relaxing in his chair in front of the woodstove reading a well-worn book.

  “I think I need help,” Cobb asked.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I’ve run out of rounds, and I need more pieces to split.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  A few minutes later the two of them stood over the mangled log. Torvo’s hands on his hips. “Well, that’s certainly a problem,” he said.

  “Is this how you do it?”

  “You could, but it’s going to take a long time. You also have to chip at your mark from both sides, so you’re cutting wood out and not just compacting it with every swing. But like everything, there is a right way of doing this.” Walking over to where the weird yellow tool sat, Torvo picked up the heavy-looking device. It smelled of grease and acrid-tasting gasoline. Even though he was old, Torvo made picking up the heavy thing look easy, as if it were as light as a feather.

  “What do you call that?” Cobb asked.

  “This is a chainsaw.” After kicking and rolling the large log off the chopping block, he set the mechanical tool down on the stump. “It’s a gasoline-powered engine. Pulling the trigger here causes the gears to spin the chain blade. It’s really noisy though, so stand back.”

  “Noisy?” Cobb asked. But when Torvo yanked on the starter handle—and the thing erupted into a rumbling roar a hundred times worse than the four-wheeled vehicle from yesterday—Cobb couldn’t help but to stumble away from the sea of noise that threatened to drown him, drive him into flight. Torvo winked at him, turned to the log and triggered the saw to life, making it even louder!

  Even as Cobb retreated to the water’s edge, covering his ears, the powerful sound of the chain blade ripping through the log reverberated through him, the sounds terrifying him more than a fleet of car horns. The shower of sawdust arcing out from the gap was visually impressive, and within a few seconds Torvo had cut the log neatly in two. He did the same thing down the line, chopping the log into foot-long lengths until a cluster of good-sized rounds lay waiting for Cobb to disassemble them.

  When Torvo was done, Cobb was relieved to see the old man return the chainsaw to its sacred perch. Approaching cautiously, his heart hammering in his chest, Cobb fingered the neat cuts on the log pieces.

  “You’re going to need these,” Torvo told him, holding out two heavy chunks of iron, beaten flat on the top, sharp and wedge-shaped on the bottom.

  “What are these for?”

  “You use the head of the ax—not the blade—to hammer the wedges in. They break rounds like these into smaller chunks that you can put on the chopping block. But it takes some practice to know where to put them, as every piece of wood is its own particular puzzle. Some pieces are clean, some have knots, and some just plain don’t want to be cut up.”

  “Could you show me?”

  “Good bird,” Torvo said appreciatively. “Questions will make you a smarter man.” After tapping the head of the wedge into the log, just hard enough so it stayed upright, he gestured Cobb back, flipped and raised his ax up over his head, then hammered the wedge down into the wood with a single ringing blow. In response, the round of wood developed a couple of running cracks. Taking the second wedge and putting it into one of the cracks, Torvo hammered it one-two-three times before the whole round split neatly in half—and both wedges dropped to the ground with a ringing, clinking sound.

  “There you go. Forty pieces and we’ll sit down by the fire and have an afternoon snack.” Cobb nodded, grateful that he wasn’t having to use the chainsaw with all of its screaming teeth.

  As Torvo mounted the steps back up to the tent, Cobb got to work. Picking up the heavy wedges with his gloves, he started to figure out the best way to quarter the two halves he currently had to work with.

  Much to his surprise, the work came naturally to him, as the rhythm of lift, set, place, and strike resulted in a growing pile of right-sized fire sticks beside the chopping block. Within the gloves his hands hurt, especially where his fingers grasped the handle of the ax. But he kept going, conserving his energy, trying to make every strike count.

  With the last of the afternoon’s wood stacked by the tent’s zipper door, Cobb made his way into the tent, his legs trembling from the effort of the nine woodpile trips up the stairs and back down. With all of the new pieces stacked in mostly orderly rows outside, he was pleased to see a plate with a sandwich waiting for him on the small table. Next to it was a small can of liquid with an unfamiliar label.

  “You all done?” Torvo asked.

  “All forty sticks.”

  “Good for you. Now you can eat.”

  As Cobb came over to the table he pulled off his gloves—and was shocked at the blisters rising on his fingers and palms. “Is this normal?” he asked.

  “All too normal,” Torvo replied. “We’ll get some medicine on it after lunch. You have soft hands. We’ll just have to toughen them up.”

  As they sat down in their chairs in front of the warm stove, Torvo popped the pull-tab lid on the can for Cobb without being asked. Taking a bite of the strange meaty sandwich, made delicious by a streak of fatty mayonnaise, Cobb sipped the drink and found it to be bitter, but very tasty.

  “You like beer?” Torvo asked. Cobb nodded yes, his mouth full of sandwich.

  “We were going to talk about things,” Cobb said after he swallowed, resisting the urge to eat the rest of his snack too quickly. This might be his only chance to learn things today, and he didn’t want to squander the opportunity.

  “Yes, we were,” Torvo said. “So, tell me what the problem is. Why are you he
re?”

  “The Red Crow is coming. Old Thom sent me to you to learn to fight. To learn to be human.”

  Torvo nodded and chewed another bite of his sandwich. “Old Thom. Of Seattle, I’m right?”

  “Yes. He’s our flock’s king. He rules the Bitching Tree.”

  “You’re the only one he’s going to send?”

  “That I know of, yes.”

  “How’s the old bird doing?”

  “He’s been badly hurt. Crippled, so that he can hardly fly. But he still guards the Bitching Tree.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a man. A predator. Old Thom fought him, to protect a human woman from being killed.”

  “How very Thom. Good to see that some things don’t change. So, the Red Crow?”

  “He’s Old Thom’s brother, but was exiled a long time ago. From what I know, he tried to take the power of the Bitching Tree for himself. He was cast out after his attempt to kill Old Thom failed.”

  “I know the old fucker. He’s tried this in a number of places around the continent. Ever since he was a juvenile, he’s never been satisfied with what he’s got.”

  “You’ve met him before?”

  “We fought before, when he tried to take a sacred tree from a friend of mine about twenty years ago. We drove him off pretty easily, fists and feathers. But that was a long time ago. I’m sure he’s much stronger now.”

  “He commands a great army of warriors. He’s coming to take the magic of the Bitching Tree for himself.”

  “That’s not good. What else do you know about him?”

  “His feathers are red like fire. Like Old Thom, he never dies. But he can get into your dreams. He can talk to you through them. Threaten you.”

  Torvo thought for a minute, sipping his beer as he worked through what Cobb said. Cobb’s lunch sat untouched on his lap; he suddenly wasn’t very hungry.

  “Old Thom and those before him,” Torvo said, “they have protected that tree long before Seattle’s first shack was built. Trees like that are considered sacred both by crows and the shamans of the human tribes alike. They are things of great power, where the spirits of the earth and sky come together.”

  “So, the Red Crow gaining control would be bad?”

  “Yes. If the Red Crow gained control of the Bitching Tree it would be bad for your people, and probably for the humans, too. But the spirits that give the tree its power, including the power to blend you and a human together as one, they don’t care who sings their songs. That’s what Red Crow is after. He’s always styled himself as something of a sorcerer. The more spirits he controls, the more things he can do with them. It’s as simple as that.”

  “So how do I stop him?”

  “You learn,” Torvo said, now very serious. “You learn everything that I show you. I’ll give you everything you need to go back and put an end to that son of a bitch.”

  “Good,” Cobb said with great relief. The trip now wouldn’t be wasted.

  “But you have to know that you’re going to be too late.”

  Cobb blinked, suddenly feeling unsteady. “What do you mean? Too late?”

  “What I’m going to teach you is going to take all the way into winter and out into the spring again. If the Red Crow is truly coming, the battle for the Bitching Tree is likely going to be over before you return.”

  Terror rose up from deep within Cobb’s heart. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that many of your friends are going to die. The rest are going to be subsumed into the Red Crow’s flock. Old Thom is a tough old bird, but if he’s lost his strength, he might finally die at his brother’s hand.”

  Cobb realized he was standing, having set the plate down on the ground next to his chair. “I can’t just sit here and chop wood all winter. I can’t just let Old Thom die alone.”

  “Old Thom knew exactly what he was doing when he sent you here. He trusted that you would be the one to get to Cordova and learn the things you need to know.”

  “But I have to get back.”

  “If you pull a Luke Skywalker on me and return now, you’re not going to be ready. You’ll be just one more tool that the Red Crow can exploit. Or, worse yet, one more wide-face that the crows will ignore.”

  “Then what am I, if I can’t protect my flock?”

  “You’re going to be the one who frees them from bondage and slavery. You’ll be the liberator. If need be, their avenger.”

  “That’s a very different kind of hero,” Cobb said, not wanting to show the panic, the emotion he was feeling, in front of Torvo. He wondered if any of Hawna’s other heroes had been as doomed as he was. “I … I imagined that you would teach me how to fight and kill the Red Crow. To disperse his flock and leave Old Thom to live out his years in peace.”

  Torvo looked Cobb right in the eye. “I’m sorry. But I don’t think this is going to end that way.”

  Cobb had the insane urge to fly, to kick, to scream, to attack, to cry, to wade through a storm-swept sea of unfamiliar human feelings and shake the old man until he gave him what he wanted. The image of Old Thom dead under the Red Crow’s claws—it was just too much to bear.

  “How is it too late?” Cobb demanded. “I got to Cordova within just a few days. Hawna said that no others ever got here so fast. How close could the Red Crow be?”

  “It takes just a few weeks to fly from the far side of the mountains to Seattle. There are dangers along the way of every size and shape. But if the Red Crow learned that Old Thom is no longer able to protect his sacred tree, he’d fly all the way to the moon and back to get it. So, accept the fact that you’re already too late, and just be glad that Old Thom got you free before the army arrived. You could be his vengeance. Maybe his savior, if you’re lucky.”

  The whirlpool of emotions threatened to drown his spirit. Cobb stood there for a time watching the fire through the stove grate. But instead of flying, or punching, or throwing his food, he instead made the decision to pick up his sandwich, sit down in his chair and chew. To force the tide of emotions back behind the wall where they belonged.

  “So, you’re staying?” Torvo asked, gently.

  “Yes,” Cobb replied. He hated it, but he knew he had no choice.

  “Good. That’s a good start.”

  “Why am I chopping wood?” Cobb asked. “What am I learning?”

  “How to keep me warm,” Torvo chuckled, then finished off his beer.

  Once their afternoon snack was done, Torvo salved and bandaged Cobb’s fingers with sticky strips. Together they cleaned up the plates, scraped out the frying pan, then Torvo went out and retrieved the chainsaw from the rock because it was starting to look like rain. Back inside the tent the old man took apart the tool and had Cobb help him clean it, right down to the gears and the chain blade. A few hours later when it was greased and reassembled to Torvo’s satisfaction, he took it back into the tool room to its perch by the back wall. As he did so, Cobb stood just on the outside of the invisible line that divided what was public and what was Torvo’s.

  As the old man shuffled around the tool room, Cobb looked at the plastic boxes that were stacked three high all around the space, filled with everything from tools to duct tape to canned food to toilet paper. Each box was small enough that Cobb felt he could carry two at a time with little difficulty. Each box looked like it was sealed tightly enough to keep out insects, but held all manner of small human treasures and necessities inside.

  In the end, it was the guns that drew his attention. Long ones, short ones, ones that hung on leather holsters, and even a few featuring two long barrels instead of one. The arsenal had its own special white plastic table in the back, just like the kitchen table. But instead of forks and knives and tongs burned black at the tip, this table was covered with bottles and rods and boxes of bullets.

  “What is all this stuff?” Cobb asked, gesturing to the room with his arm. He knew what most of it was now, but he asked to see what else he could learn.

&nbs
p; “The things I need to survive. Food. Medicine. Weapons. Tools.”

  “People didn’t have all this stuff when they came from the wild, did they?”

  “They had their own versions. Nothing as fancy as whirling chainsaws or shotguns. But humans have always used tools for just about everything. What tools did your human have when you took him?”

  The question was shocking, as it brought him back full circle to the fact that he was borrowing this body. “A wallet. Keys. A phone. I don’t know what else.” He remembered the alarm clock in his backpack, but that didn’t seem worth mentioning.

  “Shoes,” Torvo corrected him. “Clothes. Language. Hands with fingers and a thumb. Crows have their talons and their beak and their eyes and the capability to remember any face they’ve seen before. But a crow’s best tool is flight, to be able to take to the air and get to wherever they want to go. To loved ones or a pile of food or a nest or a hidden roost in the dark.”

  “But we seem so … simple. Compared to humans.”

  “Simple isn’t bad. It just means you’re not constantly dealing with hundreds of thousands of stupid thoughts that have nothing to do with surviving, breeding or feeding yourself.” Torvo came over to Cobb and put his old, weathered hand on his shoulder. “Would you go back to being a crow right now if you could? After everything you’ve seen this body do, after all the amazing things you’ve done in just the last few days?”

  Struck with longing, of just how badly he wanted to go home, he shook his head and pulled away, turning from the old man. “Why are you asking me these things?”

  Torvo followed him into the main room. “To remind you of what you are. So you never forget where you came from.” The old man stood behind him silently for a moment before speaking. “Come on, then. Let’s get you into boots, overalls and a warm coat.”

  “No more wood?” Cobb asked.

  “Not today. I want to show you something.”