Tree of Life

by Sarah Joy Green-Hart

  Warmth made his cold hands tingle as he unwound the rags he had wrapped around them. He pulled the chair away from the table and sat in front of the steaming bowl of golden broth, loaded with noodles and dotted with chicken and colorful vegetable bits.

  Seated in a chair by the fire, the old man slurped at his own bowl and asked, "What’s your name?”

  "Jes.”

  He swiped a noodle off his chin and into his mouth. "Short for Jesse?”

  "Nah. Jesurun.”

  "Quite a name. What’s your last name?”

  Jes shrugged. "Mom never told me.”

  "Want crackers?” the man asked, holding up a metal tin.

  Jes nodded. He liked crackers.

  The old man held the tin out. Jes took it and scrabbled a handful of salty oyster crackers, crumbled them up, and plopped them into his soup. He dropped the spoon a few times—stupid fingers wouldn’t work right—but once he got a hold of it, the good soup made his nose and cheeks prickle and drip as it thawed him out. He swiped his nose with his sleeve.

  "Where you from, Jes?”

  "Nowhere.” He couldn’t remember where he came from, honestly.

  "You have somewhere to go?”

  Thanks for the reminder, dipstick. "No.”

  The old man rose and made his way to shelves built into the wall to Jes’ left and grabbed a couple of teacups. "Like tea?”

  "I like anything.”

  "Ah, good. I enjoy a cup of white tea in the evening. I’ll close up shop and get some tea for both of us.”

  The old man left Jes alone with the crackling fire and peace. Quiet. The sleigh bells jangled. Switches clicked. Cash register opened . . . The soup was almost gone. Just a bit of broth-soaked crackers and a few broken noodle pieces. Jes shook the remnants into his mouth.

  The old man returned with a handful of silvery dried leaves. He passed Jes with an "oh-goody” grin and shrug and dropped them into a kettle sitting by the fire.

  "So, who’re you?” Jes asked.

  The old man poured water into the kettle. "Jones.” He burped.

  Jes snorted. "Jones. Isn’t that, like, a last name?”

  Jones straightened up, frowning. With a shake of his head, he said, "No. Last name’s Atwood. So, kiddo, who’s chasing you?”

  Friggin’ nosy . . . "Who said someone’s chasin’ me? I know I didn’t!”

  Jones set the kettle on the table. "Jealous husbands? LEWs? Thugs?”

  "I dunno what the fu—”

  "What the heck you swearin’ for, boy?” he barked. "There’ll be no cussin’ in my house, or I’ll throw your bloody rump into the darn, dimnity, condemnity, poopity-scoopin’ snow!” He eyed Jes. "See, I can swear with the best of them. Don’t try me, pith-face.”

  Did he just say pith-face? What was he supposed to say to that? Jes considered the words and shrugged. "Okay. Sorry, man.”

  "My question is a natural one,” Jones said quietly. "You look to be a troublemaker, but you seem to have a good heart. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. Who’s after you?”

  "I’ve had all of those on my butt in the past.”

  "What did LEWs want you for?”

  Jes sniffed. "What does a LEW want anyone for?”

  "If a law enforcement warden wanted you, right or wrong, I want to know why.”

  Jes pushed away his empty bowl. "I’ve lost track of the reasons and the times,” he growled. "Okay?”

  Jones’ shiny old eyes swept the floor a few times. “Where’s your family?”

  I don’t see why it’s any of your business, but . . . "LEWs or soldiers—I don’t know what—killed my mom when I was five, so I’ve been takin’ care of myself.”

  "Since you were five?”

  "Yeah.”

  "Where’s your father?”

  "What gives you the right to ask all this?” Jes stood, sliding his chair back.

  Jones stared into the fire, rocking in his chair. "You can always leave, kiddo. Gonna go far below zero tonight, though, and most folks in Apple Gate aren’t gonna let you in. They want peace.”

  Jes wasn’t ready to leave. Give the old man harmless info for some warmth? Fair trade. "My father was military. I never met him. Mom insisted he’d find me someday. Happy?” He slammed back into his chair.

  "I’ll teach you somethin’, son. I don’t care if you call me sir, but as you go on in life, you’ll find that if you learn to say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ regularly, you’ll get further than you would without it.”

  Bossy schmuck! "Yes, ma’am. I get it. Thanks.”

  Jones pursed his lips. Shifting out of thought, he grabbed the tea kettle and poured off-colored water into a cup on the table.

  "I thought you said it was tea.”

  "White tea,” Jones confirmed.

  Jes grunted at the liquid, sniffing it. What was that silvery stuff the old guy put in there? He’d never seen tea like that before. Smelled better than a lot of other things he’d drunk. He survived that, he’d probably survive this, but plants were all kinds of messed up. He’d consumed plants that had him sweating, puking, and hallucinating for days.

  "No one’s after you?” Jones repeated.

  "No, sir. Nobody official. Not that I know of anyway. There’s a couple people who probably think I’m after them, though.” Jes smirked and took a sip of tea.

  "Uh-huh, I see.” Jones sat in his rocking chair. "Where you going after you leave here?”

  The tea was good. Mild. Hot. Delicate? Yeah, he would use the word delicate for this.

  "I don’t know yet.”

  Jones stared at his folded hands, resting in his lap. "You’re welcome to stay here.”

  "Why?”

  "Oh”—he sipped at his tea—"‘Cause I’m a lonely old man who doesn’t know better.”

  Jes laughed. "I’ll stay the night. Sure. Thanks.”

  They finished their tea, and Jones took Jes to another room farther back in the building. He dug blankets and a squishy pillow out of a cedar closet and laid them out on the sofa, then fluffed the pillow and set another blanket on top.

  "It’s a bit frilly with all the flowers, but a blanket’s a blanket, right?”

  All this fuss embarrassed Jes. A spot on the floor would have been enough.

  "I ain’t complainin’, man. I just wanna warm place to sleep. The . . . the uh, pretty blanket’s kinda a treat.”

  Jones grinned. "Yeah, my wife liked things pretty. I never saw any sense in getting new stuff just ‘cause I’m not a lady. Our son hated it, though.” Jones pushed his hands into his corduroy pant pockets and grew wistful. "He has what he wants now. Simple. Minimal. Joined the military a few years ago in hopes of becoming a LEW someday. He’s doing a good job! He’s an officer working in the Bastion of Holiness. One more level of training to become a LEW.” He licked his lower lip, thoughtful. "Well! Anyway, you need some stuff. You’re welcome to a bath. I’ll get a few things from the store for you—soap, toothpaste, a brush, and all that—unless you have those things, which I don’t think you do.”

  "I got a toothbrush,” Jes said, pulling it out of his back pocket. Sure, it was a mangled, filthy thing, but it worked!

  Jones’ eyes nearly fell out of his face. "Kiddo, you need a new one.”

  Jes spent a warm, comfortable night in Jones’ home, and the following day, Jones kept him around for odd jobs. With a few excuses and a few ‘oh, before you go’ moments the day was over. So, Jes spent another night.

  A few days into this routine, it was time to think about staying. Jones obviously wanted to keep Jes, but it’d been a long time since he’d let himself be kept—a long time coming. He was tired, and this was as sweet as silk sheets in a Glorious One’s mansion. Whatever that felt like.

  Jones had a shelf loaded with books about all kinds of things. Jes enjoyed the book about human anatomy best, but he kept that a secret from Jones. During daylight hours, he enjoyed fantasy books with stuff about dragons, princesses, and magic. In fifteen years, he had neve
r heard of anything like it. If he ever stopped somewhere long enough to get schooling, they stuck math and psychology under his nose. Jones’ education gave Jes a whole new world to think about. A world where suffering made people into something better and good triumphed over evil. It made him want to do something crazy like . . . sing, draw, write!

  However, he spent most of his time sweeping floors, stocking shelves, doing the heavy-lifting and high-reaching. He had a steady job for the first time in his life.

  He also enjoyed a pale, dark-haired girl who frequented the store. Her voice, her face, her hair, her lips—everything about her made him happy. Besides liking Jones pretty well, she was the reason it was worth it to leave off living the life of a feral cat to get all tamed. It’d take time and effort, and he hoped she wouldn’t up and leave the gate without notice before then, but he’d marry and take care of that girl someday. The idea made him nervous. How long did he have to wait to marry her? Could he get married at fifteen? Wait—what was her name?

  Every day, they’d talk, and every day, he’d forget to ask her name. Girls never made him nervous, so why the heck should this one? After a month of this torture, he settled it: he had to get her name and ask her to hang out with him—have tea or something.

  I sound like a friggin’ stuffed-shirt. Oh, miss, you’re so charming. Come over for a bit of tea, won’t you? Gag!

  The day after he made the decision to ask for her name, a shipment of fruit arrived and Jes had just begun putting them out. The sleigh bells rang and Jes’ girl walked up to the fruit. His hand shook as much as his breath as she stood beside him and grabbed a peach and nectarine. She sniffed the peach first, then the nectarine. Gave a squeeze to one and a squeeze to the other. Another sniff, a feel, a rub.

  "The nectarines are perfect right now. You might be better off with that if you want to eat right away,” he said. With the cost of fruit in the winter, nobody could afford to buy the wrong thing.

  She smiled and turned the nectarine over in her worn hand a few times, then held it to her nose for a committed sniff. "You are right. It is.”

  "Where do you come from?” He threw the question out to stop her from leaving.

  A small smile touched her sweet pepper-berry lips. "The earth.” She walked away.

  What did that mean? Was that a code phrase for being an Earth Person? Did she think he might be one, too? Was he supposed to say something back?

  He’d get her name next time.

  By afternoon, business slowed, giving Jes and Jones downtime to talk and have a late lunch. "I’ll go back and fetch chili from last night, and how about some tea? A sandwich sounds good, too.” Jones lowered his bushy eyebrows. "Bacon and lettuce. That feels right—tomato! Keep an eye on the store, hm?” He patted Jes’ back on his way out.

  Jes pulled out a pad of paper and busied himself drawing a dragon as he saw in one of Jones’ books, taking an occasional glance at passersby outdoors. A couple of black uniforms caught his eye after the third or fourth glance: LEWs. Their manner and rifles said they were probably there for Immediate Justice. Jes sneered at the thought. He’d seen Immediate Justice before. It was generally reserved for common people who were so obviously guilty no trial was "needed.” They paced up and down the street, gawking at and accosting passersby, letting them go, then doing it all again.

  Jes returned to his paper and flipped the sheet to start over. This time he drew a picture of his dark-haired girl, smiling. As he finished the final black curl, a burning sensation shot from his chest to the fingertips of his left hand. The left hand snatched the pencil from his right and the happy girl’s face grew wet with graphite tears.

  The heat cranked itself up, and fear overcame his fascination. Searing pain ripped through his body and forced a wail into his throat. He swallowed it down and clamped his mouth shut. The last line of the new drawing pierced and sliced through the layers of paper beneath it and went off the edge of the pad, across the counter, leaving a long storm-gray streak. The pencil tip broke off with a snap. He threw the pencil to the ground as soon as his fingers would obey him.

  Out of breath, he looked around the store for witnesses. A few heard the commotion, but it resulted in a few laughs and scowls. Nothing more.

  He’d drawn the girl being attacked.

  No. Raped.

  Not something he would draw on his own, or something he ever wanted to see. He might be a criminal, but he refused to be that kind. Until he got strong enough, he’d been on the receiving end of it, and he had no interest in delivering that kind of horror to anyone else.

  Swallow these emotions. Kill panic. Crush the feelings. No one could be allowed to see him worried, or they’d ask what was wrong. The drawing had to disappear before someone saw it, or he’d lose everything.

  Beyond the window, his dark-haired girl lugged a sack of grain out of the feed mill.

  He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash can, then he stomped on that sucker. And stomped on it again.

  The fire gradually withdrew from his fingers and traveled up his arm, leaving dark markings in the shape of a bear’s pad on his palm, followed by a black trail that spiraled upward and retreated into his chest over his heart. His whole back itched.

  The marking on his arm looked like a tattoo, but it burned when touched. "What the . . .”

  Outside, his beautiful girl still dragged her sack of grain on the ground, but then her face changed, plastered with fear.

  Oh, no. The LEWs.

  She spun around to drag the sack back to the feed mill, but she’d been spotted. One of them pointed, and the duo rushed her.

  Jes stood up, knocking his stool to the floor.

  The girl abandoned the sack and ran with life or death terror distorting her sweet face, but they grabbed her before she had a chance. People glanced at her and walked by, trying to stay out of the LEWs’ way. How could they ignore a girl’s screaming?

  Jes jumped the counter, shoved the door open, and sloshed through the gray slush. His breath formed great misty puffs in the cold air, and his heating arm created a trail of steam.

  I’m gonna kill ‘em, I’m gonna kill ‘em.

  With the momentum of a thousand tumbling injustices and horrors, he planted a mighty swing of his fiery left fist on a LEW’s jaw.

  "Paws off her, whore hounds!” Jes shouted.

  The so-called whore hound staggered back and let go of the girl who delivered her knee to the other’s crotch. Jes threw himself at the first LEW and knocked him to the ground. Straddled over the LEW’s torso, Jes hacked at his face with the weight of lead as darkness flooded his eyes and mind.

  Jabbed at his temple, the barrel of a gun slapped him back into reality. "Oh, my God,” he whispered, staring at his fists, covered in fresh blood. What had he done?

  It was over. Everything was over.

  "Get up!” the LEW with the gun ordered.

  "I lost my mind. Please. She’s just a girl,” Jes cried, his cold face, wet with tears. Crying? WHAT! Crying? Cool down.

  Jes looked for the girl, but she’d gotten away.

  "Just a girl? She’s an Earth Person, wanted for murdering an officer.”

  The LEW’s bayonet knife sheath, secured at his hip, pressed into Jes’ leg.

  Time for a little insurance.

  As he moved to stand, Jes unsnapped the sheath.

  Standing, Jes reached out to help the LEW up, but he refused to take Jes’ hand. Still, Jes had gotten close enough to grab him and kife the bayonet knife from the unsnapped sheath. Jes placed himself behind the LEW before the gunman comprehended the unexpected move and pressed the knife to the LEW’s throat ‘til a trickle of blood slid down his neck like watery catsup over the edge of a squeezed bottle with a broken seal.

  Jes smiled. Satisfied. He hadn’t done anything violent in a long time. It was starting to feel good.

  Jones emerged from the store, stomping through the dirty snow. "What . . . What is the meaning of this?”

  "Do you know
this boy?” the armed LEW asked.

  "Yes, he’s my son. What’s going on here?”

  His son? Jes’ heart throbbed. He was losing a dad? No, no, no.

  “He works in the store. Calls me son the same as everybody else. I barely know him,” Jes said.

  The LEW frowned, suspicious. "He’s at death’s door for the assault of a law enforcement warden and Disruption of Justice.”

  Jones pressed his palms downward in a quelling motion. "The boy has a lot to learn. If you give me a chance, I’ll work with him, Warden Cadence.”

  Warden Cadence wouldn’t have it. Jes’ handiwork had his comrade crying like a prepubescent boy. That was unforgivable.

  "I’m afraid not, sir. Not possible. He’s fortunate I’m giving him his choice of execution.”

  "Those medallions of justice don’t do you much good, do they?” Jones said, disgusted. "All your psychology training, and you still can’t understand or don’t care to help the errors of a boy such as this. His personality ain’t right. He’s been abused and split down the middle of his soul. He doesn’t know who he is or what he should do.”

  Jes let the catsup bottle cry-baby go, dropped his knife, and raised his hands. "Hey, I’ll take it.”

  Warden Cadence shifted his body, his gun still trained on Jes’ head. "What’ll it be, son? Blood, Water, or Spirit?” In circumstances such as these, a gunshot qualified as Blood.

  "I’ve already been through them all because of you Kyrios pigs.” Jes spit on the warden’s jacket—right on his name.

  "Look, I’ll pay for your friend to see a doctor, I’ll give you my store,” Jones said. "I’ll do whatever. Sirs, let the boy go.” Jones clasped his hands together and took another step.

  "You’re pushing it, old man.”

  "You old fart, knock it off! You’re gonna get yourself killed. This’s got nothin’ to do with you!” Jes yelled.

  "He’s breathed into my old sad life and made it all new, sir.” Jones put his hand over his heart, eyes watering. "I want to help him heal. Please, don’t deny an old man a little joy.” He took another step. "Sirs, you can’t tell me you’ve never made any mist—” Jones touched the gun and Warden Cadence backhanded him, knocking him to the ground.