Ghost of Willow's Past

by M. L. Buchman

  Ghost of Willow’s Past

  a Night Stalkers Christmas short story

  by M L Buchman

  “And Tomotada looked so long upon her face it grew rosy red from chin to forehead, and though she smiled, her eyes filled with tears.”

  -from “Green Willow” (an ancient Japanese folk tale of a samurai who marries the ghost of a willow tree)

  1

  Master Sergeant Dustin James nudged a clod of dirt back into place with the toe of his boot. The rich black soil of the Portland Oregon Rose Garden simply dissolved and left a blackish patch of mud on the worn leather. Today was the Winter Solstice. It was raining and about three degrees above freezing. Pretty typical. He stared down at the Rosa canina.

  This rose had been propagated from a cutting of the oldest documented rose bush on the planet. The rose now huddled, dormant and pruned back for the winter. In bloom, it was the least assuming rose in the garden, a single layer of five pink petals around a yellow center. Four days before Christmas, it was a cluster of frosty twigs decorated by bright red rose hips.

  Most people passed it by, but not his father, the head gardener of the nearby Japanese Garden. He had visited the rose every day after work on his walk home. Dusty and his mother had often walked up to meet him at the old Briar Rose.

  “I met your mother by this rose. We married right here.” Being a man of few words, his father never embellished the story. It wasn’t the most scenic spot in the garden, but with ten thousand rose bushes in a couple hundred neatly tended beds, not bad either. The fact that they’d married here on the Winter Solstice when nothing bloomed had been a little odd perhaps, but then his parents had been rather eccentric.

  Dusty had come home for this Christmas, even though his parents had been gone for three years. Their small condo now lay empty most of the year due to a crashed tourist helicopter. An old Bell 206 called in an engine failure and then auto-rotated right into an Icelandic volcano, no survivors.

  That Dusty was a crew chief and mechanic on a Sikorsky Black Hawk for the U.S. Army’s 160th SOAR had made the loss beyond ironic. His job was to fly, fight, and keep the Special Operations Aviation Regiment choppers running perfectly despite war conditions. His parents had died, probably from a broken fan belt.

  So, any time that he was home, but especially on the Winter Solstice, he made a point of coming to visit their rose as his parents had done so often for their three decades together.

  “I’m glad you went together, at least you got that much,” he told the sleeping rose. With no ashes to scatter, he’d gathered some ash from the volcano and scattered it onto the rose’s soil. His parents belonged together here. His father, a quiet man who loved visiting the garden’s roses, such a contrast to his artistic Japanese garden, and his wild mother, a true child of the sixties, who had never understood Dusty’s choice to serve. They appeared such an oddly-matched couple, the slight Eurasian and the tall, busty blonde. “She brings me to life like the spring warmth.” “He keeps me steady with his deep roots.”

  When would Dusty find that? His own dreams had just been pruned back hard. He’d found out, on no notice, that he had a week’s leave. He’d rushed back to Portland only to discover that Nancy had meant to Dear Dusty him, but forgotten, as usual, to follow through. Another woman who hadn’t understood his need to serve his country, his need to protect that which was so precious. She was living with some software geek named Ralph.

  Dusty’s few friends still in the area were busy with pre-holiday family stuff. Some invited him over for a meal, but being a third wheel in some other couple’s holiday wasn’t his first choice, nor his second or third.

  On call, Dusty really didn’t have time to go anywhere els—

  The cry of pain echoing across the garden snapped him out of his damp reverie. His Special Forces training had him sprinting down the garden path before he even fully registered what was happening. One hand slapped for his sidearm, and came away empty. The other slapped for the med kit on his SARVSO survival vest, but he wore only a rain slick over his heavy sweater.

  The cry sounded again, a woman in agonizing pain. Halfway across the garden from his parents’ rose, he spotted the source. Not that it was hard. On a rainy, winter Friday morning there was only one other person in the garden.

  She knelt in the mud at the edge of a garden bed.

  Dusty rushed up beside her. “Where are you hurt?” Seeing no obvious wounds he started unzipping her parka.

  Her punch came out of nowhere.

  She hit him square in the solar plexus so fast he had no time to block it. He tumbled backward among the pruned roses, the thorns carving painful scratches across his cheek and bare hands.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the woman shouted down at him. Her hands were poised to strike another blow. He recognized a Taekwondo black belt when he met one and held his hands palm out.

  Dusty rolled slowly from the rose bushes onto the wet grass and inspected his hands. “Ow! Shit, that hurts,” he flexed a hand and felt every little scratch.

  “Answer the damned question!”

  He eyed her more carefully. It wasn’t your average woman who issued commands to men half-again their size. He blinked the rain from his eyes. She had well-defined cheek bones, arched eyebrows that indicated brunette hair would be hiding under her hood, and eyes the brown of autumn leaves. He shook his head to clear it.

  “You sounded like you’d been shot.”

  “Soldier?” She watched him closely.

  “Yes.”

  She settled back on her heels in perfect balance, clearly poised so that she could attack easily if she decided it was needed.

  “Okay. Maybe.” She puffed out a breath. “I’m fine.”

  “You look fine, but you didn’t sound it.” She did look fine. Not the white of porcelain, but refinement shone in her features. He considered mentioning how much he’d love to draw those features with the artist pencils his mother had given to him as a young child. He didn’t know if he’d ever seen so much personality in a woman’s features before. It was a face made to laugh and smile, but was now drawn grim and closed.

  “I…” In the single word he heard all of the wounded distress return to her voice. She glanced back at the bed of roses she knelt in.

  “They cut down the tree,” she whispered as softly as the rain.

  Dusty looked around, trying to picture this part of the garden in his memory. A tree had been here, a big one.

  “It was their willow tree.”

  That was it.

  She pressed the heel of her palm against the center of chest.

  “It makes my heart hurt.”

  2

  Willow saw them in the rain. They reminded Willow of memories grown deep. Though so little remained beneath the soil, the past lay there in Willow’s roots. The roses had still been young and new then. Their voices high and nattering. So sure of their beauty, judging themselves in the mirror of human gazes. Silly little things. Willow remembered a Winter Solstice that had been a lifetime ago. Willow knew the two squatting in the rain needed the story. Knowing the cost, Willow reached deep into its remaining roots and prompted the woman to tell the tale.

  # # #

  “It was the summer of 1917 when Hiroshi Yamada and Amelia Patterson fell in love. I was named for her.” Amy wrapped her cold hands around the large mug of coffee, though it did nothing to warm her hands. She wasn’t ready to tell this story, and yet here she was.

  Despite her best instincts, the man who had rushed to her rescue had coaxed her out for coffee. Amy had been about to refuse when he’d mentioned her mother’s
favorite bakery. St. Honore was a neighborhood place, a locals’ secret. The boulangerie provided a small slice of France in the heart of Portland’s oldest residential district.

  They sat at the end of the long wooden table, a scattering of croissant crumbs on each of their plates. A couple of guys with laptops sat farther down the table, probably writers, as St. Honore didn’t offer wi-fi. Two women, girding themselves with caffeine before picking up kids from kindergarten, occupied a tiny ironwork table crowded among a half dozen similar tables. One hardy soul sat outside at a steel table beneath the awning, turned to shield his book from the occasional gust of rain that spattered against the windows.

  “Amelia, my great grandmother, was upper crust Portland Society, a founding member of the Rose Garden. There she met Hiroshi, an assistant gardener for the city. Such a marriage of course wasn’t allowed. My great grandmother’s diary was kept sealed until she’d been dead for as long as she and Hiroshi had been apart. We actually opened it a year early so that my mother could read it before she died.”

  Amy’s hand shook and she set her coffee down quickly. How had she revealed that her mother died? To a stranger? She hadn’t meant to say that. There was no way she was ready to face the loss.

  Dusty slid one of his nice hands over hers. She wanted to pull away, but if she did she’d start crying. Actually if she didn’t, she’d start as well. There’d been no one to offer her comfort in the last week since her mother’s death. She’d been the one offering solace to her mother’s friends and facing down bankers and insurance agents and…

  She closed her eyes and did her best to close off her feelings. First she had to find her breath, focus not on thoughts but only on what was real, what was physical. From there find her center. From there find the calm.

  But when Amy focused on the physical, she felt the warmth and strength of his hand over hers. That warmth drew her attention back off her path and she opened her eyes to look at him.

  Dusty wasn’t holding her hand, merely resting his over it in comfort. They were working hands, not like hers. No matter what she did, her hands were still long, fine, and delicate. Her mother and her grandmother both had the same hands. People commented on their feminine gracefulness, right before she used them to take the person down in sparring practice.

  Dusty was soldier strong—it showed in everything about him—but not some over-built guy. His strong, working-man hands were simply backed up with good shoulders and a trim frame. It was his face that captured her attention. He had beautiful blond hair that rolled down just past his ears, unusual in a soldier. And dark eyes ever so slightly almond shaped.

  “What are you?” It didn’t come out right. His face was such an odd mix that somehow blended together so wonderfully.

  He raised his eyebrows as he sat back and gathered the large porcelain mug into his hands. He didn’t appear to take any offense. Nor had he appeared upset when she’d pummeled him into the thorny roses. There was a steady calmness about him that could weather any storm.

  Amy missed his comforting hand the moment he withdrew it. You’re feeling way too vulnerable, Amy. Don’t do anything stupid. Her inner-voice guidance system was always wise, so Amy made a practice of following it carefully.

  “What am I?” Dusty toyed with the question, again proving he had a great smile. That’s how he’d convinced her to join him for coffee, he’d smiled at her. A genuine smile that reached those dark eyes so effortlessly. Amy hadn’t realized how starved she’d been for even so simple a gesture.

  “I’m my parents’ son.”

  Shit! Amy could feel herself closing down again. She no longer had any parents. She needed to go now.

  3

  Willow waited. Willow knew how to do that. For as long as the life span of humans, Amelia and Hiroshi had met each other at Willow. Hiroshi had planted Willow on a Christmas Eve while Willow was still a mere shoulder-high sapling. Willow remembered each of Hiroshi and Amelia’s meetings. In the summer’s sun, if they met, they spoke only with their eyes. But Willow had waited eagerly for each Christmas Eve, when the roses’ inane chatter had finally settled into mere winter mumbles. Then Willow watched and listened and stored those memories in the deepest roots. Willow saw exchanges of small gifts, a kiss, and heard sighs of two hearts broken.

  # # #

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Dusty remained on the park bench under a massive Douglas Fir tree. He had his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his arm stretched across the back of the bench. He’d layered up against the cold day.

  He’d hoped Amy might come back to her willow tree, and felt pretty damned pleased with himself he’d been right. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

  “Enjoying the day.” He tipped his head back. Yesterday’s rain had washed the air clear, leaving the world a breathless blue. The air had a snap to it, his breath made misty clouds that caught the morning sunlight before dissipating.

  He’d also enjoyed watching Amy walk down the steps into the garden. The way the woman moved was a thing of beauty. A confidence radiated from her, probably the martial arts training. He could now picture the short, sassy cut of brunette hair beneath the rose-red knit hat. Bet it would shine beautifully in the winter light.

  “I wanted to see you again.”

  The words would probably scare her off, but they were blunt truth, just as his mother had always taught him to speak.

  “You left a bit abruptly yesterday.”

  He’d seen the pain, seen her try to explain. Unable to do so, she’d wrapped her dignity about her like a cloak of steel and lace, thanked him for the coffee, and departed.

  He tilted his head. “You’re not glaring at me or walking away. I’ll take those as good signs.”

  Amy’s slow smile crossed those perfect features and brought yet another aspect of her character to life. He’d decided that if Amy didn’t show, he’d probably fly down to Reno and join Chief Warrant Clay Anderson at the casinos. Even if it didn’t inspire him much, it would get him out of Portland.

  But now that he’d seen Amy, he canned that plan. Maybe tonight he’d dig around his parents’ place and see if he could scare up a sketch pad. He winced against that. Three years and he still thought of the place as theirs. They hadn’t left him much in the way of possessions, but the condo was free and clear which gave him somewhere cheap to land on leave. It beat the Army barracks at Fort Campbell hands down. He hadn’t even spread out from the small back bedroom he’d grown up in. Maybe he needed to deal with that.

  “Dusty?” The smile slipped off her face. He wondered just what his expression had revealed.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking. I really need to clean up my place.”

  “Oh, planning on dragging me back to your den?”

  He laughed. He could really get to like this woman. “The thought crossed my mind last night a time or two, but no. It’s clean enough. But the condo’s still filled with my parents’ stuff. I’d be glad to oblige you, by the way.”

  “Oblige me with what?”

  “Dragging you off.”

  Her sad smile indicated that the answer was “not so much.” He hadn’t expected more, didn’t really know what he was expecting. He’d simply wanted to see more of her; she was also the only other person alone at Christmas he knew in Portland. So he’d come to the garden at sunrise and settled in to watch the day awaken.

  “You must be an early riser,” he hadn’t had to wait very long.

  She settled at the far end of the bench, well clear of where his arm draped over the wooden back.

  4

  Willow listened. Did they know? Would they understand? Stories were like roots, they slide deep under the soil, reaching out and seeking for connection. Willow could feel Amy’s heart and how it hurt. Different than Amelia and Hiroshi, but still, hurt. Willow’s old roots lay deep under the bench,
a whisper beneath the soil.

  # # #

  “Still filled with your parents’ stuff? Where are they?” Even as she asked, Amy knew.

  That grim look clouded Dusty’s features, the same as moments before.

  She knew the answer and wished she’d never asked, wished she hadn’t come this morning. But her mother’s ashes were still in her backpack. She hadn’t scattered them yesterday because the willow tree was gone. Last night Amy hadn’t slept a wink, knowing even if the tree were gone, that spot in the garden was where her mother belonged.

  “Mid-Atlantic Ridge, I guess.”

  Amy squinted at him, but he just shrugged.

  “They died in a crash, Icelandic volcano. At least it was quick and they were together which I guess was good for them. I was just thinking that I’ve never cleaned out their stuff at the condo, because it never mattered. That’s just not where they are any more. They’re now part of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a place where the earth’s crust is born.”

  Amy watched his brows knit together as he looked somewhere far beyond the Portland Rose Garden. She’d had trouble throwing out the last napkin her mother had used, and here he hadn’t cleaned house after three years. She had to be out of the apartment by year end. How in hell was she supposed to do that?

  Her mother had hidden her disease from Amy until almost too late. They’d had three days together, most of it spent with her mother in drugged sleep, the rest with Amy reading aloud about Amelia and Hiroshi’s yearly meetings at the old willow tree.

  It had become a Patterson tradition. Each year since before Amy could remember, they’d come to the Rose Garden and left small presents at the foot of the old willow on Christmas Eve. As a child, Amy had made colored drawings for the tree. Once she’d covered its trunk with little gold and silver star stickers. In later years she’d often purchased a special Christmas ornament to dangle among the bare branches, or scattered a little vial of soil she’d brought back from her travels.