The Man in the Tree

by Damon Knight

  It was even possible, although Linck did not excuse himself on this ground, that Gene expected and willed this betrayal -- as Jesus had given the sop to Judas, saying, "What you do, do quickly."

  One of the great puzzles was the fact that within three centuries of the execution of its founder by one of the most degrading methods known to the Romans, the Christian religion had become the dominant force in Europe. That was absurd, and it was true, and this absurd truth, for many theologians, was the ultimate proof of the divinity of Jesus. Linck did not go so far, but he was convinced that if Jesus had not been arrested, tried, and executed, the movement he had founded would have remained an obscure sect.

  After Caesar, Augustus. After Christ, Paul.

  In Portland he picked up his parcel at the post office. The weather was cool and damp. He stayed overnight in a motel, and rented a car the next morning. The rental agent was very helpful. "I know the place you mean," he said. "It isn't on most maps, but I can tell you how to get there. Now see, here's Bend. You keep going on route twenty, and in about forty miles you'll hit a place called Brothers. Don't turn off there, take the next exit south, and that'll take you right down to it."

  Linck drove with the map beside him, south on the interstate, then east on route 22, rising through forests of conifers still with snow on their branches, then down again.

  In his suitcase was a block and tackle and two forty-foot lengths of half-inch manila rope. When Anderson was dead, he would find a tree with a suitable limb, draw up the block and tackle and secure it. Then, using the block and tackle, which had a ratio of five to two, he could easily hoist Anderson's body, by a rope around its neck, until it hung clear of the ground.

  He took the wrong exit from Bend and wound up at a crossroads settlement called Fort Rock, where he stopped for gas. "Can you tell me how to get to the Lost Forest?"

  "You lose one?" the attendant asked gravely. "Just a joke. Naw, what you do, you head right on out this way about five miles, then you'll see a road going south. It ain't a good road, but it'll get you there if it ain't full of water. Then you take the first left turn, and that'll bring you over to Christmas Valley. There's another turnoff north just past the lake, but don't go there, take the next one. That'll take you right up to Lost Forest." He hung up the nozzle. "Seven fifty."

  "This certainly is the wettest desert I have ever seen," Linck said pleasantly. "Is it always like this?"

  "This time of year, yeah. Dries out along about June. See, this is what they call high desert. Dry because it's high. You're about four thousand feet up right here. Get a lot of snow and rain in the winter, but it runs off, and the summers'li curl your hair."

  "Is there a motel near here?" Linck asked. "Or up near the Lost Forest?"

  "Nope. Was two at Christmas Valley, but they closed down. Nearest one'd be Burns, that's about a hundred miles."

  Linck followed the man's directions, but the road quickly became impassable; there were deep potholes full of water, some of them so big that the car could not go around them. He turned and drove back the way he had come; the gas station attendant waved at him as he passed.

  He got onto the paved road again, followed it all the way to Bend, then turned southeast on route 20. The map showed an unimproved road that should take him directly to the Lost Forest, but when he tried it, it was worse than the other. He got back onto the paved road and drove to Burns, where he found a motel.

  What he needed for the desert, the manager told him, was a van or camper. There was none to be had in Burns, but he found a man who was willing to rent him a Dodge pickup truck at an exorbitant price. The truck had a high wheelbase and big heavy-duty tires; it would, the owner assured him, go anywhere.

  He drove back by a different route, south for twenty miles on a bad gravel road, then west on a road that was not even gravel but dirt, one car wide. Every quarter mile or so there was a pothole too big to cross, and then the tire-tracks ahead of him swung up into the brush and down again. The truck, rocking and groaning on its springs, took him forward at five miles an hour. Once he met a cow and a calf in the road; the calf stared at him dumbly, then, with a start of horror, turned and ran. The cow followed more placidly, swinging the hell under her neck. After fourteen miles of this, the scrub gave way to a forest of dark evergreens, widely spaced, growing in white sand. Linck stopped the truck and sat a moment, listening to the silence; then he drove on.

  That night in his room he put himself into deep trance, lying on his back with his arms folded in the darkness: -- When you see Gene Anderson you will forget why you came. You will forget what you intend to do. When he goes to sleep, you will remember everything. You will be very calm.

  The next day, and the next, he drove the same route. The truck was coated with pale mud up over the bottoms of the doors. On the third day he saw the familiar chevron patterns in the road and followed them until he came to Gene's motor home parked under the trees. Footsteps led northward in the white sand.

  Linck's hands were trembling. He put himself into light trance for a moment, gave himself a calming suggestion. He got his suitcase out of the truck and began to follow the footprints.

  It was absolutely still under the trees. Whenever he stopped to listen, there was nothing; not a rustle of branches or the sound of a bird; nothing.

  Around the edges of the forest grew stunted and deformed juniper trees, their ropy wood twisted into tormented shapes -- skeletal trees, the color of ox skulls. In the forest itself the giants stood in proud isolation; they were pines with reddish bark broken into dry hexagonal plaques. Under one of them he found Gene Anderson, sitting on a gray pile of duff with his back against the tree.

  "Hello, Piet. You knew, didn't you?"

  "Yes. May I sit down?"

  "Of course."

  A wind was rising; Linck could hear it whispering in the branches overhead, and the sound made him uncomfortable. "Gene, I know I shouldn't be here. If you want to be alone -- "

  "It doesn't matter right now. Stay tonight, if you want. Are you hungry or thirsty?"

  "No."

  The wind was whipping the branches, and yet Linck felt that they two were surrounded by a core of stillness.

  "I'm tired," Gene said. "I've been driving -- " He settled himself against the tree trunk; after a moment he closed his eyes.

  The wind was still rising, but Gene did not seem to hear it. His chest rose and fell with a slow and regular rhythm. Linck stood up cautiously. He felt a moment of confusion; then he remembered. He picked up his suitcase, opened it, got the revolver out.

  He sat down facing the giant and steadied his forearm across his knee. He felt calm and clear. Somewhere submerged in his mind there was pity and sorrow, but the time for that was not now.

  He aimed the gun at Gene Anderson's forehead. Slowly he squeezed the trigger. There was a loud report, the gun bucked in his hand, and then all motion ceased. The wind was no longer stirring the branches, although they leaned aslant. Linck found that he could not move. He was not breathing; the blood was not moving in his veins. A little drift of smoke hung in the air as if painted there. Beyond it was a little dark pellet, with streams of disturbed air radiating from it; it, too, was fixed and motionless. Time itself had come to a stop. Then, to his unutterable horror, he saw that Gene Anderson's eyes were opening.

  Like a man underwater, Gene Anderson stood up and stepped away from the tree. He felt the suspension of time as a weight in his flesh; he let it go, and heard the echo of the pistol shot. When he turned, he could see where the bullet had gone into the tree trunk. The wind had died.

  After a moment he stepped over the dead man and opened the suitcase Linck had brought. He found the block and tackle, and understood Linck's intention. He put his head in his hands and wept.

  Presently he took one of the ropes from the suitcase and tied a noose around the neck of the man he had killed. He threw the other end of the rope over a branch fifteen feet overhead, drew the body up until it hung clear, and tied the
rope to the trunk. Then he sat on the ground and closed his eyes, waiting for a Voice.

  After a time he realized that he was hearing it, and that he did not know when it had begun. It was the same as before, a vast echoing sky-sound, not in words, but in meaning. And then he knew.

  He stood up again. All around him he could sense the other worlds, more clearly than ever. They were like sheaves of shadows, multiplying in every direction. He found one where there was something in the air that said, "Here." There was a welcoming feeling in that world, a feeling of belonging, of peace and acceptance. He gathered himself, reached in, and turned with a convulsive effort.

  Then there was no one in the forest but the dead man hanging from the tree.

  * * *

  From The Book of Gene, Chicago, 2036:

  Then his enemy rose up before him to kill him; but GENE touched him with

  the power that was in him, and he fell dead on the ground. Then GENE said,

  "O God, what shall I do?" And God answered, "Hang this one from a tree,

  and come to another place that I have prepared for you; and let not your

  disciples sorrow, for I will return you to them at the proper season and

  will gladden their hearts: and then you shall come in your glory." So

  it was done; so it was told; and so it shall be.

  A poet, a millionaire, a circus freak, Gene Anderson was all of these and much

  more. An incredible eight-and-a-half-foot giant, he had a power, a gift that

  enabled him to reach into other worlds and bring back miracles into this one.

  He saw a magnificence in the universe that nobody had ever seen and brought

  the light of truth to man where only darkness had been. But like all prophets,

  he was feared as much as loved -- and hated by one tortured soul who was

  determined to see him die . . .