by Paul Haines
* * *
“You told me of a tree, once.” I said, afterwards.
Niam stared up at the ceiling, hands laced behind his head. “There are a lot of trees in the forest.”
“Only one like this.”
“You come all the way out here in the middle of the night to ask me about trees?”
I ran a hand down his chest. “You know what I came for. But now I cannot sleep.” It was a plausible lie. Niam could spend days not speaking to another person. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, when he spoke, it was with the voice of a poet. I had been lulled to sleep by his words many times.
Niam sighed. “My father told me this, long ago. A witch lived, once, in the very deepest and sun-starved heard of the forest. Women visited her hut during the day, for herbal cures, love potions—”
“To have their fortunes told,” I said. He had told it to me so many times it had become a litany; I had learned my lines years ago, lying in his arms. There was comfort in hearing, and speaking, familiar words.
“By night, the men would come for something else.”
“A tenuous situation,” I said.
Niam nodded. “When her belly became too big to conceal, she told the women a story. There was, she said, a spot where the river curved around a large rock. Above it, with roots extending on one side into soft earth and on the other side dipping down into the water, lived a tree.”
“Lived a tree. A curious phrase.”
“Indeed. But that is what she said. As if the tree had a choice in its location. As if, had it desired, it could move somewhere else. This was a spot the witch knew well. A particular type of mushroom grew in the shadows under the rock. Then one day, as she bent down and dug her fingers into the soft loam, the tree reached down and touched her.”
“A gust of wind, perhaps.”
“So she thought. But as she gathered up the last of the mushrooms a voice whispered in her ear. The end of the branch curled like a fern frond and moved slowly up her trembling arm.
“She stayed. After that she was a frequent visitor to the rock in the bend of the river.”
“Pregnant to a tree. They could not believe that, surely.”
“Some did, perhaps. Others—” Niam shrugged.
“Better to believe an impossible story than wonder if your husband was responsible.”
“No matter if the women believed it or not. They told the story they had been told. It spread.”
“The women knew the story was protection, for the witch and for them.”
“But men are not women. And it was a man who ended the story. The father, perhaps, taking steps to hide his infidelity. Or a superstitious one, believing the story and afraid of what was growing. One morning a group of women arrived to find the walls of the hut rent by heat and the bones of the witch lying scorched in her own fire pit. Something was growing in the ashes beneath her ribcage.”
I rolled off the bed and rummaged through the dirty crockery on the bench, poured my wine into two dirty bowls. “None were accused of the crime?”
Niam took the bowl with a grunt of thanks. “Not to my knowledge. It was forgotten. Those same women who took such pleasure in telling the story fell silent, as it spread ever wider.”
Like ripples in a pond, I thought. Look for the still point in the centre if you want to find the stone that was dropped.
“This is a story your father invented to stop you straying too far into the forest,” I said, though I knew this was a lie. You were as likely to hear the same story told, more or less, in any town from here to the south coast.
“I thought so, once. But then my father—” Niam stopped, sniffed. His father had been dead ten years. “He knew the forest better than his own roof, so when the light began to fade and he had still not returned, I refused to believe he was lost. But he was not as sure a rider as he had been in his youth, and his hands—I worried he had fallen from his horse or caught his head on a low branch or—”
The bowl shook in Niam’s hands and I took it from him.
“As I waited I thought of all manner of cruel ends for him. But then I heard his horse blowing outside and there he was. Still in the saddle, swaying, though not from the palsy. I pulled him down into my arms and the stink of the whiskey on his breath made me reel.
“When I had him lying under the covers and somewhat sobered, he began to speak. He had been chasing a deer, heedless to where it was taking him, when he stumbled in to a clearing. There were shapes beneath the grass, as if the walls of a hut had long ago fallen and been buried. In the center of the clearing was a—a tree, but not a tree. It moved—” Niam described a sinuous motion with his arm. I curled up my fingers and stroked him as I imagined the tree on the rock by the river had touched the witch.
Niam’s eyes closed and I thought the sedative I had sprinkled in his wine had taken him to sleep. But then they opened again.
“Half a year later the palsy became so bad that his body was not his own to use. Then his speech began to fail. ‘My son,’ he said, near the end, the only words left to him, over and over. ‘My son. My son.’ I have always wondered if he meant me.”
Niam yawned and his eyes closed again. I covered him with the blanket and kissed him on the forehead. It was a light sedative: he would be awake by noon. I lashed Niam’s axe over my shoulder, unfettered his horse and rode away from the rising sun and into the forest.
* * *
As I travelled I considered Niam’s story. He had told most it to me in the past, though the last part was new. I wondered about his father. I knew he had come years earlier from a village a day’s ride in the direction I now headed, though that village was abandoned now.
It was the tree impregnated the witch, I thought. Did Niam’s father, in some way, feel a bond with this thing in the forest? If so, why? Had he lain with the witch in his youth?
I pulled a canteen from the saddle bag and splashed my face with water. It was stupid of course—whatever Niam’s imagination had layered over the memory of his father’s death was of no concern to me.
The forest had started to reclaim the path to the dead village: Niam’s horse stepped over vines and around shrubs. But the path was mostly clear and I made good time. I stopped at noon, where the path forded a shallow river. While Niam’s horse nosed at the grass I took a heel of bread and went walking. Somewhere nearby, I was sure, was the rock in the riverbend. I turned back when I’d eaten, not wanting to leave the horse too long.
I crossed the river and followed the path for the rest of the day. As the sun was setting I came to a fork in the road. The path to the right was wide and clear. The leftward path was barely wide enough to ride—the trees that hemmed it in were of a kind I had not seen before, black barked, branches ending in spikes. I nudged Niam’s horse left.
* * *
The black trees formed a roof above the path. Before long my horse nickered and would go no further. I continued on foot; my steps and increasingly ragged breathing were the only sounds. I leaned upon the heavy axe; I was a much larger man now than when I had last lain with Niam.
The path turned abruptly to the right and I found myself standing before a clearing. The moon fought free of cloud and the tree appeared as if it had only just now flashed into existence. It stretched across a clearing easily as large as the town square. It was cold here: my breath clouded as I looked up.
A tree it seemed to be, but there were no leaves upon its branches. Rather than coarse bark, its limbs were white and smooth. It looked like something that had been hauled from the depths of the sea.
Around the edges of the clearing several ranks of trees lay smashed into the loam, exposed roots clawing the sky and I knew they had been pushed. The witch’s child had grown. Of her hut there was no sign. It had long ago been overrun, or perhaps, something whispered at the back of my mind, consumed. I was less terrified than exhausted: my breathing was still desperate from the walk and the axe lay heavy in my arms. I could be asleep in my bed, or Niam’s. Bu
t then I saw Gaben again, wiping away snot with the back of his hand. Come from all over, Mam says. You’re the best—
I ran my thumb over the edge of the blade, then suddenly jerked it back, held it close to my face. The fat drop of blood looked black and diseased in the moonlight.
One of the tree’s pale limbs moved towards me and as it did I could see a vein raised on its surface, pulsing slightly. It brushed gently against my leg—I do not know whether it was exhaustion or my own curiosity, but I did not pull away. I thought of this creature’s father, reaching out to the witch—for what? Did it feel a bond with the nature in the woman? I placed my hand upon the limb and it was warm to the touch. I ran my hand over it as if I were exploring Niam’s flesh. Then I brought the axe high above my head and brought it down upon the limb.
The axe bit deep into the wood, further than I had expected; I lost my balance and went tumbling. I landed heavily and lost the air from my lungs. The tree moaned then, low and mournful, louder every moment as I struggled to breathe. I rolled over on to my back. I had severed the limb almost entirely; the last quarter of it hung only by a scrap of skin-like bark; it dragged behind as the rest of it raised up into the air, far above my head. Something fell from the wound on to my chest and it had none of the heavy slowness of sap. Though it appeared white in the moonlight, it had the warmth and consistency of blood.
Finally I sucked air into my lungs and rolled away. The limb slammed down where I had lain just moments earlier. The speed of the thing was astonishing; I knew I would not get another chance. I jumped to my feet and brought the axe down again and the limb separated with a crunch. Then I turned and ran, blind of what direction save that it was away—the earth shook once, twice: I risked a glance behind me and saw the two limbs that had struck the ground curving back, to wrap around the trunk like an embrace.
I waited, hidden beneath a black tree. Though spines dug into my back I could not move. My breath was ragged, my mouth dry. If I had been able to, I would have run then, but I was exhausted and I had come so very far. I would not give in to terror, not now, when I was so close.
When I once more crept close to the clearing, the tree had lifted the injured limb high and straight; it loomed above its surroundings like a tower. Another limb was gently stroking the amputated part. Roots shifted, raising the ground.
There was a sound, a low, helpless mourn. It took a few moments before I understood what I was hearing. The tree was sobbing. Both the fallen branch and the axe lay in the centre of the clearing. When the tree’s limbs had remained still for three score heartbeats, I snuck as close as I dared, then took a deep breath and sprinted towards them.
I grabbed the end of the limb and pulled. At first nothing happened; I had bet wrong, not for the first time, but definitely the last. Another limb raised itself into the sky as I had earlier raised the axe. There was a tearing sound, as if the amputated part had already put down fresh roots. Then my boots gained solid purchase on the wet earth and I began to drag it behind me. Something tore in my back—I screamed in pain but did not drop the limb. But then I felt a rush of air behind me. I dove away—the limb smashed down where I had been standing, catching the fallen branch and flipping it away in the direction of the forest. I followed, crawling as fast as I could, the taste of earth on my tongue, only standing again when I was beyond the wall of toppled trees and back in the forest.
I did not attempt to retrieve Niam’s axe. I struggled, hauling my prize behind me. There was nothing but the cries of the wood, the agony in my spine and the thump-hiss as I took another step and pulled the limb again. An eternity later I found the strength to raise my head from the track and saw my horse tethered a few paces away.
I found some dead branches, fashioned a halfway decent travois from them and secured the still-twisting limb with rope. The horse pulled the extra load skittishly.
Exhaustion caused me to nearly topple from the saddle several times. I finally emerged from the woods, to see the stars above me like a banner. Weeping followed me all the way back to the city.
* * *
I had an arrangement with a widow, a seamstress. In exchange for particular favours, I was allowed to lodge in a small attic room. A pallet stuffed with rotting straw lay in the corner beneath the window. On the other side of the room a brazier hung from the ceiling. Apart from that, the entire space was given over the construction and storage of marionettes. The severed branch lay in the center of the floor, twisting back on itself now and then like a worm stranded after rain.
All I wanted to do was close my eyes and let sleep pull me down. But it had to be tonight or not at all. I filled the brazier with fresh coals and set to work.
I leaned the branch against my workbench and drew a saw across it. The wailing rose as I cut–louder now in the confines of my room than during the journey. I wrapped rags around my head when the sound became too much to bear, but it did no good.
I lay the pieces I had cut on my workbench and reached for more precise tools: chisel and plane and bradawl. My hands were numb as I rubbed them together to force the drill bit into the wood; sawdust stung my nostrils. I threaded wire through new-cut holes and drew the pieces tight. Even in my exhausted state, my hands knew their work well.
* * *
Morning light spilled through the window. Somehow I had slept, still sitting upright. The result of my labours lay on the bench, its limbs akimbo like a man fallen from a roof. A marionette, no different to any of the others I had crafted over the years. Or at least it seemed, until one of its legs began to twitch, then the other. My marionette squirmed, each section of its arms and legs pulling against the wire joints.
I had done it. I whooped in joy and as I did the marionette’s head turned and regarded me.
* * *
The fire was nearly out, but I pulled the poker from the still-glowing embers in the brazier. I lay it against the workbench and a tendril of black smoke rose. The duke’s palace would be open soon. It was time to teach the creature to dance.
I took a melody I had used to entertain the children and discarded the lyrics—some sop about a mouse and a lion—replacing them with some that would suit the performance I would present:
There once was a lonely marionette
who had a soul but not freedom yet
his only wish was a way to see
his tethering strings cut away from he
It was not a good song, but it would suffice. I composed more verses, tracing the marionette’s journey to freedom. As I sung I slapped the flat of my hand on the workbench, beating out the rhythm. After I had run through all the verses a couple of times, I picked up the poker.
“There once was a lonely marionette” (I touched the poker to the sole of the creature’s left foot. It squirmed away with a screech of pain that nearly made me lose the rhythm)
“who had a soul” (smoke rose from the creature’s right foot)
“but not freedom yet” (I ran the side of the poker down the creature’s body- its posture, as it curled in pain, resembled a bow)
* * *
The creature learned quickly. When I was finished, I sanded away the worst of the burn marks and reached for my paints. I drove nails into its hands and feet, pinning it to the desk—I would use the holes for strings later.I must have been thinking of Niam—I painted the creature’s body to make it appear as if he were dressed in a green jerkin and brown leggings, like some over-simplified woodsman from a child’s story.
* * *
My performance would start with the creature tied to a device just like any marionette, leading the audience to believe this was the full extent of the act. Then in the second verse, I would show them the scissors I had purloined from the seamstress. I would cut the strings and my beautiful creature would continue to dance. My training had been effective—I hummed my melody as I painted and though it was pinned to the bench, I could see the creature’s arms and legs struggling to move as I had forced it to.
I painted a harlequin�
�s face on the front of the creature’s head.
As I waited for the paint to dry I threw open the window and the sounds of the waking city reached me: a creak of a slow-turning cartwheel; the squeal of a hinge protesting as a door was thrown wide; the steady tapping of a beggar’s cane on cobbles. All sounds of wood in motion and put to work. From behind me came the staccato clatter of the creature’s foot against the workbench and the unceasing sobbing. The city was full of the sounds of wood, but there had never been any like those my creature was making.
* * *
The peephole slid open and the eye that appeared behind it was as bloodshot as the sun in the morning sky. “Fuck off!” said the guard and closed it again.
I resumed pounding the door.
After a while the peephole opened again and a different voice said, “We have no need of further conjurers, singers, dancers, raconteurs or soothsayers. Nor historians, wrestlers, bear baiters, mummers or any other kind of performance fucking artist.”
I took off my hat and put on my best smile. “I would not be so bold as to trouble you for anything so mundane. True, I bring you a marionette, but—” I lifted the lid of the box. The creature twisted, sensing the sun. It bent back upon itself and scraped against the velvet lining. I waved my fingers, showing the guard there were no wires involved. The mewling of the creature was loud in my ears—surely the guard heard it . . .
The door opened. “I think you’d better come in.”
* * *
Revels were not scheduled to start until late afternoon. From the condition of the guards, they had been sampling the Duke’s ale for a good few hours already. The guard who ushered me down a passage and into the Duke’s great hall had decorated his helmet with the same flowers that covered the walls. On the far side of the room a small fat man was shouting at a servant who had somehow become stuck, gripping the rough bricks with one hand, trying not to drop the flowers he held in the other. Most of his weight was balanced on the back of a chair.