The Juniper Tree

by Asotir

  Rayn started. She whirled about.

  Greta was standing in the doorway trailing one of her dinosaur dolls. Rayn frowned. She squatted down and began gathering back the things she had scattered on the floor. And the voices went on chattering.

  ‘I’m sorry, gooseling, what did you say?’

  ‘Can I have a goodie, please?’

  ‘Oh! Of course you can, come to Mommie’s Trunk.’ She led Greta to the Trunk but she never looked away from the boy playing out in the lawn.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Greta clapped her hands and leaned against the Trunk. It was taller than she was. She raised her arms and pushed up against the lid. ‘It’s too heavy,’ she said.

  ‘What did you say, gooseling? I couldn’t hear, it’s so loud in here.’ Rayn’s eyes ran across the ceiling. It seemed so low to her, pressing down, the spackles in the plaster shaping little mouths that grinned and whispered.

  ‘It’s heavy, Mama.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Rayn knelt before the Trunk and raised the lid.

  Greta went up on tiptoes and tried to look inside. ‘Mmm, smells so good,’ she said.

  Rayn reached into the Trunk. Inside were bottles and sachets and lacy naughty things and boxes wrapped and tied with ribbons and bows. There were chocolates and hard candies lurking in the underthings.

  ‘What shall I give you, what shall you have,’ Rayn asked. Greta answered but Rayn shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t hear you,’ she said. She shook her head and frowned. ‘Why must you all talk at once? No, I can’t do that. What can I do? What must I do?’ She kept muttering and asking questions of that sort.

  Greta looked up at her mother. She let go of the Trunk and stepped back. ‘Mama, don’t scare me,’ she said.

  ‘Should it be this? No, this? Or… Ah! An apple, gooseling, wouldn’t you like an apple?’

  Rayn drew out a dried spiced apple and held it under her daughter’s nose. Greta closed her eyes and breathed in the wonderful odors of cinnamon and cardamom and cloves and sugar dripping with molasses.

  ‘Oh, Mama, how nice.’ Greta held the apple up and stared at it.

  Rayn was putting the apples back in their bag. She had to use both hands. She bumped against the Trunk and the lid swung down and caught one apple on the edge – bang!

  Greta jumped and Rayn started.

  ‘I’m sorry, gooseling.’ She shook her head and squeezed her temple. ‘What was it you said?’

  She was staring at a bit of apple that lay on the floor. The lid of the Trunk had sliced it in half as clean as a butcher’s cleaver.

  ‘I said, doesn’t brother get one?’

  Rayn lifted the lid. She slid her thumb along the edge. It was so sharp. In all the years she had possessed the Trunk she had believed she had wormed her way deep into its every secret. Here was a new one, like an unknown continent. She let it fall again. Bang!

  Greta tugged on her mother’s blouse. ‘Mama,’ she said.

  Rayn twisted her torso and her head swiveled about on her neck and glared down on her daughter. The look in those eyes made Greta’s hair stand up.

  ‘Mama – don’t!’

  Rayn snatched the apple out of Greta’s hands.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘brother gets one too. You asked for it. Whatever happens now, you asked for it, little goose. Go call him up and he shall pick one out, whichever one he wants.’

  ‘But, Mama, my apple.’

  ‘Brother eats first. What are you waiting for, silly goose, go fetch him, now!’

  * * *

  GRETA WENT OUT on the lawn. Falco was playing under the Juniper Tree with his cardboard birds.

  ‘Falco, what are you doing?’

  ‘Flying.’ Falco lifted a cutout pasted with a model’s face over its head.

  Greta looked back up at the house. The window to her Mama’s room was open now. Through it came a sound like bang.

  ‘What was that sound?’ asked Falco.

  ‘What sound?’ Greta asked.

  ‘That. It sounds bad…’

  Rayn’s head showed in the window.

  ‘Little sir! Come inside, I need you now.’

  He looked at his birds.

  ‘I’ll look after them, Falco. Go on up, Mama has a treat for you.’

  He went to the house. Greta watched him go. She picked up one of the bird-women and thought of the cinnamon smell.

  * * *

  FALCO WENT UP the stairs. He felt a sort of pressure growing with every step. It got harder and harder to push through. At last he struggled to the top.

  Rayn stood in the doorway to her room. The light from outside shone all around her body. She was so pretty. She beamed down on him.

  ‘Are you hungry, little sir?’

  ‘No.’ Something made him say that. Something warned him. Not hard enough!

  ‘Wouldn’t you like a snack?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you cross with me, little sir? Don’t be cross, I couldn’t bear it.’ She lowered herself, leaning against the doorjamb. Her face was sad and her red lips pouted. She beckoned him closer. ‘You want me to like you, don’t you? Don’t you want me to like you?’

  He nodded. He’d never understand her. Was the war over, then? She bent forward and kissed him on the mouth.

  ‘All right, then. Would you like one of my apples? A special apple all the way from Norway? Yes? Come on!’

  She began to lead him in.

  He pulled back.

  ‘I’m not supposed to go in there.’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘You said.’

  She smiled and leaned down so close that her hair with its rich smoky scent brushed across his face and her red lips kissed his ear and whispered, so softly, ‘Well now. If I said it, I can unsay it.’

  She pulled back and smiled but there were red tears in her eyes now. She took him by the hand.

  ‘Come, Falco.’

  She took him deep inside.

  9

  It was funny when it happened. I guess I didn’t mind it much.

  BJORN HADN’T GONE HOME that lunchtime, even though he meant to. He got in his car and drove out from the mill to the road and stopped and flicked his turn signal to go to the right and home. But when the car pulled onto the road a few moments later, it turned not right but left. It drove up country, into the high woods. There it turned off the main road onto a logging trail and bumped and jostled up the rutted tracks. The tires dug at the clotted mud and splashed it on the sides.

  Deep beneath the trees he parked the car. He got out and shut the door. He stood there in his suit and rain coat and looked at the pines that towered overhead. He let his head lean back and his nostrils widened and deepened and drew in the fresh rain-wet smells.

  For a few minutes he stood there. His eyes were closed. Little by little his face let go. When he opened his eyes there was something new and peaceful in them. He took off his raincoat and his jacket and tie, he took off his shirt, undershirt, slacks, shoes, socks, underwear. He folded them up neatly and laid them on the back seat of the car.

  He stood naked in the breeze. The breeze shook loose some raindrops from the high reaches of the pines and the drops spattered down on the car and on his face and his chest and back. He turned around and took it all in. Birds were singing on every side. He looked down at himself, pale and pink like a hairless hog in the wild. He slapped his belly where the fat was coming, not like the old days when he came here every day, before he bought the mill.

  In the car trunk an old gym bag was shoved behind the spare tire. Inside the bag were rolled a heavy woolen shirt, frayed smooth, a knitted undershirt and drawers, and tough old jeans patched at the knee.

  He put on the clothes. At the bottom of the bag he found a battered suede jacket and a wool cap. He put them on too and from deeper in the trunk he drew forth a stout logging axe and whetstone. The axe was guarded by a leather case over the axe-head and this too was battered and worn. Bjorn hefted the axe, slammed the trunk shut,
and took off up a narrow trail. He strode swiftly with long, ground-eating steps, up and down the hills between the trees.

  He came to a grove where several stumps stood in a ring, and the warm, low-falling sunlight slanted down into a hollow in between.

  Bjorn walked about the hollow, looking at the trees. He flexed his arms and shoulders. He leaned on a stump and unsnapped the axe cover. He honed the blade while he squinted up at the trees, judging them, measuring them and sighting the angle of their lean.

  He left the stump and walked up to one of the trees. He walked all the way around it, staring up at it. He stopped once or twice, looking at it, leaning his head and looking at the angle of the trunk and the bunches of its branches high above.

  He finished circling the tree, shook his head, and went to another tree. He repeated the ritual. This one he walked around twice and nodded his head. He took the axe and addressed the trunk. Huge wood chips flew about his feet. He chopped a grinning mouth of wood from the trunk, then went to the other side and with half a dozen brutal strokes cut it through. The tree began to topple and half way down it snapped free of the trunk and crashed into the earth.

  * * *

  IN RAYN’S ROOM it was quiet and warm and still. The sea-sounds drifted through the lace curtains in a sleepy murmur. Falco stared at the salmon colored satin sheets, the expensive hosiery, the underthings draped over the back of the chair. Rayn went before him and drew him on.

  ‘Don’t gawk, silly boy, come on.’

  Against the far corner, under a silk chemise and some pairs of lace briefs, peeked the black corners of the Trunk. The Trunk was heavy oak with painted panels and iron corners. It was as tall as he was.

  She guided his hand to the latch.

  ‘Go on – touch it.’

  ‘It’s heavy—’

  Rayn’s fingers slipped from his. Her hand lifted the lid.

  ‘There. Doesn’t it smell pretty? The fragrance is very rare, very expensive. My Mommie had it imported from Turkey. Careful!’

  He held up his hand. Across two fingers a cut was bleeding.

  ‘You must be careful what you touch, little sir, the lid is deadly sharp. Go on, you can look. Rayn says.’

  He reached in and pulled out a green glass bottle.

  ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘No, put that away, that’s not for you. You want an apple. Go on, they’re in that bag at the back, take any one you like.’

  * * *

  OUTSIDE ON THE other side of the house, a car drove down the gravel through the woods. The car parked under the wooden hanging sign with the painted gull’s feather for White Quill. Mr Anders stepped out.

  ‘Bjorn? Anybody home?’ he called.

  He walked up to the door. His shoes crunched on the gravel. He stepped onto the threshold and rang the bell.

  * * *

  FALCO DREW BACK out of the dark heady mystery of Rayn’s Trunk.

  ‘The doorbell—’

  She shuddered with impatience. ‘Oh, just a salesman, have your apple first.’ She smiled and her warm hand pressed against his neck, bringing him closer.

  He looked back inside. He stood on tiptoes and craned his neck over the lip of the chest. He glanced back up to her.

  At the last second her face lost its smile. It crumpled up with hatred.

  She took the lid of the chest with both hands and slammed it down with all her strength.

  Bang!

  * * *

  THE SOUND OF the lid slamming home echoed in the room like a thunderclap. In its wake a dreamy, cool quiet followed. Rayn leaned back and closed her eyes and sighed. The voices were quiet. At last they were still. Then she felt something touch against her calf and she looked back down.

  The body jerked and twitched between her legs. It went on twitching. She had to press down on it to make it stop.

  ‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘Shhh.’

  She watched with a look of intense satisfaction as she held her hands up to her face, sniffing at the blood dripping from her fingers.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, MR ANDERS stepped back from the door out onto the drive and looked up at the house.

  ‘Hey! Anybody home?’

  The shout reached around the house and stole in through the lace curtains.

  Rayn stiffened and Falco’s body slipped down off her lap onto the floor, spouting blood.

  Rayn pressed against the wall. Again the voice reached her and she knew it.

  She shook her head and whispered, ‘Go away, go away you damned busybody lawyer!’

  Mr Anders walked around back of the house. He found Greta holding one of Falco’s bird-women cutouts.

  ‘Hello, Greta.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is Papa home? Or Mama?’

  Rayn listened to their voices through the window where the cold air poured toward her. She reached out toward the body but her fingers wouldn’t touch it now and she shrank against the wall.

  ‘You smirking little brat, is this how you get your revenge?’

  Greta shook her head. She showed the man the bird-woman.

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I see. Very good. Well, when Papa comes home, will you give him these? It’s important.’

  Greta took the papers and looked at them. Mr Anders patted her head, clicked his briefcase shut, and walked back around to his car.

  He got into the car and drove away.

  * * *

  GRETA RAN AROUND the lawn. She flew the bird-woman in her hand the way she had seen Falco do it.

  ‘Greta! Gooseling, where are you?’

  Greta stopped. Her Mama’s voice came calling again, a terrible croak failing to sound normal and bright:

  ‘Greta! Come inside, now, will you please?’

  Greta thought about that.

  ‘Come in!’

  ‘All right.’

  She went up the porch steps and dropped the bird and papers outside the door.

  Inside she found Falco sitting in the Morris chair for the Thanksgiving King. He held a spiced apple in his hand and he wore a red ribbon tied around his throat.

  ‘Falco, can I have a bite of your apple?’

  ‘Greta! Come into the kitchen, will you, goose?’

  Greta went into the kitchen.

  Her Mama was bent over the counter, slicing apples in a pie. She didn’t look back.

  ‘What’s wrong, Gooseling?’

  ‘Brother has an apple and I asked him for a piece, but he wouldn’t answer me.’

  ‘Oh?’ Still Mama wouldn’t look round. Still her voice sounded awful. ‘Well now. I tell you what. Ask him again, and if he doesn’t answer this time, if he doesn’t answer … you just reach up and give his nose a great big pinch, that will show him. You’ll see, it’s a funny game. My brothers and I played it all the time.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Greta walked back into the great-room.

  She walked closer and closer to Falco on the chair.

  She stopped.

  ‘Falco, give me some of your apple?’

  But Falco still wouldn’t answer. Greta grinned and gave his nose a great big pinch.

  And Falco’s head twisted all around on his neck and tumbled forward on the floor and rolled a little and stopped.

  Greta froze. It was as if icicles grew up and down in her legs and her arms and into her heart.

  Falco’s head stared up at her from the floor.

  * * *

  IN THE KITCHEN Rayn stabbed three vents in the pie.

  ‘Mama! Mama!’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  Rayn wiped her hands and went out into the great-room.

  Greta tackled Rayn’s apron and buried her face in it.

  ‘Goose, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I did what you said – and his head – his head—’

  ‘Well, never mind that, what are we going to do when Papa gets home?’

  ‘Falco – I didn’t mean it – I didn’t—’

  ‘That won’t matter to the po
lice, Greta. If they find out, do you know what they’ll do? They’ll lock you up in a dark jail cell for the rest of your life.’

  ‘No… Please, Mama…’

  ‘Well now. Maybe I have an idea.’

  Mama pulled the body off the chair and started to drag it across the floor.

  ‘Greta, get the head, will you dear?’

  * * *

  IN THE HIGH WOODS, Bjorn buried the axe blade in the fallen trunk and paused. His face was bathed in sweat. He took off the jacket and wiped his shirt sleeve across his brow and eyes. Down the slope behind the hollow he found a stream and he leaned out on a rock in the shallows on his belly. He ducked his face under and drank like an animal, so that when he lifted his head back out his beard and hair hung from his head streaming water, and he shook his head so the water flew, and he roared with laughter.

  He hiked back to the hollow, sized up another tree, and attacked it. Midway through he stripped his shirt and undershirt, and his naked upper torso gleamed with sweat, bristling with short reddish hair all over his shoulders chest and arms.

  He chopped down nine trees that day. When at last night fell he had to give over and lay back against the car, holding the axe before him in trembling arms, gasping, spitting cotton, sweat pouring down his chest.

  * * *

  THE SAME DARKNESS fell on White Quill, and the horror rested for a spell. Greta sat in the front window-seat. She swung her legs and clutched her stuffed dinosaur Boney tight against her tummy.

  Her Mama had bathed her and washed out her hair. She had sprinkled perfume over her. She had combed out her hair and tied it with ribbons, and dressed her in her prettiest dress with clean underwear and brand-new white socks and her shiny shoes. But under the perfume Greta still smelled the smell of Falco’s blood.

  She wrung her hands and leaned down to kiss Boney.

  But her eyes never left the window. She stared out the window, and her legs kicked faster, faster. At last the lights shone through the trees.

  ‘Mama, Papa’s here!’

  ‘All right, goose, I’m coming. Go to table and take your place.’

  Greta jumped down and ran to the dining table. She climbed into her chair with Boney in her lap.

  She started swinging her legs again.

  Papa entered and dropped his case on the chair by the back door. He looked funny. He wasn’t wearing his clothes like always. Instead he wore clothes like one of the men from his work. And his hair was bristly and ragged and wild.

  ‘Darling, I’m home!’ His voice boomed in the hall and Greta jumped.

  Mama gave him a drink just like always. Greta squirmed in her chair and kicked her legs.

  ‘Huh! What’s that smell?’