by Peter Ponzo
The basement of their small home was filled with memorabilia from his army days: two rifles, a dented helmet, a large gray shell which Butch insisted was defunct and boxes of war surplus coats and boots and radio equipment. His favourite topic of conversation was the war. That was sometimes embarassing. Nobody was interested in the war anymore, better to forget. Yet every conversation with friends eventually got around to the invasion of Sicily or desert strategy or the advantages of army over air force. Sometimes she felt that he was still reliving wartime battles. He would talk of winning this battle or that battle and his eyes would shine and his lips would quiver, saliva bubbling from the edge of his mouth. That was frightening, sometimes, but he was a good man and kind and she loved him.
***
When Butch pulled up the driveway of the old Bourden house the day was about to begin. The sky was black with scudding gray masses of cloud and the moon still hung in a slim arc. He parked the truck and walked to the front of the house where he had put the ball and crane the previous evening. He climbed into the cab, started the engine. The neighbours would complain about the noise, but Colby had said he should start anyway, early. It was progress and nobody should stand in the way of progress. Colby was a funny guy, but he was the boss.
"Okay, old house," Butch muttered, "this is one battle you'll lose."
He raised the crane and the huge steel ball swung back slowly then, just as slowly, it swung toward the house.
Michael Colby hadn't bothered to have the stained glass windows removed, but Butch had removed them anyway. They were beautiful and one day he would put them in his house. When he had the money he would build his own house. He had learned to do everything that was needed: digging and pouring the footings and foundation and putting up the framing and the interior woodwork, solid oak and walnut, vaulted ceilings, plaster with embossed trim and double pane glass and a large workshop in the basement and a large yard to hold his construction machinery, and yellow shutters and red brick. He would build a cedar fence eight feet high to hide the machines and a tall privet hedge in front of the fence. He would build a beautiful house for his family, one day.
And it would have stained glass windows.
The radio was playing in the cab and he didn't hear the crash as the side of the house caved in, but he saw the bricks fall and the roof collapse and the big old willow tree lean to one side. Butch stared straight out the window of the cab, leaning forward slightly, his lips twitching, his hands gripping the controls. He pushed the lever and the crane began its slow rise, like a giant arm raised against the early morning sky.
Then he rubbed his eyes. There were two giant arms raised against the morning sky. The crane shuddered once and stopped moving. He pulled and pushed at the control lever, but it was stuck.
Two giant arms? A second arm silhouetted against the gray sky? He wiped the dust from the front window, leaned forward and saw the branch of the old willow tree soaring above the roofline, swinging back and forth, a single massive arm reaching with black fingers against the sky, then down, down toward the cab. He rubbed his eyes again, slid off the seat, the branch came through the window, glass shattering, radio blaring.
Thin tendrils spun about the control lever and the huge crane tottered crazily, the ball swinging slowly. Butch was holding his breath, crouched on the floor, looking up with wild eyes at the coiled branch operating the lever. Then he saw the ball swing into view through the side window, swinging with infinite slowness: out, then stop, then back, directly above the cab.
He reached up, grabbed the door handle, turned it; must get out before the ball drops. A black coil leapt from the heavy branch which now filled the cab and spun around his hand. He pulled back, but was dragged upward, onto the seat, his hand and now his arm covered in writhing coils, the huge steel ball swinging slowly, slowly above the cab.
The heavy branch jerked, suddenly, still wrapped around the control lever, the huge steel ball came straight down. Butch closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the door and the door fell open and he tumbled to the ground, black coils twisting and turning out the opened door, spinning about his arm, and the ball hit with a sickening thud, flattening the cab, the shattered front window popping out in a lazy arc, the heavy branch caught in the twisted, crushed wreckage and the coils which held his arm uncoiling, spiralling away.
Butch lay on the ground for several seconds, looking up at the willow tree. It had moved. It was moving! He was beyond the span of branches, then he was at the edge, now he was beneath. It hovered directly over him, its branches reaching out, gnarled and black. He was in pain. The fall from the crane must have broken his leg, but he began to slide backward, pushing himself away from the descending branches, falling in a tangled rage, collapsing about him.
Then he heard the humming. It seemed to come from beyond the tree, within the tree, rising in pitch to a shrill scream. From the dark vault beneath the willow he saw the shapes, glowing, rising, luminescent. The canopy of branches now hung above him, quivering.
Then the first branch fell, landing beside him, shaking the ground. Then another. Then something grabbed him, pulling, dragging him. Then another branch fell and he heard screams.
Then he fainted.
***
When Butch Camden awoke he was lying in the back of his pickup truck, covered in a blanket. Harry McGinnis was standing over him, frowning, concerned.
"Jesus Christ," muttered Harry as soon as Butch opened his eyes. "You gotta be more careful."
"What ... what happened?" Butch groaned, holding his hand to his throbbing head.
"The tree," said Harry. "That tree there, a bloody big branch fell, we cut it off with a chain saw. And the ball just fell, right on the crane, crushed the cab like a tin can. Balls ain’t supposed to do that, but the crane was bent good. The tree-must have bent the bloody boom. Lucky we was around else you'd be gone for sure."
Butch pulled himself to a sitting position and stared across at the willow. It rose like a giant black octopus with its branches still waving, agitated, quivering. Huge branches covered the ground around the base of the tree. Several men were standing nearby with chain saws, motionless, just staring up at the tree.
"Jesus Christ!" said Harry. Then, in a whisper, "we gotta watch out for that bloody tree. It's movin', movin' all the time."
***
"Darling," said Lou, "I'm sure you must be mistaken about that tree. A tree can't just attack you. Remember what Harry said, the ball just dropped on the cab and, as for the tree, it was probably the wind or -"
"No, I'm sure it was the tree. Somebody is going to get hurt, I've got to be sure that it won't hurt nobody. Lou, that tree is, somehow, alive. I'm sure it knew what it was doing. It actually pulled the bloody control lever and swung the ball over the cab. I was there. I saw it. I couldn't believe it, but it happened, just like I said."
They were seated around the kitchen table, yellow formica with chrome legs. It was evening and Butch had been home from work all day nursing a sore head, his leg in a cast. Lou was pouring another coffee into the oversized mug, black and strong, just the way Butch liked it. She drank none of it, but sipped from a dainty cup of weak tea, dressed in a light print dress covered in yellow flowers, her hair neatly tied with a pink ribbon. Her husband had talked of the tree all day. At first she thought he was delirious, but when the afternoon had rolled around and his fever had subsided and he was still talking about the tree she knew he meant every word.
After Butch had been admitted to General Hospital she had talked to Harry McGinnis. At first Harry seemed to think that the tree knew what it was doing, but later his story changed: it was just the wind, must have been. Yet, all work would be stopped on the site until the tree was removed.
***
"Lou, I want to go back there."
"Where, dear?"
"To the construction site, to see that bloody tree. I'm not crazy, you'll see. We can just watch it, you'll see."
&nb
sp; "But your leg, the doctor said you should stay off it for a few days. Besides, Harry said -"
"Lou, the leg is nothing. I went through worse in the war." He got up from the table, leaned on his crutch and headed toward the door which lead into the garage.
"C'mon Lou. Come with me ... I'm not crazy, you'll see."
Butch walked out the door and Lou sighed and got her coat. No use arguing, not when Butch was in this mood. When she slid into the driver's seat of the truck, Butch was waiting, his heavy army coat pulled about him, staring into the dark garage, not saying a word.
They got to the Bourden house site just after 8 o'clock that evening. Lou pulled only partway up the driveway and stopped. Butch opened the door, slid out onto the driveway, leaned against the truck and pulled his crutches after him. He started to hobble unsteadily toward the willow, his heavy army overcoat flopping from side to side.
"Butch, don't go too near!" shouted his wife. "Be careful, the tree, it doesn't look safe."
Why had she said that? The tree did actually look menacing, black and tall, large branches lying about its base.
Lou slid out and joined him, helping Butch around the pile of wood and bricks and other debris. It was early evening and they could both clearly see the two walls which were intact, next to the huge willow tree which was now moving slowly, caressing what remained of the house.
"What are you going to do?" asked Lou. "What can you do? The other workmen just left the site this morning. They said they wouldn't work here until somebody tore down the tree. What can you do?"
"Watch and see," said Butch. He stopped just short of the overhanging branch and looked up. The tree was moving slowly, the branch swaying. "Okay you bastard, now let's see what you do!" he shouted. He steadied himself on one crutch and reached into the large pocket of his overcoat, pulling out a round metal object. "Get ready to run," he said in a low voice, his head turned slightly toward his wife, then he pulled the pin with his teeth and tossed the hand grenade under the branch. It rolled toward the base of the tree and Butch turned sharply and stumbled. Lou ran to him, helped him up and together they headed back to the truck.
"War surplus grenade," muttered Butch. "Should do it." He smiled and leaned heavily against the fender, waiting. Nothing happened. "It takes just ten seconds, wait." They waited, but nothing happened.
Then they saw a branch rise in the air, coiling and spiralling upward. Then they saw the grenade released, from the fingers of the branch, falling to the ground, rolling across the driveway toward them. It disappeared behind a pile of bricks, then exploded. A column of broken brick rose in the air and fell harmlessly on the driveway. Lou gasped and staggered back against the truck.
"Bastard," muttered Butch. "Just the first engagement ... the war ain't over."
***
The site of the new apartment building was deserted. It had remained that way for nearly a week. Two walls of the old Bourden house still stood against the huge willow tree. Occasionally a truck would drive up and someone would survey the site then the truck would drive away. Several times a rusty black Chevrolet would stop at the end of the driveway, Michael Colby would roll down the window, wait for several minutes, then drive off.
It was a week to the day since Butch Camden had narrowly escaped death at the hands of the willow tree, and the steel ball had crushed the cab. Now he drove up in his pickup truck, in the early hours of the morning, and stopped. The back of the truck was covered in a tarpaulin, brown and black and olive, army camouflage.
He stood for some time by the side of the truck, looking carefully up and down the street. It was too early for any traffic. People were still sleeping. He hobbled to the back and removed the tarp. He could walk, shakily, without a crutch and preferred it that way. He had come through worse than this in the war. He didn't need any help. He was wearing a regulation army outfit with scuffed brown boots, short jacket with plenty of pockets, a belt of bullets hanging over his left shoulder.
The first thing he pulled off the truck was a machine gun. He set it up on the driveway. Then he pulled out the dented helmet, put it on, buckled the strap. Then the mortar launcher: a short cylindrical barrel into which he would slip the shells, shells which he had hidden for two years in the basement. He let the belt of bullets fall from his shoulder, then fed them into the machine gun. He carried the box of three mortar shells and placed them on the ground. This would be the end of the war ... and he would win, guaranteed.
When he squatted beside the mortar his eyes were flashing, his lips quivering, saliva running onto his chin from the corners of his mouth. He stared at the tree, gauged the distance, set the angle and dropped the first shell into the mortar barrel. The shell roared toward the tree before a tongue of flame, in a high arc, landing amid the tangle of branches. There was a deafening explosion and two large branches fell to the ground. Butch screamed with excitement, then settled back and smiled, squinting his eyes, drooling, staring at the willow with its branches beginning to rise in the air. Lights came on, up and down the street.
He dropped in his second shell and it streaked upward, then down into the tree, into the wildly gyrating branches. The explosion tore a large piece of trunk from the tree and Butch was covered in a shower of wood chips and twigs. A fire had started beneath the tree and Butch muttered incoherently. "War ... bastard ... burn." A wall of the old house slowly moved then caved in, sending a fountain of sparks into the air. Neighbours were running to the site, in pyjamas and housecoats.
Butch was now covered in black hairy branches from the shattered tree. He ignored them, staring intently at the old willow. Suddenly the loose branches spun about the barrel of the mortar launcher, smoking, bursting into flame, yet continuing to grow, black coils spinning about the hot barrel, then about his hand. He tore himself away long enough to drop the last shell into the barrel, but nothing happened. A dud. His leg was bleeding now, but he crawled to the machine gun, still covered in small coils of the willow, black and twisting and alive. He ignored them, began to fire, directly into the tree, his head forward, peering out from under his helmet, shouting, eyes wide open, wild.
The tree leaned toward him, dropping, in slow motion, branches reaching out. He was still firing when he vanished beneath the collapsing canopy.
The crowd gathered at the street was silent, gasping. They saw it all.
***
The police arrived within the hour and surveyed the scene. The neighbours fell over themselves, all talking simultaneously, trying to explain what happened. The worker had bombed the tree. He had shot at it, repeatedly. The old willow tree had split, one half falling onto the driveway, and the worker had vanished.
It was more than an hour later when they found Butch beneath the fallen half of the willow. His helmet was crushed and his head had been twisted from his body. But his hands: they gripped a machine gun so tenaciously that they had to remove the gun with the body.
April, 1948
A ball and crane arrived the day before Easter, 1948. Last Fall the death of Butch Camden had been in the papers and the article had mentioned the fears of the workmen, their insistence that the willow was alive, their refusal to work until the tree was removed. Now all of the neighbours and half of the town gathered to watch the building demolished. Trucks had carted away most of the debris, but half of the huge willow tree still stood there, magnificent, almost regal. The neighbours talked among themselves of the problems of removing the house. The tree was always in the way. Its branches seemed entangled in every pipe, drain and sewer. Every time a wall came down a branch or two had to be removed, the entire wall on that side was riddled with roots. When the backhoe had tried to pull the concrete foundation away they found that is was tied to the ground with a thick mass of roots. The tree seemed almost to be protecting the old house. One of the workmen had broken his leg on a twisted root when he tried to remove some bricks. Another had been injured when he was clearing the broken branches; he needed seventeen stitche
s. Another swore that the tree was moving to take up the space occupied by the house; he had quit on the spot.
Now the neighbours watched as the backhoe began to dig a wide ditch around the remaining half of the tree. Another man started a chainsaw and walked cautiously toward the tree. They had originally intended to simply burn it down, but someone wanted the wood for wicker furniture and old man Colby couldn't pass up a chance to make some extra money. They would now cut off the branches and leave the trunk in large pieces. The backhoe would remove the roots.
The crowd waited and watched as the man with the chain saw stood before the tree, waiting, staring up into the old willow. Then he slowly walked forward and warily climbed into the tree and began to cut the upper branches.
A large branch fell with a resounding crash and the crowd clapped and cheered.
Then another branch fell, and another.
Then there was silence.
The backhoe stopped and the driver climbed out and ran to the base of the tree, disappearing into the hanging branches. He dragged a body from beneath the tree and the crowd gasped. Several other men ran to the tree. Within minutes an ambulance arrived and the body was carried on a stretcher past the crowd. The body of Harry McGinnis was distorted, twisted, crushed. It was covered in welts and slime. The backhoe operator climbed back into his machine shaking his head and immediately left the grounds, muttering to himself. It was some time before the crowd dispersed, talking and whispering among themselves.
The last to leave was a figure in a dark gray coat, with collar pulled high.
***
"That's bloody nonsense!" shouted Michael Colby. "The house ain't haunted and the tree ain't a killer. Harry and Butch was just careless, stupid. The building trade is getting worse. Any idiot gets a job these days. Give the contract to Jake, he'll do the job. We'll have to wait a week until he's finished the Molson project, but it'll be worth the wait."
He hung up the phone and grunted with disgust. "Damn incompetents. We're already three months behind schedule. If I don't have that building renting by next Spring the bank will come after me. Damnation!"