“Okay.”
“Oh,” says the barber, turning around and theatrically patting his pockets. “I seem to have forgotten the leeches.”
The man in the chair turns quickly around—well, as quickly as he can, anyway—and blanches. “What?”
“Leeches. It’s an old barber joke. I thought it might get a laugh from you.”
“Oh,” replies the man. “Okay … yeah, I guess that is kind of funny. I made the same joke with my wife when she dropped me off.”
“The classics never die.” And with that, the barber takes a strand of the man’s remaining hair between two fingers, and smoothes it down from scalp to tip.
“So,” says the barber. “A little off the top, then?”
And both men laugh. It is a strangely musical sound, but it’s not the only music in the air this night. We can hear the other music, the singing that the barber and customer cannot, and it’s a mesmerizing sound, ethereal, and our curiosity piqued, we slip out through a nearby vent and follow it to its source.
The Tree, Its Singers, and a Visitor.
We can see there is something different about the tree. Oh, at first glance it’s still the tallest, ugliest, thickest, most unnaturally twisted-looking tree we’ve ever seen, its dense, broad roots disappear into the soil as smoothly as a finger into water; there are no cracks, no gaps, no damaged bark; roots and soil are now perfectly sculpted together. We move closer, tentatively, for we are still not sure what’s wrong here, moving slowly closer, focusing on one of the lower branches where something thick, wet, and dark is dripping from a deep gash that has to have been made by an ax. The closer we got to the tree, the more we can see that it bares the marks of several ax strikes, and not particularly skilled strikes, either; the wounds—and wounds they are, because every jagged score is bleeding—have begun to scab over in a few places, but not enough to prevent us from seeing that, beneath the bark, instead of wood, the tree is made of soggy red tissue and tightly-wound sinew. And it now it sounds like the thing is breathing.
Like most places and things in Cedar Hill, there are legends about this tree; so many, in fact, that the people here have long given up trying to separate fact from fancy. The name it was given in legend is The Choking Tree, because those who have witnessed its so-called breathing claim that it seems to be fighting for breath, as if it’s being strangled by some unseen hand or force.
We listen. The sound of someone—or something—else breathing is louder now, but also strained, wheezing, filled with phlegm. The smooth bark of the tree begins to crack, thin rivulets of blood trickling down toward the gnarled roots, and the shape of the tree begins altering: the branches twine together to form arms, knots in the center protrude and shift, becoming faces, and the scattered clumps of white scintilla we observed earlier move toward these faces to light upon their shorn scalps and become hair. Then, as the three voices merge into one, they begin singing—and what a sound it is; rain spattering against cold glass on a dim autumn day, the taste of the color of sadness, the cry of a distant, low train whistle in the night, reminding you that you are now and always will be alone … and the taste of anger, the touch of betrayal, the groan of something lost in a cavernous, murky, dank place where no light ever reaches to show the way out; all of this is captured in the sweetly bitter song of these voices and they sing, again and again and again, “Remember … remember … remember ….”
And in the trench—that we now see is more of circular pit—we catch glimpses of the thing that calls this pit home; rippling scales, appendages that may or may not be tentacles, clusters of eyes where none should be, and, briefly—thank the Fates, so briefly—the shape of a mouth big enough to swallow an infant whole, a mouth filled with circular rows of sharp, yellowed, jagged teeth. It moves with the song as if drawing energy from it, becoming stronger, more frenzied in its ecstasy, until it suddenly stops as the song continues.
We turn to see a reed-thin brown cat, perhaps a tabby, shamble out of some nearby foliage. Its eyes are yellowed, its movement slow and painful. So sick is this tabby that it cannot control its bowels, and so both urinates and defecates with every step; the feline leukemia that has been chewing through its system is in its final stages and this tabby, that has known little to no kindness in its few too years on this earth, manages to make it nearly to the edge of the pit before it crumples to the ground, fighting for its last breaths as the pain becomes all it knows or recognizes. Except for the singing. Somehow, the singing manages to find gaps in the pain and enter the tabby, relaxing it, comforting it.
Slowly, quietly, as the tabby struggles for another breath, one of the tentacle-like appendages slips over the edge of the pit and slides toward the cat, gently wrapping the tabby in its embrace, and pulls it back, over the side, and down into the shadows.
We wait, but hear no sound coming up from the abyss—for an abyss this must surely be, and even the sound of the women’s singing cannot keep us here now; no, we must leave at once, seeking sanctuary and comfort in the homey warm light of the barber’s shop.
Shop Talk of a Sort.
The barber turns the chair around so both he and the man face the mirror. The man starts at the sight of his reflection, as if he’s been avoiding looking at himself in bright light. The barber pats the man’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry, friend,” he says in a soothing voice. “I assure you that I’m not some snake-oil salesman.”
The man in the chair says nothing, only gives a slow, sad nod.
The barber continues to smooth out the tufts and strands of the man’s hair with his fingers; he has yet to make a single cut.
“Did you know,” says the barber, who is not really asking a question, “that the human head has been associated with hundreds of rites and taboos over the centuries? Much of them come from the belief that the head—the scalp, specifically—is the abode of forces of great power, and because of its connection with the human head, hair was assumed to possess magical properties of its own and, naturally, became the focus of many other superstitions and magical rites, devised from protecting the head from—get this—psychic injury. It was also supposed to protect those who had the task of dressing or cutting the hair from the anger of the hair’s indwelling spirits.”
“Isn’t there something like that mentioned in the Bible?” asks the man in the chair. “Or does that count as one of my three questions?”
“Yes, there is mention of it in the Bible and, no, it doesn’t count. You’re thinking of Samson and Delilah. Judges, chapter sixteen—and here’s an interesting bit of trivia if you ever want to win a bar bet: Delilah did not cut Samson’s hair; she had one of her handmaidens do it … or maybe it was one of her nurses, I don’t remember. Regardless, she never touched it. Stories like that caused people to believe human strength resided in the hair, and that cutting it reduced physical vitality. Removal of hair was always regarded as a terrible form of punishment, and many groups fully exploited that belief—for instance, the penal authorities of the Dutch East Indies frequently threatened their prisoners with shaving their heads, and the threat alone was enough to secure confessions without resorting to torture.
“Hair is believed to respond to the emotional state of the person it’s attached to. Because of that belief, it became accepted that a severe shock or fright could turn a head of hair white or grey in a single night. There are a number of interesting historical accounts to back up that belief, such as Marie Antoinette and the less-than-lucky Damiens, who was tortured in public before having his white hair shorn, and then was ripped apart by being tied between four horses. Seems Louis XV took assassination attempts very seriously.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” says the man in the chair. “I mean, it’s interesting, don’t get me wrong, but … why?”
“That will count as your first question.”
“I know.”
“I am telling you all of this because it will help make things easier in a little while. It will help you to unde
rstand the process.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The barber finds two strands of hair that command his attention. He smoothes them out, separating them from the others in the clump, snips them off, and carefully places them into a small plastic bag that he immediately seals. Returning to the man, he continues to examine what hair remains.
“Many people believed—and still believe—that even after hair is cut away, it is still linked by an invisible bond to the great forces and spirits in the head. Because of this, there is a practice in many cultures around the world of taking the shorn hair and disposing of it secretly to prevent it from falling into hostile hands. Sometimes it is cast into a stream so it will be borne away from any danger. In ancient Rome the discarded locks of the flamen Dialis, the Priest of Jupiter, were buried beneath a magic tree. Some cultures would stuff the hair into a hole in the tree, or tie it around some frog or bird, even worms and snakes that lived in or near the tree. What happened to these creatures afterward is anybody’s guess, but if there was any truth in the supernatural power of hair, some believe that it may have produced deformities, caused unholy mutations, created monsters of a sort. It is believed that such trees still exist all around the world, some in the most unlikely of places, and that these trees are guarded by the mutated creatures that were tied to the shorn hair, especially the hair of executed witches.
“You see, it was one of the strongest beliefs in witch-hunting times that dark magical potency of the witch or sorcerer resided in the hair, which is why so many accused witches were shorn of all bodily hair before they were tortured, tried, and executed. In Europe the witches were either drowned or burned at the stake, sometimes both, their hair burned along with them. It was believed that burning a witch’s hair once it was removed from her body guaranteed the death not only of the witch and her power, but her very spirit. My God, the people were fanatical back then, arguably crazy—and the sad part is, the people who were accused and convicted of witchcraft were what we now call herbalists, midwives, and homeopathic healers who were merely trying to help their townsfolk. So many innocent lives were lost, but the people and their religious leaders believed they were doing God’s work. Have you ever heard of the Caporael and Matossian studies?”
“No.”
“Stay with me on this, it is important. Let’s pick a single location, say, for instance, Salem. The Salem Witch Trials in 1692 resulted in the deaths by execution of twenty people, and the torture and imprisonment of one hundred and fifty others, all of them accused or convicted of witchcraft. The thing is, as the Caporael and Matossian studies concluded, the so-called ‘victims’ of the accused witches very well might have suffering from nothing more than food poisoning.”
“That’s nuts.”
“But the studies make a strong argument. It was a specific type of food poisoning known as convulsive ergotism. People contracted it after eating rye that was contaminated with the fungus ergot. Rye was a staple of the New England diet in the late Sixteen Hundreds. It grew exceptionally well in Salem because there was an abundance of swampland, the type of land that is susceptible to infection by ergot and very likely was infected. Ergot flourishes best after a severe winter followed by a cold, most spring. New England endured an extremely harsh winter in 1691-1692, and the spring that followed was abnormally cold and damp.
“The ‘victims’ of the witches suffered giddiness, tremors, and violent spasms. They had the most fantastic visions, and all claimed to feel the legs of invisible ants or other insects crawling around inside their skin. All of these are classic signs of convulsive ergotism. And in addition to the nausea and vomiting and hallucinations, they became afflicted with something called formication—the belief that ants or insects are crawling underneath your skin. As for the hallucination and visions, ergot happens to be a rich source of lysergic acid diethylamide—LSD.
“Those women executed as witches did not cause these so-called possessions—they were trying to treat and cure it. But willful ignorance coupled with the arrogance of mob mentality has a way of shredding all reason beyond hope of repair.” He discovers a third hair, separates it, and places it in the plastic bag with the others. “Nearly finished now.” He pulls the apron off the man in the chair. “Tell me, are you feeling nauseated right now?”
The man rubs his stomach. “Hell, yes. I don’t know what that root was or why you insisted that I eat the damn thing, but I’ve been feeling horrible for the last few hours.”
“You didn’t take any medicine, did you?”
“Nothing.”
“No antibiotics, beta-blockers, nothing for the pain?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” The barber takes a chair across from the man and lights a cigarette. “We all have our personal rituals, my friend. Having a smoke after a cut is one of mine.”
“Man, that smells good,” says the man, coughing.
“So,” says the barber. “You have two questions left. Want to ask them now?”
“I’ll ask one; why did you only cut certain hairs to put in the bag?”
“Because not only does mystical power reside in the hair, but the infection of all diseases, as well. In your case, since there is so little hair to work with—and so much of it has been ruined by the chemo—I had to find the ones that have managed to stay alive, to hold on to some of their power while also sharing the disease. There were three, but that’s all we’ll need.”
“I didn’t think it would be over this quickly.”
The barber smiles as smoke curls out of his mouth and nose. “It isn’t finished. Oh, we’re done here, in the shop, but we’re not finished yet. We still have to make a little drive. Unless I miss my guess, we’ve got about twenty, twenty-five minutes before that root you consumed causes you to vomit, and you need to do that at a specific place. Please don’t ask where because we’ll be there soon enough, and the ‘why;’ of it will be obvious once this is all over. You now have one question left. I strongly urge you to save it.”
The man in the chair nods his head. The barber finishes his smoke, rises from the chair, and offers the man in the chair the crutches he dropped earlier. “Shall we, then?”
The Drive.
The drive is mostly non-eventful. Neither man speaks; instead, they listen to the radio. It’s only when the Oldies station begins playing Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky” that either man breaks the silence: the begin singing along with it. The man beside the barber sings along as if he’s just recalled an until-now forgotten memory, one of cruising around on the weekends when still in high school, a pretty girl sitting beside you, honking your horn and laughing for no reasons at all; he sings along with the remembered joy of youth and budding dreams.
The barber sings the song as if it’s a prayer.
Just as the song is ending, the barber pulls his car off to the side of the dirt road they have been travelling. “We have to go the rest of the way on foot. Are you up for it?”
“Not that it matters, but I’ll try.”
The barber places a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Not much longer now.”
The man grins. “Doctors already told me that.” He looks at the barber. “That was cancer joke.”
The barber blinks. “Inside, deep inside, I’m doubled over with laughter.”
“You hide it well.”
“Yes. I get a lot of complaints about that.”
They get out of the car. The barber guides the man over to a narrow path leading into something that looks like a miniature version of the forest primeval.
“Stay behind me—I’ll walk slowly. Please don’t wander off the path. It would not be a good thing.”
The man nods once again, and the two men set off on the last part of their journey.
The Path and Its Inhabitants.
All around them are exotic smells that are both intoxicating and threatening; animal urine, manure, sweet flowers, moist greenery; it would be a somewhat pleasant walk were it not
for the animals the men see tracking them at a distance on either side of the trees: a coyote with two-thirds of another growing from its side, the extra head bouncing against the ground, white eyes never blinking; toads far too large for this area of the state, some with eyes that bulge even larger than their expanded vocal sacs, others with extra legs or—in one instance—none at all, moving itself forward by wriggling on its semi-gelatinous belly; geese with so many wings they cannot fly; opossums the size of bull mastiffs; groundhogs walking upright because they have only two legs; and other animals that resemble nothing the man has ever seen before, or wants to see again.
“Wh-what is this place?” he asks.
“As far as you’re concerned,” replies the barber, “it’s where affliction and despair come to die. And that was your third question.”
“I was afraid of that.”
They continue on wordlessly, slowing their pace as they reach a slight rise in the ground; during the small climb, the barber puts his arm around the man’s waist, helping him along. The ground flattens out, the overhead foliage ends, and they stand at the edge of a field. The moonlight seems focused solely on the tree. The terrible figures of the three women jutting from the bark reach out with their brittle-branch arms, hand cupped, beckoning the two men to come closer … come closer … come closer ….
“I feel sick,” says the man, nearly falling.
“Good,” says the barber, grabbing the man under one arm. He nearly drags the man to the tree. They stop at the edge of the trench and the barber takes away the man’s crutches. The man drops to hands and knees, his head hanging just over the edge.
“Close your eyes,” says the barber. “You don’t want to see the thing that lives down there.”
But the man says nothing, only begins to cough, to choke, to dry heave, but he cannot vomit. The barber removes the plastic bag from his pocket and takes out the three hairs, holding them out, as far away from his body as he can. The woman nearest to him reaches out, over the trench, her limbs crackling, extending, until her hand grasps that of the barber. She squeezes his hand, then with her jagged index finger, scratches deep, drawing some of the barber’s blood. The barber makes no sound as she takes the three hairs from his hand and dips them into his blood like a painter preparing a brush for the canvas. Withdrawing her arm, she stuffs the bloodied hair into the knothole in the center of her torso. The barber kneels next to the man. As soon as the hair is ingested, the man begins vomiting, a torrent of white, red, and black tumors shaped like chunks of cauliflower, mixed in with some blood and bile. His entire body shudders and jerks with each burst of pain-wracked sickness; his face is bright red, veins bulging in his neck, his temples, and his scalp. There is a few moments’ reprieve from the violent seizures, and as the man groans and struggles to pull in breath the barber grabs one of the man’s arms and with his free hand rubs the center of the man’s back, whispering words of comfort, words of promise, over soon, it will be over soon, so soon, I promise, I promise you, my friend, over so soon, and another wave a nausea overtakes the man, this last one the worst of them all, the man grabbing the edge of the trench, his body hitting the ground full force as more small tumors are expelled down into the wide, open, waiting mouth of the creature below.
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