by HL Fullerton
“Not even in fluorescent orange.”
One thing humans and fairies have in common is some of each believe names have power. Evangeline means ‘good news’ in ancient Greek or some such. You know what else is considered good news? The Book of Christ.
Christ. Let’s not bring ‘Him’ into this. One pagan king is certainly enough.
Now, ‘Carl King’ is an oak of a name. Carl has Germanic origins, both the word (karl which once meant ‘freeman,’ then meant man or husband or some lowly-birthed peasant) and the boy (on his mother’s side). Carl/Karl/Carolus/Charles is a name shared by kings and philosophers. Some who have the patience for delving into name elements and their diminutives contend it indicates ‘warrior’. But whether one considers Carl to indicate peasant or noble status, a man or an army of one, the surname King leaves no doubt.
People who find names portentous things might argue that naming a King child Carl was asking for trouble. Those who don’t hold with derivatives think it all stuff and nonsense.
…both babies and kings crown themselves.
It’s why one has such a fondness for the other…
Carl stayed out of the forest—he’d promised Evangeline—but he spent many hours in his backyard, keeping an eye out for wayward children. Even for all his vigilance, he still wasn’t prepared for a man to walk out of the Kings’ backyard pine wearing only boxers made of bark.
“Hello,” Carl said as he took in his visitor’s appearance. Although, as with the troll, he wasn’t sure his first impression of ‘man’ was correct. The man was slender but solid, his build burly. Bones bowed under his skin like weighted branches. His multi-colored hair was prickly as a crew cut. As he approached, Carl realized the bristles weren’t strands of hair, but pine needles in shades of orange and green, representing all stages and hues of a pine needle’s life, from new growth to forest floor, and that his skin was scalloped like a pine cone’s seed scales, which, up close, made his flesh seem shattered.
“Greetings,” the pine man said and his voice echoed with silence the way all pines did. For Carl, who had heard trees talk all his life, it convinced him the stranger was not a man, but a tree in humanesque form, which he hadn’t realized they had. He wasn’t sure if this was a trick of his pine or all pines. (He might have to stop thinking of the tree as his; judging by its height, it was clearly older than both he and his mother combined. Perhaps it didn’t reside in their backyard. Perhaps their house was in its front yard—if trees had fronts and backs. They probably had circumferences instead. Or rings. He’d have to remember to ask Evangeline which she thought was most accurate.)
“Is there something wrong with the pine?” Carl looked up, way up, at the tippy top of the tree. It was a very tall tree.
“I’m not pine. I’m spruce.”
“Aren’t spruces a type of pine?”
“No, we are not,” the not-a-pine man said. “We’re Picea, they’re Pinus. Different.”
“Got it. Is there something wrong with the spruce?”
“You don’t see pines and spruce as different?”
“I’m sure they are,” Carl agreed. “It’s just they have a lot in common as far as trees—conifers (is it okay to call you both that?) go—and I haven’t made a close study of tree types. Sorry about lumping you together with the pines.”
“Do you find maples and spruce different?”
This question had the feel of a test about it because it was, in fact, a test. “Well, maples lose their leaves and they don’t talk in the winter so I guess they hibernate?”—the spruce man nodded—“and spruces don’t”—the spruce nodded again—“so there are differences, and I’m sure they have a different Latin name too, but you’re all trees, right?”
The scales of the spruce man’s skin lightened in color. Carl felt he’d passed so he said, “If it helps, I sometimes get beeches and alders and sycamores mixed up with maples and oaks. By sight. Not by sound. I can tell trees apart by their voices, but I don’t always know which one is which. I can’t always tell the leaves apart.”
“The hemlocks down the road are pines. So are the arborvitae hedges your neighbor has to screen their house. I can still see in their windows though. I’m taller than any arborvitae.”
“You are,” Carl agreed. He still wasn’t sure why the spruce wanted to talk to him. Maybe it was lonely with all the maples hibernating. “Do you miss the maples? When they’re sleeping? Or do you like the quiet?”
“I miss them.” Orangey shades flowed over the spruce’s face—his sap was running—and Carl realized the tree-man was embarrassed.
Carl smiled. Then smiled wider. “You have a favorite maple.”
The spruce nodded. Then he hung his head and waited. Carl waited too. Until it was clear the tree wasn’t going to speak.
“So when maples lose their leaves and you see their bare branches is that like them getting naked? Are we surrounded by naked trees? Should I close my eyes so I don’t see your girlfriend’s branches? Which one is she?”
“Leaves aren’t like clothes. They don’t hide a tree’s form. They’re like…”
“Hair?” Carl suggested because his strands decorated his antlers but didn’t hide them.
“…hungry fingernails.” The spruce grinned—he didn’t have teeth, just lips and tongue. “Roots are like naked.”
“You’re wearing clothes, sort of.”
“I didn’t want to startle you. Should I take it off?”
“No! Bark’s fine.”
The spruce grinned again. “I like you, King carl. Even though you tried to climb me when you were smaller.”
Carl blushed. Climbing trees wasn’t weird. But climbing a tree that was sentient and watching over you—that had a man inside it—was kind of weird. Even for a boy who had antlers on his head. Then Carl remembered how he sometimes scratched his antlers against trees—against the spruces in particular because of their lovely scent—and his cheeks burned hotter. “Er, sorry about the rubbing.”
“Rubbing?”
Carl pointed at himself and tipped his head toward his index finger.
“Oh, marking is a great honor. Not like climbing.”
“No one ever said anything about the climbing.”
“Saplings without roots explore.” He shrugged. “You wouldn’t think it odd for a spruce to love a maple?”
Carl was glad to not be talking about himself and didn’t mind the hairpin turn in the conversation. “Do you love your maple?”
The spruce’s nod was slower in coming this time, as if Carl didn’t quite have the right of things.
“Hey, um. I called the maple your girlfriend but I didn’t mean anything by it. I have a girlfriend and so I…um…I don’t know how”—Carl knew how trees reproduced: seeds and pollen—but he didn’t know how trees gendered or pronouned—“trees love. So if your maple’s not a girl, because she’s a tree and you’re a tree…you know.” Maples sounded like girls to Carl, but he realized that didn’t mean they were girls. Just like all spruces sounded like intoning priests and arborvitae like children at a birthday party. Because trees produced both pollen (male) and seed (female) so… “No offense, sorry.”
“You are better at listening than talking, King carl.”
“I am. Would you like me to listen?”
“I would.”
So Carl listened. At the end of Spruce Catkins’ tale, he said, “You should tell this maple what you told me. Ask if they feel the same about you. And if they can do the walk-out-of-a-tree thing like you, I wouldn’t mind meeting them in the spring when they wake.”
“We have your blessing then?”
This confused Carl as no one had ever asked for him to bless anything before. “It’s not my blessing you need. It’s theirs.”
Spruce Catkins bowed his head. “King carl, I’d like to give you a gift.”
Carl’s hands came up as if to ward off any gift-giving. “No need,” he said. “Happy to help.”
Spruce Catkins ignored him
, reached into the trunk of his tree and pulled out a small circular container made of bark. He pressed it into Carl’s hands. Inside was sap. “For when your antlers itch and there isn’t a spruce near to aid you.”
This gift Carl King accepted.
…about eggs and nests, a tree ought to spot a cuckoo better than any nymph…
Mrs. King tricked her son into the car with promise of pizza for dinner and drove him to another expert. She was the parent. It was up to her to make sure he lived long enough to make his own bad decisions. And she desperately wanted a reason why the bony protuberances ought to be removed. If an expert gave it, then Carl would have to agree; she was certain.
“This isn’t a pizzeria,” Carl said, remaining buckled in on his side of the car. The King car—a Honda Accord—was parked in front of a dilapidated, one-story building. They were the only non-pickup truck in the lot. “It’s a taxidermist’s.”
“Burt knows about antlers and horns and—”
Carl snorted. “Dead things. Gutting them. Stuffing them. Hanging them like posters on a wall. Do you want to hang me on a wall, Mom? Or just the parts of me you don’t like?”
“Carl. What if they’re tumors? Or some weird animal cancer?”
Carl made a high-pitched whistling sound and raised his eyebrows at ‘animal cancer.’ His mother didn’t take the bait. He said, “Then I’d be dead already.”
“Let Burt look at them. He’ll know if they’re healthy or not.”
“I’m healthy. The people doctors with their medical degrees and their blood tests said so.”
Side by side, not looking directly at each other, the Kings watched a man exit the shop and light a cigarette. He was wearing flannel and a camo baseball cap with Burt’s embroidered across the front. “That Burt?” Carl asked, folding his arms across his chest.
“He’s very nice.” Mrs. King told herself she didn’t sound defensive at all.
“You could at least’ve found a vet.”
“I—uh—that’s—”
Her son stared at her, shocked. It was surprising to find out your mother might not consider you human when you never considered yourself otherwise. “So I should thank the vet for turning you down? How many did you call?”
She didn’t even try to stutter out a response to that.
“Mom!” Carl gave a series of grunts and rubbed his hands over his face. “This has to stop. You have to stop. If I removed your hand, would you notice it wasn’t there? Would you miss it? Would you stop trying to remove parts of me?”
Their argument was interrupted when Burt knocked on the driver’s side window. Mrs. King lowered it, and Burt leaned down to peer in. He held his cigarette downwind from their car. “This your boy?”
As if the antlers didn’t give it away.
“Yes.” Mrs. King felt silly performing introductions while still strapped into her seat, but did so anyway. “Carl, this is Burt. He owns Burt’s Taxidermy & Bait Shop. Burt, my son Carl.”
Burt looked Carl’s antlers up and down, took a drag off his cigarette. “Main beam has a nice curve. Good symmetry. Deer’s would’ve hardened by now. Probably won’t lose yours this spring. Your mom says they haven’t ever fell off?”
Carl shook his head.
“Well, if you do shed, clean the pedicels like you would any cut or scrape so’s you don’t get infected. Don’t poke at ’em and don’t go locking antlers with shit for kicks. You’ll crack or break something for certain. Probably bleed like a mother if they do and who knows if yours’ll grow back. Might be like baby teeth, might not.” Burt straightened, brought the cigarette back to his mouth. “Drink plenty of milk. Few more points, they’ll really be something.”
A smile bloomed on her son’s face. “Thanks, Burt,” he said. “So you know, I’m not looking to be anyone’s trophy.”
“Probably for the best,” Burt said and headed back to the front of the store to finish his smoke.
“You were right,” her son said as Mrs. King raised the window against the cold, trapping her despair on the inside. “He was nice. Can we get that pizza now?”
Taxidermy is formed by two Greek roots: taxis meaning arrangement and derma meaning skin. Thus, taxidermy is the arrangement of skin. Once upon a time, stuffed animals were skins of animals filled with rags and such in place of blood and guts. A replica of life. During the Victorian era, taxidermy was all the rage, along with canine eugenics, spiritualism, and imposing a wealth of meaning upon flora.
A trophy is an award or prize to commemorate a victory or event. Hunters sometimes have the heads of their kills (trophies) mounted for posterity. Serial killers are also known to take trophies from their victims.
…all the rage. snort—stamp—stare…
Carl King’s girlfriend borrowed her grandfather’s Jeep for their next date. It had more room for her boyfriend and his antlers, which meant he wouldn’t be lying flat on his back next to her while she ferried them about. Evangeline Chase found a reclined Carl King tough to ignore and, after a few close calls with trees and ditches, she decided the Jeep was their best option of arriving alive at their destinations.
Since she’d put the woods off-limits, she took him to Hobhouse’s, a pick-your-own-Christmas tree farm—not one of those pre-cut places; one where the trees were still in the ground and you could take home either a live balled tree or chop one down yourself. She figured it’d be sort of like a forest, but without the likelihood of running into hunters with crossbows (or her parents, who still hadn’t met the boy she was seeing, but who had demanded a meet prior to the upcoming dance). Evangeline wasn’t the fearful type, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someday someone was going to take one look at Carl and try to put a bolt through his heart. Some nights, she dreamed she was the one who did it and woke panicked by her bloodthirstiness and the inevitableness of it. Hunters hunt; Chases chase.
“What’s this?” Carl said, eying the signs and rows of trees with concern.
“Don’t worry,” she answered, correctly interpreting his lack of enthusiasm about participating in tree murder. “We’re not here to cut anything down. I just thought we could walk around some. Maybe drink some hot chocolate.”
“I can do that,” he said and ducked his head to climb out of the car. As they walked up the path to the fir orchard, a little boy behind them said, “Look, Mommy! He’s a reindeer.” Evangeline glanced over to see Carl’s reaction, but he was staring hard at the trees. She took his arm and hurried him deep into the rows, far from families deciding which tree would look best in their living room (which, come to think of it, is an awkward name for a place which annually imprisons a dying tree).
“This place smells like you,” Evangeline said, taking a deep breath. It wasn’t a perfect match for Carl’s scent, but it was close enough to remind her of him. She picked a romantic spot between two fir trees and sat. When Carl didn’t join her on the lumpy ground, she tugged on his arm. He still didn’t follow her down. Her Carl-King-in-an-orchard fantasy was going up in smoke once more. “What’s happening? Did the little kid upset you?”
“What little kid?” Carl’s eyes finally met hers. His seemed distracted and more than a little unfocused. His neck bulged and jerked; his antlers thrashed threateningly—like a stag warning off an interloper. “Sorry.”
“What’s bothering you?” Evangeline asked softly. For as long as she’d known Carl King, she’d never seen him truly upset, but something about this place irritated him.
“You shouldn’t sit there.” Carl reached down and pulled her into the middle of the grassy row. She stumbled into him, her sneaker catching on a root. “There’s something wrong with these trees.”
“Are they screaming?”
“No. They’re—” Carl peered down the row in both directions “—too quiet.”
Evangeline pressed her cold hand against his jacket, over his heart. It pounded against his ribs.
“And they don’t sound right. Their pitch is all whisper-y. The words are gibberis
h. At first, I thought maybe there were whispering in German or Norwegian or something and that’s why… But it’s not language at all.”
“Maybe they’re scared? Or younger than the trees you’re used to?”
Carl was as still as a hunting dog on point. “I think they’re insane.”
“All of them?” Evangeline Chase was both disturbed by the thought of an entire orchard of mentally disturbed trees and by the fact that she’d brought her tree-whisperer of a boyfriend to one for fun times.
“Yeah. I think—I think this is the tree version of a puppy mill.”
The pretty day spoiled. Evangeline felt the row narrow. Disturbed trees loomed over her, backlit with clear blue sky. Their branches teetered in the breeze. “Oh, Carl, I’m sorry. I thought this would be a safe place for us.”
“It isn’t dangerous. Let’s enjoy some cocoa. I’ll pretend I’m Blitzen. You can be the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
She rolled her eyes and nudged him to get them moving.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be the Sugar Plum Fairy and you be Blitzen.”
Evangeline laughed, but didn’t slow down at the barn cum country store for cocoa. She marched them to the old Jeep and then drove until they found a Dunkin’ Donuts with a drive-thru. The cashier side-eyed Carl until Evangeline stared him down. He handed her their drinks one at a time and mumbled an apologetic, “Your boyfriend’s hot.”
“He can hear you,” Evangeline said, staccato sharp. She was tired of strangers acting as if her boyfriend was some adorable pet who could only understand five words of English other than his name—sit, stay, dinner, and good boy. She stamped hard on the accelerator, making the Jeep lunge forward and hot chocolate slosh over the vehicle’s interior. She cursed and used her coat sleeve to mop up the mess as she navigated out of the parking lot. Both her fingertips and eyes felt feverish and like crying over spilt cocoa. Instead of shedding tears, she spat words. “Well, this was a disaster.”
But the disaster was only getting started.
