Eventually it was over. The hole was filled and, like the river, overflowing in the form of a small mound. People shook my father’s hand and patted me on the head and walked slowly back through the woods to their cars, high stepping through the mud and the weeds, relieved to go back to their normal lives.
But I was left there with nothing. Nothing normal to go back to. I stared at the earth, and it reminded me of when we first tilled up our garden in the spring. It looked like earth that was ready to have something planted in it.
Abra came up beside me and grabbed my shirt sleeve down where it wrapped around my wrist. She wasn’t holding my hand, but she was holding on to me.
We have to stay together.
I stared at that filled-in hole, and I felt her holding on to my sleeve, and I thought about the Tree of Life the pastor had read about. It seemed too good to be true, that the very Tree of Life might be here, somewhere in the valley, waiting for me to find it. But after all I had seen and heard in these few days, that’s exactly what I believed, and the preacher’s words confirmed it for me. I stared at my mother’s freshly filled-in grave and thought, if there ever was a place to plant a Tree of Life, that would be the soil for it.
“C’mon, boy,” my father said, and Abra and I followed him away from the cemetery. Everyone else had left. Everyone, that is, except for one man.
“Mr. Chambers?” the man said, walking up to my father.
“Adam,” my dad said in a tired voice. “Call me Adam.”
“My name’s Caleb Tennin. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The man was dressed in all black, with pointy black shoes and creased black pants and a black shirt with a black tie, all covered by a jet-black suit coat. He had tan skin and long, thin eyes and a shaved, bald head.
“I know this might not be a good time,” he said, looking away for a moment before looking back at my father. “But I hear you’re looking for some help around the farm.”
“You’re right,” my father said without any anger or emotion at all. “It is a bad time.”
“And I apologize,” Mr. Tennin said, bowing and backing away.
“Who’d you hear that from?” my dad asked, and I was shocked that he was continuing the conversation. I think he was too curious not to ask.
“Oh, you know, around,” Mr. Tennin whispered. He stopped backing up, paused, waited.
“Well, I can’t recall telling anyone I was looking for help.” My father paused as he continued to stare at the man with interest. I wondered if he had the same doubts I had regarding this man’s ability to put in a good day’s work. The suit, the fancy shoes, the soft hands—everything about this man suggested he hadn’t done a day of hard labor in his life.
“Any experience?”
“Enough,” Mr. Tennin said with confidence. “I spent many years in a garden. And I have a way with animals.”
My father shrugged, and he spoke every word reluctantly, as if he was running out of words, as if his daily allotment was nearly dry. “Well. When can you start?”
“Now, if you’ll have me.”
My dad clenched his jaw and nodded. “Okay. Join us for lunch?”
Mr. Tennin nodded back.
Abra and I followed them out of the woods and back to the crumbling road, past Mr. Jinn’s lane, and everything seemed to fall into step, fall into rhythm. But it only felt that way for a moment, because Abra nudged me in the side and pointed toward the northern fields that ran alongside the Road to Nowhere. Limping through the field, this time with a walking stick in his hand, was Mr. Jinn. High above him, so high that they were merely tiny black specks in a great blue sky, the vultures circled.
13
“SO THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPENED?” Mr. Tennin asked with deep concern in his voice, stopping under the oak tree.
My father nodded, not saying anything. Mr. Tennin moved closer to the tree. He reached up and put his hands on the scar, running his fingers along it. He closed his eyes and said something too quietly for me to hear before speaking louder to us.
“So sad,” he said, shaking his head, and his words sounded genuine. “So sad.”
A gruff voice called out from the other side of the yard, the side that grew up against the northern fields.
“That’s the tree?” the voice asked, and I knew without looking that it was Mr. Jinn, though I couldn’t figure out how he had gotten through the field that fast. I had thought we would have at least a few minutes to get my dad and Mr. Tennin inside before he arrived.
My father looked bothered by Mr. Jinn’s intrusion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Condolences, condolences,” Mr. Jinn said, pulling his comb from his shirt pocket. He wore the same gray mechanic shirt with thin, barely visible red stripes and the same navy blue pants I had seen him in before. His dark brown boots were muddy from walking through the field. He ran his comb straight back through his hair, returned it to his pocket, then held out his hand. “I’m your neighbor, Jinn.”
“Mr. Jinn,” my father said, looking surprised. The reclusive nature of Mr. Jinn had been legendary in our area. My father gathered himself and began introducing everyone else. “This is Mr. Tennin. We’re discussing terms to have him join on here as a hired hand.”
“I could use one myself,” Mr. Jinn said. “If you need more hours, I’m the farm straight back that way.”
But Mr. Tennin didn’t seem to pay any attention to him.
“This is my son, Sam,” my dad continued. “And this is his friend Abra.”
“How do you do?” Mr. Jinn said, not mentioning that we had met the day before. When he bent close to shake my hand, our eyes met. His gaze was heavy with one unspoken question.
Did you find the Tree?
I said nothing.
An awkward silence filled that warm July day as the five of us stood there, no one saying anything. Mr. Jinn didn’t seem to mind. He just stared up into the branches of the tree. Mr. Tennin still hadn’t taken his hand from the long, jagged lightning scar. Abra’s eyes were wide open, and I knew how she felt, waiting to see what would happen next.
Finally my father sighed, and when he spoke there was a heaviness in his voice. I could tell he wanted to be alone. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t send everyone away.
“Why don’t you all come in for lunch,” he said, a reluctant invitation. “We can make some sandwiches, and there’s some fresh milk in the fridge. But I need to get back to work in about an hour.”
He walked toward the house, not waiting to find out who would take him up on the offer. Mr. Tennin and Mr. Jinn followed him, walking side by side.
“This is strange,” Abra said, shaking her head, and the two of us followed the three men into the house.
Mr. Jinn took a huge bite out of his sandwich, leaving a piece of ham and a sliver of bread crust hanging from his mouth for a moment. He attacked his food like a man who hadn’t eaten for days.
“So tell me about that oak tree out there,” Mr. Tennin said. “That’s one of the oldest I’ve ever seen.”
My father nodded, finished eating what was in his mouth, and took a drink of milk. “There used to be two oaks in the front yard. The other one was much older than this one and a little closer to the house, but we had some problems with it, so my grandfather took it down.”
I thought about the story my father had told me, of how his dog had died and brought the rain and how people had started sacrificing animals to the tree. I wondered if all of that was true.
“Two trees,” Mr. Jinn repeated, as if verifying an important fact.
“I believe my great-grandfather planted both of them,” my father confirmed. “This one maybe seventy-five, eighty years ago?”
“I can only imagine the amazing stories that tree would have to tell us if it could talk.” Mr. Tennin took a bite of his sandwich, and I could tell he was deep in thought.
“Tell them the story you told us,” I said to my dad. “Tell them about how the tree brought the rai
n.”
My father looked embarrassed. “Not now, boy.”
“That sounds intriguing,” Mr. Tennin said, looking at me.
“My dad loves stories.” I looked over at him, but Dad was looking at me in a way that said, “You should stop talking,” so I took another bite of my sandwich.
“I know a wonderful story about a tree, if you’d like to hear it.” Mr. Tennin ate the last of his sandwich, drank the rest of his milk, set his cup down on the table, and smiled. “Delicious.” His voice sounded both mysterious and hopeful, like wind through the leaves. “Delicious.”
“We like stories too,” Abra whispered, but she couldn’t hide the eagerness in her voice.
“It’s a story about the most important tree in the history of the world,” Mr. Tennin said. “But it’s rather long.” He looked at my father and raised his eyebrows as if to ask for permission.
My father looked curious. “We need to get to work.” He glanced at his watch. “But I think we have a little time.”
Mr. Tennin cleared his throat. He looked at each of us around the table, including Mr. Jinn, who by now was combing his hair again and muttering things to himself. This is the story Mr. Tennin told us, in a lyrical voice that sounded like the wind and the river.
In the beginning of time, when all the world was young and the trees had only just begun to grow, there were two people. The first two people. Perhaps you’ve heard this story, or at least the beginning of it.
The first two people lived in a beautiful forest that contained everything they could ever want. There were trees with fruit, good for eating, and there were four rivers with clear water. These two people, one man and one woman, walked the paths and tended to the trees. And there was a lovely Voice that guided them, a beautiful Voice that lived among them.
But there was also evil in that garden forest, because there are always shadows, there is always darkness. There is the hidden side to what we can see. Lurking in the shadow was a Darkness that sang dark songs, one who wanted to destroy the beauty that the Voice had created.
When the Voice had first guided the two people to the forest, he encouraged them to take whatever fruit they wanted. There was nothing in the forest they could not have, except for one thing. They were not permitted to eat from one of the trees, because if they did their eyes would be opened. Not their physical eyes, mind you. The Voice was talking about their inner eyes.
“Eat of any other tree,” the Voice said. “But do not eat of the tree that will open your eyes.”
For a long time, peace reigned in the forest. But always there was the Darkness in the shadows, waiting.
Until one day the Darkness sang its song and convinced them to eat from the tree, and just as the Voice had said, their eyes were opened. They realized they were naked. They realized they were not perfect. They realized they had done a terrible thing, and they hid. But of course the Voice found them.
Now there was a problem, because there was a second Tree (and for a moment Mr. Tennin looked knowingly at my father) in the middle of the forest. This was the Tree of Life. The Voice knew that if the two people ate from that Tree, they would live forever. They would be like gods, because they would live forever with open eyes. So the Voice cast them from the forest. They were not permitted to reenter. Ever again.
And the Voice gave them a gift—it was called Death. It was a gift because it would be the path they would follow that would take them back to who they had been before their eyes had been opened, a path back to innocence and pure joy. Without Death, they would have been forced to wander the earth forever without any hope of returning to perfection, always decaying, always rotting, until they were nothing but scattered particles of dust trying to come back together, molecules lost from one another, forever separated.
This is what the gift of Death keeps from happening.
Just to make sure that those first two people didn’t try to come back and eat from the Tree of Life, something that would steal the gift of Death from them forever, the Voice sent two cherubim, a type of angel, to guard the way into the forest. And there was a flaming sword to frighten anyone who might wander near.
That is the story that is well-known. But what most people do not know is what happened after that.
(Here Mr. Tennin paused and stared at the table for a short while, as if weighing the cost of revealing the rest of the story.)
The two cherubim remained there guarding the entrance to the forest, guarding the Tree of Life. Decades passed. Centuries. Eventually one of the cherubim allowed his mind to wander. He thought about how humans had spread throughout the earth, and how they lived a hard existence. More than anything else the humans feared Death. They didn’t remember where Death would lead them, so they didn’t realize it was a gift and not something to be feared. This cherub realized that if he could possess the Tree of Life, humans would worship him. They would do whatever he wanted them to do.
But even more important to that cherub was the knowledge that if humans ate of the Tree of Life, they could never escape earth, and they would be forced to live in his kingdom forever. He knew that humans are often weak, and they would do anything to avoid Death, something they knew so little of, and trade it for the endless stay on earth that the Tree of Life would give them. They could not possibly imagine the horrid existence that awaited them without Death.
That cherub’s own inner eyes began to envision the throne upon which he would sit, the scepter with which he would rule. And lust for power grew in his heart. More than anything, he began to desire the Tree of Life so that he could give its fruit to humans and make them his servants forever, with no escape.
One day he moved toward the Tree to steal a piece of its fruit. He planned to run away with it, plant it, and nurture it. For many different reasons he could not possess the Tree itself, but with a piece of its fruit he hoped to fashion a tree of his own, a powerful tree. He could have his own Tree of Life. The Voice could never destroy him, and people desiring the Tree and its fruit would worship him and do whatever he told them to do, and once they ate from the Tree they would be trapped on earth.
But the second cherub saw him move for the Tree and tried to stop him, and the two of them fought. For forty days and forty nights they wrestled in the forest. Both of them grew weary, yet neither would give up. As they fought, their fury turned to fire, and as they rolled through the forest the trees caught and burned. Finally, their battle took them to the center of the forest, where the Darkness had deceived the first two people long, long before.
The tree from which the first two people had eaten—the tree that had opened their inner eyes—had become small and twisted, like an old cedar that cannot reach the sun. The fire from their fight lit this old tree and it went up in hot smoke.
But the Tree of Life had grown tall. Its leaves were broad and green, and its branches reached up nearly to heaven. Its fruit, untouched for thousands of years, hung heavy and ripe. When the fury of the cherubim lit the Tree of Life, it burned for another forty days and forty nights. Humans gathered in the surrounding mountains and plains and watched with terror, because at night the burning Tree looked like a comet ready to collide with the earth, and during the day it looked like the beginning of an eclipse that might drown the sun forever.
When the cherubim realized what had happened, they stopped fighting and sat quietly beside one another, spent and waiting. And the Voice came down to them.
To the first cherub, the Voice said, “You have desired the Tree of Life more than anything else, and so you are cursed. For eternity you will try to find the Tree. Your only desire shall be to possess it, and your fate will be tied to it.”
With that, the first cherub vanished and began to roam the earth, always searching for the Tree of Life, because it is always reborn after it is destroyed.
In the peace that remained in that smoldering garden forest, the Voice said to the second cherub, “You have done well, good and faithful servant. Will you take on this purpose? Will
you also roam the earth, but to keep the other cherub from possessing the Tree? The Tree of Life, because of its nature, can never be completely destroyed, and even now it is being remade and will reappear where someone who is faithful gives up their life for a friend. But when it is reborn, you must destroy it so that humankind does not lose the gift of Death.”
The second cherub nodded, took flight, and roamed the earth, always looking for the Tree of Life in order to destroy it, keep the first cherub from possessing it, and preserve the gift of Death for humanity. This cherub, legend says, has destroyed the Tree many times—maybe a hundred times, maybe a thousand—but the Tree of Life must be destroyed many more times before the end.
Mr. Tennin leaned back in his chair.
I glanced at Mr. Jinn, and he was glaring at Mr. Tennin, his eyes thin slits. He sat unmoving, still as a cliff, and somehow, in that motionless stare, I sensed a kind of recognition, as if he had finally realized something, as if he had spotted the one missing piece to a puzzle he had been working on for years.
My father looked impressed. He always loved a good story. He even chuckled to himself and shook his head, smiling.
But me? I felt an urgency rising up. The Tree, the Tree, the Tree—everywhere I turned, people were talking about it. Telling stories about it. I thought it must be real. It must be close. And who were these two men, Tennin and Jinn, wrapped up as they were in the life of the Tree?
“Where did you hear that story?” my father asked. “I’ve never come across anything like it.”
Mr. Tennin gave a tired smile. “Some stories, you don’t know where they come from. Some stories, they just grow up inside you.”
I wanted to stay silent, to not draw attention to myself, but my curiosity got the better of me. I had to ask.
“You said the Tree of Life could keep people alive,” I said quietly. “Could fruit from the Tree of Life bring someone back from the dead?”
The man grew silent. I knew that everyone around the table realized what was on my mind: the fresh grave of naked dirt at the end of the Road to Nowhere.
The Day the Angels Fell Page 9
