Tides From the New Worlds

by Tobias S. Buckell

  The dome light winked on as he stepped out.

  “Roger?”

  No answer. Not that Marcus really expected one at this point. He’d been calling Roger, at home and on the company cellphone, for three days. Marcus cupped his hands around and his mouth and shouted into the trees.

  “Hey, buddy. It’s me, Marcus.”

  Marcus stepped over the logs and disturbed muck around them into the natural clearing. Twigs snapped as he approached the shadowy border where the clearing stopped and the towering Douglas Firs began.

  All Roger had left was a note saying he couldn’t come back to work because his desk had been screaming at him.

  The man could be up to almost anything.

  Marcus avoided a branch with bark wrinkled like an old man’s skin. The white wood gleamed in what little light the day had left to offer.

  What do you say to men whose desks scream at them? Hell, deskwork could pile up on anybody, but running up into the middle of a logging operation and skipping work was not the way to deal with it.

  “Roger? Come on man, it’s getting late.”

  Marcus stepped through into the shadows of the giant trees and lost the last of the light. As his eyes adjusted he saw Roger sitting on a stump, dressed in a tailored Gianelli three-piece suit. Roger’s hand-sewn seven hundred-dollar Italian leather shoes were caked with dirt and fir needles.

  Marcus slowly stepped forward.

  A needle snapped.

  Roger turned around. His loose hair twisted with him, no longer held down by gel or spray. He self-consciously smoothed it down with a palm.

  “Hello, Marcus. What are you doing up here?”

  Marcus spread his arms.

  “I was going to ask you the same.”

  Roger sighed, shifted his position on the stump, and then turned back away from Marcus.

  “What I’m trying to do, Marcus, is talk that tree into moving.”

  Marcus didn’t say anything. He stood behind someone he thought he once knew and tried to figure what to say next. Not a man normally tied for words, Marcus found himself in the very surreal position of being speechless.

  Roger’s lost it, Marcus thought. Twelve years of working for me and he’s finally lost it.

  “It’s very obvious,” Roger explained. He stood up on the stump and pointed up the slope further where the switchback tapered off into a confusion of mud and a barren landscape of fallen trees and stumps. “The logging is coming this way.”

  “Yes,” Marcus said slowly. “It is coming this way. That is what loggers do, they cut down the trees.”

  Roger spun and looked down at him.

  “I know that, Marcus. I’m not stupid... or insane.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.” Marcus chided himself silently: What the hell did he say that for? “But you have us back at the office wondering what’s going on, Roger.”

  “Really?” Roger spun on the stump a little further. “Oh, wow. You must have driven all the way up here. Just to check on me?”

  “Well... I spent a lot of time asking your neighbors where the hell you’d gone. You’ve missed three days.”

  Roger stepped down.

  “You really are a wonderful friend. I never realized you cared.” Fallen firs crunched as he stepped towards Marcus.

  Too close, Marcus realized. Is he going to hug me?

  Sure enough Roger threw his arms out and pulled Marcus forward into a big bear hug.

  “Man, you don’t know how much this means to me,” he sniffled as Marcus stood there in shock, rigid, waiting for Roger to pull away. “I thought you were another rat racer, all caught up in the property values, subcontracting, vacant lots, my God, you actually have a soul.”

  Marcus bit his lip.

  “Look I don’t want to go home with you and meet your kids. I’m just your boss, okay? I couldn’t reach you anywhere, you left that strange note with the secretary, I was...”

  Roger snorted and cut him off.

  “You’re worried about reduced productivity?” he asked.

  “Well, yes. Of course I am, Roger. You’ve sold, what, a single house this last couple months?”

  “I know.” Roger slumped back onto the stump. “It’s been so hard.”

  “Look, Roger...” Marcus started. Roger smiled.

  “You’re here to fire me, Marcus, right?”

  Marcus swallowed. Roger had guessed right. But now Marcus didn’t have the heart to follow through after Roger’s desperate display of gratitude for finding him.

  “It’s… look, why don’t you take some time off, Roger. To relax.”

  “With pay?” Roger asked.

  “Um…” Marcus wasn’t so sure about that.

  “Kiss my ass.” Roger put his head in his hands. “I’ve been your best for most of the twelve damn years you’ve been here.”

  “I swear we’ll take you back after some time off. And counseling,” Marcus said, giving himself a smooth out. If Roger got better he’d take him back. If he didn’t, that time off without pay would just keep going. “Trust me.”

  Roger sat back down on the stump. His arms were floppy with middle age and his belly settled in around his lap. He cupped his chin in his right hand’s palm with his knee propped off to the side to support the elbow.

  The pose dissolved when he shifted again.

  “Okay,” Roger said. “I’ll do it.” Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. Things weren’t going to be so hard. “But I tell you,” Roger continued. “Things have never been the same since my desk started screaming, and I don’t know if they’ll ever be the same again.”

  Marcus held up his arms as if to ward off the words.

  “I don’t need to know, Roger. Keep it on the inside.” He turned around. “Enjoy the downtime, bud.”

  He left Roger and delicately weaved his way through the mud back into his pickup. He tossed the burger out of the window after inspecting it. The grease, now a white congealed substance, made him queasy.

  Maybe it wasn’t just the grease that had killed his appetite but his quick little lie to Roger, promising to take him back.

  Was he always the asshole?

  Marcus turned the car on, remembering the last time he’d seen Tia, his ex-wife. He’d asked the same question.

  Yes, she said.

  He flicked the headlights on and scrabbled for a piece of gum in the dim green glow of the instrument panel. Then he inched the Ford down the switchback, still afraid of the invisible edges.

  • • •

  Everyone had already left the building and gone home. Marcus swiveled his leather executive chair around with a flourish and stood up. The printer started spitting freshly inked pages. Time to leave, Marcus thought, rubbing his tired eyes. The Soufrier’s paperwork was finished, and soon they would be buying a nice little brick ranch just outside of the town.

  And that was the last piece of paperwork for the night.

  Everything had been double load since Roger’s “vacation.” The late nights were a regular thing now. Marcus had been unable to find any realtors to replace Roger after almost three weeks of trying.

  Marcus walked out into the hallway and shut his door behind him with a click. He made the mistake of looking at Roger’s office. The door lay slightly ajar.

  The sound of sniffling caught Marcus’ ear. Roger’s wife? She should be in Vancouver, Marcus thought. Shouldn’t she? The helpless undertones of the sound tugged at Marcus. He stood for a second longer... and heard another sniffle.

  He pushed the door all the way open. The crying softened, and Marcus thought for sure he heard feminine tones. He flicked the light on.

  The room was empty.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Marcus shook his head. The wind outside must have picked up. He flicked the lights off and turned around.

  He heard it again. A definite sob if not a wail. And pain. Marcus flicked the lights back on. No imagining it—there was someone in this room with him.

 
Marcus looked at the desk and Roger’s strange words kicked around in his head.

  He strode over the teal carpet and walked around the desk. There was no one underneath it.

  Another sniffle.

  “Who’s there?” He asked, frustrated.

  “Help me,” the desk begged. Marcus jumped back with a startled shriek.

  Roger had a wailing desk!

  It could only mean he was going insane too. Could insanity catch?

  “Hello?” The desk whispered. Marcus closed his eyes and groaned. He counted to ten silently.

  “I’m scared,” the desk said.

  Marcus didn’t reply.

  Edging carefully closer to the desk, ready to snap around and run, he looked down. In the shadowy light he could see the outline of a form. The grain of Roger’s desk swirled into a pair of lean thighs. Marcus followed them up to the small V where they intersected, and then further around a small waspish stomach and waist, to a tiny pair of budding breasts and a face. Grainy swirls of hair framed the pixie-like features.

  Marcus started to sweat. He backed away from the desk. This isn’t happening, he told himself. There are drugs that can help. He’d overloaded himself, like Roger, by adding Roger’s work to his own.

  Or was there a speaker built into the desk.

  A horrible joke... Marcus laughed suddenly.

  “Where’s the intercom?” he asked.

  “I’m scared,” the girl in the desk repeated.

  “I’m not hearing you,” Marcus said. He put the palms of his hands over his ears. They were cold. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.

  “You have to help.”

  “Why are you doing this to me? I shouldn’t hear you.” Marcus closed his eyes.

  “I’m dying,” the voice said. “They cut me up, then trapped me in here. Please help.”

  “How can I be hearing you?” Marcus asked. He realized with a full sinking feeling that there was no intercom. This wasn’t a prank.

  “You can hear me because I can hear you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m scared, help me.”

  “Help you what?” Marcus’ voice broke. “What do you want?”

  “I want to die,” the voice in the desk pleaded. “Please kill me. Please end this suffering.”

  Marcus leaned over the desk. Dark almond eyes met his. The stain made them waver around the edges. Desk tears.

  “Please help.”

  He backed out of the room and closed the door. Even through the oak paneling he could hear the crying start again. Oh God, he thought. Now I’ve walked over the edge. I’ve lost it.

  Just step through the door, he told himself. Don’t forget to turn around and lock it. Go down the path and get in the Ford.

  He followed his own directions.

  The inside of his Ford Ranger seemed like another universe; quiet and cold. When he started up the engine he felt reassured by the throaty rumble. Machines equal order, he thought. Marcus sat there for a minute, looking out of the front windowshield at the black asphalt in front of his hood.

  The scratchy plaintive plea echoed in the back of his mind. “Please help. I want to die.” Marcus shifted in the bench seat and hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand.

  Could he refuse? Was he that much of an asshole.

  “Damn it.”

  Okay. It was just a desk. If burning it took care of the voices he’d do it.

  Marcus floored the accelerator and fishtailed out of the parking lot onto the road.

  • • •

  Several hours later Marcus pushed a gray and rusted dolly into the office. The left wheel squeaked. He bit his lower lip as he flipped the lights on.

  Just like before, nothing.

  He’d imagined it all.

  Marcus risked a glance at the top of the desk. No, he could still see the still form.

  He took a deep breath, walked around the desk, and pulled all the drawers out.

  He squatted with a grunt and pushed the heavy desk over onto its end. With even more effort he wrestled the spade of the dolly underneath and tipped the desk over.

  He almost collapsed under the weight, but managed to balance it. By the time he negotiated the doorway he could feel his heart thudding against the inside of his chest. Sweat stung his eyes and forced him to blink furiously.

  The desk remained silent.

  He pulled it out onto the lawn and yanked a can of lighting fluid out from his pocket.

  “Is there anything else I should do?” Marcus asked.

  Silence.

  “Okay.” He stood back up, pulled the cap off, and started spraying the desk.

  The desk sighed.

  Marcus ignored it. He looked up at the clear night sky. He mentally traced out the fuzzy swathe of the Milky Way, his breath fogging the air in front of him.

  He lit a Marlboro. Marcus hadn’t smoked in five years, but he’d kept a spare in the glove compartment just in case. The tip of the cigarette glowed and a wave of dizziness washed down towards the pit of his stomach.

  “There are others,” the voice in Roger’s desk said. “More where I came from. They are in danger. You have to warn them.”

  Marcus nodded. Of course. He took another long drag and tossed the cigarette at the flat surface of the desk. It leapt into flames. A whole can of fluid was a great starter.

  The desk screamed and crackled, warping at the edges. Marcus stared at the flames, looking for some gaseous form to reach up out towards the sky and drift off towards the stars.

  He only saw smoke.

  Eventually the last embers died. The wind stirred the ashes, all that remained of the desk. It lifted them up into the air like a gentle tornado.

  • • •

  Marcus opened the door and got into the cab of his Ford. He leaned his head against the steering wheel.

  “Others.”

  Roger had talked to the desk too. That made sense. It was Roger’s desk. Roger must have traced where the wood had been cut and left to... save the trees. An hour’s drive from here, Marcus remembered.

  Why?

  Guilt. Marcus looked out of his truck at the houses with pretty green lawns and asphalt driveways. He’d started twelve years ago. Just some young city boy realtor with a half-assed dream of developing the area. When he drove these streets Marcus was proud of the development he’d brought here.

  But Roger must have remembered all those great trees that stood here twelve years ago. Trees that Marcus only barely remembered existing until now.

  It was time to go home. Time to go to sleep. He could come in tomorrow and pretend this hadn’t happened. All the office would know is that some idiot had broken in and burned Roger’s desk on the front lawn.

  But he couldn’t get the image of the girl in the desk out of his mind, her wrists sliced off at their edge, trapped. How many hundreds or thousands of others had Marcus condemned? If they could speak they could feel couldn’t they? The thing in Roger’s desk had cried hadn’t it?

  Marcus wrenched the wheel left. The tires squealed and the pickup leaned, pushing Marcus away from the door.

  “All right,” he said. “Here’s another nutjob of a realtor coming up to talk to a bunch of damn trees.” He rolled down his window and leaned out, letting the cold air hit his face and wake him up.

  Marcus really didn’t want to be insane. Marcus was a good man. He sold decent houses on decent lots for decent prices to decent people. Why couldn’t Roger have done the job properly? Why couldn’t Roger have talked the damn trees into saving themselves before everyone thought him insane.

  Christ. Marcus looked back at his gloomy reflection in window.

  • • •

  Marcus stepped over the logs and disturbed muck around them into the natural clearing. He made his way towards the shadowy border where the clearing stopped and the towering Douglas Firs began.

  Lit only by the stars and the gibbous moon they could have been giants.

  The co
nstant hum of the city, the reassurance that humans were all around you, eating, doing taxes, showering, falling in love, hailing a taxi... none of that was here.

  “So here I am!” Marcus yelled up at the canopy.

  Logging machines hulked in the forest just across the muddy road; giant, yellow, metal beasts.

  “I think I have you all figured out,” he said. “You’re all dryads, right. I’ve read about you.” He sat down cross-legged on a stump. Roger’s stump. “I mean, hell, what else could you be? Those weird stories had to come from somewhere.” He looked around at the trees. “Can you hear me?”

  No answer. Marcus spread his legs and looked down at the rings underneath his crotch. A young tree.

  “Of course. I can see why you don’t want to answer. You’ve probably survived all this time by not showing yourselves to any people. It’s either that or I’m trying to explain away my insanity, and right now I would really appreciate even the smallest response, you know?” He waited. Then continued. “I mean, even if it is a hallucination, you could at least do me the favor of responding.”

  The wind rustled through the branches. A few yellow leaves floated down. Fall would soon have the forest floor carpeted with them. Well, no, Marcus stopped himself. Not this forest. Other forests maybe. This one would be a bare hill by the time fall came in full.

  “I’m not a tree-hugger, right? But I’m as green-minded as anyone else.” He laughed. “That’s sarcasm. I like to drive my pickup, low mileage and all. I like having pencils, and paper, and reading TV-Guide, then tossing it in the trash. But it’s not like I’m saying I don’t care.” Marcus stood up on the stump. Lend me your ears, he thought. “I buy dolphin-safe tuna. I separate my aluminum, plastic. But all,” he paused and indicated the forest, “this, this isn’t the same department. So come on, help me.”

  Nothing.

  Okay. They were just like shy customers, Marcus thought. They needed the right hook.

  No, he corrected himself, these were trees! Talking, breathing trees! Shy trees. And what was he selling them? He wasn’t sure. He just wanted to deliver his message and get the hell out of there. And never talk to a piece of wood again.

  You couldn’t start a pitch if you didn’t even know what you were trying to sell, he knew.