“Drew, order that boy to get down from there before he gets himself hurt,” Roscoe said, his hunched frame seeming to thrum with anger.
“What would you like me to do? Climb up there and fetch him?” LeClair said.
“Goddamn it, he’s trespassing—all of them are.”
“These folks I can escort off your property, no problem. As for him,” LeClair looked up at Derrick with what looked like amusement, “he’s out of reach, so if you want him down, I suggest you hire yourself some extractors.”
“Wh-what?!”
“It’s what they do out west when some fool gets it in his head to stage a tree-sitting. I imagine those boys you hired to cut this thing down could just as easy make a few extra bucks to climb up there and haul him down first. Then, I can arrest him.”
“Fine. You get the rest of them the hell out of here, I’ll go back to the house and make some calls.”
A couple of cat calls rang out from Brody and someone else, but everyone gradually dispersed, shouting words of encouragement to Derrick as they left—Pam even blew him a kiss before she turned and hurried off. And with that, Derrick’s resolve was renewed.
Roscoe kept his eyes on them until their footsteps were barely audible, then his face turned upwards again to Derrick. The hardness of the old man’s expression made Derrick glad the ladder was gone and he had the safety of the tree, despite the difference in age and physicality.
“Derrick, this is no time for showing off. Come on down from there.” There was a calmness to the old man’s voice now, the anger from earlier dissipated.
“I can’t do that, Mr. Finch. I have to protect this tree.”
“This tree. This tree is nothing but a bad omen and it needs to come down.”
“A bad omen? It’s ancient. It’s been around for centuries.”
Roscoe shook his head pitiably. “How well do you think you know these woods, boy?”
“I grew up here. I know them as well as anyone else.”
“And how far back can you remember this... tree being here?”
Derrick gave it a moment’s thought. The question seemed stupid to him—after all, the tree had to be at least ten times as old as he was. “As long as I can remember.”
“Horseshit,” Roscoe said, then spat at the trunk of the tree. “You think you’re protecting some great noble oak like those hippies in B.C., squatting like monkeys in the redwoods? I say horseshit. I’ve been in these woods as long as I can remember too, and I’ve paid a helluva lot more attention to my surroundings than you ever have. And I’m telling you this godforsaken thing is less than a year old.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“That tree was not here a year ago.”
“Okay, you’re cr—”
“Crazy? Senile?” Roscoe shook his head. “I’m old, but I’m not that old yet.”
That was when Derrick noticed that the old man was keeping his distance from the tree, staying across the brook and out of reach from its roots. He wanted to say something about seeing those roots move, but he didn’t want to sound as loony as Roscoe.
“How can a tree this big grow in only a year? It’s massive. It’d need—”
“—To feed,” Roscoe said. “That’s precisely what it’s been doing. You notice there isn’t any wildlife out here? It’s spring time, this place should be crawling with life.”
“Nah, that’s B.S. You’re messing with me. Trees don’t pop up like that out of nowhere, and they sure as hell don’t move.”
“Who said anything about ‘move?’” Roscoe said sharply. “Did you—did you see something?”
Derrick’s jaw hung open, wondering if there was something genuine to the old man’s words, wondering if what he witnessed was really real. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You woke this thing up, didn’t you?” Roscoe stepped farther back, his eyes looking suspiciously about the girth of the oak. “Boy, I am not fooling around. You had better get your ass down from there before that thing decides your its next meal.”
Derrick considered it, the rope ladder hanging down. Would it try to stop me? he wondered. Is the Red Giant going to eat me? The words floating through his head sounded demented, but chilled his heart all the same.
“It’s just a tree,” he said aloud to himself.
“That’s what I thought last December before Maverick disappeared during that first snowfall. I followed his tracks right to this tree. I’d have cut it down then if it hadn’t been for the hellish winter we had.
“It’s a goddamned demon, Derrick. Sprung up from that quagmire somehow, and it’s been hibernating like a goddamned grizzly bear all winter long. And now that winter’s over, it’s going to do something. And if it can move, then I’m even more sure the goddamned thing needs to die.”
Roscoe turned and took off as fast as Derrick had ever seen him or any gray-haired man run in his life.
“Wait a minute!” he yelled after him, but the old man was gone, back the way he came.
He strained his ears until the footsteps died out. The isolation seeped in around him, but with the gnawing sense that he was in the presence of something alive—something conscious. His instincts screamed for him to climb down and make a break for home, feign some illness, and crawl under the covers. But thinking of Pam’s amorous gaze after she had kissed the tree, he knew that if he flaked out then he could kiss goodbye to any chance he had with her. Christ, if word got around, and with TJ and Brody being the kinds of buds they were, he could cross out the rest of the girls at school too.
It’s just a fucking tree.
As minutes passed and stretched into the late afternoon, Derrick resolved to remain in the tree, but still watched and listened for the slightest movement from the red giant. Gentle gusts swayed the branches overhead, low creaks moaned all around. He constantly looked about and waited, but all he observed was a perfectly natural tree. It dawned on him that he had let his imagination run wild, whether by some lingering THC level in his blood or by the stress that came from doing something meaningful for the first time in his life. As for ol’ Roscoe, the man was knocking on seventy and likely had his own mental issues.
A giant northern red oak, bigger than any other tree he’d seen in his life, and according to Roscoe, only a year old. As for Roscoe’s dog, Maverick, it was a rabbit hound. The thing probably chased a rabbit right into the marsh and drowned somewhere. It made a helluva lot more sense to Derrick than the idea that the tree ate it. Though he still hadn’t heard any animals besides the mosquitoes for the duration of his time up there. Being this far in the woods for this long, he should have seen something by now, he figured.
Around five o’clock, Roscoe returned with labored breath, carrying a beast of a chainsaw in one hand and a canister of gasoline in the other. It was a wonder he hadn’t dropped dead of a heart attack lugging so much weight over a half-mile of uneven terrain. The old man set the gear down then mopped his brow with his sleeve, red in the face and chest heaving.
“Are you alright? You don’t look so good,” Derrick asked, peering down.
“Never mind, boy. Get down and give me a hand.”
“Mr. Finch, this is ridiculous. You’re being unreasonable. I think if you just take the time to consider—”
“Consider this.” Roscoe bent down and picked up the chainsaw again. “I called them boys I hired to see if they’d come out and do the job today. No can do, they says. So I’m going to do it myself.”
Roscoe grabbed the cord handle and gave it a yank. The thing roared to life on the first go, spitting out a burst of blue smoke before settling into a menacing growl. The blade on the thing had to be twice the length of any Derrick had seen—and still it wouldn’t cut thought the whole of the Red Giant’s trunk.
“So, here’s how it’s going to go: either you’re coming down from that tree the easy way, or the hard way.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“You
think I’d haul this cumbersome bastard all the way out here on a bluff?”
Shit. Good point.
“Alright, you win.”
A small wave of relief came over Derrick. Even though he hadn’t even made it to sundown before giving up, and even though a police escort off the premises would have been a good story, getting chased out by a maniac with a chainsaw-on-steroids would work just as well. He might even be able to salvage his chances with Pam.
Derrick strapped on his backpack, threw down his duffel bag, and started his descent. The rope ladder was a bastard, swinging his weight out each time he tried to place a foot on a rung. On the fifth rung, about a third of the way down, something caught on to the bottom end of the ladder. When Derrick looked down, he stopped and titled his head, thinking his eyes were playing tricks. One of the Red Giant’s roots was coiled like a thick vine around the lowest rung and one of the ropes. It pulled the ladder taut until the wooden rung snapped in two, sending the ladder and Derrick swinging like Tarzan on a vine.
“What the—”
“Hang on, Derrick!” Roscoe hurried across the brook, eyes bugged out as he watched the root snap to the ground with a piece of the rung in its grip, while another root flailed at the swinging ladder.
I’m never smoking pot again. I’m never smoking pot again.
The tentacular length snatched onto the next two rungs on the ladder and pulled down. Derrick clung tighter to the ropes, clutching them to his chest, inside which his heart pounded so fast it was all he could hear for a moment. The rest of the ladder gave out and sent him tumbling down. He fell a good ten feet, and when he hit he felt his left knee give out on him. He let out a yelp that died, his wind knocked out of him. He lay sprawled on his back and looked up at the gargantuan tree, which had now sprung to life.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod—”
Derrick scrambled backwards, pushing with his hands and his right foot, until the back of his neck and skull smacked against the trunk of a neighboring tree. His hand touched one of its static roots and he let out a yelp and flinched his hand away.
The Red Giant’s roots lashed out in all directions. The immensity of the tree seemed that much greater from his cowering vantage, but it was hard to look at anything but the furious thrashing of its lower half. The roots whipped outward in all directions, and among them Derrick saw Roscoe moving in with the chainsaw raised at his side.
“Die, you miserable hellspaw—” The words died out under the roar of the chainsaw as Roscoe swung it like an ax into the base of the tree.
A mix of sawdust and black bile spewed out. Derrick sat mesmerized, aghast at what sprayed over Roscoe, bathing the old man in the clotted sludge.
A branch swung down and swatted Roscoe without him seeing it. He and the chainsaw flew back against a tall pine, the chainsaw cutting a gash through the right side of his abdomen when he hit.
Derrick struggled to his feet and hobbled over. Roscoe was bleeding out.
“Finish it,” Roscoe rasped, then slumped to his side.
“Finish it? Finish what? I can’t—” Derrick’s hands clutched the old man’s collar and shook. A second later, he froze, realizing he had his back to a thing that shouldn’t exist. It did, he couldn’t deny it now, and when he turned slowly as if it might actually be watching him, he felt his blood run cold. Frozen like cornered prey, he looked up at the Red Giant, which crawled inch by inch towards him.
Derrick’s instincts again told him to run for home and hide under his bed covers, but he forced them down like a lump in his throat and grabbed the chainsaw. He yanked the chain three times before it roared back to life, watching with each try as the Red Giant advanced slowly but violently. He ignored the searing pain in his knee and limped towards the gas can across the brook. His plan barely had time in his head—his eyes consumed by the sight of the Red Giant come to life—and he unscrewed the cap, hauling it and the chainsaw towards the tree, which seemed to ignore him and slowly approached Roscoe’s lifeless body.
Why am I not running away? Because you can’t run. This is it.
The root closest to Derrick reached out. He dropped the gas canister and swung the chainsaw upward, its big awkward blade connected with the root. Derrick pressed the trigger on the chainsaw, which sliced through the root like carving a turkey. A terrified war-cry erupted from Derrick as he held firm to his weapon. The root dropped to the ground where it twitched a final time, black bile bleeding from its wound. The piece of root still attached to the tree recoiled. Derrick picked up the canister again and advanced.
He poured gasoline along the ground as he walked, stopping each time a root or branch took a swing. He knee excruciated each time he dipped and dived to avoid being hit, but he clenched his teeth and pushed on. When he was six feet or so from the base of the tree, he splashed gasoline on it, then threw the canister next to the tree and retreated.
He patted his pockets for a lighter.
Fuck. Don’t do this to me. Give me a lighter, God, or wings, or something.
He looked over at his duffel bag a few yards away. He sprinted over as best he could, but a branch glanced him in the shoulder and knocked him off-balance. He rolled and twisted his knee again. He reached his duffel bag and rifled through it until he found his Zippo—unused since that time he had toked up.
He clambered on hands and knees, crying out each time his injured knee touched the ground, until he made it back to the trail of gasoline. He sparked the lighter and touched it to the ground. A faint amber flame tinged in blue jumped up a couple inches off the ground, and slithered its way towards the tree, which had managed to move a few feet more towards Roscoe’s body.
Derrick rolled down the bank and into the brook as the flame reached the gas canister. He heard a muffled whoosh over the idling chainsaw on the ground, then threw his hands over his head and dunked his face down into the cold water. The sensation offered stark clarity to the moment, and he gasped, sucking in a mouthful of water that choked him. He heard a loud pop as the canister burst into flames like a popcorn kernel. He looked up, choking and spitting out water, and watched the spatter of fire covering the side of the Red Giant’s hide. Roots and branches lashed about, but all those that got near the flames ignited as well. The dry bark fueled the fire well, and within a minute the entire lower half of the tree was engulfed.
Derrick stood back up after some effort and hobbled over to the chainsaw, just in case he needed to protect himself again, then got out of the tree’s way as it started groping its way back towards the marsh. The thing’s bark hissed and popped as it burned, and Derrick could have sworn he heard a high-pitched squeal coming from somewhere inside it.
He went over to Roscoe and checked his pulse. He was dead, alright. Derrick hunched over, propped an arm against the pine tree, and retched. After wiping his mouth, he turned back to the Red Giant, now entirely ablaze. The thing leaned forward as it touched the bank, then toppled. The length of the tree stretched out into the marsh, but its mass couldn’t get below the shallow level of the water, so it lay helpless on its side. A behemoth of living wood that burned like tinder even after it stopped writhing.
Derrick’s mind could hardly process what he had just witnessed—what he’d just done—and when he turned back towards the path for home, and saw Pam standing there with a picnic basket and a horrified look etched on her face, the only words Derrick could muster were: “What’s in the basket?”
Convention of Ekphrasis
Libby Cudmore and Matthew Quinn Martin
late. When you wake in the hotel’s high-backed brass-tacked chocolate leather wing chair, drool dripping down your chin to mar your once crisp cream-colored shirt, now wrinkled, that’s what you think––what you remember. You were late.
You rub your stiffened neck, and a throbbing deadness shoots up the side of your spine. What time is it? How did you get here, in this lobby? How long have you been snoozing? Did you have one to many Mount Gay and tonics in the hotel bar? It wouldn’t be the first
time.
Tightness grips your chest. The tension lessens as you spot your modest suitcase sitting there by your feet, then releases completely as your hand works its way under your numb butt to find your wallet tucked safely in your back pocket.
Why are you sleeping in this chair? you wonder. Don’t you have a room? You look past the bank of similar sleeping conventioneers to the hallway. Figures shuffle back and forth, flowing into each other like milk into coffee. Every fifth person looks like someone you know from the business. Familiar but unknown faces, same model, different shades, like the rental cars you always take from the airport to these things. Another convention, you think. You remember being sent last minute, and you got in so very late. What is this one for? Something about something, you think. Something about writing, or writing something.
You stand, feeling your aging knees pop and your spine crack as you yawn. You pull your phone from your pocket, noticing that the button on your left cuff has fallen off. The end of your sleeve flaps like dead leaves as you flip open your cell phone. Its screen is blank.
“Good luck getting reception,” a soft feminine voice says from over your shoulder. “Too deep here, too thick.”
You look for the voice’s owner, but it could have been anyone. You shuffle the sleep, heading into the flow, lugging your luggage and wondering if you will see yourself in that sea of countenances. You are, after all, just another model number.
Soon you find yourself in front of a wall-sized sign listing all the events for the day ahead, but not the date. Every seminar or panel discussion seems to have the word “ekphrasis” in it. Your eyes slide across the grid of possible entries, each one seeming to strive to snare them with their obscurity: Towards a Pseudonymic Ekphrasis, The Ekphrasic Relationship Between Viewer and Reviewer in Post-Gadamerian NeoMcLuhanism, Shifting the Haikuic Ekphrasis in Plate Tectonics, In Defense of Female Circumcision: A Feminist Ekphrasic Odyssey in Ritualistic Infant Body Modification Hosted by Rabbi Elle Whorphin. And so on.
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