Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  He clicked off the intercom, then handed out entrance tickets as people filed slowly off the bus.

  Most of the passengers gathered in a clump outside the vehicle, stretching their legs after the slow, twisting ride and clearly in no hurry to enter the park. Kenneth edged around them and made his way to the turnstiles to the left of the Visitor Center. Once inside the park he walked quickly, determined to out-distance the people from his bus.

  Perhaps he’d arrived between tour groups. The dirt trail was uncrowded; most people headed toward him, leaving the park in leisurely procession. At the back of the group, a young married couple pushed a double-wide baby carriage. A twin baby was hidden in each compartment, entirely covered in blankets except for shadowed, bald heads. Rubber wheels scuffed awkwardly over the uneven path; occasionally their well-trained toddler son ran in front of the carriage to kick aside a stick or large stone.

  Once the carriage-family staggered past, Kenneth found himself alone at the apex of a sharp turn in the trail. He’d been so busy dodging the people that he hadn’t taken the time to register the trees flanking the trail on either side. He looked up. And up.

  He’d read enough about them to be prepared, but the redwood trees were even higher than he’d anticipated. He kept craning his neck back as he traced the height of a single tree, expecting the top of the tree to stretch into view at any moment. Instead, he ended up almost falling over backwards.

  The tree was magnificent. Beautifully disorienting.

  And there were thousands of these redwoods in the park, many certain to be even more awe-inspiring than this one he’d chosen at random. Kenneth leaned against a tree on the opposite side of the trail, both to keep his balance and to catch his breath. His palms pressed flat against the vast trunk of the tree behind him, fingers gliding against rough bark as if trying to read Braille in a forgotten language.

  Kenneth looked up a second time. He remembered how as a young boy he would sometimes spin himself like a top on their front lawn, eyes upward, then would stop abruptly: the sky and the world kept spinning, and for a moment it was as if his brain shook loose and shifted in his head. The redwood trees now worked on him in the same way, like an optical illusion. At once, they seemed to rise in a straight line, while his sense of perspective made them shrink and curve in the distance. Patches of sky and sunlight appeared like the familiar opening at the end of a long horizontal tunnel, but the vanishing point was above him now. In a trick of perspective, the tree tops at the periphery of his vision seemed to move; they bent toward him like an adult stooping to hear the voice of a tiny child.

  A section of the brochure told about John Muir, the philosopher-scientist this park was named after. He abandoned his university studies to attend “the University of the Wilderness.” Muir became a conservationist, arguing for a greater sympathy between humans and nature. He believed humans had no priority over other life forms. All life was equally precious.

  At this spot, in this moment, Kenneth could believe him. Maybe even go further: the wilderness wasn’t a university, it was a church.

  A girl’s laughter interrupted his reverie. At first Kenneth thought the girl had somehow sensed the depth of his emotions and decided to ridicule them. But the sound came from around the bend in the trail ahead, high-pitched and distinct above the calm of insect buzz and the occasional chirp of birds.

  Kenneth shrugged off his vague self-consciousness and followed the trail toward the happy sounds. The teenage girl aimed a camera at a boy her age. Clearly not her brother—the tone of her laughter told Kenneth that much, at least. The two of them, probably brought to the park against their will, had decided to make their own fun. The boy had stepped off the trail and climbed into the wedge formed by the merged trunks of three adjacent trees. He pressed his back against the farthest tree, arms and legs splayed against the other two trunks, and shimmied higher off the ground.

  The brim of his blue baseball cap brushed against the trunk to his left; when he freed one hand to straighten it, he slid down several feet. The girl snapped pictures and laughed some more.

  Then she noticed Kenneth. “Hey, uh, mister? One of us together?” She held the digital camera toward him, waited for his reaction.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  The girl’s fingers brushed lightly against Kenneth’s upturned palm as she gave him the camera. She ran towards the group of trees without looking back at Kenneth, then clamored into the wedge and intertwined herself with her boyfriend: one of his bare legs encircled her waist; she stretched one arm to wrap around his neck, used the other to grip his supporting leg.

  Unlike the three trees, which had grown out of what seemed a single trunk then separated majestically into distinct but sympathetic redwoods, the young couple’s union was fidgety and temporary. “Hurry,” the girl said, anxious for Kenneth to take the picture before they tumbled out of the trees.

  The trees didn’t need such a record. A picture today or a hundred years from now would be essentially the same. Yet these teenagers will attend only to themselves in the developed photograph—in their young minds, only human presence gives meaning to the forest.

  “Cheese,” the boy said, his teeth close together. Kenneth snapped the photo.

  He checked the frozen image in the inch-wide monitor. The girl and boy were a tiny jumble of bright cotton, hair, and exposed flesh. The tree trunks looked like three mighty fingers of a hand that rose from the ground. If those fingers closed into a fist, the teenagers would be crushed instantly.

  The girl skittered next to him and retrieved her camera. “Cool,” she said, looking at the picture in the display then rushing to show it to her boyfriend. Kenneth waved and walked away; neither of them acknowledged his gesture.

  Kenneth bypassed the first wooden bridge that spanned Redwood Creek. According to the map, two trails ran roughly parallel to the creek, connected at four separate points by the numbered bridges. Halfway between Bridge 1 and Bridge 2 was a black dot to indicate “Pinchot Tree,” the oldest and largest redwood in the park. The dotted line of trail bulged on the right side, presumably to make room for the tree’s massive trunk.

  He walked quickly. 30 minutes remained until he was due back at the bus, and he wanted time to marvel at this impressive tree.

  As it turned out, Pinchot Tree was impressive for the wrong reasons.

  * * *

  Kenneth’s hopes sank as he approached the area indicated on the map. Please don’t let that be…

  But it was. A log about twenty feet in diameter stretched horizontally away from his side of the trail, crossing Redwood Creek and flattening several smaller trees on the opposite bank. Other surrounding trees still showed signs of damage, deep scratches or missing limbs on one side from when Pinchot Tree fell—seven summers ago, according to an updated plaque.

  The tree, over a thousand years old, was the victim of a lightning bolt.

  On the ground, the tree’s height seemed easier for his mind to grasp. He could never climb one of the upright redwoods, which gave an air of unreality to the trees’ fantastic size. But Kenneth could imagine scrambling over the circumference of this fallen tree and walking its length, using it as a bridge to cross Redwood Creek to the parallel trail.

  At its base, the tree seemed to have exploded. The trunk had not snapped cleanly; instead, it had bent like a hollow tube then burst outward. Scorch marks appeared along one splintered section of the rim.

  Several gnarled burls, the size of basketballs, bubbled out along the base of the trunk. These protrusions, made of dormant buds, pushed from beneath and curled the vertical lines of the bark into whorls. They reminded Kenneth of knot holes in wooden furniture, where you could imagine faces or objects in the random patterns—except the burls were larger and three-dimensional, covered with warty bumps and crevices textured by shadows. The faces he imagined in these burls were monstrous.

  His brochure explained how burls allowed redwood trees to reproduce. Unlike seed trees, redwoods mainly reprodu
ced through sprouts that broke through these burls. Even a damaged tree, like Pinchot Tree, had a chance to reproduce if the trauma to the bark and tissue allows more sprouts to break through.

  Ken kneeled to examine the burls on the area facing him. A thin stick poked through the largest burl, about where the eye would be on the imagined monstrous face. The twig was snapped off at the end, however, with no leafy greens to indicate a healthy bud.

  Clockwise from this was a burl only slightly smaller. The left side was caved in, which he hoped was a sign that several dormant buds had been released. It would take a long time for these buds to come anywhere near the size and majesty of the parent tree, but it would be nice to know that Pinchot Tree lived on in some small way.

  He peered into the hollow section of the hole, searching for hints of green.

  The cavity was filled with garbage. Shining foil from chocolate bars. Empty boxes of Mike and Ike jelly candies purchased at the Gift Shop. Crinkled Twizzler wrappers. Several copies of the park brochure, abandoned by disinterested visitors.

  There was more waste product than a single person, or even family, could produce. Obviously, one inconsiderate jerk made the first move; over time, others followed suit.

  Before today, Kenneth hadn’t been much of a naturalist. He made token efforts to recycle, when it was convenient. He appreciated the beauty of birds and flowers, yet only bothered to learn a handful of their names. But this park, these amazing redwoods, gave him a new appreciation of nature. The idea that people could be in this sacred place unaffected, that they could unfeelingly toss garbage in the ruined body of a magnificent tree—perhaps even smother its last chance to reproduce…

  Kenneth was glad he hadn’t caught anyone throwing their trash into that burl. Who knows how he might have reacted?

  As he thought about it, his sense of causation began to blur. The plaque explained that lightning had caused the damage, and he had no reason to doubt the supplied information. And yet, he couldn’t help but blame human agency—as if their neglect, their lack of appreciation, somehow authorized that random bolt to destroy Pinchot Tree.

  He was overcome with a single thought: Other people ruin the world.

  And other people were approaching from behind.

  He could make out a thick accent—the talkative British gentleman, self-appointed as tour guide and embellishing the text of the park’s brochure for the benefit of his no-doubt entranced audience.

  Kenneth couldn’t be there when they got to Pinchot Tree. He couldn’t bear to watch them discover the tree had fallen. Somehow, he knew, their reaction would ring false to him.

  So he ran.

  * * *

  After he passed the second bridge, Kenneth rushed through another procession of dull tourists heading toward the park’s exit. Their faces were animated by discussions about lunch, perhaps, or what they might watch on the hotel’s cable television that evening. They might as well have already left the park, no longer registering the beauty of the giant redwoods towering on either side of the trail.

  A fifty-something woman assisted her elderly mother at the rear of the procession. They both gasped as Kenneth ran toward them. Did they expect a collision? Or did they react to a wild expression on his face? No matter: he dodged to the left at the last instant, and kept running.

  His arms swung recklessly at his sides. The trail was clearly marked ahead, so he couldn’t really get lost. His only problem was time.

  Bridge number three. He could turn around and make it back before the bus was scheduled to leave.

  He gave himself permission. If he decided not to care, that was fine. If he enjoyed the park, it was his choice to stay. Adults are allowed to make these kinds of decisions.

  He paused to catch his breath and look at the map. The distance to the fourth bridge was as far as the combined distance of the other three bridges. Branching away from the fourth bridge were extended trails, unpaved.

  Kenneth ran deeper into the woods.

  * * *

  His rubber-soled shoes scuffed against the wooden boards of Bridge #4. Once he crossed the creek, the main trail looped around to head back. But an unpaved trail beckoned to him from the side. A hint of fog softened the colors at the entrance; a spray of moisture brightened green leaves and added a glistening sheen to rough bark.

  He stepped off the main trail.

  Kenneth hadn’t seen another soul since the third bridge, and he doubted he’d meet anyone here. The ground was overgrown, with no signs of recent footprints. He followed the vague and winding path, enjoying the notion that he entered forbidden territory.

  Since the path never split, there was no point trying to map the twists and turns. It wasn’t a maze: finding his way back would be a simple matter of retracing his steps. Better to focus on enjoying the moment: this was the world as he wanted it, empty and unspoiled.

  Even, in an odd way, empty of nature. The buzz of insects and faint birdsongs faded into white noise, too familiar to register. Fog thickened in strange patches, sometimes low to the ground and adding needed moisture to the summer soil. Higher drifts obscured the tops of some redwoods, seeming to transform them into ordinary trees.

  He paused to examine another grouping of three fused trees. The shared trunk pressed tight against the edge of the rough trail. A gigantic burl swelled out in the seat formed by the joined trees; a thin fissure split the front of the burl, curled over the top and expanded to almost a foot wide in the back. Kenneth braced himself against the front trees, stood on his tiptoes and leaned forward to peer down into the crevice.

  No candy wrappers or other garbage. But no sprouting buds, either. Dry twigs, brittle pine needles, and chips of bark filled the rotted crevice. Kenneth reached forward to scoop aside a piece of loose bark.

  It moved.

  Kenneth drew his hand back as if he’d been bitten. The pile of rot and twigs breathed outward, and a small furry head poked through from beneath.

  Only a chipmunk. Its front paws flailed and scratched at the mound; the edges of the pile shifted and crumbled as the chipmunk tried to pull itself out. Its torso wriggled through, but the dried twigs snapped and bent toward the animal as if trying to drag it back under. Finally, the back legs and tail broke free. The mound collapsed on itself as the chipmunk skittered away and escaped into the forest.

  Kenneth turned from the fused trees, and he somehow managed to trip over an upraised root in the trail. He pitched forward, one hand stretching to brace his fall. The fog and leaves across the dry path created the illusion of a cushion, but the heel of his hand mashed against a sharp rock, and both knees hit the ground with a hard thump. He pulled his foot free and rubbed his ankle. The raised root looped at the perfect height to snag a traveler’s shoe; leaves and twigs had disguised the root, almost as if it were a deliberate trap.

  He rolled up the hem of his T-shirt and pressed his palm into the fabric to stop the bleeding. Then he stood, testing his weight on the sore ankle.

  For the first time, he regretted his decision to separate from the tour group. His ankle wasn’t sprained or broken, but if the fall had been more serious…Would anyone know where to find him?

  Perhaps the bus driver’s time restriction was intentional. With a scant hour at the park, his passengers would have less time to wander off and get lost. Or hurt.

  None of his tour group had ventured this far, obviously. But no one else was here either—not even tourists with rented cars, free to make their own schedule.

  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be this alone with nature.

  Kenneth looked at his watch. 12:27, which meant he was due at the bus in three minutes. Impossible, of course. But if he hurried he might make it in fifteen minutes or so. They might still be waiting.

  He wondered what song the driver would make him sing.

  * * *

  Kenneth’s sore ankle slowed him more than he’d thought—that, and the fear that he’d snag himself on another unseen root. Even so, he should have reached
the main trail by now.

  Possibly the fog had camouflaged an earlier fork in the path, or now tricked him into a side route he hadn’t noticed during his approach from the opposite direction. Each winding stretch of trail seemed unfamiliar now. He tried not to worry—he hadn’t committed his surroundings to memory, after all, and might still be headed slowly along the correct path. But it was so long since he’d seen another human, and the fog-shrouded woods were ominously quiet. A dusty, rotten odor hung in the mist, souring the faint perfume from sparse wildflowers.

  Kenneth sighed with relief when he noticed the path widen slightly, expanding into an open area thatched with sunlight. He limped forward, ready to welcome Bridge #4 and smoother travel along paved trails.

  Instead, he found himself in a barren clearing the size of a schoolyard baseball field. The earth was well-trodden, small stones and fallen branches packed into moist dirt by a heavy tread. Redwood trees encircled the clearing, their roots raised along the periphery as if they wanted to step back from the flat, lifeless ground.

  Opposite, near the entrance of another unpaved trail, a black-tailed deer lay on its side. Kenneth recognized it by its head, which raised and turned toward him, black eyes attentive to the human intruder. The deer’s beige coat blended into the dirt floor, white spots along its body looking like pebbles in sand. Its ears stretched out on each side, rimmed with black fur and almost bat-like in appearance.

  Kenneth stepped forward cautiously. The animal might be injured—though he wasn’t sure what kind of help he might offer. It occurred to him that he didn’t know what kind of sounds deer make—they weren’t featured animals in his childhood nursery rhymes. Still, he knew the cry from this deer’s closed mouth wasn’t normal: a trembled bleating mixed with a low gurgle.