by Peter Ponzo
"Not bad, not bad Mr. Brown." Sandra put her arm about his waist and pointed to the tree. "Have you ever seen a tree like that? Can you get the camera dear? I think we should take a picture."
Harold walked, almost ran to the house and returned with a box camera.
"Here, give it to me. Harold, stand by the tree. I'll take the picture."
Harold walked obediently to the willow tree and stood, hands on hips, smiling. Sandra looked through the camera viewfinder. Harold looked insignificant beside the enormous tree. She smiled and took the picture.
"Harold!" she shouted. "You're just a shrimp beside that tree. It looks like it could eat you for lunch. See that big branch, just above your head? It looks like it's ... Harold ... Harold!"
The branch seemed to collapse and Harold vanished beneath a cloud of tendrils covered in new growth. Sandra ran to the tree as the huge branch rose slowly and Harold pushed himself to a sitting position on the ground, bewildered.
"Did you see that?" cried Sandra. "That tree, that branch, it just came down and -"
Harold jumped to his feet, shook his head and licked his finger, holding it in the air. "See? A wind. Poor old tree, just sags in a heavy wind." He brushed himself and they both laughed then walked to the porch and Sandra entered the house. Harold gave the old willow one last glance before he followed his wife.
The branches of the old willow moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, waving, gnarled and twisted.
October, 1937
They had rented a camping tent, intending to spend two weeks on the east coast. The drive through Vermont and the Adirondacks had been so enjoyable, the leaves beginning their Fall display, and the coast of Maine so spectacular, that they stayed an extra week in order to visit Nova Scotia and the Bay of Fundy. The tent rental agency had no objections, it was available for the extra week. Sandra said she could arrange a fourth week with a phone call to the office, but Harold was concerned that the house would be overgrown with weeds by the time they got back. The neighbours were very accommodating and had agreed to mow the lawn for the extra week, but a fourth week? That was asking too much. They bought extra souvenirs for each neighbour and headed home.
Sandra was driving when they turned onto their driveway. Harold had his eyes closed; he didn't want to see the weeds.
"It's okay, darling. You can open your eyes, looks good, just the way we left it," Sandra said softly. Harold peeked through his fingers. The house was tall and handsome, the grass had been mowed recently and the willow swayed gently, beckoning, as though it were welcoming them home.
They unpacked, Harold brought the tent back to the rental agency and when he returned they both collapsed in a chair with a glass of sherry.
"Mmmm, it's good to be home," sighed Harold.
"Funny eh?" muttered Sandra, eyes closed. "There's a reward at each end of a trip like this. Good to get away, good to get home."
Harold finished his sherry and poured himself another. "Sandy? That old willow ... I guess I never looked at it closely before, not recently. When we drove up the driveway it looked so huge. I mean, it seems to have grown several feet just in the three weeks we've been away. Did you notice that?"
Sandra opened her eyes, grunted, closed her eyes and hummed agreement. Harold paused, sipped his sherry, continued. "Maybe I should trim it a little. What do you think?"
Sandra hummed. He leaned out of his chair and walked to the window. The tree blocked almost all of the daylight from that side of the house. "It's getting straggly ... is that a word? Straggly?" Sandra hummed, not listening. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll trim it, just a little."
Sandra opened her eyes at the sound of the branches tapping the window and Harold peered through the glass.
"Yes, I'll take off the branches from this side ... the ones that keep banging against the window."
The tapping grew louder and Harold stepped back.
"You know," he said in a low voice, "that old tree can hear us."
Sandra leaned back and chuckled.
"No, I mean it," repeated Harold, whispering. "Watch this."
He leaned forward, toward the window, and said in a loud voice as though he were talking to the tree, "I think I'll cut off the branches from this side." Then he stepped back. The tapping of the branches increased. "See that?" Sandra put down her glass and started to laugh.
"You are silly," she said. "A tree that listens into our conversations and -"
"No, wait ... watch this. I'm sure it understands." He leaned again toward the window and whispered. "Maybe I'll chop down the whole tree ... maybe I'll -"
A large branch banged against the side of the house and a picture fell from the wall, the glass shattering as it hit the floor.
"Harold! Now look what you did! You're so clumsy. That was my favourite picture. Now you've broken the glass and -"
Sandra stopped talking, abruptly, and looked at Harold. They stared at each other in silence for some time before Harold spoke.
"Sandy ... I was nowhere near that picture."
They continued to stare at each other for several seconds, Harold now several feet back from the window, Sandra leaning forward in her chair. Then she laughed, a shaky little laugh, uncertain and squeaky.
"Sweetheart, it was the wind. Look out the window. See? That old tree is waving in the wind." Then she got out of her chair and whispered to Harold. "I think it's a good idea, trim the branches away from this side of the house." She turned her head slightly and looked out the window, almost as though she expected a reaction from the tree.
The wind had died down and the black branches pressing against the window were motionless.
Listening.
***
The next afternoon Harold came home early. Nobody at the office seemed to have noticed that he had been away for three weeks. There was actually little to do and he had spent the time daydreaming. That was a favourite pastime. He was a knight in shining armor, a wizard that could command the rain to fall and the sun to shine, a superman with unimaginable powers. He dreamed that he was in command of an army of giants which he directed with vigor and authority against the forces of evil. Then he was the King of some ancient and wideflung land which spread from sea to sea and he would lead his hordes of armored troops against the invading foe.
Then he came home.
When he drove up the driveway he stopped and gazed at the old willow. Maybe he should do a little trimming, now, before Sandy got home. She always complained that he spent too much time daydreaming. He objected. Thinking, that's what he was doing, lying on the couch with his eyes closed, thinking. Now he would surprise her. When she got home he would announce that he had trimmed the tree. He wouldn't make a big thing of it, just a casual remark as though it were a trivial and familiar ritual.
He parked the car and walked to the front left side of the house. There was no wind and the branches hung quiet.
"Today's the day," he said in a whisper.
Sandy was right, he was silly thinking that the tree was listening. Neverthless, the thought of cutting off a few branches seemed exciting, somehow. How could that be exciting? He stood back and looked up at the tree. It soared higher than the roof, the leafy canopy embracing that side of the old house. The top branches had begun to sway, slowly. He looked around. There were no neighbours in sight. He leaned forward and whispered again. "Today ... soon ... just a few branches, just next to the house." Then he said, more loudly, "I'll cut off just a few branches."
He jumped back as the tree rustled, the lower branches now beginning to move slowly. His skin tingled. This was exciting. He quickly ran to the porch, opened the door and ran up the stairs to change his clothes. He could hear the tree banging against the side of the house. When he came down he was wearing an old pair of jeans and a heavy shirt with several tears in the sleeves.
They had added the garage recently, to the right side of the house. It was small, just enough room for one car. H
e usually pulled his car off onto the grass and let Sandra park in the garage. Now he fished through the junk piled on the floor, in a corner, looking for the saw. It wasn't there. Probably in the shed, out back. He walked around the house, starting to walk to the left side, looked up at the willow then changed his mind and walked by the right side. The saw was hanging in the shed and he took it off the wall and walked slowly toward the old tree. He looked across the yard. There were no neighbours in sight.
He raised the saw and waved it in the air like a sword. The back of his neck tingled and he stopped and swung the saw back and forth, up and down, like a swordsman practising before the tournament. The tree was motionless. He walked slowly to the nearest branch and poked it gently with the saw, his back arched, arm extended. The branch was thin and wavered slightly then hung again, motionless. He crouched and swung his sword from left to right across the thin branch. It caught, stuck, and he pulled back and the thin branch followed, clinging to his sword. He jumped back and raised the sword and the branch fell away. A shiver began in his neck and shook his shoulders and spiralled to his legs. He lunged forward, hacked with his sword, a long downward stroke, then jumped back. A thin twisted branch fell to the groud, severed from the evil willow, the bane of mankind, the dark scourge. He raised his sword and lunged forward again and another thin branch fell to the ground and again he backed away.
Then a large branch swung slowly from above, descending, its shadow racing across the grass toward him. Harold jumped back and raised his sword against the advancing menace. His sword was whipped from his hand, black coils, hairy, spinning about his weapon. He was without excalibur. He reached up and took the sword in his hand and held it tightly against the mighty pull of the wicked tree and it bit into his fingers, but he paid no heed. He pulled, leaned backward, fell, clutching his sword, now gleaming brightly. He scrambled away from the evil tree, sword biting, hands bleeding, jumped to his feet, backed away, several thin branches clung to his jeans and he swept them to the ground in one swift gesture.
"Harold! Are you home?"
It was Sandy.
Had he been day dreaming? Harold shook his head and stared down at his hands. The palms were cut and bleeding. A saw lay on the ground, covered in thin branches. He grabbed the saw and branches and ran to the shed, throwing the branches to the ground and the saw onto the small wooden table. He wiped his hands on his shirt and walked slowly back to the house, his hands stuck casually in his back pockets.
"Sandy? I'm out back. Just trimmed the tree, dear."
***
The party was a great success. Harold knew that from the start. It was the first party of any size they had held since moving into the old house and he started drinking an hour before the first guest arrived. Now it was in full swing and he was feeling no pain. Sandy was running back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays of hot sausages wrapped in bacon and the table in the living room was covered in expensive imported cheeses and a huge pumpernickel loaf filled with cream cheese and spinach dip. He made sure that all glasses were filled at all times. He had even put up a list of exotic drinks with the recipe for each and everyone was taking turns in mixing their own drinks at the table. It was past midnight when he raised his glass and called for a toast. They had all stopped talking and waited for him to make the toast, but he couldn't think of a thing to toast. That was when the branches began to bang against the window. Everyone heard it and Harold walked to the window and toasted the willow tree. There were a few chuckles but everyone ceremoniously made the toast and began talking again. Harold had had too much to drink. He sat on the sofa and closed his eyes. He was very tired.
Then he got up, suddenly, and sat in a chair by the window, then stood up, then climbed onto the chair, then raised his glass again.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted. "I call your attention to my willow tree."
Some of the guests looked, laughed, then continued talking. Harold shouted, louder.
"May I have your attention?"
Sandra rolled her eyes and tried to get him down from the chair. Everyone began to laugh briefly then continued talking.
"I will now demonstrate an amazing act of - of - of intellect. This here willow tree will do as I command!"
Sandra gave up trying to drag him from the chair and continued to hold out the tray of small sandwiches, explaining that Harold was a silly fellow and they should just ignore him when he was this way. Then there was a bumping sound against the wall and some of the guests backed away from the hanging pictures, now swinging back and forth.
"Willow? Are you ready, willow?"
The banging got louder and the talking began to subside as the guests stared at Harold, then at the window.
"Willow? Let us hear from you! Give us a sign!"
The bumping continued and the window began to rattle as a large branch banged repeatedly against the glass.
"Now willow, listen to me! I want you to say hello to our guests. Willow? Say hello to our guests!"
Suddenly, with a cry of shattered glass a black coil broke throught the window and spiralled high above Harold's head, gnarled and twisted, and Harold raised his hands, swinging them from side to side and the coil followed, in rhythm, its hairy spirals high above his head, hovering. The guests gasped and backed away. A second coil leaped through the broken window and joined the first, swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody.
"And now ladies and gentlemen my willow will perform ... ta dum!"
Harold pointed a finger at the nearest guest and a coil leaped out and spun around her neck, pushing her to the floor, spinning about her head, crushing, splinters of bone springing from her face, red and sharp. Someone screamed.
"And for my next trick ... ta dum!"
Harold pointed at a second guest who was trying to climb backward over the table, his legs pumping, his arms spinning. The second coil shot across the room and punctured his face and spun around his neck, his eyes bulged, reddened, popped.
Harold looked to the ceiling, raised both arms, closed both eyes and began to hum and the coils withdrew and slithered to his side, winding slowly about his legs.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen ... ta dum!" And he opened his eyes suddenly.
Both coils spun around Harold's throat and he coughed, a gurgling, choking cough. His face was covered in black coils, his arms fell to his sides, then rose and fell, frantically, faster.
The guests backed away, gasping. A single scream, several screams. They began to rush to the front door. Harold's body was lifted off the chair, suspended, his head and neck now completely hidden by the black hairy coils, his body swinging from side to side, his arms hanging limp like a rag doll. There was pandemonium. Two women fainted, amid shrieks of terror. The table was overturned, cheeses spilled among the guests. Several people fell, were trampled by the rush toward the front door, Sandra vanished beneath a sea of feet, running, madly, shrieking to the door.
A shout. "Look!"
Harold's body fell to the floor, lifeless, headless. The coils still hovered in the air, then opened and Harold's head dropped and rolled crazily across the floor, eyes bulging, staring, blood-red.
"Harold! Harold! Wake up!"
Harold sat up, sweating, holding his throat. His shirt was wet, clinging to his chest. Sandra was kneeling by the sofa beside him, caressing his head.
"The party's over dear. You've been dreaming."
November, 1937
Sandra slipped off her robe and slid into the steaming tub. When they bought the house they had left the old tub in the bathroom. After refinishing, it gave the house an air of authenticity, something from the last century, a relic of the past. Although Harold complained, quietly, she still brought all her friends into the room to admire this piece of old world charm with its ornate feet and brass faucets. Now she lay with her eyes closed and breathed deeply of the perfumed waters. The radio in the bedroom played a slow waltz by Strauss. Harold was gone
and, as usual, had apologized profusely; he had to entertain clients in Baden City and wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon. This was her day off and she had spent it reading and making brownies. It was after midnight and she was tired. She closed her eyes. A hot bath was as good as a sleeping pill.
She and Harold Bourden had married during their first year at college. He was shy, always seemed to be deep in thought then suddenly he would open his eyes very wide and stare at her and apologize that he didn't hear what she had just said. Perhaps it was that shyness that had attracted her. He seemed to need someone to mother him, to tell him what to do, when to turn right or left, what to wear and when to laugh or cry.
Sandra smiled and slipped deeper into the steaming water. She didn't notice the water level falling.
Sandra had grown up in a family of boys, rough and vulgar in their way. They would laugh at her, make fun of her curly hair, her breasts, treat her as a weak sister. But Harold was different. When he wasn't day dreaming he would fall all over himself in order to please her. He was thoughtful and considerate and always put her needs before his own. It was he who insisted that she retain her maiden name, Brown, when they got married. In fact he would change his name from Bourden to Brown, become Mr. Harold Brown and she would be Mrs. Sandra Brown. Not Mrs. Harold Something, but Mrs. Sandra Brown. They had debated the name and he had agreed, reluctantly, that her name would be Mrs. Sandra Bourden-Brown. He had apologized for that too, that his name was attached to hers.
She loved him very much.
She didn't notice the thin spiral of dark gray, shimmering, distorted, beneath the surface, then rising slowly, slowly from the foot of the tub.
Suddenly the black coil rose and swayed and rose again until it arched above her, tendrilous, slimy, and Sandra opened her eyes, shrieked and the thing dropped onto her leg, spun rapidly, dragged her across the bottom of the tub. She tried to climb out, was dragged back in. She tried to pull it off her leg, it spiralled about her waist, her arms, gray rugate coils covered in fine hairs. She screamed again, choked, screamed again. It spiralled about her throat, she gagged, choked, coughed. There was little water in the tub, but her head was pulled down, her face sinking beneath the surface. She spluttered, kicked, her body now almost completely covered in scaly, sinuous coils.
