Visitations

by Saul, Jonas

  I slow to pick up a leaf, then stop myself. I can’t. I have enough regular leaves. Today I only want Honey-Locust leaves.

  “Seve…”

  I hear my name again, drawn out. The trees whisper it. They always take their time saying my name. I feel it as much as hear it. I feel pleasure, like I belong here, but it’s fleeting. A stronger breeze has touched the leaves and they use this chance to sing to one another.

  I forge ahead. Somewhere in this area I will find a Honey-Locust. I know it because it was documented in the Botanical Journal last week.

  I ease a branch out of my face and look upon a clearing. The only movement I see are the various trees passing messages back and forth among themselves. I slip down a small embankment and open my satchel. The banana and jelly sandwich I prepared for lunch is soggy and mushy. I fish it out, take a bite and listen.

  Whenever I break to eat, I can almost hear the trees hatching their plan. A root stuck out in a nonchalant way, left exposed to trip me. A branch swinging back to swat my face. A dead tree knocked over to block my path. Whatever they devise, I can usually avoid it. As long as I hear them. As long as I listen. I’ve come to realize they fear me just as much as I fear them.

  I close my satchel, move the umbrella to my left side where I hook the handle into my rope and start back up the embankment. Within ten paces I’m in the clearing I saw earlier.

  There’s a shadow about a hundred yards up on the right. The area I’m looking at is an extension of an old forest. I would expect that’s the section of forest the Botanical Journal spoke of. Convinced the Honey-Locust I’m searching for will be in that copse of trees, I start walking.

  Halfway there I notice a barbed-wire fence. Every twenty yards or so I can see small metal signs going the length of the fence. The signs are facing the other way so I can’t read them.

  The fence is old. I approach an area that has been trampled down. It’s no more than two feet off the ground where I step over it.

  On the other side of the fence I turn and standing before me is a real Honey-Locust tree. I need to touch it to make sure it’s real. I smell it, feel it, and set a leaf on my tongue. I realize with the addition of the leaves of this tree to my collection, I have almost completed my legacy. My display of rare leaves will sit in botanical sections of museums for years to come.

  It takes no more than fifteen minutes to collect the leaf samples I want, gently placing them in the magazine papers I’d brought. I make sure they aren’t damaged by insects, disease or the environment. I also want ones attached to a small part of the twig with a lateral or terminal bud.

  It isn't even 2:00pm and I have found the tree I was looking for. Elated, I turn to the sky and yell. More like a baying. I’m not much into yelling. I try to do a fist pump, but it just shakes my arm too much.

  Before I step back over the barb-wire fence, I read a posted metal sign that says,

  “NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT.”

  I didn’t see a house. There isn't a farm close by, therefore no reason why I can't cross this fence and walk back the way I’d already come. Besides, I realize that I have trespassed the whole time so going back through would make no difference.

  I shrug my shoulders and make my way back across the clearing. I walk past the embankment where I’d had lunch and am halfway to my car when I hear movement.

  Of course the trees want to say something. I didn’t think I was going to get away that easy.

  I hop behind a dead trunk. I am being smart. Dead trees don’t talk. This one will provide shelter while the others talk, trying to figure a way to get me to give back what I have stolen from their forest.

  They don't though. Seve always triumphs. I pull out my bear spray. I want to be ready for anything they throw at me.

  A twig snaps. I press my back hard against the dead tree. I am less than an hour walk to my car. This is their last chance. I raise my hand to swipe at the sweat on my forehead. The hand that still held the bear spray, safety off, pauses in mid swipe.

  Cold steel touches my neck. I panic and freeze in the same moment. My heart slips and stutters.

  “You was supposed to read the signs.”

  Someone’s talking to me. This clear voice could never come from leaves. I look to the left as far as my eyes can go in their sockets. To look further, I would have to turn my head, I would have to move. The cold steel is pressing hard near my lower jaw, so hard I think my skin might break.

  I begin to understand. I get it. Everything comes to me like an epiphany. I am going to be shot for collecting leaves. The trees will finally win. The cold steel is a gun, held by a man gone insane. A man who lives out here. A man who hears the trees talk, night and day, night and day. They drove him crazy. It’s not his fault.

  With speed I didn’t know I possessed, I jolt forward, away from the tip of the gun and spin to the left. I aim the bear spray and depress the trigger. The liquid shoots out and covers the face of a man.

  The long barreled weapon falls to the ground as the man wails inhuman cries. He drops to his knees, his face already turning a patchy red. His eyes lock shut. He bellows a symphony of agony.

  I don’t know what to do. I’ve never hurt anyone before. I’m shy, reserved. I don’t like violence. I resist confrontation. I hate yelling. Yet here is a man, kneeling before me, screaming a tune I have authored.

  I knew I had to help him. Even though he pulled a gun on me, I have to help him. He was a victim of the trees. It wasn’t his fault. After helping him, I will get out of here. I have to get home and press my new-found leaves.

  Besides, how many people actually get shot for trespassing nowadays anyway? He was probably just protecting his land, his house, his family.

  I holster the bear spray and pick up the long gun.

  “Which way?” I ask. It has been a long time since I’d talked. But this isn’t a time to be passing notes. The man’s eyes are locked shut. He won’t be able to read anyway.

  “Whaaaatttt!” he bellows.

  “Home! Which way?” I have to shout to be heard over his screams. It gives me chills. I almost run at the sound of my own voice.

  He’s still on his knees. He’s using his hands to claw at his eyes in a wasted effort to remove the pain. One of his arms comes undone and he points down the path.

  I get him to his feet. It is maddening how we stumble through the foliage, the elbows of roots sticking up here and there. I thought the man would be tough to guide, but the gun is the real nuisance. With every step it seems to gain weight, getting heavier and heavier with time.

  After about twenty minutes, my stranger stops screaming. He moans a lot, though. His eyes run with tears. Another clearing is coming up and I can see a house. We cover the distance fast because my stranger can walk better now and there aren’t all those trees purposely sticking things in our way, trying to trip us up.

  The house is small for a farmhouse. I wouldn’t live in it. There aren’t any trees close to it.

  In a window on the second floor I can see movement. Something flashes by so quick I can’t grasp what it was. We are almost at the back porch and my stranger’s still whining. I look at the window again and this time it gives me goosebumps. A woman is peeking out. She’s wearing glasses. She has a telephone at her ear. I can tell she’s quite animated by the way she’s waving her arm and gesturing with her head. Whoever she’s talking to is getting an earful.

  This woman scares me more than the trees do.

  The stranger mumbles something about a bathroom and I understand him. He wants the bathroom sink to wash his eyes out. The bear spray is still giving off a slight stench from his face. I wish he hadn’t pointed the gun at me. I don’t like hurting people. Why can’t they understand? When the trees are stalking me I need to be left alone. I do bad things when I’m in the woods with people.

  It’s not my fault.

  Jimmy shouldn’t have touched me like he did.

  It wasn’t my fault he died all those years ago wh
en we were ten.

  We reach the back door and he opens it. Entering the house is tricky because I can’t stand beside him supporting his arm anymore. He takes the lead by feel.

  I wonder why I don’t feel remorse for what I did. Maybe because I’m harmless. He shouldn’t have put a gun in my neck when all I wanted were leaves. Maybe this is a lesson he needs to learn.

  I follow him out of a room where shoes and coats go, past a washer and dryer and into a narrow hallway. There aren’t any lights on, but I don’t think the half-blind stranger really minds.

  I stop at a door where the stranger entered and wait. Why didn’t I put the long gun down? I’m still holding it in the hallway of this stranger’s house. I could’ve put it on the dryer or the washer. I step back into the laundry room and try to lift the long gun. It’s stuck. I pull, but it feels snagged. I look down and see my umbrella’s wooden handle has gotten caught in the trigger guard.

  I twist the gun and give it one last pull. It catches on the umbrella and this time a roar belts out of the long gun. But that isn't the worst of it. The recoil bites into my unprepared shoulder, tearing at it like a noose yanking on a neck.

  A serious fire shoots through my arm. It feels foreign. My eyes widen at how much pain my shoulder is experiencing.

  A hole has formed in the drywall. I can see into the hallway, through the hole.

  The woman I saw in the upper window appears before me. The pain must be intense because I hadn’t noticed her standing there. She has a large rolling pin in her hand.

  Before I can get out of the way, she’s on me. I try to duck my head, but my left arm isn’t working well and my right arm is pinned to my chest. It had been holding my aching shoulder.

  She hit me in the head. I’m not sure what I’m feeling now. There’s a pounding, but I can’t breathe too well. My shoulder still doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. I try to move my head, but it aches. I move it anyway. I think I’m screaming now.

  The woman is convulsing on top of me. Her weight makes it difficult to breathe. I roll and she falls off. My nose inhales deep, my lungs fill, the pounding in my head drops from a ten to a seven.

  More movement at the door. My stranger is there, his face still red. No doubt called by the roar of the long gun and the shriek of the strange woman.

  “Asthma,” is all he says before he bolts from the doorway.

  He’s back now with an inhaler or puffer or whatever they call it.

  I lean against the wall, the gun beside me. The woman is sitting up. She appears to be breathing better. My stranger can see and talk too, although his eyes are very red. He’s explaining to the odd woman what happened and how stupid he must have been. He should never have entered the house with pepper spray on his face and a lingering scent on me. He should’ve known she’d get a reaction to it.

  I hear the word police. The odd woman speaks it.

  I use the wall to stand. Halfway up I grab the long gun. Might need something to defend myself if the police are coming.

  The strange man looks at me with a question on his face. I shrug and gasp. Man does my shoulder hurt. Funny how I took for granted a shrugging motion, and now it tosses coal on the flames of a fire I can’t ignore.

  “What are you gonna do, mister?” the stranger asks.

  I don’t talk much to people. They’re okay, but years ago I decided I wouldn’t talk to them anymore. Only when I really had to. I even pretend at times that I can’t talk. I use a pen and paper to communicate with tellers, waitresses, and cab drivers. I point at my mouth and show them with my hands that I can’t use it.

  It just seemed all my life people laughed at me when I talked. It wasn’t always this way; only after I was nearly killed by those teenagers and their boots. I was beat up to within an inch of my life the doctor said. Brain damage. But they never took away my love of leaves, so it’s okay.

  At least I remember why I was beat up so bad. It was because of the death of Jimmy Urdith. No one believed me when I said it wasn’t my fault. They laughed at me then and they laugh at me now.

  So I try really hard not to talk to people.

  I step away from the strangers on the floor and lock the bolt on the laundry room door. I use the long gun’s barrel to point them up and out of the room. I push and prod them into the living room.

  The redness in the man’s face is diminishing. It looks like everyone’s going to be fine.

  Except if the police come. Then I will have to explain things. And I don’t want to talk. I just want to pick leaves and go home. I only want my leaves.

  Why can’t everyone just let me be?

  When I saw the odd woman in the window on the phone she must have been calling the police. Especially when she saw her man being guided to the house, his face a mask of tears and red. With me holding the strange man’s gun, it might have made her think I was hostile. Wow, why didn’t I realize this earlier? I shake my head back and forth and smack my temple.

  The living room has a long couch where I get them to sit. I use shoelaces to tie up their feet. I don’t want hostages, I only want them out the way while I do a field press on my new-found leaves. Then I will exit this strange house in a strange land owned by strange people, by way of the back door and disappear.

  They will never see me again.

  I found the Honey-Locust tree. My job is done.

  I figure the cops will take at least fifteen minutes to get to this remote setting. I had spent ten here already. That means I will need to hurry.

  I am happy with all my clear thinking. This is becoming fun in a way. I haven't been in control of a crisis for a long time. Neat how it all comes back to you, dealing with issues that are unpleasant.

  I run to the kitchen. I set the long gun on the counter, locate the wax paper and rip a strip off. I flatten it out on the kitchen table and place my satchel down. I carefully take the leaves out of the magazine pages and set them gently on the wax paper. I make sure they are flat and ready.

  Now I need newspaper. After a frantic minute of running around the house I can’t find any. I walk into the garage and locate a recycle bin. There’s enough in it for my purpose.

  When I get back to the kitchen something’s different. I place the newspaper on top of my leaves and look around. For some reason I can’t figure it out.

  It’s time to leave. But first I want to check on the strangers in the living room. I go to the counter to pick up the gun, but it’s gone.

  That’s what was different. The gun’s missing.

  My stomach rolls. My shoulder still throbs. My head feels like it’s an egg that got cracked. But I need to do what I don’t want to do. I need to check on the strangers in the living room.

  I’ve run out of time. I need to hurry so I choose to not be stealthy.

  When I get there the living room is empty.

  Why are they doing this? I just want my leaves. I just want to go home. I wish everyone would leave me alone. I didn’t ask for this.

  It’s the same when Jimmy followed me into the woods that day. We walked and walked, looking at all the trees and their wonderful leaves. We marveled at the colors, shapes and sizes. After about three hours on our own, Jimmy wanted to head back to the teacher and the rest of the students. I didn’t.

  We argued. I remember walking away from him. He grabbed my arm and spun me around. I was shocked. He yelled at me. He said we had to return to the group. We had to go back to school. We were supposed to go home.

  He touched me. He yelled at me. Those two actions made me run. I always run when people touch me too much or when people yell at me.

  Jimmy was found dead a week later. He got lost on his way back to the school bus.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  I ran from my dad. He always yelled. He died from yelling when I was twelve. Yelled and yelled and yelled. Then his heart blew up.

  I come back to the room in my head. The strangers are not where I put them. Maybe they left the house. I’ll get my leaves and go. />
  I turn and discover the strange man has the long gun. It’s pointed at my midsection.

  “Get down,” he says.

  Now what do I do? I don’t want to get shot. For my leaves, for my Honey-Locust leaves, I get to my knees.

  “All the way. To your stomach.”

  I refuse to talk so I shake my head back and forth.

  The strange man raises the gun to his eye and points it at me. We’re in a long hallway, the living room opening to my right and I think he might shoot me.