(A sample chapter from novella, The Juniper Tree.)
© 2007 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
9
It was funny when it happened. I guess I didn’t mind it much.
BJORN HADN’T GONE HOME that lunchtime, even though he meant to. He got in his car and drove out from the mill to the road and stopped and flicked his turn signal to go to the right and home. But when the car pulled onto the road a few moments later, it turned not right but left. It drove up country, into the high woods. There it turned off the main road onto a logging trail and bumped and jostled up the rutted tracks. The tires dug at the clotted mud and splashed it on the sides.
Deep beneath the trees he parked the car. He got out and shut the door. He stood there in his suit and rain coat and looked at the pines that towered overhead. He let his head lean back and his nostrils widened and deepened and drew in the fresh rain-wet smells.
For a few minutes he stood there. His eyes were closed. Little by little his face let go. When he opened his eyes there was something new and peaceful in them. He took off his raincoat and his jacket and tie, he took off his shirt, undershirt, slacks, shoes, socks, underwear. He folded them up neatly and laid them on the back seat of the car.
He stood naked in the breeze. The breeze shook loose some raindrops from the high reaches of the pines and the drops spattered down on the car and on his face and his chest and back. He turned around and took it all in. Birds were singing on every side. He looked down at himself, pale and pink like a hairless hog in the wild. He slapped his belly where the fat was coming, not like the old days when he came here every day, before he bought the mill.
In the car trunk an old gym bag was shoved behind the spare tire. Inside the bag were rolled a heavy woolen shirt, frayed smooth, a knitted undershirt and drawers, and tough old jeans patched at the knee.
He put on the clothes. At the bottom of the bag he found a battered suede jacket and a wool cap. He put them on too and from deeper in the trunk he drew forth a stout logging axe and whetstone. The axe was guarded by a leather case over the axe-head and this too was battered and worn. Bjorn hefted the axe, slammed the trunk shut, and took off up a narrow trail. He strode swiftly with long, ground-eating steps, up and down the hills between the trees.
He came to a grove where several stumps stood in a ring, and the warm, low-falling sunlight slanted down into a hollow in between.
Bjorn walked about the hollow, looking at the trees. He flexed his arms and shoulders. He leaned on a stump and unsnapped the axe cover. He honed the blade while he squinted up at the trees, judging them, measuring them and sighting the angle of their lean.
He left the stump and walked up to one of the trees. He walked all the way around it, staring up at it. He stopped once or twice, looking at it, leaning his head and looking at the angle of the trunk and the bunches of its branches high above.
He finished circling the tree, shook his head, and went to another tree. He repeated the ritual. This one he walked around twice and nodded his head. He took the axe and addressed the trunk. Huge wood chips flew about his feet. He chopped a grinning mouth of wood from the trunk, then went to the other side and with half a dozen brutal strokes cut it through. The tree began to topple and half way down it snapped free of the trunk and crashed into the earth.
IN RAYN’S ROOM it was quiet and warm and still. The sea-sounds drifted through the lace curtains in a sleepy murmur. Falco stared at the salmon colored satin sheets, the expensive hosiery, the underthings draped over the back of the chair. Rayn went before him and drew him on.
‘Don’t gawk, silly boy, come on.’
Against the far corner, under a silk chemise and some pairs of lace briefs, peeked the black corners of the Trunk. The Trunk was heavy oak with painted panels and iron corners. It was as tall as he was.
She guided his hand to the latch.
‘Go on – touch it.’
‘It’s heavy—’
Rayn’s fingers slipped from his. Her hand lifted the lid.
‘There. Doesn’t it smell pretty? The fragrance is very rare, very expensive. My Mommie had it imported from Turkey. Careful!’
He held up his hand. Across two fingers a cut was bleeding.
‘You must be careful what you touch, little sir, the lid is deadly sharp. Go on, you can look. Rayn says.’
He reached in and pulled out a green glass bottle.
‘What’s in here?’
‘No, put that away, that’s not for you. You want an apple. Go on, they’re in that bag at the back, take any one you like.’
OUTSIDE on the other side of the house, a car drove down the gravel through the woods. The car parked under the wooden hanging sign with the painted gull’s feather for White Quill. Mr Anders stepped out.
‘Bjorn? Anybody home?’ he called.
He walked up to the door. His shoes crunched on the gravel. He stepped onto the threshold and rang the bell.
FALCO drew back out of the dark heady mystery of Rayn’s Trunk.
‘The doorbell—’
She shuddered with impatience. ‘Oh, just a salesman, have your apple first.’ She smiled and her warm hand pressed against his neck, bringing him closer.
He looked back inside. He stood on tiptoes and craned his neck over the lip of the chest. He glanced back up to her.
At the last second her face lost its smile. It crumpled up with hatred.
She took the lid of the chest with both hands and slammed it down with all her strength.
Bang!
THE SOUND of the lid slamming home echoed in the room like a thunderclap. In its wake a dreamy, cool quiet followed. Rayn leaned back and closed her eyes and sighed. The voices were quiet. At last they were still. Then she felt something touch against her calf and she looked back down.
The body jerked and twitched between her legs. It went on twitching. She had to press down on it to make it stop.
‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘Shhh.’
She watched with a look of intense satisfaction as she held her hands up to her face, sniffing at the blood dripping from her fingers.
OUTSIDE, Mr Anders stepped back from the door out onto the drive and looked up at the house.
‘Hey! Anybody home?’
The shout reached around the house and stole in through the lace curtains.
Rayn stiffened and Falco’s body slipped down off her lap onto the floor, spouting blood.
Rayn pressed against the wall. Again the voice reached her and she knew it.
She shook her head and whispered, ‘Go away, go away you damned busybody lawyer!’
Mr Anders walked around back of the house. He found Greta holding one of Falco’s bird-women cutouts.
‘Hello, Greta.’
‘Hello.’
‘Is Papa home? Or Mama?’
Rayn listened to their voices through the window where the cold air poured toward her. She reached out toward the body but her fingers wouldn’t touch it now and she shrank against the wall.
‘You smirking little brat, is this how you get your revenge?’
Greta shook her head. She showed the man the bird-woman.
He smiled. ‘Yes, I see. Very good. Well, when Papa comes home, will you give him these? It’s important.’
Greta took the papers and looked at them. Mr Anders patted her head, clicked his briefcase shut, and walked back around to his car.
He got into the car and drove away.
GRETA ran around the lawn. She flew the bird-woman in her hand the way she had seen Falco do it.
‘Greta! Gooseling, where are you?’
Greta stopped. Her Mama’s voice came calling again, a terrible croak failing to sound normal and bright:
‘Greta! Come inside, now, will you please?’
Greta thought about that.
‘Come in!’
‘All right.’
She went up the porch steps and dropped the bird and papers outside the door.
Inside she found Falco sitting in the Morris chair for the Thanksgiving King. He held a spiced apple in his hand and he wore a red ribbon tied around his throat.
‘Falco, can I have a bite of your apple?’
‘Greta! Come into the kitchen, will you, goose?’
Greta went into the kitchen.
Her Mama was bent over the counter, slicing apples in a pie. She didn’t look back.
‘What’s wrong, Gooseling?’
‘Brother has an apple and I asked him for a piece, but he wouldn’t answer me.’
‘Oh?’ Still Mama wouldn’t look round. Still her voice sounded awful. ‘Well now. I tell you what. Ask him again, and if he doesn’t answer this time, if he doesn’t answer … you just reach up and give his nose a great big pinch, that will show him. You’ll see, it’s a funny game. My brothers and I played it all the time.’
‘Okay.’
Greta walked back into the great-room.
She walked closer and closer to Falco on the chair.
She stopped.
‘Falco, give me some of your apple?’
But Falco still wouldn’t answer. Greta grinned and gave his nose a great big pinch.
And Falco’s head twisted all around on his neck and tumbled forward on the floor and rolled a little and stopped.
Greta froze. It was as if icicles grew up and down in her legs and her arms and into her heart.
Falco’s head stared up at her from the floor.
IN THE KITCHEN Rayn stabbed three vents in the pie.
‘Mama! Mama!’
‘Yes, darling?’
Rayn wiped her hands and went out into the great-room.
Greta tackled Rayn’s apron and buried her face in it.
‘Goose, what’s the matter?’
‘I did what you said – and his head – his head—’
‘Well, never mind that, what are we going to do when Papa gets home?’
‘Falco – I didn’t mean it – I didn’t—’
‘That won’t matter to the police, Greta. If they find out, do you know what they’ll do? They’ll lock you up in a dark jail cell for the rest of your life.’
‘No… Please, Mama…’
‘Well now. Maybe I have an idea.’
Mama pulled the body off the chair and started to drag it across the floor.
‘Greta, get the head, will you dear?’
IN THE HIGH WOODS, Bjorn buried the axe blade in the fallen trunk and paused. His face was bathed in sweat. He took off the jacket and wiped his shirt sleeve across his brow and eyes. Down the slope behind the hollow he found a stream and he leaned out on a rock in the shallows on his belly. He ducked his face under and drank like an animal, so that when he lifted his head back out his beard and hair hung from his head streaming water, and he shook his head so the water flew, and he roared with laughter.
He hiked back to the hollow, sized up another tree, and attacked it. Midway through he stripped his shirt and undershirt, and his naked upper torso gleamed with sweat, bristling with short reddish hair all over his shoulders chest and arms.
He chopped down nine trees that day. When at last night fell he had to give over and lay back against the car, holding the axe before him in trembling arms, gasping, spitting cotton, sweat pouring down his chest.
THE SAME DARKNESS fell on White Quill, and the horror rested for a spell. Greta sat in the front window-seat. She swung her legs and clutched her stuffed dinosaur Boney tight against her tummy.
Her Mama had bathed her and washed out her hair. She had sprinkled perfume over her. She had combed out her hair and tied it with ribbons, and dressed her in her prettiest dress with clean underwear and brand-new white socks and her shiny shoes. But under the perfume Greta still smelled the smell of Falco’s blood.
She wrung her hands and leaned down to kiss Boney.
But her eyes never left the window. She stared out the window, and her legs kicked faster, faster. At last the lights shone through the trees.
‘Mama, Papa’s here!’
‘All right, goose, I’m coming. Go to table and take your place.’
Greta jumped down and ran to the dining table. She climbed into her chair with Boney in her lap.
She started swinging her legs again.
Papa entered and dropped his case on the chair by the back door. He looked funny. He wasn’t wearing his clothes like always. Instead he wore clothes like one of the men from his work. And his hair was bristly and ragged and wild.
‘Darling, I’m home!’ His voice boomed in the hall and Greta jumped.
Mama gave him a drink just like always. Greta squirmed in her chair and kicked her legs.
‘Huh! What’s that smell?’
‘Oh, new cleansers. “Mighty powerful – as seen on TV!” Come eat, I made something special, and Greta helped.’ Mama giggled.
‘Did Arne come by? He said he’d drop off some papers.’
‘Your lawyer? I didn’t see him.’
She went into the kitchen. Papa sat down and tucked in his napkin.
‘Greta, are you crying? What happened? Isn’t Falco eating tonight?’
Mama emerged from the kitchen with the soup-vat. Something scratched at the back door and Greta snapped her head round at it.
‘Oh, it’s Tang-Tang. Goose, be a dear and let him in.’
Greta climbed down out of her chair and went to the back door. Tang-Tang came in with the cardboard bird-woman in his jaws. Behind him the papers fluttered in the wind. Greta watched them fly.
Behind her she heard Mama say,
‘The truth is, Falco is spending the night at a friend’s house. You don’t mind?’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t know he had any friends. He’ll be back for Thanksgiving, won’t he?’
Greta walked back to the table. Mama was holding out the ladle with a pot-holder under it to catch any drippings, and Papa was leaning over it to taste the soup.
‘Well now, I would hope so. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without our little sir, would it?’
Greta climbed back into her chair. She stared at Papa, and his face bending in above the ladle, and his lips sipping the soup.
Greta was staring with all her eyes. Her mouth was hanging open. She couldn’t believe it. Mama smiled at her and winked.
Papa leaned back and cleared his throat. It came out like a growl.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘My that’s tasty!’
His beard sprouted out all shaggy and wild. It covered his chest down to the table. Mama filled his bowl and he hunched forward over it. His face hung over the bowl and the steam and savor from the soup, the horrible soup, wavered before his eyes and left little droplets on his huge rough eyebrows. His hair hung down his brow and covered the rest of his head, only at the sides in back the tufts of his ears popped up, brown and quivering. He brought the soup spoon up before his lips and opened his mouth wide, like a barrel filled with great jagged teeth. Greta could see deep into his mouth all the way to the back, where fleshy folds, red and raw, trembled greedily. Then the hairy lips swallowed the end of the spoon and the mouth vanished behind the beard. The big paw tugged on the little spoon-handle. The unseen mouth tugged back and the bristles flexed. When the bowl of the spoon broke free, it made sucking sounds like when Greta pulled her bootie out of some mud that wouldn’t let go.
‘Ahhhh.’ The huge thing growled in satisfaction. Then the shoulders bunched and the paw came down again, and another brimming spoonful went into the cavernous mouth.
‘More, give me more!’ His fingers, dirty and rough with long nails like claws, tore hunks out of the bread and stuffed them into his mouth. His spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl and he held it up for more. He burped, burrr-aowp! and sniffed and snuffed over the soup. He set down the bowl again and started shoving spoonfuls into his mouth.
‘Like it?’ asked Mama.
‘Delicious, extraordinary! Can I have a larger bowl? I’m ravenous tonight.’
‘Of course.’
Rayn started filling him a huge bowl.
‘I hear the ham-bones, didn’t you strain it yet? Well, Tang-Tang, you’ll have a treat tonight too!’
Greta looked away. But she still heard her Papa say in his big happy voice, ‘Umf! I’m still hungry, Rayn, may I have another bowl?’
‘Darling, you can eat all the soup yourself, Greta and I don’t mind, it will mean more room for pie for us.’
‘You can have the pie, but this soup is mine, I simply must eat it all!’
Greta looked back.
Papa had grown more monstrous. He growled and tore his bread apart. At last he lifted the huge bowl above his face and poured the soup into his dark gaping maw, and the soup streamed like blood down his beard. He shook the glasses and the table. He wiped his beard with his sleeve, belched again and laughed, loudly, for no reason. From under the table Tang-Tang growled. The thing in Papa’s chair banged its paws on the table and growled back even louder, until Tang-Tang whimpered and curled up under Greta’s chair. Bjorn barked a laugh, reached deep into his bowl and scattered the bones under the table.
Greta watched Tang-Tang stretch out his neck toward them. She slid down and pushed the dog’s muzzle back.
She put Boney in her chair and gathered up the bones.
Above the table she heard Papa say, ‘Is that all? What a meal! I’m stuffed, just stuffed.’
Greta squeezed out from under the table.
‘Greta! Gooseling! Where are you off to?’
But Greta ran across the room. The back door loomed in front of her and she opened it and dashed out.
SHE FELL to her knees beneath the Juniper Tree. She laid the napkin open. A little pile bones huddled in it, and that was all that was left of Falco.
The Juniper Tree stood against the dark sky. From its branches came the song of a bird.
‘I’m sorry, Falco. But I’ll put you back. I’ll put you back with your mother.’
She scratched a hole by the grave. She wiped her nose, leaving dirt-tracks. Her party dress was getting dirty too.
She pushed the bones in the napkin into the hole and filled it in with dirt. All the while she whispered his name.
‘Falco, Falco, Falco…’
THAT NIGHT as always the Juniper Tree stood guard between the Beak and White Quill.
The dinner table was strewn with plates and vessels of food and the great-room was empty. There was a pale flash through the window and far-off thunder from outside. A pallid shape moved from behind the Morris chair. Tang-Tang lumbered to the picture window and stood looking out, wagging his tail.
The lightning burned on Tang-Tang’s face at the window. He bared his teeth and growled.
The rain poured on the muddy patch, and a stream of muddy water flowed out of the grave, with dark threads of something mixed in it. It was blood, and the stream ran past the juniper roots and out over a notch down the stone face of the cliff.
Up in her room Greta lay in her crib, crying in the dark. Lightning flashed. She couldn’t sleep. Then she slept but woke up from a dream.
She climbed out of her crib, out the door, down the stairs and out the door.
She toddled across the lawn in the rain to the Juniper Tree. She stood looking up at it. She was trying to remember the dream she had before she woke up. Then she found a tiny black birdie in the branch. His wing was caught.
Greta freed his wing and soothed his feathers.
‘There, Falco,’ she said. ‘That’s better.’
She turned and went back to bed.
