(A sample chapter from novella, The Juniper Tree.)
© 2007 asotir.
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License.
11
People usually act sorry when somebody dies, but they never mean it.
THE SOUND of the black bird’s croak woke Greta. She climbed out of her crib and waded through the toys and dolls that filled her room. She stood in the door and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.
Across the hall her Mama’s door was shut. Most mornings Greta wouldn’t even blink before she’d push the door open and climb into bed with Mama and pull on her hair and ask for breakfast, and usually Papa would be in there too, and Tang-Tang of course, whining to go out.
But this morning Greta shied away from her Mama’s door. She was afraid of her Mama after yesterday.
Then she saw the door to the Locked Room hung partway open.
The door to the Locked Room was never open. Greta had never even seen inside the Locked Room. Sometimes she had nightmares about it from the things her Mama had told her.
She dragged along a dinosaur skeleton into the hall. She went up to the Locked Room and peered inside.
In the gray light the room looked like an ordinary room. There was a big bed and next to it a rocking chair. Somebody was hunched over in the rocking chair but he wasn’t moving.
Greta poked her head in a little farther. The thing in the rocking chair looked like her Papa. It didn’t look like the monster that had eaten all the soup the night before. She wondered if her Papa had been hiding up in the Locked Room last night, because he was afraid of the monster too. All at once she felt so lonely that she went into the Locked Room and stared up at the shape in the rocking chair.
It did look like Papa. He sat in the rocking chair staring at the empty bed. His big hands lay on the chair arms. His back bent forward and his head hung down. His eyes looked tired and empty and sad.
Greta tugged on his sleeve.
‘Papa? Papa. Wake up.’
The thing stirred. He turned his head a little. His eyes blinked. ‘Uh … what?’
‘Take me someplace?’
He seemed to think this over. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Far away.’
‘All right… Yes. Let’s get Mama and go to Tall Pines to the cabin. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Greta looked down and pulled on the cord to the dinosaur. She shook her head. ‘No. Not Mama. Only me.’
Bjorn reached down and lifted Greta up and set her in his lap. He smoothed her hair. Greta shifted around and looked into his face. His eyes were big and soft.
‘I haven’t been much of a father to you kids, have I?’
He buried her in his huge arms and Greta nestled there as if she were sitting inside a cave.
‘All right, Greta. I’ll take you away to Tall Pines. We’ll have a holiday together, only you, only me.’
She climbed up his shirt and shyly kissed his beard. ‘Yes, Papa. Good Papa.’
In the kitchen Papa found a basket and they filled it with goodies. ‘We’ll eat on the way,’ said Papa, and Greta nodded. She couldn’t say more than a mumble with a muffin in her mouth.
The sneaked out the front door on tiptoes. Papa lifted her up and fastened her in the car seat. Then he started the motor and pulled back from the house.
Just before the woods got in the way Greta saw the Juniper Tree with the black birdie sitting in its branches. The birdie was a lot bigger than in her dream last night.
‘It’s a magic bird,’ she decided.
Then her Papa took the car out on the road and they drove away.
THE SOUND of the tires on the gravel echoed all around the house. It stole through the lace curtains and into Rayn’s dreams, casting a pall upon them and waking her.
The sky was bright outside the window. The newborn sun was just gleaming through the trees, slanting sunbeams across the walls. Rayn stretched luxuriously. She felt better this morning than she had in ages. The voices were quite still and her rest had been undisturbed by any other sleepers all night long, for Money Bags had never come in, and she had put Tang-Tang out in his kennel.
She rose and slid the silk wrapper down across her nude body and went to the window. The light poured over her body in the open wrapper and she looked at herself in the mirror, admiring her flat firm belly. Always she had known deep in her heart that her beauty was her weapon and her only defense, and it comforted her to know she still held onto it. No one would have dreamed she had had a child.
She put on her diamond necklace, that extravagance, that proof of her power and skill. She began to sing a little song, only a nonsense thing she heard a long time ago when she was little and her Mommie stil lived and loved her.
She drew the sash of the wrapper and went across to Greta’s room.
‘Gooseling! Time to get up, sleepy-heart!’
She opened the door.
‘Greta? Little goose?’
The room and the crib were empty.
Rayn picked up the blanket from the crib.
In the hallway she saw that the door to the dead woman’s room was open. She stood in the doorway looking in. Money Bags must have come in here in the night but he wasn’t here now and the bed lay undisturbed.
Tang-Tang came up and rubbed against her flank. She stroked his head and frowned, deep in thought.
‘Hello, puppy. Who let you in?’
She went downstairs into an empty house. She opened the back door.
‘Greta!’ she called.
But nobody answered and nobody was home. Looking out the front she saw the car was gone. The kitchen was a bit of a mess with jars and napkins and spoons on the counter.
On the mantel over the fireplace she found a note:
Dear Rayn,
Greta and I have gone to Tall Pines for the day.
B.
Rayn crumpled the note and threw it on the fire grate. She felt a breeze come in through the open door and shivered. She started laying a fire in the hearth. She lit it with a long match and watched the papers curl up in black flames and she breathed in the smoke. She was just beginning to feel calm again when the outside light happened to glint in through the window and she looked that way.
On a branch of the Juniper Tree sat a large bird, as big as a hawk or buzzard. The bird spread his black wings, showing green and gold irridescence.
Even with the flames crackling and the heat licking her body, Rayn felt a chill stab into her bones.
LATER THAT MORNING, far from the sea, Greta and Papa drove to the end of the dirt road flanked with pines to the cabin made of logs. Papa parked and Greta undid the straps to the car seat all by herself and jumped down. She turned about and danced a little. It always smelled so pretty here. She got her dinosaur and Papa got the basket and the juice jug and they went up the steps under the sign.
‘What does it say, Papa?’ she asked.
‘It says where we are. It says Tall Pines.’
‘Good, we’re here then.’
Papa laughed and pushed open the door.
They ate the rest of breakfast until Greta could eat no more. Then her Papa asked her if she wanted to go see and she nodded and he swung her up onto his shoulders horsey-style and made her laugh.
She pulled his hair and said, ‘Gid-ap,’ and he neighed like a horsey and started walking up the trail behind the cabin.
For a long time her Papa walked up the trail, and the tall trees marched down on both sides, until at last the trees fell aside and they climbed up into the clouds on the top of the hill.
‘This is Watch Hill,’ said Papa. He pointed. ‘There, can you see the Falcon’s Head Rock there? And over that way is the Lost Hollow. Do you remember last time when we went camping in there, and sure enough we got lost?’
‘Yes, Papa, I remember, Tang-Tang saved us!’
He went on pointing and naming all the sights but Greta lost count. She looked up overhead. The clouds hung so close Greta was sure that if she stood up on Papa’s shoulders and stretched, she would be able to tickle their tummies. But there was something odd about the clouds so she said, ‘Papa, let me down.’
Papa set her down on the heather on Watch Hill. He lay down with a stone under his head and his cap shading his eyes. When Greta tried to show him the wildflowers she had picked, he was snoring softly like a bumblebee.
BACK IN WHITE QUILL Rayn took a long bath and scented herself and put on a costly dress and made herself up. It was only a workday and a long one at that but she felt she had to dress to kill today and anyway it took her mind off what she had seen and helped to quell the beating of her heart.
Then she went down to the kitchen, strapped on her apron, cleared the boards and set to work.
This year she meant to make Thanksgiving Feast her finest and final accomplishment in this place. She would stuff Money Bags’s belly and set him at ease and play nice to him in bed all weekend and keep his mind off the brat and where he had gone. Then on Monday she would pack up and take Greta and Tang-Tang to a hotel and tell her lawyer, the fat sweating older man, to start divorce proceedings. And she would get as far away from this hellhole as she could.
The thought of going away made her feel light and easy. She had stayed here too long anyway and she had never meant to stay anywhere for more than a year or so. But then the foolish Money Bags had proposed, him with his big mill and timberland and the fat bank accounts her sweating lawyer assured her were in good standing and free of debt. So what could she do but accept and plan on sticking around a second year. Then Gooseling came, the little dear, and Rayn’s figure needed some work, and it had almost been bearable, almost a relief, not to be thinking and scheming all the time and on the lookout for the next one, the up and coming Money Bags. But now the little warning voice was saying almost all the time, Get out, get out and she knew she couldn’t bear to spend one more night in this place than she had to.
Well that was easy to do. Greta was almost big enough for school and Rayn’s figure was perfect again, even a little better than before, a little softer and more voluptuous, she thought, all the better to do what it had to do.
She got out all the food and started working on the sweet potatoes. They would be the first dish she prepared.
‘Yes, what a feast for you, Mr Money Bags! But I promise you, it won’t taste as good as what I fed you last night!’
After a moment she said, ‘I was right to do it. Little Goose needs taking care of. Money Bags was going to leave her high and dry. Everything to go to that horrid little boy? Not right. Not right at all.’
She felt content in the empty house – her house, hers – alone with Tang-Tang. Tang-Tang looked questioningly at her, as if unsure who she was.
‘Well if that’s your attitude, puppy, you can go back outside and do whatever you like,’ she said.
But when she slid the glass door shut behind him she happened to glance up, and there was the Juniper Tree and the great black bird was still perched in it.
And she couldn’t look away no matter how she tried. She just went on staring at the black bird, and he stared back at her.
Then the black bird lifted his head.
And he began to sing.
He sang what he had learned:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
Something clutched at Rayn’s throat and she was choking. She staggered back from the glass. Darkness wove before her eyes. She could hardly see. She sprawled back on the sofa, her hair across her eyes.
She lay there for awhile, gasping for breath.
AND HIGH atop Watch Hill Greta heard the black bird’s song and it filled her with dread. She looked where Papa was sleeping, but he didn’t wake up and he didn’t seem troubled. His mouth turned up in a little smile and some of the sadness went out of the lines in his face.
Greta looked out over the world. The bird’s song had seemed to come from far away. But at the same time it seemed so near.
Greta and Rayn heard the black bird’s song, but they heard only birdsong, they didn’t know the words. Greta almost caught the words the first time, but not even Greta knew the words right off.
A BIRD I became… The black bird looked down at himself. He found that it was true. He had wings and not arms and talons not feet, and his body was covered with black feathers that shone with tints of gold and green.
He hopped to the end of the branch. He was filled with longing as though he had just woken up from the best sleep of his life.
‘Can I fly?’ he wondered.
He shook out his wings, leaped off the branch, and flew.
What was flying like? It went beyond words. It was like laughing in air. He soared up high, beating the wind beneath his wings. He soared above the Juniper Tree and the Beak and the house and the trees. He saw the sun high in the east.
Over the trees and over the hills he flew. He followed the road for awhile, as fast as the little cars that scuttled along, bound by the trees, way down there. He left them behind and crossed the wild woods. Something glinted through the branches, he wheeled head over tail-feathers and looped back round to it. The river shone under him, and he followed it up to where it narrowed and roared and his dad’s mill sat.
He opened his wings and let the wind carry him down until he perched on top of the sign over the gate of Hansen Lumber.
Nine cars were in the lot. Two cars he knew, they belonged to Mr Anders and Mary-Louise. Six were pickup trucks and they belonged to the foremen of the mill. One was a very shiny new car and it belonged to Mr Hodgekiss the banker.
Mary-Louise’s car had boxes tied on top, for she had only stopped in to say good-bye on her way east to go to her sister’s. Mr Anders was standing beside her with his briefcase. The foremen stood in a knot halfway to the sawmill, smoking and chewing and spitting and glaring at Mr Hodgekiss. Mr Hodgekiss held a sheaf of papers in his hand.
The black bird knew they were waiting for Bjorn Hansen. Mr Hodgekiss came because the loans on the company were due, and he wanted his money or he wanted the mill. The foremen came to see what plans Mr Hodgekiss had for the mill – they didn’t know that Mr Hodgekiss had no plans for the mill at all, because he meant to shut it down and turn it into a riverfront development. Mr Anders came in case Bjorn needed him, and Mary-Louise came hoping to see Bjorn one last time.
Bjorn hadn’t come. But the black bird had.
And when he saw them gathered there waiting, the black bird wanted to tell them somehow that a Hansen had come after all. His Mother’s Song filled his heart, and he sang it again:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
And Greta squirmed and Rayn shook, but Bjorn smiled asleep on top of Watch Hill.
And in the mill yard they stood stock still and listened to that song, the saddest and loveliest bird-song they ever heard. They only heard a bird-song, they didn’t have a clue what it meant. But it haunted them, and they looked about until they saw the black bird perched atop the sign.
Mr Hodgekiss had a look of joy on his face. He had to hear more.
‘Please, bird, won’t you sing your song again for me?’ he asked.
The black bird was silent. He didn’t sing for nothing.
‘Please, bird, if you sing your song again, I’ll give you these papers, they mean nothing to me now.’ And Mr Hodgekiss held up the loan papers and the bonds.
Then the black bird bobbed his head and spread his wings and sang the song once more:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
And Greta shuddered and Rayn shrieked, but Bjorn smiled in his sleep on the top of Watch Hill.
Mr Hodgekiss gave the bird his papers. The black bird stretched down his right claw, and the papers shrank into a gold band above the talon. It was crazy and unreal, in fact it was impossible. But the people in the mill yard didn’t think twice about it, any more than you might think about the impossible, crazy things that take place in your dreams.
Mary-Louise had tears in her eyes. She called to the black bird and said, ‘Black bird, won’t you sing your song once more, for me?’
The black bird was silent. He didn’t sing for nothing.
‘Please, black bird, if you sing your song again, I’ll give you this bracelet with three true hearts.’
The black bird bobbed his head, and spreading his wings he sang once more:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
And Greta groaned, and Rayn clutched at her fiery red hair, but Bjorn smiled in his sleep on top of Watch Hill.
Mary-Louise gave the bracelet with three true hearts to the black bird. He stretched down his left claw, and the bracelet shrank into a green band above his talon. And the people in the mill yard didn’t think twice about that either.
Now the foremen felt their hearts eased by the hearing of that forlorn mournful song, that so fitted what they were feeling, losing their jobs and their livelihoods. It seemed to them the black bird sang for them and them alone, and they called to him and said, ‘Sing us your song again, black bird, won’t you?’
The black bird was silent. He didn’t sing for nothing.
‘Please sing us your song again, if you do we’ll give you this new sawblade, we won’t be needing it now.’
The black bird bobbed his head and sang for them once more the lovely, haunting song:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
And the foremen were moved in their hearts when they heard the song sung just for them, and it seemed to lighten their troubles and waft them away. Willingly they gave the black bird their new sawblade. The black bird ducked his head, and the sawblade shrank into a red band around his throat. And that seemed the most natural thing in the world to the foremen.
So the black bird sang the song again. And Rayn swore and shattered her face in the mirror, and Greta leapt up and cried, ‘No, no!’ And she ran away down the hill.
But Bjorn smiled and snored in his sleep, and his eye winked open, and he saw dim and far away Greta flashing down into the woods and away.
HE SAT UP on the top of Watch Hill, alone.
‘Greta!’ he called. ‘Greta, come back!’
He started down after her.
Greta ran through the trees. The roots tripped her and she fell. Something big was chasing her and the song filled her head, for she had almost heard the words this last time, and the words were bad words, sad and ugly and burning with hate. They filled her with fear so she didn’t want to know what they said, but she couldn’t help it. It was like a puzzle that had to be solved.
And then the big dark thing was right behind her coming fast. It reached for her with big arms and scooped her up. She screamed and kicked and beat at it, but it only held her, and spoke softly to her,
‘Hush, Greta, it’s all right, everything is fine, what happened, did you have a bad dream?’
And the shadow lifted and she saw it was her Papa. Then she hugged his neck and buried her face in his beard and cried.
‘Don’t let them take me and lock me away, Papa. Promise you won’t!’
‘Greta, what is it? What are you saying?’
She pulled back. She shut her mouth and pursed her lips. She had said too much already.
‘Greta, where did Falco go?’
She shook her head so hard she could feel her hair bounce around her face. ‘I don’t know. He went away.’
‘He isn’t at his friend’s house, is he? He’s still back at the house, isn’t he? Is he locked up somewhere?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘Greta, where is your brother? What happened to him?’
‘No! No!’
She twisted in his arms but he held her fast. Something splashed against her cheek. It was starting to rain. The clouds scowled down at her, blaming her, hating her for it.
‘I didn’t kill him! I didn’t! It was an accident!’
‘Greta! Falco’s dead?’
‘I – I killed him, I killed Falco! Don’t let them lock me up, Papa. I touched his nose, only a little touch, and his head, his head—’
‘Greta, shush. You’re not to blame and nobody will lock you up. You didn’t kill him. Your Mama and I did that.’
Greta was struck still by the thought.
‘The birdie,’ she said, ‘the birdie in the Juniper Tree—’
‘Come on,’ said Papa. His face was stern as he settled Greta in his arms and started back down the path.
The light was failing under the dark clouds and the rain was heavier. The trees closed in around them like black walls.
‘Poor Falco,’ said Papa. ‘Poor kid!’
He tramped down through the woods with Greta in his arms, while the black bird flew back to White Quill on the Beak. By the time he alit in the branches of the Juniper Tree the rain had started falling there as well.
The black bird moved into the shelter of the heavy branches.
By the time Bjorn and Greta reached the cabin the rain was pouring down and the dirt road was a river of mud, so there was no going back for them tonight. They went inside the cabin and Bjorn made a fire while Greta changed into her old clothes in the dresser. Bjorn toweled her hair and then he changed too, and they sat before the fire gazing deep into it, each thinking his own sad thoughts.
Greta felt better now. She missed Falco more than ever, but Papa told her again they wouldn’t lock her in jail so it was all right. She looked at Papa’s face in the firelight. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, his chest heaved and he sighed out loud.
Greta stroked his hand and leaned against him.
‘Poor Papa,’ she said.
Bjorn didn’t answer her. He didn’t even hear her. He was sunk deep in his own thoughts, bitter and grievous.
LATE THE NIGHT BEFORE, long after the dinner of the wonderful soup, Bjorn had prowled the house alone with all the lights out. Rayn had a headache and on such nights Bjorn knew to let her sleep alone. Usually he slept on the sofa in the great-room on such nights. But last night he couldn’t sleep at all. Something was gnawing at him and he didn’t know what. He dug out a bottle of aqua vite and drank it in burning gulps and as softly as he could he climbed up the narrow twisting attic stairs and stared at his son’s cot.
It was a wretched place but the boy never complained so Bjorn supposed it was good enough for him. The boy never showed any pride or strength. Deep in his heart Bjorn had to admit he was ashamed of the kid and always had been. He knew the boy would never amount to much of a man. Why, he wondered, had he given him Tall Pines? Falco would never be able to hold it, much less use it to provide for a family. And yet, and yet he had his mother’s wild fey look about his eyes and nose. The boy was all Bjorn had left of Ariela, Ari the little sparrow-witch.
The window to the little cell was open, and water from the fog dripped onto a tin pie plate.
Bjorn went to shut it. For a moment he felt his disappointment in Falco rise again. How many times had Rayn warned the boy about shutting his window? But when he set his hands on the casement to shut it he saw the bird-casts on the roof outside. He remembered how much Falco loved feeding the birds. The birds needed fresh water to drink, Bjorn thought. And he might as well start being nice to Falco now, and for once Rayn could drop dead. So he left the window open and backed out of the room.
One of the hanging cut-out bird-women brushed his face. He stopped it with his hand. He took another swig of aqua vite. Then he left. But he closed the door behind him to keep the cold air from invading the rest of the house.
He staggered down the attic steps, hitting the bannister, making too damn much noise. He paused in the hall outside the locked door to Ariela’s room. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out the key and slipped it in the lock.
He entered the close, quiet room. He took a drink and looked around.
The room was tidy and gray and dead. The bed had the same duvet as it had eight years ago, or was it nine already?
On the little table before the window the stone bowl stood with the paring knife inside.
Bjorn walked around the bed. He touched the rocking chair and let it roll back and forth.
On the night stand was Ariela’s book of fairy tales. Beside the book was the nursing bottle. Bjorn unscrewed it and sniffed. A last hint of the sweet-milk filled his senses.
He stood at his wife’s dressing table and gazed on the mirror where long ago Ariela had kissed it and left the imprint of her mark in lipstick. After all these years the smile of her lips remained.
He pressed his lips against the lipstick mark on the mirror, smearing it.
Then and there he swore to himself, now that his career as a lumber tycoon was ended, that he would be kinder to his children, Falco most of all. He swore it to Ariela’s ghost in the musty room. He would make it up to the kid for all the pain in the past.
But that had been when he expected to have Thanksgiving Feast with Falco. That was when he still believed Falco was alive.
Now he knew better. Now it was too late. He shook his head and stared into the fire and groaned.
GRETA watched her Papa. She sat apart from him and hugged her dinosaur skeleton. And then she heard the black bird’s song again.
Greta heard the black bird’s song even through the rain and the cabin walls. And now at last she knew every word it sang. She knew what the black bird was and she knew what it knew and what it would do.
She stared with horror at her Papa. He just sat there staring at the fire. It was as if he was deaf, or dreaming, or dead. She backed away from him until her shoulders wedged in between the dresser and the wall and she couldn’t get any farther away. She huddled in the corner out of the light and shook her head and moaned. But still she heard the black bird’s song.
‘No, birdie, please, don’t do it,’ she moaned.
But it was too late now.
For the rain fell heavy on White Quill too. Day had failed and the lights were on and the black bird glared at the redheaded woman through the kitchen window. He gripped the branch with his talons, with one gold band and one green band. He bobbed his head with the red band about his throat. And he sang his song as a challenge to her and a threat:
The Rain stole my Mother
She cut off my head,
The Bear took my Father
He ate me with bread,
The Goose, little Sister
Dropped my bones near the Sea,
A Bird I became by the Juniper Tree.
