And the Trees Crept In(11)

The boy shifts on his feet and glances over his shoulder. “I, um, well… I’ve obviously said or done something wrong. I’m sorry for that.” He hesitates. “I’ll go.”

He turns to leave, to go back into the woods—the woods!—but I cry out a wordless plea, my arm reaching forward before I’m aware I’ve done it. He turns toward me.

I don’t understand myself.

His eyes question me.

“What are you looking at?” I growl, folding my arms over my chest.

“I—you looked like you wanted to ask me something.”

Nori stares up at me, sucking on the hem of her dress. Damn.

I clear my throat. “Do you… do you have food? Some pears? Or radishes? Anything?”

He laughs. “Radishes?”

“We don’t have much. The land is… off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you blind?” I snap, though I regret it when he steps away from me. “Look around you. The garden’s dying. Everything is dead. The threat of war…”

“Threat of war?”

“World War Three, some say. They were saying that when we left.”

“Left?”

“London.”

“Oh.”

The boy, Gowan, looks down at Nori, who is staring up at him, still munching on the hem of her dress. “I have to go now. I’m sorry.”

I hesitate, wanting him to stay, wanting him to leave—regretting my abrasive nature, my stony heart. I hate my need, my loneliness. I stand silent as the first visitor in so long leaves us behind.

Idiot.

I retreat from the edge of Python Wood as the boy vanishes from view, once again certain that the trees have been watching the exchange. Now, though only minutes have passed, the woods look like they are greeting an early dusk. Weird stuff like this is enough to give Cath’s warning more weight.

I scowl at them. “Piss off.”

You ruined the game! Nori signs, then she stomps away from me, back to La Baume, which sits eerie and alone, a large ruby in the center of three rings. Wood, field, garden: the blood manor.

I scan the trees again, the eerie stillness of it so wrong, but I don’t see the boy anymore. Maybe he was a hopeless wish. Or a desperate delusion.

I scowl, staring for long minutes into the murk.

For a moment, I’m frozen where I stand, acutely aware that I’m alone at the boundary with Python. Python damned Wood.

“You let me think this was paradise,” I whisper at my mother. “You let me believe this… this lie.”

At last, I turn away. I’ve seen too much to let trees scare me. I walk back to the manor, which sits under a dank midday sky, while the woods behind me greet a rising moon.





Mam used to write down the things that scared her, or the things she wished for. Fear. Hope. Two edges of the same knife if you ask me. I would see her scribbling on tiny pieces of paper or the margins of books. She’d tear them off and then burn them in the candle, locked forever as a perfect truth.

This is mine: We are alone. I am alone. La Baume is wrong and Python Wood is watching. A boy came today, but I scared him away. He might have been my only chance. But I know what cause and effect are. Cause: Python delivers a boy. Effect: A girl stays away. I’m going to burn you now, tiny, perfect truth.





Creak. Creak. Creak.

I grind my jaw.

Creak.

Creak.

Creeeeeeaaak.

Always the same. Never ends. The floorboards squeak and move above us as (crazy) Aunt Cath paces. Cause, effect, step, squeak.

Hungry, Nori signs. Is there jam?

Creak. Creak. Thump.

I flinch with the sound, but Nori doesn’t seem to mind it, and she dances around the filthy kitchen, utterly unaware. It is an agonizing symphony that I alone must endure.

No bread left in the cupboard. No jam. Tins, oats, some peanuts; that will do. I shake peanuts out into the mortar and grind them into a dusty paste with the pestle. Add sugar, a little butter. Grind some more. I’m almost manic with stirring before I feel Nori tug on my sleeve.

I hand the bowl over. Eat.

Nori doesn’t complain, but the mess is gone in under three seconds. It isn’t enough. It has to be enough. Need to save the rest—make it last as long as I can.

How different things are now. I still remember when we first came to La Baume. Fully stocked pantry with bread, jams, and more. We had potatoes, turnips, and squash grown in the garden; it was a place of hope even with rumors about another war. There was a tomato plant and a cucumber plant and Auntie Cath would sing while she baked, and there seemed to be endless sunshine.

Whatever: I’m probably exaggerating the memory. Curse of hard times, I suppose. The only thing streaming through the window now is a vaguely foggy gray. I’ve come to hate October.

I glance through the glass.



The trees are closer.



The thought manifests without warning.

I resist. No. No, they aren’t.

They are. The trees are closer than they were yesterday.

Impossible.

Yes, look. And you found that root in the garden this morning, like an old crone’s finger, pointing right at you, remember? It was sticking out of the ashen soil—accusing. A root in a garden that has no trees. Face it, doll.