The Tree
As he fell no life flashed before his eyes, only death. Why
would your mind bother in reflecting upon something that has never
existed? No, only death and recent events flourished in front of his
eyes. Falling, falling. There was no heart to thump-thump in his
chest. The dead cannot own such a luxery for they cannot afford it.
Death cannot die, but whithering into nothing is what it was known to
do. This is what he was meant for; whither and decay was his destiny.
This was a message to him from fate itself: do not strive for more
than you, for it will only result in your utter destruction. Falling,
falling. Decay, death.
Two days earlier...
John Doe was a complicated man who wanted bigger and better
things. In a world of death and decay, like paper, dry and cold, being
"more" or "better" just did not exist to happen. How can dirt be
better or rise up in class? It does not. It stays dirt, low, destined
to be part of the dead world forever. Do you think dirt dreams and
strives to be more? No. But John was not dirt in his mind's eye. He
thought he was more. John was determined to live. To breathe.
He lived alone in a suburban town. The only other thing that
moaned and groaned as much as him was his house, where his family once
inhabitated before they turned to dust. A family of corpses, likable
only by the decay which clung to them. His mother was strict in the
way of death. She accepted her role in this paper-place without
complaint. John's father, on the other hand, dreamed like John
dreamed, but only dream. He told John about a supernatural thing,
powerful and beautiful, called Life. In Life there was no such thing
as decay or death. Trees were his father's favorite myth to talk
about. The way they were designed, to grow upright and grand, with
thickness at the trunk and leaves blowing in the warm, crisp wind at
the top. Ah, what a sight it would be. If only it were true, his
mother would say.
John never gave up on that dream since. It was the only thing he
could hold onto for hope. Hope that one day he'd wake up from this
hellish nightmare he's been having for decades. But everytime he
looked around, nothing changed. The dirt still refused to sprout
anything. The sky was still gray and colored dead, empty, unlike
Life's where feathered creatures flew across the sky whistling a
happy, simple tune.
What was happy, John wondered. He thought he felt it once but
his father confirmed it was only a thought, not to be dwelt on, for it
would begin false hope. Secretly, this feeling of happiness was
thought upon by John's father as well as by John himself.
The depressing day passed (John could tell the days by the wind
now) and the old decaying one began. But something was different in
the way of decay. It was as though the house's state was lighter. It
did not groan this beginning as it always has. John walked around the
molding hard-wood floors, carefully respecting each board with the
lack of weight he put on it. He made his way to the entryway of his
two-story house examing the front door he hasn't passed through for,
Time knows, how long. This fact always brought John to inspect the
door everytime he strolled, no, slugged through the house. He wondered
what was on the other side very little. Death was the only existence
in this world of dark decay. But one detaile change changed the doors
appearence so dramatically, it was unreal. Instead of sealed shut by
mold and scum between the hinges, the door was ajar and cracked just
enough for the chill of the outside air to collaborate with the inside
air to create a symphony of disturbance.
This is when John saw it.
Through the crack he could see a figure upon the ground looking
at him. It was a strange creature. It was round and made up of
feathers with two tiny, black eyes on each side of it's head. It
OpenDoc its mouth, a peculiar thing protruding from its head edged by
a sharp tip. It was colored in a blue "stolen from the sky". His
father would use this description to express sadness as a color. His
father was a silly man, until the creature spread its feathers to form
wings. At that his father became a genious of a man.
The bird made a sound. It was high-pitched and piercing and
brought John such a presence he thought he might weep. He fell to the
floor and shut the door all the way, holding it there, for the scum
was departed from the hinges. After a moment or two he opened the door
to reviel the outside to his recently exposed eyes. The bird had taken
flight and was headed for a massive colossus rooted in the ground,
swaying its many arms to the rhythm of the nonexistent wind that it
was dancing with. The giant was captivating to John. It was describing
itself to him, giving clues and hints as to what it could be. John
knew what this mythic thing was. Standing in front of him, almost
twenty stories high, swayed a Tree. John could tell from comparing the
actual magnificent God to the crude, infindel sketches his father
made. It was nothing he could ever comprehend nor conjore up as a
vision in his mind. No. This was far more than he could believe. This
was Life.
He shut the door, his back barrakading the splintered wood,
holding it firm. Fear was suffocating his already useless lungs. What
did this mean? Life was real and true and he was... what? Dead and
false? Dead, yes. False? He didn't know. He did know his father was
right about the stories and so-called myth of Life. His father would
be so relieved to see the Tree. John looked on to the next room, still
firmly planted, whether decay had eaten his father and left just
enough for him to see the God standing outside. Oh, father, John
thought. If only you could see what I have seen.
The day passed into the next, although no sign of it came. No
beginning wind, no moan escaping the house, no dread offering more
dread. It didn't get darker either as it usually did. A sense of light
was beaming in through the dark world inhabited by death. The air was
thinner as well. John greeted this new feeling with a subtle grunt
that was loud enough fir only the passing dark to hear. It was a new
beginning. A new feeling.
John's curiosity wandered to the top of the Tree. What could be
there? Almost as though answering his perplextion the bird whistled
its tune. High and lullaby it seeped through the rotting house meeting
John's ears with care and ease. He could hear the echo revirberating
around his empty, chapped skull. Never could such a sound capture him
in a wave of emotion as this sound. His damned soul lifted as far as
the thick sulfure in the air allowed it. Oh, the feelings he
experienced. He gripped himself. It was time to act.
John Doe lifted his empty frame off the ground, giving
permission for the dust that coated his body to flee in all
directions. He watched as each particle looked him in the eyes and
then glided out through the holes in the door, beckoning him to follow
their movement. It took him awhile to do anything else but stand and
stare. He turned from the door to the rest of the house, knowing it
would be the last he'd see it in his state. He pivoted back to the
door and joined his hand with the rusted knob and rotated ever so
slowly, bracing himself for the God on the other side. He closed his
eyes, though his left eye was still exposed, and leaned in.
There was no magnificient light that flung itself at him. No
garden of daisies or other things of that sort. Just the God standing,
back erect and tall. John felt tremendous fear etched throughout his
entire body accompanied by shivers of excitement. The Tree met these
feelings with a sway of its many limbs, as though hoping John would
compliment it with another emotion. His eyes could not leave the
trunk. So massive and thick, indestructible looking. But the Tree
beckoned his eyes to the top.
Twenty stories high were two birds circling around the peak,
acting as a crown for the God's head. The Tree swayed again, enjoying
the pantomiming of the winged creatures. John expected laughter to
come out of its mouth, although he had no clue what it would sound
like, seeing as the noise never visited there. He would have to
prepare with only the information his father left him. But he doubted
very much this God could talk, for where was its mouth? Perhaps the
Tree had the birds talk for it. In pitched song the animals were
flawless and more gracious than the Tree could ever produce and it was
knowledgable of that.
John surfaced from the spell he had just been submerged in and
regained his thinking. What did he want again? He couldn't remember
why he set out besides for the Tree.
The birds! He wanted to inspect the birds closer. But how was he
to do this? He had no voice to call up to them with nor anyway that he
could signal his message. The question of how was brought up again,
this time threatening to never leave. The Tree knew this.
Suddenly, John's mind was open enough for the Tree to see. It
gave him a suggestion and strength to carry out his actions if this
suggestion was favored enough by John to be carried out. Yes, John
would carry it out. He glanced back to the house he'd been rotting
away in for Time only knows how long, and half expected it to give him
a suggestion of its own. When the expectation was rejected John made
his way to the Tree. Twenty-three painfully long steps later and he
reached the trunk. This was it. This was what he had been waiting for
all his existence.
He reached out to the branch above him and gripped it. At once
he felt energy, happiness, love, joy, peace, understanding, grace, and
Life cascade into his corpse. This was what he had been missing. Oh,
how could he have ever existed without it. He pulled himself up to the
other branch, excitement and hunger singing for him to hurry up and
get to the top. A breeze of warmth passed through him as he climbed,
warming the bones that have been kept chilled all their days.
Time drove on without waiting for any acknowledgement from John.
He just wanted the top. His mind screamed, every bone aching for it.
The small pile of dust that was once his father pressed it. John
couldn't let them down nor could even fathom physically stopping his
ascent. He was more than halfway up and already he could see the
birds. It seemed as though the Tree gave him a heart to pound in his
chest, for he could feel the steady rhythm of an increasing beat
filling the gap that was eaten at by the decay.
His head poked out from the cloud of limbs to see sky. He had
made. Finally, after decades upon decades Of rotting dark and evil, he
had made it. The birds stopped their formation and landed on a
beautifully crafted basin-shaped nest of twigs and leaves. Inside the
nest lay two white spotted sky-blue eggs. The birds nestled up to the
eggs, shielding them from some invisible evil. John's curiosity won
him over. He leaned out more to get a better view of the eggs when the
shift of his weight became too much for the branches below him to
take. All at once they collapsed and John found himself sinking fast.
He swung his arms out for somthing to grab on to and met the nest.
He was falling. Falling, falling, with Life in his hands,
quickly back to the world of death below. He saw the birds overhead
watching desperately as their most prized possessions fell to their
death. John saw it too. At once he wrapped the nest with his arms
tightly hugging it, hoping it was enough to save them.
He focused on the Tree one last time and swore that he saw it
smile, bidding him a farewell but still expecting him to return. And
with that John Doe plumbeted into the ground, his back splitting and
his skull shattering into a million tiny fragments.
The birds, watching this horrid end take place, dove to see what
was left of thief possessions. They landed on the broken torso of the
man, frantically searching for the eggs. They were met by a cracking
sound, and out of the lifeless arms of the corpse, rose the heads if
two little baby birds, wet from birth and new to Life.