the thief and the tree \/\/ a short story

Gnarled and twisting, with a reckless and unapologetic grace, the massive tree hunches there like a squatting giant with its massive halo of branches. Not a trace of order lies in the movements and twists of the branches – like hair that has become so tangled, so knotted, that its only future would be to shave it off and start from scratch.

He – “he” referring in this case to our hero – looks up at the monstrosity as he stands below in the thick mud, holding his lantern up in one hand to get a better look at the creature. Checking the straps that secure several odd-shaped pouches to his person, he attaches the lantern to a hook on his shoulder and begins to ascend the tree. This fellow is not by any means a climber by nature, but he does have very long limbs and fingers. With the occasional turning of his body to adjust the light coming from his shoulder, as well as the occasional slip of the foot or scrape of the hand, he manages to make it to the top of the tree, where the long, violet-colored clarinet flowers are blooming. The flowers, though smaller, take on the exact shape of clarinets – green leaves twirl around them in places where the keys would be. There are thirty-some-odd flowers in total scattered across the top of the tree, and each is open and spouting out glowing yellow pollen and gray-blue symbols – each flower has its own distinct symbol that it spouts into the air when blooming.

Our hero makes his way slowly and carefully across the top of the tree, checking each flower he can find, and half-way through them he finds the one he’s searching for. He secures himself onto its branch with an extra strap, then pulls a large mason jar from one of his pouches. Setting the jar into the crook of two branches, from other pouches he removes a pair of tongs and a thin folding knife. Pulling the lantern around on his shoulder so that he has enough light, he holds the tongs in his teeth as he unfolds the knife. A gush of wind roars through the branches and leaves, pulling all the branches down and up again like a wave, and he hears the giant stir below him.

With the tongs in one hand and the knife in the other, he holds his breath. The flower’s stem gives way to the knife as if it were made of nothing, and soon it is lying in the grip of the tongs, detached from its source. He gently places it into the mason jar. Putting the knife and tongs away, from another pouch he pulls a vial of blue liquid, which he pours into the jar so that it covers the cut of the stem. Then, after the vial and the mason jar are back in their respective pouches, our hero makes his way back down the tree – slower this time, since he can’t rely on the lantern’s light to see beneath him, and since he does not want to jolt the jar around any more than he has to. On his way down he passes another clarinet flower, spouting its pollen and symbols into the ether, a stream of “I’s” and “i’s” flowing into the air. He could have taken that one, he thinks. Perhaps he would come back for it later.

When he reaches the bottom of the branches, he hops down to the muddy ground and brushes himself off. At first he thinks that the rumbling is the tree moving – uprooting itself and shaking the very ground – but then the rumblings become words and the tree is speaking.

I know who you are, it says.

Our hero shrugs. I know who I am too.

Why have you taken my flower?

Our hero opens the jar’s pouch and pulls it out. The flower is there inside, full of life and spouting pollen out into the jar, along with a string of “G’s” and “g’s”, the symbol that it manifests. Because thin( )s will be more interestin( ) without these symbols for a while.

Words are the river on which knowled( )e travels, the tree grumbles. You cannot disrupt it without payin( ) a price. Many suffer when a train is derailed.

But some words are ( )iven too much power. I’m just evenin( ) thin( )s out for a while. And words themselves are not knowled( )e, but are often treated as such.

Your little trick won’t keep people from believin( ), if believin( ) is what they wish to do.

You mean in ( )od? Our hero smirks. He can be a bit odd, can’t he?

So that’s what it is, rumbles the tree. Are you really so upset that you must seek to destroy him, even if it means destroying so many other things?

Our hero shakes his head, and slips the jar back into its pouch. How many times have you been passed by, with people just ( )lancin( ) at you and sayin( ) ‘what a big tree that is’? You’re just bundled up with the other trees they’ve seen, as well as all the thoughts they’ve had about trees. But ( )et rid of the word ‘tree’, and then they can’t throw a thought over you like a blanket – then they have no choice but to really know you, even if it’s just for a few seconds. Our hero unhooks the lantern from his shoulder, holding it up so that he can better see the tree. I’m not out to destroy anythin( ) – just to make thin( )s a little more real.

You won’t destroy it? asks the tree. You won’t hurt my flower?

I’ll keep it safe, says our hero, patting the pouch that holds the jar.

And you’ll bring it back, says the tree.

In due time, says our hero, nodding to the tree and taking his leave.  In due time.

story and photos Copyright 2010 by Andy Reynolds

for more of my stories, visit my website:  AndyReynolds.net

Tags: poetry/ lit