The Boy in the Tree

The boy climbs into the branches of the tree and sits. He glowers in his black hoodie. He has positioned himself so that he cannot be seen from the road. He wants to look out but remain clandestine to others. He likes the power it gives him to see but be unseen. He has limited experience of control, it being robbed from him more often than not. It is intoxicating to feel in charge of his actions and tonight, he has a secret purpose and is composing himself for its execution. His weapon lays by the tree's roots, somnolent but ready to roar.

The tree gauges the weight of the boy on one of its limbs. It has received many visitors over the years, although it has a stout trunk and not many lower lying branches to assist the intrepid explorer, the ones who aim for its heights and the view it offers as a reward. Its situation by the lake means that it offers a vista of liquid steel, punctuated by birds and kayaks and, at certain times of the day, shimmering triangular light reflected amongst the ripples. It is a peaceful place for thought, play and leisure. That is the extent of their interaction - to view it, the tree; not climb it. It quite likes it when it happens, the contact from warm body rather than insects, feather and claws or small rodent paws.

The boy has searing heat: he is angry. He moves from buttock to buttock on the branch and jiggles with the rawness of his own energy. He feels the surge of nervousness which swells and recedes as he thinks about what he will do. He wants to leave a mark; he wants to be noticed, for once! He is hot with frustration at the life he has: parents who are absent; parents who when present are absent; "friends" who irritate; "friends" who mock; enemies who mock; teachers who restrict and hint at a life wasted; thwarted dreams; the insecurity that all of this creates; a dead dog. His heat cools a little when he thinks of his dog, the tree relieved momentarily from the scorch of the boy's anger as the waves created by grief, combined with happy memories, seep into the tree's bark and allow it to connect with this other living being.

The tree is nervous too. It knows its vulnerability in its static state, aware of its position and its aloneness. There are other trees near but what help are they to save another? None are as beautiful as the maple. Year after year, the leaves alchemise, with the planet's rotation as catalyst, into a brilliant red, a vermilion, a scarlet, a red to revel at and revere. It stands apart, a deliberate artifice to highlight its magnificence and this is both its strength and its weakness. Its contrast when it is in its autumnal regalia with the blue of the water is sublime.

Lights from cars pass by on the road as people return home on this early Fall night. The air is still, despite the storm advisory. Stars shine out in a sky clear and unhindered by cloud. It is dark and yet light, the tiny-ness of the universe's peepholes providing small accompaniments to the light of the moon. It is not full, the moon; it is only partly present, the other side of its face turned away, not daring to look, like a child fearful behind a cushion. The moon knows that something is wrong. It wishes that it could warn the tree but its powers are limited in this sphere and it can only hope that it is wrong about the outcome tonight.

The boy has a bottle. And a knife. He is emboldened, the fog of hurt and unfairness swirling in the night, creating daring and destruction in his head. He swigs and feels the burn of the booze as it hits his throat. He does not cough, although he wants to. He stole this earlier from his dad's stash. He'd get beaten if his dad knew but he'd get beaten if his dad didn't know so what's the difference? He hopes his dad has not noticed the empty space in the garage but he knows he won't have. Chaotic minds create chaotic spaces and the garage is disordered and unkempt. He puts the bottle in a triangular space created by the intersection of the tree's twigs, like two fingers on an outstretched hand and takes the knife from the top breast pocket of his coat.

There is a movement above him as the rising wind urges the tree to move. The boy looks up and sees the crescent moon through the gaps in the currently leafy umbrella. He has no appreciation for nature. He does not look at the moon and see wonder; he does not walk in the night and seek out the place where the owl hoots; he does not see the skittering flight of the bats; he has no room to be fascinated in the narrowness of his small, dark, restricted life. The tree wishes that the boy could see it clearly for the being it is: that they actually share so much. It wants to expand the boy into something wider and more open, arms raised and apart, legs spread, like its broad canopy, like Vitruvian man, heralding the beauty of life and emulating the way it is visible, to awe and welcome and inspire. The tree likes people and the attention that they give to it and wants to reciprocate this. It feels applauded and venerated just for its existence and the tree swells slightly at the pride it feels at the joy it gives.

The boy prickles as the tree creaks. He doesn't like the tree. It's not a tree thing. It is this tree in particular. Its popularity rankles. He hates the way that it draws people, strangers to the lake. He hates the fact that it gets attention when it does nothing but stand. People love this tree. It's just a fucking tree! What's the fucking deal?

It is strange to the tree to feel the boy's hatred as it has a recollection of the boy. He has not sat in its bower before but has come close, close enough for the tree to know him and know that he was never alone when previously, he was in its vicinity.

The boy came here all the time, before Harry died. He is struck with emotion at the memory of Harry. It's the only love he's ever known and he misses it like an amputation, remembering the presence whilst being always conscious of the absence. He doesn't recognise it as love but the tree does and it takes the boy's emotion and harnesses it.

The tree is aware of his sadness and wants to wrap its leaves around the boy, to show its understanding and to offer comfort. It feels uncomfortable with the discomfort emanating from this boy and wants only to make it better. Trees are born to nurture. A single leaf floats down, drifting from side to side, now twisting, spiralling to land lightly on the boy's arm, the hand of which holds the knife. It is a show of solidarity from one living thing to another. But the boy does not notice the gentleness of leaves and the compassion there, contained in its landing on him, like a light brushing of fingers to reassure. He pushes it away and it falls further, away from its parent to the dry dirt below.

The boy picks up the bottle again and takes a deep drink of the fire that emboldens. He suppresses a shudder but the tree feels it, through its bark, down to its heart. The tree senses a change of mood too, as the boy's tension becomes more muted; his stiffness from earlier from his rage is becoming tempered by the alcohol but the tree knows that this calm does not mean the storm is done. There is maybe more to come.

Everything is still. Cars are beginning to taper off as the night deepens to silvery-edged black. The tree's redness can only be seen in the light and that is drifting into darkness. It is shadowy and closeted. The boy has finished the whisky and tries to put it back into the two-twigged triangle, the tree's fingerhold, but it won't sit right. He is still holding the knife and the bottle needs two hands to be positioned so that it will not fall. The spirit of the bottle is fanning the flames of unfairness that run through the veins of this disaffected youth and in a fit of pique at his clumsiness, he plunges the knife into the tree, through its bark, into its sappy flesh. The tree winces sharply at the penetration, the boy oblivious.

Intent on his task with the bottle, the boy does not notice how he has unsettled the squirrel who lives in a drey in the maple's branches, disturbed in its meditation by the tree's unease. The boy is aware of nothing but his resentment. His anger resurges like a geyser as alcohol and the misery of years, compounded by grief, mix and swirl and warm and magnify his feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy into impulse. The bottle will not stay where he wants it, his movements imprecise due to his alcohol impairment. It is another consolidation of everything that he knows about himself - that he is useless. He grabs hold of the bottle and throws it, only the trajectory is encumbered by the foliage around him and it ricochets off the twigs and branches, like an absurd pinball, to land, wretchedly on the ground, label down.

Panting, he listens as the leaves surrounding him begin to rustle. He wonders if the whisky has amplified his hearing as it sounds like a whisper just for him. He shakes his head, feeling less in control now, but more ready for the action of the night. His belly is warm with fuel and fervour, but he feels surprisingly emotional. The rustling increases and he is driven towards feelings that he has not acknowledged to himself as allowing them in means they may take up occupancy and he might never be rid of their weakening, invidious, insidious presence.

Harry. Visions of Harry, by this tree. Joyful days of play. Sticks being found and thrown, recovered and flung. Hands cupping a furry face, filled with the enthusiasm engendered by a lolling tongue. Thumbs stroking velvet ears. Arm slung around Harry's doggy back, sitting and watching the ripples on the lake. A wet nose nuzzling. A mutual companionship much missed.

The boy is not aware of it but these visions are not his. If he examined the perspective, he would see that they are all from the same viewpoint. But he is swamped in the emotion of them, immersed in their furry goodness and he hangs his head, closes his eyes and weeps for his loss.

The boy is unsteady, his sobbing and inebriation leading to imbalance where he sits - a leafy ledge, high above the ground. He is in danger of falling and the tree is aware of this, fearful. It does not know how to help anymore than it has already.

The wind is picking up, pushed by the clouds that are steadily moving to absorb the moon and its star sidekicks. The tree uses the momentum of the wind as its friend, to provide a break-fall of branches should the boy lose his balance and careen to the floor. Leaves begin to release themselves one by one and float carelessly to earth: Nature's cushion.

The boy's crying has stopped and he wipes his nose on a sleeve pulled over his thumb. He is calmer now. He feels ashamed at the crying but knows instinctively that it is this that has helped him, despite the fact that he has been told that crying is for sissies and the weak. He would be punished if his weakness was seen. His shame is learned, not deserved.

He has revelled in the memories the tree has provided and sees the tree as integral to those. He feels more clear in his mind than he has in weeks. He is scared, just sixteen. He feels alone, without support and yet, sitting in this tree, he is imbued with some new vigour. He wonders if it is the drink but he knows that this is not a power for good and that it is fleeting, this courage. It is the tree, his gut tells him but his cynicism is still his ruler. He will learn, with time. The tree remains optimistic and offers a token.

He sighs. A leaf has fallen on his jacket and he picks it up by its stalk. He looks closely at it. It is perfectly formed. He has an impulse to keep it. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger so it twirls like a spinning top with his touch. The tree is pleased and creaks its delight. The boy tucks the leaf away.

The wind is swirling. Leaves are beginning to scatter more and more. The moon has gone. The boy is not scared but a distant rumble talks of storm, and lightning and trees are not comfortable bedfellows. He knows this and pats the tree's thick branch, unconsciously, like you would a dog, before manoeuvring himself to begin his descent. It is then that he comes face-to-face with his knife and remembers his intent. He wonders if to take it would cause more harm to the tree, leaving an open wound. He does not like the thought but he knows that he cannot leave it. He feels differently towards this blade now and girds himself to pull it out. He resolves to see if there's something that can be applied like a salve to a wound - a tree Band-Aid or antibiotic cream? He laughs at the thought and is surprised at the sound.

The tree knows it will be fine. A surface wound only, that will knit into a knot, another marker of its long existence and one that is bitter sweet.

The boy places the blade into his breast pocket. In his other lies the leaf, the claret maple that will come to signify fresh starts or the time when skins are shed and newness emerges. He will preserve it in resin and use it as a paperweight. It will be his most treasured possession after his wife and children. And his dog.

He is standing at the base of the tree now, feet planted either side of a thick root, grounded. He looks at the tree. He wonders how he could ever have thought to cut this tree down. It is enmeshed in memories of such raw power that to remove it, decimate it would be an abhorration. He feels like it would sever a link to Harry and he could not endure that. He knows that he will return here and relive his dog days. The tree means something to him in a world where he has nothing. It will be an anchor, a tangible reminder that directions can be changed, new paths followed. He gathers the big bag, a holdall, a gym bag but there is no fitness equipment here. He will return it to the garage under cover of night and hang it on its slaying hook. Finally, he picks up the bottle, looking at the label, the presence of which has governed so much of his life and hurls it into the lake, with a surge of triumph at the gesture.

The tree watches on, pleased, knowing that it has survived something worse than the approaching storm. And so has the boy.