The Cottonwoods

The Cottonwoods 

The evil little girl helped the camp gather fallen branches for the fire. She was excited to see them all burn in the conflagration planned by those running the retreat. In her arms were a half dozen or so sticks. She tromped through the forest wearing war paint on her little cheeks and spoke loudly for all creatures in the woods to hear that she was there and she was the apex predator. She had two missing teeth equidistant from her front teeth which made her canines look even more ferocious. After a few trips she amassed her very own pile of broken branches next to her seat as the other camp attendants sparked flame to the chopped logs prepared in the ring.  

The camp ate wonderful chili and conversed about the highlights of the day: feeding, brushing, and leading horses; visiting the hieroglyphs; observing the techniques of landscape painting, oil on canvas; and getting a trailer back on its block. There was laughter and pleasant talk around the warming fire. Everyone was tired from a full day, with full bellies and warm appendages. But overtaking this symphonic assemblage was a discordant tune. The evil little girl was cackling… well, evilly, as she poked a stick into the cherry-red embers. And in mantra-like repose she chanted, it burns, It Burns, IT BURNS! Oh, the horror, IT BURRRRNS. Bwahahaha.  

The camp attendants looked on in amused bafflement before again turning back to their overlapping conversations. It burns, It Burns, IT BURNS! Oh, the horror, IT BUUURNS. Bwahahaha, the evil little girl continued. She wouldn’t stop until the whole camp became attentive observers of her play.  

“What are you talking about, little girl?” asked the writing councilor. 

“I’m narrating the sticks,” said the girl. The flames danced in her beady little eyes. 

“Oh, and that is what the stick is saying?” 

“Yes… ‘I’m burning, I’m burning, Oh, it hurts, it hurts. Oh, the horror. I’m dying, I’m dyiinng!’” 

“You’ll burn too!” replied the writing councilor, more sharply than she meant.

Those around the campfire gasped at the assertion. 

“Oh no, I didn’t mean- I- I wasn’t saying that she should- I was just- that’s what the stick would say,” the writing councilor said defensively. 

“Suure. It was the stick. Riight,” a camper teased. 

The little evil girl’s wise and not-at-all evil dad interjected. “Well, she has a point. A pig died for our lunch. A cow died for our dinner. And some trees perished to keep us warm. You should respect wood, my dear. If you don’t, the sticks might come to life and roast you in the fire.”  

“I’m not worried, Daddy.” And she grabbed a fresh stick from her pile and stabbed it into the embers. It burns, It Burns, IT BURNS. The Pain, The Pain, it’s so hot, so hot, OH THE HORROR. It Buurrnnssss…. 

“…It Burrrrns. Ahhhhhhh….” 

“What is it, Sticky?” Mrs. Cottonwood asked as she shook her son awake. 

“Oh, it was horrible, Mommy. A baby human was burning me in a fire. She was laughing and yelling, ‘it burns, it burns.’ Over and over again. It was so very scary, Mommy.” 

“Oh my. You have such a wild imagination, Sticky. It was just a bad dream.” She tussled his green, orange, and yellow leaves. A yellow one came off and fluttered lazily to the floor. “Look, Sticky, your first fallen leaf! What luck! Put it under your pillow and the Leaf Fairy will come by and leave two shiny teeth for you. Then you can take them to get ice cream. Now, don’t you feel better?” 

“Yes, Mother,” Sticky said with a grin. “But...” 

“But what, Dear?” 

“Well, humans aren’t really alive, are they, Mom?” 

“Oh child,” Mrs. Cottonwood chuckled. “Go talk to your father.” 

Sticky rubbed the bark from his eyes and went to his father. He was reading the Forest Omnibus and looked in a foul mood. The St. Louis Elms had beaten the Sacramento Redwoods 4-3 in the Fall Log Jam Classic. “Coach Sapling is a sap, and Sonny Walnut can’t throw a beaver past the third ring, and when in heck is the shrubs on the back line gonna get canned and replaced with a real set of trees. Sap shoulda traded that no-good washed up Walnut to move up in the draft. We need a defense,” Mr. Cottonwood grumbled as he ruffled the parchment. “Oh, what is it, Son? Looks like someone took your birthday away.” 

Sticky shuffled his roots and stared at the ground. 

“Well, out with it, boy.” 

“Um, I had a bad dream. I dreamed that a baby human put me in a fire and I was burning. Daddy, humans aren’t really alive, are they?” 

“Well of course they are, Son. But they aren’t people. They don’t think. They can’t talk or reason. But they serve a great purpose.” Mr. Cottonwood took out a skull cap and scooped some mulch onto it. “This news parchment is from skins. The kitchenware is bone. The pillow you rest your head on is filled with hair. We use their teeth for currency, for money,” He explained. 

“Even this tipi we are staying in for this camping trip, all made from organic, sustainable human products. The frame is comprised of tall human skeletons wired together with sinew and glue from their fat. The canvas that goes around our tipi that you got to paint designs on, those are dozens of human skins stretched and sewn together. And do you know what was in the chili last night?” 

“Human?” 

“That’s right, Son. And that’s why you had a bad dream. You were playing with your chili and complaining. Serves you right. You have to respect human, Son.” 

“Yes, Father,” Sticky said sullenly. “I’m sorry.” 

“Good, now go by the creek and gather some baby humans for the fire.” 

Sticky left feeling much better with the wise guidance of his father and the nurturing goodness of his mother, and he looked forward to the ice cream that the Leaf Fairy money would provide. He skipped along and whistled a little tune, picking up baby human scattered along the trail. One he picked up had slashes of colorful paint on its face and had an evil smile. Sticky dropped it in fear. He shook his head in embarrassment and picked it up again. It was just a dream, just a silly dream. And he went skipping along and whistling a tune: “It Burns, It burns, Oh the Horror, It BUUURRRNN…” 

…NNNSS.  The evil little girl sat up like a post. “Daddy, Daddy.” 

The girl’s father  went to the back room of the camper where she sat. “What is it; are you ok?” 

“I had a bad dream. Trees were alive and walking around and stuff, and a little tree was picking up kids and he picked me up and was laughing at me and singing, ‘It Burn, it burns,’ and he was going to throw me in a fire.” 

“I see.” 

The girl looked at the floor and drank in the negative space her father provided in the silence.  

“And what did we learn from this dream, my child?” 

“Respect wood?” 

“You got it,” the father said as he stood up and knocked on the wooden door frame for luck. “Now go gather sticks. We are making a fire.”  

Author's note: This little story was written while on a retreat in the Bighorn Mountains for Veterans suffereing from PTSD and their Caregivers. Activities included equine therapy, nature walks, art therapy, and narrative therapy. This story was written based on the actual conversation around the campfire the night before to illustrate how writing can be used every day to cope with stress and find lessons in every day interactions.