The Trees Swallow People: Finale

My body ached the next morning. I don't mean later in the morning. I mean the next morning; we slept for twenty-four hours. The blank, open sky visible through the window was slowly being bleached with the sunrise. Silent, sheer clouds were fading in the distance. Pairs of magpies and starlings glided across the sky as I groaned to sit upright in the bed, fighting against sharp throbs of worn and torn muscles.

It wasn't a dream. I could see the sky. I am in Mary's dusty bed. Diva was beside me, inflating with each peaceful snore. And today we'd finally be leaving forever.

Stepping out of the house we found nothing. No distant hush of the motorway, no crackle of car tires, no bangs of doors, no call of cackling gossip, not even the buzz of flight paths overhead. This was it. It was just us. For the last time here, myself and Diva went for a walk.

We made our way past Riverforest, finding the shops, pharmacies, bookies, and the pub all shuttered and closed. Down into this estate is where we all followed the cat. With Diva safe, it was now evident that whatever was in the trees mustn't affect animals the same way as humans. I don't know if finding Diva helped me escape, or even how we got back out, but from Diva's panting smile and dazzling eyes looking back up at my pensive face, I surmised that maybe animals don't worry about the impermanence of existence as we do. I envy them.

Going on up to Confey Bridge, watching the commuter train stop at the station, have no one get on or off, and then rumble onwards underneath the bridge. Amazingly, the bridge was undamaged by the crash, proudly standing over the wreckage lying jumbled, half-submerged in the canal. To our right, in the pitch of the GAA club, the other plane the cult members used was parked. And then, off in the distance, the last wispy steam billowed from the Intellex campus. It wouldn't surprise me if inside it now “cleaners” are rushing to destroy whatever secrets they don't want getting out. I don't think they had anything to do with the trees. I think the nature of business has just gotten to a point where we can never say for certain we aren't doing bad things. I'm not naïve enough to say that doesn't apply to all of us, but I'm kind of a bitter pinko, so... you know.

From there, we walked the length of the canal, along the paved footpath. Diva barked at all the ducks and swans serenely sailing past. I was just thankful she read my mind and didn't jump in. I had no plans to be reckless twice in one week. We came out at Louisa Bridge, and, like Confey, the silent roads and uninterrupted bird chirps signalled our further lonesome status. It's very peaceful when all the people are gone. It was beginning to be tempting to stay, what with the promise of finally being left alone.

Of course I wasn't serious, as we walked past the Garda station, left empty and unmanned, down past the entrance of Ryevale, and down into Main Street, passing more closed shops, pubs, and restaurants. I did, however, wonder what made everyone leave, besides the obvious haunting trauma. Maybe it was the natural progression finally easing and fading out? There was a morbid fascination for us to stay. We all wanted to see how it would end. Maybe it was guilt? I can imagine it's sickening to see what you're capable of; how readily you can participate in mob mentality. Whatever about living with supernatural trees, it's nothing compared to living with yourself.

The term “ghost town” is fitting, as the traffic lights change at the empty cross roads, since Leixlip was left like many communities in Ireland; abandoned. Even before the trees, businesses opened and closed within months, traffic would never stop on the way to shop in Liffey Valley, Manor Mills, or Blanchardstown. Before the cult took over, you still had flats and shops paying to an oligarchy of landlords who'd rather have windows cloud with dust than lower rents. They'd rather have nothing than less. The trees seem humane by comparison... but that's not difficult. I will miss Leixlip, but I wish I could forget what happened here. That's why they call it a ghost town; because it haunts you.

We were passing the fire station, about to take the hill back up, when I felt an urge I couldn't resist any longer. It's not the call of the trees. No. It's the call of disbelief. I need to see it again. I need to know I didn't just dream it all. Diva must have felt the same, because she was already trotting up the back entrance to the park, skirting around the shattered glass left on the road from the accidentally thrown molotov. Again we met more traffic lights, continuing on with their circuitry, unaware. There's a real sadness to objects like these, forced to carry on. I know they don't have feelings, but that doesn't mean it's any easier to be a light left on to burn out or a fridge humming forever until the meter runs out. We get to leave, but not everything does. Objects, buildings, memories; they're all trapped wherever we put them.

As we passed the shit farm, it did occur to me that with the water treatment facilities, medical offices, stations, and schools that eventually there would be a need for someone to come check on the village. I can only imagine, as we passed the monastery, on the way to the pitch for the last time, how strange and unnerving it'll all seem, like finding the remnants of a lost city, shrouded in the mystery of why it lies in ruin. Congratulations Leixlip; you've joined the ranks of Pompeii and Pripyat. Not even Lucan can say they have that honour.

Diva waited for me at the gap between the evergreens, still standing silent and uninterested. I joined her and found myself facing the tempting allure of a void. Once again, there was nothing but a field, stretching wide for acres. With the mass of people standing here the previous morning, the vast expanse only appeared even more desolated. I stood there, looking over the paddock wall, now crumbling and dislodged, resembling the mount of a desecrated burial cairn.

In the distance, a huge harvester came into the field. The massive machine stopped half way across the field, slowing to a halt. The light from the sun flickered and flashed as the compartment door opened and the driver, tiny at this distance, hung out of it, staring back. They must have been able to see me too, because after a pause, an expressionless moment of consideration, they threw their hand up exaggeratedly, waving. In the same manner, bending with the sway of my arm, I waved back animatedly. They got back into the harvester and went back to work. And that was it. Myself and Diva turned around and left. That was the last time we ever went for a walk through St. Catherine's Park.

Coming back out onto Captain's Hill, a Dublin bus came around the bend, leaving Riverforest, heading down the hill for the city. I knew there was another one in half-an-hour. This was it. What was there left to say? It wasn't a bad place before the trees. Maybe that's why we're all leaving. To try again somewhere else.

I threw a rock through the window of a veterinarians and robbed a travelling crate for Diva. We sat down at the bus stop and waited.

It's a strange feeling, when you think about it; the acceptance of the end. Even if you've been through Hell, there's always a level of disbelief, almost longing. As terrible as something can be, it's disconcerting that it can be so domineering, so powerful, yet still be eviscerated in the cold glare of ceaseless time. What hope is there for us if the things that torture us can end too? Eternal damnation is a greater comfort than a life not lived long enough. I remember hearing that the root etymology of the word “nostalgia” is pain of the past. Amending that, I was feeling “Omegalgia”; pain of the end.

“So... this is it?”

I turned to my left and choked on my own gasp as I saw the man in white from the trees sitting beside me. After all this time, though I had completely forgotten about him, I instantly recognised him as quickly as though he was family. He was the same as the night I first saw him, only now what I couldn't tell was a hoody or a cloak was large, full length, coarse shawl, like a poncho or ruana, wrapped and tucked to shape around his body. Relaxing, leaning back with his arms folded, he turned and smiled at me.

“I must say, I wasn't expecting this. Usually no one leaves, now everyone's gone! Ha! Ah, well. Every time is different, I suppose.”

I swallowed what little saliva I could summon from my dry throat and spoke, pointing stupidly, unsure what else to do.

“You're the man I saw that night in the trees.”

“That's right. And this must be the delightful Diva. Hellooo! Who's the woo-woo girl! Who's the precious little woo-woo girl!”

The man bent down and slipped a finger in through the grill of the crate's door and, to my surprise, Diva licked it hungrily, as friendly and loving as if it was mine. I watched for a moment, still shocked, like meeting a famous celebrity or world leader; distantly familiar, intimately estranged. In my cloudy state, I blurted out thoughts I had kept to myself this entire time, hoping this was a chance to finally have them answered.

“What... what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“...What do you mean 'what do you mean'? All of it! Everything that happened! What did it mean? Why did you do all this?”

The man quickly pulled out his finger but was slow to turn to me, trying to compose himself, failing to hide his glower of offense.

“You know what happened. You saw what happened. Why do you think there must be more? Is what happened not enough? Who are you to be lucky enough to be alive, to be able-bodied, to be free, to be thinking, and still ask for more? Who are you to survive this world and demand it comforts you?”

“That's not what I meant. What about the people who are gone? The people I saw go. The people I saw in there! What about them? Do their lives not mean anything?”

“What has meaning to do with what happened to them? And what good would it do for them? Would you be happy if I gave a good enough reason? Is that all it would take for you to applaud what you saw? If I said they died to appease a hungry god, stopping him from devouring the world, would you say you approve? If I said they were all devil-spawn, would you say good riddance? And if I said there was no reason in particular, then and only then you'd feel wronged? Are they as concerned for meaning as you wherever they are? Would they feel cheated if vanishing from this world was just that and nothing more? Would meaning really be a comfort? Has it ever been? Why must life be more than lived?”

I didn't know what to say. I still don't know. I figured I'd carry on, see can I get a direct answer for something else.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“I'm sure you can.”

“What are you?”

“Oh...”

The man chuckled, leaning back, his eyes looking up in amused contemplation, sighing, bowled over by the breadth of the question.

“We've been called different things. Fomorians. Aos Sí. Leprechauns has been the most demeaning so far. I don't know what we are, to tell you the truth. I guess we're like you; just things forced to exist, except we don't worry about it as much as you lot. Ha! I know a joke that explains it pretty well.”

“A joke?”

The man giggled.

“Yeah, so, there's two cows in a field, eating grass. The first cow asks 'Why are we here?' The second cow goes 'To eat grass.' The first cow says 'No, I mean what are we doing with our lives? What's our calling? What are we meant to live for? Why are we REALLY here?' And the second cow, without thinking, says 'To REALLY eat grass.'”

The man smiles at me, expecting a reaction. I don't get it.

Our awkward silence doesn't have time to see upon us for long as the bus appears at the corner, turning slowly. I stood up, taking Diva's crate in my hand. My other hand flew to my pocket as it suddenly dawned on me my phone wallet was still missing. I had only just turned back to the man, about to ask if he could spare money for the fare, when I saw he was holding out my phone wallet. Taking it, I went to speak, as the bus pulled up, but the man answered my question first.

“Does it matter?”

The doors opened. I pulled out my fare card to buy myself some time.

“Well... goodbye.”

He just smiled.

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

I pulled myself away from all the other unanswerable questions I could spend forever asking. We got on the empty bus, ignoring the shocked stare of the bus driver, sat at the back, and wistfully watch Leixlip pass us by, vanishing from view as we turned the corner after the bridge over the river, whispering under my breath, as Diva settled in to sleep;

“Goodbye.”

#HI