The Trees Swallow People: Part 10

The invitation to meet Shepard was hidden amongst the clutter of post I had let pile up over the days. It was late August by this point. I'm only now okay. Okay-er, anyway. The village is growing quiet. Of course that's due to the desertion. People have continued to vanish. It's no longer just strangers disappearing. Now it's people you know the name of; Jack the newsagent, John the barman, Colina the trad singer. The once giddy gossip of Mr. So-And-So has turned tactless. Tragedies are only fun at a distance. Besides the disappearances, people were also hitching up posts, so to speak, and leaving in droves. Many weren't even bothering to wait for the "for sale" signs to go up; houses were gutted overnight.

In my depression, I had allowed the post to gather. I don't think anyone is really in the mood to hear about the exciting new offer if they switch banks when the very same bank had had to close due to non-existent employees. In a half-hearted attempt to rebuild my confidence, I made the effort of getting the post. Underneath bills, take-away menus, and people selling knives and power washers, I found it; a plain white envelope addressed "The Witness, 1880 Avondale, Leixlip, Kildare".

The Witness? It was my address. There was no stamp. This was hand delivered. I studied the envelope and its crisp, sharp corners, with a clear, pure white surface free from smudges, and the neat handwriting across its face. On the other side was a return address; "Shepard, 1959, Ryevale Lawns, Leixlip, Kildare".

My eyes stung as the air hit every millimetre I exposed in my shock. I read and reread that name over and over, refusing to admit to myself that I was correct. Shepard. Just one name. That's it. Even before I opened the unsealed flap, untucking it, I knew what this was about. Maybe that day back in the village, when he spoke to me, was his first attempt. This was his second.

To whom it concerns. A Chara. Maidin Maith Duit An Maidin Seo Agus Gach Maidin. I trust this letter finds you well, yet hope it leaves you all the better. I believe the time has come for our acquaintance to be solidified into something more developed and familiar. As such, I would be honoured and humbled if you would accept my invitation to a discussion at my current residence (see return address) on Wednesday the twenty-fourth at one o'clock in the afternoon. Lunch will be served. Should assistance be required with transport, I'll have two followers of mine escort you, otherwise I look forward to your independent arrival. With prayers, Shepard.

This may surprise you, but I wasn't unfamiliar with this kind of letter. While unemployed, I'd often receive "invitations" to attend seminars, job activation schemes, and other such bull. I almost appreciate how honest Shepard was. Just like with social protection though, I accepted I was going. What else was I going to do? Refuse? Have more psychopaths kill themselves in my house?

It's funny. This Hell, this ceaseless, formless nonsense of abject terror, it has a lot in common with the feeling of being unemployed. The lack of direction, the insurmountable size of chance and happenstance I'm expected to climb, the rumination of why; why don't you have a job, why are the trees eating people, why don't you apply for other things, why are people losing their minds, why don't you consider bar work, why am I scared to leave my house now? Awash in life, stranded in a blistering storm of howling nothingness, a cavalcade of capitalism and meaningless randomness. So what else was I going to do? I went.

Ryevale Lawns isn't far from Avondale. It was just a case of leaving the estate and crossing the road, passing the seasonally empty school and the perpetually empty church, dow the Rye hill, pass the nursing home, across a shallow river waiting to swell with the Autumn rain, and up a steep slope. This end of the village was just as bad for desertion as my side was. Houses lay hollowed like freshly picked snail shells, their occupants torn out by the crows of fear. At least one had the door just left open, revealing a glimpse through the bear home and out the back door; a cavern tempting to whistle with a lonesome breeze and ring with the echo of fading family memories. I got to the house and stood outside.

I don't know what I expected. Maybe a campsite, something like a new age group drumming and singing in tongues. But it was just a house. There was even a car outside in the driveway; a dark blue twenty-eighteen-two Skoda. I hummed to myself, bemused, before continuing up to the door. I didn't even get to ring the doorbell before Shepard opened the door. His smile, the sincere crinkle around his eyes; it was endearing, almost beautiful, how happy he was to see me. For a second, I was taken by how he was kind of handsome up close; a bit too old for me, but then again, if he wasn't a religious nut, who wouldn't fantasise about cuddling with an older man on the sofa on a rainy Saturday morning. As he spoke, my eyes drifted down to his feet.

It was foretold, and it is done! You came. I knew you would. They knew you would. This… this is the good word they have told me about. And you, you shall be the parchment which shall carry those words; the sacred vessel from which the cleansing of our sins will be birthed, a herald of our salvation. Welcome. Welcome, and thank you, Witness.

He was wearing the fucking slippers. The slippers I jokingly imagined him wearing all those months ago. That's all I could think of in that moment. I was only half listening to what Shepard was saying. In fact, he said way more than that. It's just that's all I could remember looking back now. I just couldn't believe it. It wasn't even like they were a similar pair or that they reminded me of the original pair. No. They were the exact pair I had imagined. I swore to myself in that moment, if this fucker's got lasagna in the microwave and Ru Paul streaming, I was going to lose my mind.

Enter. We have much to discuss.

His words snapped me back to the present, and I entered as he stepped aside to let me in. If it hadn't been for those slippers, I may have noticed, before stepping in, and definitely before Shepard closed and locked the door, that while the outside of the house was unassuming, the inside was a different matter altogether. It was crowded. Not so much you couldn't move around but enough where you felt like you were at a house party, though I don't know what house party features people just standing around. It was as though they were frozen in time, living mannequins that only swayed slightly due to the rhythm of their breath. In the hallway, one faced the stairs. One on the second step was looking directly at me, though I think that was more because I was standing in her eyeline. Someone in the kitchen was staring at a cabinet.

Shepard stepped forward, gauging my expression before smiling, gesturing to an open door into the front room. I followed him and once again stopped, startled to find more people. Again, few enough to move around, but enough to feel claustrophobic. They were again looking in every possible direction, unblinking, unmoving. Aside from the people, the room was bare and featureless; no sofas, no chairs, nothing on the walls

Shepard phased through the room, almost swelling his chest, as though to prove how sure he wouldn't knock into someone he was. There was a charisma about him now; a reassuring calm. Where was the screaming lunatic from down the village? What happened to the disturbing man I found gathering victims in the middle of a consuming fog? This Shepard was less Manson and more Koresh. He spun on his heels and sat crossed legged on the floor in one fluid movement. He smiled as he told me to sit.

Told, not invited.

Maybe he was hoping I wouldn't notice if he smiled, but his tone betrayed his laborious grin. It was sharp and exact. A stab of a syllable. Sit. I was stunned, reminded this man I was entertaining fantasies about was in fact a cult leader. I knew better than to pause for too long. I became aware of just how foolish I had been in coming here. In hindsight, I had let defeatism get the better of me. I sat down, less gracefully than Shepard, who watched me groan my way down. On the floor, I gave a cautionary glance to the bodies that stretched above us, like fleshy redwoods. Was that deliberate?

Shepard began, drawing my attention back to him.

So… you're the Tree Guy?

He didn't bother to wait for my response.

I understand, of course; people do like to simplify things. Especially when it comes to the order of things. Misnomers are bound to occur. Of course, no one reasonable would call you the Tree Guy.

Weird thing to be pissy about, but okay.

We, of course, know what you truly are. And what our titles are.

I didn't respond. My silence must have been inviting because he leaned in to satisfy what he must have misconstrued as anticipation on my part.

I am the Shepard. You are the Witness.

That night came flooding back to me, like the tide of blood expelling from that slit throat beneath a manic smile. It didn't help Shepard had the same look of unnerving glee.

Yes, that's right! We all have our honours, though it takes great humility to accept our own. The worm who welcomes the embrace of the bird suffers less than the lion who wishes to remain a cub. My honour is to guide the few to salvation, to rudder through the storm. Hence, I am Shepard.

First the slippers blew my mind, now I find out Shepard isn't his name! In that moment, I was just praying he wasn't going to tell me his name was something like Benedict or Eugene. He continued.

Like all those before me, I have the honour to lead the few. But all prophets need their gospels, their psalms. You. You are our Witness. That is why you were the first to see though you were blind. The trees will not harm us. Years from now, when we are all held in the sublime, we will read your words and hold you up as our apologist. And that is why I wished for you to be here today, Witness.

Slowly… the house full of people turned to face me, with stoney eyes of judgement. Maybe they were expecting me to run. Maybe they were hoping I would. I focused on Shepard.

Not yet, but soon I will invite you to join me on excursions. They'll be local. I know how you enjoy your walks with… Diva, was it? In any case, I'd like you to come and just, well, witness. The clue's in the name, I supposed.

Shepard chuckled, though his eyes never left mine, checking if I'd laugh too.

For the god above us gave us words to speak but knowledge to listen. Now, you could always refuse. Deny your place in the annals of history…

As Shepard spoke, the forest of bodies around us bent towards us, swaying in the foreboding power of his words. I tried my best to focus on him, but unlike him, I wasn't at ease with a room full of people closing in on me.

…You could say no thank you to my offer. You'd have every right to. But know this; as I said, we all have our titles. Even when we refuse one, another in more forcefully placed upon us. I'd doubt you'd like your next title any better. And I promise you, I will not extend the same pleasantries I have today should you be placed in the role of Hasatan.

I look back on it now and think it was interesting that he should use that word. It means "adversary" in Old Hebrew. It's where we get the name Satan from. On the matter of Shepard's "offer", what else could I say? The fight was beaten out of me. I just wanted to be left alone. I never wanted any of this. The next best thing I could do is just minimise my suffering. Just go along with him. So I said yes. Maybe he was right; maybe fighting has been the problem. Still, that disgustingly pleased look on his face, like he just negged me into bed, sat in the pit of my stomach, threatening me with a feeling of gurgling bile tickling my throat.

He offered me lunch (I'm nearly sure I cook hear the microwave being turned on), but I said I had to go for Diva's walk. Something Shepard ended our conversation with followed me all the way home. It was so conspicuous that I immediately regretted my decision.

I wonder what role Diva will play in all this?