First Branch

Horror

First Branch, 1650

Deep in the unsettled wilderness, a wagon trundles across rock and root. The large wooden wheels are unyielding in their path, making every divit and burrow reverberate through the whole wagon. Abruptly, the mass of canvas and wood grinds to a creaking halt. Father gives the beasts a few good swats with his hands, but they won’t go on. He walks around the wagon and sees the front wheel is caught in a hole of sodden earth.

“Well,” father says, “here’ll have to do then.”

But mother hesitates. “Can’t we go on just a bit farther yet?”

“Don’t see why we ought to. This plot’ll do fine. There’s plenty of trees, good clean air, and the stream we passed.”

Roots of concern and worry grow across mother’s face, “I don’t know, John.” she whispers, while looking around, “Something here doesn’t feel… welcoming.”

John looks at his wife and shakes his head as two sets of gray eyes peer on from within the covered wagon bed. The gesture is one she and the children know well, and she has already given in before he speaks.

“I’ll not fight with this wheel,” John retorts, “just to move a few miles farther. It’s all in your head, Mary. The wilderness never did welcome anyone in. We got to make our own place in it, and I aim to. Here’s as good as anywhere.”

As he says this, he heaves on the lever to chock the wheels in place. Mary and the children watch as he walks a few feet away from the wagon, through the dense underbrush and grass, then he drops to his knees. Mary stands still beside the wagon, gazing around at the tall dark trees that encircle them.

John’s on his knees, arms out wide as if awaiting the embrace of a long-lost lover, face turned up to the infinite gray sky, and his eyes are closed lightly. A creaking sound comes from the wagon’s ungreased joints as the two children clamber out, eager to be loose but hesitant to stray far. The one pushes the other out onto the ground before he has time to jump out. John, still basking in the clouded sunlight, summons the three of them, “Mary. Charles, Lewis.”

Charles and Lewis quietly make their way to father and kneel, heads down. Mary remains by the wagon, her eyes caught on a strange dark shadow beyond the clearing. Lewis glances across at his brother who has the ghost of smirk on his lips, then to his father’s upturned face. “Mary.” John says more forcefully. She pulls her eyes away from the hideous tree in the distance and over to the back of John’s head.

She walks over to the three of them, kneels into the soft, wet mud of the clearing. After several moments of silence and closed eyes, John’s voice rings out in a sonorous incantation, not loud but not quiet either.

“Holy Father,” he begins, “We are grateful for your provisions and grace. We thank you for the bountiful land we see before us.”

John’s words continue, drifting across the clearing, melding with the grass and weeds. Mary finds her eyes opening. She dares a surreptitious look around. Her skin prickles with the feeling of eyes. John’s words reach a mild crescendo as he closes the benediction, “We ask all of this in your Son’s name, Amen.”

John stands, walks back to the wagon while speaking, “Come here boys. I’ve an important job for you.” As he speaks, he fishes a hatchet out of the jockey box. He turns to look them in the eyes. “Find us a tree,” he says low, “for the foundation of our new home. Strong and tall and straight.”

Little Charles takes the proffered hatchet. The two boys wander off toward the tree line. Lewis looks back over his shoulder while they walk toward the towering trees, locking eyes with his mother for a moment. She looks frightened. The boys disappear into the thick underbrush. John speaks to Mary while watching them, “I’ll not have you questioning my judgement in front of the boys.” He turns toward Mary, heat in his dirt-colored eyes, and he burns her down with a stare. Intense. She looks back for a moment then lowers her face, eyes gazing through the earth and her place in it. “I understand.”

Lewis tramps along through the weeds and thickets, trying to follow the trail Charles is blazing. He is watching his step, avoiding holes and rocks and roots, when he runs into the back of his older brother. Charles is staring up at something. At the zenith of his gaze is dark clearing. There in the center of the clearing, standing crooked and alone, is the most wicked looking tree imaginable. The shape of it resembles a horrible grasping hand, reaching up from out of the earth. The bark looks scorched by fire or perhaps the very wrath of God. Its twisted, knobby branches resemble roots, like it grew the wrong direction. The branches bear no leaves at all and never have. Every other thing in the clearing leans away.

Lewis speaks first, in a whisper, “What is that…” Charles doesn’t hear. He is entranced by the tree. He begins slowly taking steps into the clearing. Lewis whispers, “We should go back. Father said to find a tall, strong tree.”

Charles still moves toward the tree. Lewis looks over his shoulder, but can’t see mother or father. He follows Charles. Within the clearing, the ground feels different. Colder, less like dirt, more like ash and rot. Lewis grabs his brother’s elbow. “We should go back.”

Charles whirls around and smacks his hand off. Lewis flinches at the smoldering fire in his older brother’s eyes. Behind the heat there is shadow, something dark.

Charles curls his young lip in a familiar shape. “Come on, don’t be craven.” he hisses, “You’re just like mother.”

Lewis looks backward once more, then hastens after Charles. The roots snake in and out of the ground. Nothing grows around the tree, the soil is infection-black.

“Please, Charles. Let’s go back.”

Charles ignores him. He lays a hand against the colorless bark. Nothing happens. He makes a furtive glance back at Lewis, then without warning, he swings the hatchet. The sharpened blade comes carves through the air to thunk into the ancient wood. Lewis gasps, Charles turns to face him with an awful look. He chides Lewis, then begins to climb the thing reaching trunk.

Charles places one foot onto the hatchet, uses it to get up into the crux of the tree. The hatchet is kicked loose from the trunk to fall amidst the writhing roots. Charles looks down at Lewis, held in the clutches of the tree. Charles bends backward to crow like a rooster. “Come on, Lewis. Climb up. Or are you craven?”

“I’m not!”

“Yes you are. You’re just like mother.”

“No I’m not!”

Lewis flushes with shame, but he doesn’t take it back. Charles sees weakness, seizes it, “Then climb, craven.”

Lewis stares at the ground. He draws closer to the tree.

He touches the tree, feels his skin go cold with a chill. He looks up at Charles high above him, his face split with sneer. Lewis glances at the wound in the trunk where the hatchet struck. It weeps a single dribble of sap. Charles offers his hand down. Lewis hesitates, Charles goads him. “Come on then, or should I call for mother?”

Lewis takes Charles’ hand and is hoisted upward, his feet clambering for purchase. It takes Charles a great deal of effort, but he pulls Lewis half-up into the open crux of the tree. Lewis struggles with the final pull.

Charles watches him, a cold wind licks at his face. He is struck with an intense feeling of loathing for his little brother. Weak. Cowardly. Scared. As Lewis pulls himself into the tree, his older brother’s cold hands shove against his chest. Lewis gasps, fear grows over his face, his arms flail outward finding only cold, empty air, and he falls. Charles watches Lewis fall backward, a flash catching his eye. Lewis lands flat on his back with a dense thump, all breath forced out of his tiny lungs. He lay motionless, eyes staring up at Charles. Charles laughs, until he sees the pool of blood widening around his little brother. Scared, Charles calls out, “You’re alright, come on. Get up.”

Lewis doesn’t get up. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, without sound. Charles watches in growing terror as his little brother’s head lolls limply off to the side, exposing a hatchet handle. Charles stares down in abject horror. The tree stands as it always has, as it always will, reaching out into the gray sky, a witness humanity’s violence.