The trees on Pritchyard Street were dappled in sunlight. All except Molly Preydow's tree.
"You have to go," she said. Staring at the trees ugly lines and mottled wood skin, it looked diseased.
"Who does?" Her grandfather, Laurence Preydow, was awake in his chair.
"The tree, it has to go." It was about time she dealt with it. About time she had her garden resembling those along the street. With pretty ornaments: plastic squirrels and rabbits, rose bushes or little kidney-shaped ponds.
"That tree," he said softly, "has been there for a long time, Molly. It might do damage to remove it."
"Don't be silly, it doesn't do anything," she scowled. "It blocks the sunlight, it's an eyesore and what does it contribute to the environment, hmm? I doubt it can even photosynthesise anymore."
This was true, Laurence knew, there was nothing alive or fertile about it. Grass failed to grow around its roots, leaving a large patch of earth. And when the wind picked up it carried in particles of bark that had mouldered, as if the tree was shedding its skin.
But he'd learnt over the years that this was a minor drawback to what it concealed and offered, and if Molly couldn't see that than that was how it was supposed to be.
"If it wasn't meant to be there, Molly, it wouldn't be. I think it has a very definite purpose." Laurence eased forward in the chair, upsetting the rug across his knees. "But it's up to you."
"Good." She smiled sweetly, already lost in ideas and creation. "I think I'll have a water feature put in. You'll thank me when it's done, water's very therapeutic Granddad." Molly went to him, tucked the rug in and dropped a kiss on his brow.
Once silence had settled Laurence turned his gaze to the tree, he felt its presence, a strong personality, almost omnipresent. The tree was tired. He knew it the way old friends sensed each other's moods. Pulling the tartan rug away, he rose gingerly to his feet and went to the cupboard by the window. His twisted hands searched draws until he found what he was looking for: a box of white candles. It wasn't strange that he hadn't opted for a torch, though it would have been a better means in the darkness he knew would come. But his mind was wired to a time long ago, when a candle had flickered resolutely through the night.
A little candle couldn't keep back all that darkness, whispered a tiny voice at his ear. Laurence stilled, remembering that voice and what had happened.
"Will you let her cut you down? Is that what you want?" He closed his eyes, with a heavy sigh. "I won't tell."
#
I didn't see that, I didn't see it! No I didn't! Laury thought.
He'd left his bed to close the window; there was a storm coming. Seeing a light on in Franky Harlowe's house across the way had distracted him for a moment (maybe his friend was getting ready for the storm too) so he hadn't shut the window straight away.
Then it had happened, the tree in his front garden moved, had begun to creep towards the bungalow ever so patiently, while moonlight played between its branches. He didn't know how it was moving. It wasn't the wind, Laury was sure wind didn't make illusions like that.
"I'll close my eyes and count to ten..."
Opening them he could see that the tree was back where it was supposed to be. Quickly closing the window he'd returned to bed.
"In case of a power cut Laury, I'll give you some candles." His mother had said.
But even with the candle burning by his side (just in case the power cut happened before he had time to find his matches) he knew such a little thing couldn't keep back all that darkness. And now with his new knowledge, he didn't think it'd keep the tree back either.
I won't be climbing that tree anymore, it was his last thought before sleep took hold.
Laury woke during the storm. But it wasn't that which had disturbed him. Something crept upon him as lightning cut the sky, moving the coverlet along his legs. He'd been glad when the lightning had passed but not now, not with the darkness and the distant rumble of thunder. His skin puckered with a chill, knowing without doubt that someone had their hand on his thigh.
Holding his breath, Laury dared himself to look; the fear kept his eyes shut. It wasn't his mother's hand; it felt wrong, and anyway she would sense that his wasn't really asleep and speak to him. This hand felt wrong. When it moved, it seemed to have trouble functioning properly, advancing jerkily up his leg.
He opened his eyes slowly, but could see nothing but matted black. The hand moved on. Soon it'd reach his stomach and edge itself greedily higher, inching back his PJ top. The thought of it touching his skin made his heart thud harder. It was then that it came to him why it felt peculiar, why bits and pieces kept prodding him, sharp needles and scrabbling things.
Oh oh...the tree was touching him, investigating his body with a hungry curiosity. Comprehension broke his paralysis, desperation kick-started his heart, he heaved the covers away. His white sheets were bare, no dirt or leaves or broken twigs.
The next morning his mother asked, "did you sleep through the storm?"
"No, I had a nightmare." But it wasn't a nightmare.
"About the tree? I guess it can look fearsome during a storm." She didn't meet his gaze but placed a bowl of cereal before him.
"I won't tell," the words popped from his mouth without thought.
His mother untied her apron. "That's a good boy." Her brow arched, the light of eagerness in her eyes. "Would you like to know something? It won't hurt you, it just likes to say 'hello' every now and then." The eagerness crept into her smile, "you're old enough to discover new things now, Laury. That's why it's chosen to introduce itself."
Laury didn't like the idea of the tree saying 'hello'. It might take it upon itself to be friendly every night; that wouldn't be such a good arrangement at all.
"Can we cut it down?" he fidgeted in his seat, sensing that this was a bad thing to say. He pushed blonde hair from his eyes, seeking his mother's gaze.
The eager light had fled her eyes, her mouth tightened before she said " what happens when you play with electrical cables?" Her tone hard, unforgiving.
"You get hurt."
"Good, and what happens when they're damaged?"
"The light's go out." He said softly, penitently.
Satisfied her nine year old son understood the implications, she said decisively "Franky's waiting for you."
Laury remained where he was, intrigued. "Why can't we tell?"
She nibbled her lip in thought, "it's the tree it stops you from telling. When I'm gone it'll be down to you to look after it, to keep it safe."
Nodding but not really understanding, he rose and crossed the kitchen. But he paused before passing through the door, "it's just a tree, isn't it?" he asked uncertainly.
"Not just a tree, Laury, the oldest tree in the world."
Franky Harlowe was boasting new sneakers, they were a deep red with white detail. He also was holding a pretty neat penknife. There wasn't much his friend didn't have.
"When did you get that?" Laury nodded toward the knife.
"Today, and guess what?" Franky's red hair shone brightly in the sunlight, seeming to Laury as if the boy was bleeding.
"What?"
"I've just broken it in, you know it's so sharp it cut right through the bark."
Frowning he continued to watch Franky. His friend was talking in riddles again.
"You cut what?"
"Your tree, I wrote my name on it. I think I might write it all over, do you wanna see?"
Coldness grafted Laury's spine and it spread to his heart. Why did Franky have to touch what was his? His hands fisted without his realising, he shook his head.
Franky shrugged, "look, I have to help Dad paint the front door. I'll come round later, alright?"
Laury watched Franky jog back to his house. The position of the sun in the sky throwing the shadow of the tree across the road. Laury felt dark foreboding when Franky passed through it.
No matter what his mother said, the tree was more than what it seemed. Always it reached for the heavens while tethered to the bowels of the earth; the trunk caught in normality. It might be the oldest tree, it sure looked old, but it was something else too.
Not feeling safe, he went inside.
He couldn't sleep. Having spent an hour moving his bed from beneath the window to put it by the door; pushing all his toys back beneath the bed and checking that the window's latch was screwed down tightly, he had hoped sleep would come easily.
Now, lying on his bed reading Robinson Crusoe, he didn't so much as yawn. About to turn a dog-eared page Laury paused, thinking he'd heard a voice. His face puckering with concentration, waiting. He was greeted by silence.
A smell began to steal into the room. His nostrils twitched against the acrid odour - it reminded him of burning rubber. An image entered his mind; Franky carving his name into rotten wood. Dirty grey tendrils of smoke spilling out. Franky grinning, I think I'll write it all over!
His friend's voice reached his ears. So he was outside and shouting up at the window. "Come ou-"
The words were snatched away, a muffled thumping filling the abrupt silence. The book toppled from the bed as he scrambled to the window. Franky hung from the tree like Judas Iscariot, only inverted and doing a tap dance with his hands, a pulse of dark electricity running through him. Dust and leaves patterned the night. It was Franky's hands that were making the thumping noise. Even in the darkness, Laury could see how wide open his eyes were. Silver flashed in the gloom, hitting the ground.
He watched on as the tree ceased shaking his friend. For the briefest moment Franky hung suspended. And then with one final convulsion the tree sucked the boy into the dark of its branches. Laury, stunned, looked at what lay on the ground: Franky's coke bottle lensed spectacles and they looked back.
He stepped slowly back from the window, seeing his reflection retreat in fear into the dark of the night. "I won't tell," he whimpered, the words a talisman.
The next day he retrieved the spectacles and took to sleeping with them beneath his pillow. He had them with him always, just as a reminder. He suspected that his mother knew, for she often looked at him strangely, as if he'd become something different. Sometimes he wished that she would speak to him, to give him a reason to share his burden. At other times he couldn't bare to feel her eyes upon him. They were like a judgement.
He didn't want to think about the tree, but he couldn't help it. For one it was outside his window, watching him whenever he played in his room or went to sleep. It was fixed, permanent. And just as fixed in his mind. And he would think, if it's not a tree, what is it? A power conduit, but for what? Why is it there growing older in my garden? Communication, transmission...what does it do?
He was thinking much along these lines, staring at his reflection superimposed upon the tree, when Franky climbed through his window four nights later. It happened very quickly. The window didn't even open. Franky just clambered right on through. Franky stood there, all mossy and beaten and fried. Red hair and staring eyes. Just like 'Swamp Thing' only wearing brand new sneakers. Feeling his scrotum shrivel up like prunes, so close to his friend that he could smell cooked flesh and over that the ripe green of bindweed, Laury watched as a hole opened in Franky's face.
"I wan' my glasses Laury, give me my glasses...I can' see no more." Said the black maw above the boy's chin.
Remotely, Laury had pondered on his friend's need to still want something even now in his wretched state. But Laury would not hand over the glasses, they were his now.
"No," he forced through gritted teeth, ready to spring to the door.
They might have stood there forever, if Franky hadn't reached out with his bug-hand. Insects hopped from the dead hand toward Laury, making little clicking sounds as they fled. Laury flew back, screaming. He'd reached the door when it came to him that the air felt lighter, he turned to find the room empty. Taking Franky's glasses from beneath the pillow, he whispered "I won't tell."
#
Laurence Preydow pulled his mind back from the memory. He hadn't told. Remaining quiet about Franky's death had been the hardest thing of all. Watching from his window the search that went on. It hadn't been fair that Franky got all the attention even when he was gone. Having those policemen rooting around the dirt, looking for evidence, a few shaking their heads sadly at Franky's name etched into the tree. At least he would have spelt his name properly, with a knife like that. He'd gone to look at it after the policemen were gone - hoping to discover what it was that had elicited such sadness.
Mrs Harlowe saw him there and shuffled over. He remembered that the most, Mrs Harlowe stopped walking after Franky went. He'd never seen red eyes before.
"You were his best friend, Laury," she said. "I know you miss him just as much as I do. Did you see him that night?" She'd gripped his shoulders, her bony fingers pinching his skin. "Where else would he have gone? Please?"
"I didn't see him, I saw his bedroom light on but that's all, Mrs Harlowe." His mother had told him that it wasn't wrong to lie to keep something safe, so if there'd been guilt when lying to Mrs Harlowe, he hadn't felt it. She'd left him by the tree as if he'd disappointed her.
His fear had stilled his tongue when it came to talking about the tree. But his mother knew, and she never quite treated him the same after that day. Like she was faultless. Shaking away the dregs of memory, he sat watching the tree.
#
There was the roar of chainsaws, wood flesh spattering against the window like sharp confetti and then a final scream. Silence came swiftly as if eager to mourn. Laurence pulled Franky's glasses from his pocket, they were battered and the lenses scratched but still intact. Beside him a candle burned.
They had cut down the world and filled its roots with poison. Now, all at once, the lights in Pritchyard Street went out.
There was a curse as the living room door banged open, someone feeling their way through. Molly. "Don't panic, Granddad, it must be a power cut."
Laurence stared at the flickering light, saying softly "I didn't tell."
