The Boy in the Treehouse

The boy was in the treehouse.

He couldn’t tell how long he had been there. In the beginning, he would mark each passing of the sun overhead with a notch on the wall but had long since surpassed the highest number to which he had ever learned to count.

He looked around as the summer light filtered through the bars on the windows. The treehouse was sparse. There was a semblance of a bed – a grouping of blankets, a pillow. There was a lamp, a worn copy of a single volume of a one hundred-year old encyclopedia, chalk, and a wooden doll. Each afternoon a plate of food and rations would appear next to his bed and the following day the used plate and refuse would disappear. He passed the time by drawing an elaborate mural comprised of images inspired from both what he could see from his windows and the remnants of what he could still remember of the world he came from– clouds, birds, a garden, his mother’s face, the sea.

He could tell from his limited viewpoint that the sun was just advancing beyond its highest peak - bright, loving, and welcoming, embracing all those who had the freedom to bask in her warmth. Outside the birds sang in harmony with the rustling of the trees, combining into a chorus with the sound of crashing waves in the distance.

But they did not sing to him.

The boy longed for the outside world, longed for touch, for any semblance of connection with anyone else but himself. His only friend was the wooden doll that like him, had little history and no name. He would prop the doll against the wall and read to him, sometimes musing about their shared predicament. In this way the wooden doll became his only solace, and the agony of his sorrow and solitude lost some of its hold on him. 

On this summer afternoon, the boy watched the heat glistening outside as he stretched his hand between the bars to feel the breeze caress the spaces between his fingers. The sunlight filtered hazily through the window onto the only spot left blank on the wall, which he decided was the perfect area to draw his only friend. He perched the wooden doll between the bars of the east window and began to draw its figure in the space below.

Lost in concentration, he failed to notice when a gust of wind and a gentle nudge of the wall sent the wooden doll tumbling down into the depths below. He looked up and cried out in anguish as he realized the space where the doll had been was now empty. He frantically threw what he could fit of his arms outside the window, reaching and grasping desperately, hoping somehow he could recover his lost friend.

But it was of no use. The wooden doll was gone.

Confronted once again with the misery of his loneliness, the boy sat himself against the wall, hugged his knees to his chest, and wept.

“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice echoed into the room.

The boy, startled, looked up and scampered into the corner.

There was a girl in the treehouse. She was young and small, with long dark unruly hair and dark eyes that twinkled with mischief. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I believe you dropped this.” 

She slowly opened her palm and in it, she held the small wooden doll. He gasped as his eyes lit up in elation.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you one of them?”

She shook her head.

She stepped gingerly around the treehouse, tracing her fingers across the drawings and notches on the walls, silently counting to herself until she lost count. The gravity of his situation suddenly dawned on her and she looked at him with deep sorrow and pity.

“How…how long have you been here?”

He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“You’re one of the lost, aren’t you?”

She slowly stepped toward him and he hurriedly stepped backward away from her.

“It’s ok,” she said. “I won’t hurt you. Here, we can shake on it.”

She extended one hand toward him as he slowly approached her. He contemplated her outreached hand, so enticed by this simple extension of humanity and yet so deeply afraid of it. He hesitated, holding his hand tentatively in the air before ever so lightly clasping his hand with hers. The rush of human touch filled him with a feeling so electric it sent shock waves of new sensation throughout his body, overwhelming him and bringing tears to his eyes.  He was startled by the simultaneous smoothness and roughness of her skin, of the warmth that seemingly emanated from deep within her. 

She looked around the room and back at the boy, trying to think of a way to bring some light back into this lost boy’s life.

“When was the last time you danced?” she asked.

The boy stared blankly back at her.

“Here, I’ll show you,” and she reached out and took his hands into hers.

Hands clasped together, they stepped around each other slowly and clumsily until they were gracefully wheeling around the room, faster and faster until their feet felt like they were no longer touching the floor. The boy had forgotten what it felt like to feel such joy and the treehouse seemingly began to transform around them. The sun was brighter, the air warmer, as if just by existing the girl had filled the treehouse with summer itself. They danced and they danced until they collapsed in a heap of laughter.

They were interrupted by the sudden sound of crunching leaves and breaking branches on the forest floor – the unmistakable sound of someone coming.

The boy and the girl looked at each other with fear and panic. She quickly grasped both of his shoulders and asked, “Do you want to stay here?”

He looked around at the treehouse that had been his home for so long. He had grown to love the place in a way. Even though it was misery to be trapped there, the treehouse somehow made him feel safe, as if it loved him in its own sinister fashion when no one else did. But he longed to feel the sun directly on his face, to feel the salt of the ocean crystallize upon his skin, to be able to run free into his mother’s arms again. He shook his head.

“No. I want to go home.”

She smiled and nodded. She grasped his hands into hers, closed her eyes, and began uttering words in a language he did not know. Light emanated from her hands and a sensation of air and lightness began to flow throughout his body, until suddenly the light sparked, flickered, and stopped.

The girl stared at her hands. “I’m sorry, I-I-I’ve never tried to take someone with me before,” she said. 

The sounds outside became louder. A bead of sweat pearled onto the girl’s face as she squeezed his hands tightly. She furrowed her brow as she tried to summon all the power and might within her, but the light would not return.

“There’s no time,” the boy cried. “You have to go. You have to leave me behind. They’ll kill you if they find you here.”

She looked frantically outside the window and back at her hands and back at him, tears rolling down her face.

“It’s ok,” the boy said. “I’ll be alright.”

The sound of the approaching stranger grew even louder, and they both knew they were out of time.

She took his hands in hers, looked him in the eye and said, “Listen to me. I will come back for you, I promise. I won't forsake you.”

She grabbed the wooden doll and placed it in his hands. “If you ever start to lose faith, just look at this and remember this day, remember that you are never alone. Remember that I was here, that I’ll return, and that I will bring you home. Do you believe me? Do you trust me?”

The boy nodded. 

She hugged him tightly, planted a kiss on his cheek, and then stepped slowly backward away from him. Light emanated from her hands as she uttered the strange words he heard her mutter before.

And as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. 

The boy looked around the treehouse. Its light was different now, its shades brighter, its hues sharp. The girl was gone, but in her place she had left something seemingly unremarkable, something that had been lost to him long ago. In her place, she had left hope.

The boy sat against the wall, hugged his knees to his chest, and smiled.