The Tree

Here. Listen.

If you ever find yourself on Digby Street, keep walking to where the road ends at a wide-open field. In the center of that field is a tree. You'll know it when you see it. It sticks out because it’s the only thing in the field, and it's offensively large. The grass is well maintained, although no lawnmower has ever touched a blade. They bend and point inward. There's a physical pull, and the ground slopes downward, almost as if the weight of the tree is a burden.

To be clear, the weight of the tree is a burden.

Inasmuch as trees can be evil (they cannot), this tree is evil. More accurately, it’s the thing that lives inside it that’s evil.

The tree is pretty unhappy with this arrangement but lacks the reasoning capability to do anything about it. It is, after all, just a tree.

Every two weeks, Sean comes to this field. His name is ridiculous, and he knows it. People don’t “yean” or eat “prean” or go jogging at the break of “dean”. Sean is the dumbest name ever. It’s a giant “fuck you” to the English language. It’s not the only reason Sean’s life is a mess, but he thinks it’s the catalyst. He had a long-harbored suspicion that his life would be only medium shitty if his name was Dave or something.

At least his name isn’t Geoff.

Regardless. Sean has a boatload of problems and hopes the evil thing that lives in the tree can help him.

The evil thing that lives in the tree is named Richard. It is a much more sensible name than Sean. Despite being distilled evil, Richard already has a leg up on him. Sean knows this, and it rankles.

Many things bother Sean.

To get Richard to come out of his tree, you must perform a special knock. A magic knock. Sean knows how to do this. He spent a year in Taiwan where you can purchase magic with your green tea, if you seem sufficiently motivated and have an interesting back story.

He pounds on the rough bark three times.

“Hey Richard,” he yells at the tree. “Come on out.”

Real magic is profoundly unsexy and practical. This is the only spell Sean knows and he casts it flawlessly. A line forms in the tree, taking shape of a door. After some shuffling and light swearing and the sound of many locks clicking, the door in the tree opens and Richard peers out.

Sean immediately vomits. Richard is pretty goddamn grotesque. To wit:

If you took every instance of every time a human was cruel and pushed all that petty cruelty into a ball and gave it a physical form, that would be Richard’s forehead.

Here’s the thing about his nose. If you collected together all the people who had used the term “cold enough for ya?”, set them all on fire, filmed all the melting flesh and then projected that film onto a circus tent made from testicle flesh, you’d have an idea of what Richard's nose looks like.

His eyes were ever so slightly too far apart.

So, then. Vomit. It was part of the routine. Both are used to it and Richard politely waits for the sickness to pass.

“Hello Sean,” he says.

Sean tries to respond, but makes the mistake of breathing through his mouth, which means he can sort of taste Richard and then there isn't enough vomit in his body to throw up.

Paradoxically, Sean eats huge meals before coming to the tree. He had learned that if he looked at Richard on an empty stomach, his body would just find other things to throw up, like full organs and blood. It’s like his body thinks “Nope, that can’t possibly be enough puke for a deranged creature like that.  Keep going.”

Sean had eaten a lot though, and eventually, his body was satisfied with the volume of vomit he expelled.

“Hi Richard,” he says, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m ready to try again.”

“Okay, no problem,” Richard replies.

Aside from being hot evil, Richard’s primary function is as a gatekeeper. The tree (in addition to being a house) is a portal to a strange and wonderful land where dogs are always puppies and the wind is mild and you can always smell freshly cut grass. Did someone say ice cream all the time? You betcha. It is a wonderful place and Sean desperately wants to go there. He suspects life will be better in the new world. It will be a place where he will be rich and respected, and he will never say “Good, you?” when a waiter asks him if he is ready to order.

It is, in short, a paradise. And Sean will do anything to get there. Anything.

Interlude:

Holy smokes, this is getting exciting. I thought you could use a break. At this point, I bet you’re thinking the “anything” Sean will do is going to be dark. Like eat a baby or something. Or maybe Richard will force him to do pushups.

Rest assured, it’s nothing like that. It’s important you don’t become agitated when reading this story, because Richard will know. You really don’t want Richard to know what you’re doing. Don’t worry, the story still has legs, but nothing grotesque happens. Feel better? Great. Let’s continue.

To pass by Richard, you must solve his riddle (See? Nothing too crazy). You are only allowed to try once every two weeks and the riddle is different every time. The riddles are spectacularly difficult, and Sean has never come close.

Sean has studied and crammed. He's read every book on riddles ever made, some two or three times. There have only been nine books written on the subject and none have ever turned a profit. Although no one has ever connected this, every author who has written a book about riddles has died under very mysterious circumstances. I'm not saying Richard is definitely responsible, but I am saying Richard is probably responsible.

Don't read books about riddles.

“Ready?” Richard asks. His grotesque face arranges itself into an expression of helpful concern. Nice try, Richard. No one is buying it. Sean wipes his palms on his jeans and nods. He is ready.

“Great. Good luck. Here is the riddle. I am always on but never off. My voice is the mocking laughter of time. I married sadness and on the final day, my scream will mark the end of everything. What am I?”

Shoot. This is a tricky one. Richard has the hardest riddles. Sean rubs his chin although he doesn't have a beard. He sits down to get a really good think going. The sun moves higher in the sky and Richard waits patiently. He is in no rush. For a being of pure evil, he is kind of nice.

Think, think, think. Eventually, Sean stands and licks his lips. He is ready. He feels a moment of excitement because he believes he has the right answer this time. Those books on riddles did not help. This is all Sean. His hands tremble and he bobs up and down on the balls of his feet. He is going to the paradise. He is going to get past Richard. Holy smokes. He closes his eyes and speaks the last words he’ll ever say on this Earth.

“Are you the Sun?”

Richard’s putrid eyes that are ever so slightly too far apart widen in surprise. Sean's throat closes with a rush of hope. There is a pause, and in that space, you could fit a universe of optimism.

“Nope," Richard says. Not even close.”

The wind picks this exact moment to wake up and blow at Sean’s hair. It is perfectly timed. The wind is not in direct cahoots with Richard but does get a kick out of Sean’s failure.

The wind is an asshole.

“Ha,” Richard says.  His laughter is brief and impersonal, and even more insulting as a result. “The correct answer is Charlie Sheen. Nice try though.”

“Wait,” Sean says, but it’s too late. His moment has passed. Richard gives him the finger (this isn’t a required step in the process, but Richard likes to keep it fresh with new moves) and slams the door. The field sighs, the blades of grass wilt a little, and the tree goes back to being just a tree.

Dejected, Sean kicks at the trunk. Stupid Richard and his stupid riddles. Still, he would try again next week. He had time. And one day he’d get past Richard, and everything would be right with the world. He'd continue to focus on the world inside the tree and completely neglect all the shit he could do right now to make his life better.

Sean needs a hobby. That is next week's problem.