The Case of the Tree that Wasn’t and the Tree Surgeon

Timber!

Tree ninja. Tree surgeon. The job title or description doesn’t matter. God gave me two hands and a heart to slaughter as many trees before I died.

I stood beneath the towering oak tree, chainsaw in hand, and gazed up at its branches. Swaying in the morning breeze, casting dappled shadows on the ground below. But beneath their beauty lay a danger that cast a long shadow over time.

It was no accident that I became a tree surgeon. A deep obligation I’ve known since childhood. When I was just three years old, my parents picnicked beneath a black oak tree in San Diego when a gust of wind knocked it over, crushing them both. My grandparents, who were watching over me, and I had been across the country in Tallahassee playing miniature golf when we received the news.

From that day forward, I vowed to exact my revenge.

As I began to cut into the tree, I couldn't help but think of my parents. I imagined them sitting beneath it, laughing and chatting, completely unaware of the danger that lurked above them.

The saw buzzed through the wood, sending chips flying in all directions. I felt the vibrations travel up my arms and into my chest. It was a strange sensation, almost like the tree was alive and protesting. But the anatomy of the tree was no match for the chainsaw’s blades. Blades, I might add, that I continuously and religiously sharpen with an aluminum dremel attachment to keep it in prime condition.

As the saw neared the center of the tree, I felt a sudden resistance. I leaned in, putting all my weight behind the saw. Then I heard a crack.

Timber!

I jumped back, just in time to see the tree fall in slow motion. Crashing to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust and debris. I stood there, heart pounding, as the echoes of the crash faded into the distance.

And then, as the dust settled, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. The tree had fallen on top of a small shed. My body froze while my heart palpitated. Had I killed someone like my parents had died? Had I just made a widow? An orphan? 

With trembling hands, I rushed over to the shed, my heart beating a frantic rhythm. A musical note that I couldn’t identify, nor did I want to. But as I peered through the debris, relief flooded over me. No one inside, from what I could tell. Just some old tools and rusted gardening equipment.

I sat down on a nearby log, staring at the wreckage in front of me. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting a warm ochre glow over the scene. It was as if even nature was trying to soothe my troubled soul.

For years, I had sought to take down trees, to rid the world of their danger and protect others from the fate my parents had met. I had always thought I was so careful. So tedious in my planning. But as I sat there, a sudden realization hit me: God gave me a losing battle.

With a heavy heart, I stood up and picked up my saw. But this time, I didn't start it. Instead, I looked up at the trees surrounding me, their leaves rustling in the morning breeze.

God had given me two hands and a heart to do good in this world, I truly believe that. I have to believe that. 

I look down at the intricate network of roots that connect the tree I felled and the surrounding forest. Something doesn’t add up. These roots are not like the others.

The roots were artificial. I realized I hadn’t cut down a tree. Not a real one, at least. I had cut down a science project. I hadn’t anticipated this. Usually fake trees look, well, a lot more fake. This particular fake tree was perhaps the best artificial piece of nature I’d ever come across. It looked important. It looked expensive.

I checked the email I received asking me to cut down this specific tree. The message had been quite detailed in the description of which tree these clients wanted me to cut down. I scroll down to the bottom to see the specific individual or company that hired me to cut it down. 

Dr. Samantha Chen, cybernetic biologist of the BioCyber Unit of the Grayson Corp. When I try to look up the company and Dr. Chen to find more information, I found nothing. Neither company nor person seemed to have much of an internet presence. 

Most jobs were pretty straight forward. Get an email, call, or text from a potential client about a tree or trees they want cut down. I look up the location. Check to see who owns the property the tree is standing on to make sure everything checks out. Then I go and cut the tree(s) down.

Somewhere along the line, this job became complicated. A lot more complicated than it should be. And I keep wondering where exactly it went south, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. I discovered I had been cutting down a fake tree that was probably installed by some sort of cybernetic biologist. The smart thing to do would be to cut and run. Don’t ask questions. Don’t collect $200 (though that’s not my fee). Just pick up my tools and supplies, and leave.

But there’s something about a strange email, a strange tree, and a strange set of circumstances that had me hooked to this job. At the very least, I wanted to see where this would take me. Call it morbid curiosity. But hopefully without any morbidity.

First things first: I call the number in the email of Dr. Chen. After three rings, I get a voicemail message telling me Dr. Chen is not in at the moment. I leave a message with all my pertinent information and why I am calling. Unfortunately, I don’t have any high hopes that Dr. Chen or anyone from Grayson Corp. will get back with me. 

As it stands, I have a feeling that my questions will go without answers if I don’t dig further into the matter. So, as with any normal tree cutting job, I typically cut up the tree into smaller segments and cart them back to my property to further process and package for a wide array of wood-based and related products that I create for a side business I’ve been building for some time. The fake tree was a bit different from a normal tree, but it cut into smaller segments nonetheless. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to make anything out of them, but who knows. Maybe I could get into the cybernetic sculpture business.

I got a good chunk of the tree parts and wires into my trailer. Though as I pulled away from the job site, I suddenly received a call. When I checked the caller I.D., it said Dr. Chen was calling.

Hello, I answer.

Yes, Mr. —I’m sorry, it seems I’m blanking on your name.

It’s quite alright. Forrester. You can call me Mr. Forrester.

Yes, thank you. Well, Mr. Forrester, I saw your message. I was a bit confused by it, though. If I’m being perfectly honest, I never contacted you in the first place. I certainly didn’t hire you to cut down one of our nature units. Did you—? You cut it down?

Yes, ma’am, Dr. Chen. I have an email from you specifically—

I did not send that.

I understand. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on here. I have no reason to make up that someone contacted me to cut down this tree.

I guess that’s the thing, though. It’s not a tree, as I imagine you’ve probably already discovered if you did in fact cut it down.

Indeed, I did.

Then unfortunately, this call means I’m the bearer of bad news. You see, Mr. Forrester, the tree that you just cut down is not only the property of Grayson Corp. but also the government. What you have essentially done by defacing and destroying it is commit an act of treason. 

Treason? I don’t know anything about that. I’m a simple tree cutter.

Timber!

While that may be, it still stands that you cut down a very valuable piece of property that has quite a stiff penalty attached to it.

What exactly did I cut down?

That’s classified, I’m afraid. I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics. There’s a very few handful of people still living that knew of the existence of that tree. 

Then, what? What exactly am I supposed to do with this thing?

I feel as if I’m internally panicking. It seems as if the fibers of existence are ripping to shreds, and what’s left is a reality that is completely unreal. My initial instincts are to run. I could detach the trailer from my truck, since I imagine the tree has some sort of GPS tracker, and flee to the nearest border, never to look back. Another part of me feels as if I should fight. Not a literal fight, since I imagine I pose little to no threat to the entirety of the government and its rather robust military, much less a major conglomerate such as Grayson Corp. But I could hire a lawyer, maybe a private investigator. Perhaps hash out the details of what exactly it was that I cut down and how culpable I was for doing what amounted to just my job. I settle, though, for kicking myself for getting into this whole mess to begin with. I convinced myself that my instincts told me not to take the job in the first place when I received the email. But that’s just hindsight. I weigh the options at hand, but realize there are so few to choose from. Maybe none, in fact.

It’s my obligation to let you know that taking the device any further than where you’ve taken it already can result to an additional five years to any possible prison sentence you might face—

Five years on top of what? What am I looking at right now in terms of jail time?

If convicted, which, I don’t know, I’m not a lawyer or judge or anything, so I guess take this with a bit of salt, but I believe defacing the device carries at least a twenty year prison sentence.

Twenty years?!

Possibly, I don’t know. I mean, there would need to be an investigation, a trial. All those sorts of judicial ephemera. If it turns out to be as you said, you know, all a complete misunderstanding, then it probably wouldn’t be nearly as harsh. At least not for you. They would probably find whoever initiated this whole plot to begin with and they’d probably get the bulk of the punishment.

Running. Running seems to be the only logical conclusion. My body tenses and I seemed to be going into a full on panic attack. I kept smelling copper and ozone. My vision blurs for a good minute or so. The surrounding trees metamorph into countless steel bars enclosing in on me. Twenty years. Nearly a lifetime in which I wouldn’t be able to cut down a single tree. 

I want to ask Dr. Chen how valuable this device is, or at least was. I suppose it’s not worth all that much now that my chainsaw chewed it into rubble. But the pieces might still hold some value. A value that might be a bargaining chip. I run through a number of scenarios in which I could sell the components of the tree off to nefarious sources—sources I do not have, I should note—and possibly fund whatever life on the run that I would inevitably need to lead for the next 10, 20, possibly just the rest of my life.

I don’t want to serve any prison sentence.

I’m quite certain you don’t, Mr. Forrester. But unfortunately I don’t have much of a say when it comes to those sorts of matters.

Then what can you help me with?

I can give you some advice. It might not be what you want to hear at the moment, but I suggest you turn yourself in. Fall on your sword, or something like that. I don’t doubt that you were set up. I mean, that tree was in a very specific location. A very isolated place, so no one could just accidentally come across it and, well, do what you did. So, I’m fairly certain that if you give yourself over to the authorities and relinquish whatever is left of the tree, then eventually the truth will come out.

I want to believe Dr. Chen. Everything she said made sense on a fundamental level. But at the same time, a small demon of paranoia took over my thinking. Perhaps it was spending these past several decades working alone, obsessively taking my revenge on unconscious and unconscientious fragments of nature that has driven me to a weird headspace.

Timber!

I resolved at that moment to run. I unhooked the trailer. The fake tree would only slow me down. And then I tossed my phone into the forest so I couldn’t be tracked. Then I headed to the most remote place I knew about, before realizing that if I knew about it, then there might be the slight possibility that someone else knew about it as well. So instead, I improvised and kept driving for days before hitting a patch of land that had no road or way to cross it except to walk. 

After walking for some weeks, living on the sparsest of flora sustenance, I set up a camp far from humanity. I did not recognize the landscape, so I could not say where exactly I was or wasn’t.

But I can say that when I turned to my left and when I turned to my right all I saw were trees. I thank God that I have two hands and the foresight to have brought my axe with me. Now I spend my days exacting my revenge upon a nameless enemy.

The trees seem interminable. But I have time. I keep getting stronger. It seems odd that I’m having to write these series of events and what has become of my life on the skin of a tree. Maybe a little ironic. But yet I feel compelled to let whomever know that I did not give up my responsibilities of revenge. 

I’m not certain if the truth ever came out about the Grayson Corp.’s fake tree and who contacted me to cut it down. But I suppose it didn’t matter when everything’s said and done. A tree’s a tree, dontchaknow. And I was made to cut ‘em down. One by one.