“Moooooom,” the little boy elongated, “there’s a tree at the door.” His face cherubic as he leaned against the crack in the entry, pressing his chubby cheeks against the edge of the door — sure to leave a mark.
These fleshy forms were weird that way — deforming and reforming. He didn’t know how his sister put up with it — or so I imagined he thought. His story, not mine or Molly’s — contemplating walking about on two elastic feet. Hard bark was much preferable.
“It’s all tilty,” the boy swayed on the door’s knob — swinging the whole thing open and shut with his waggling butt.
Rude little snot. Tilty!? Admittedly, Reed — let’s call him that. Looked more like a Douglas at the moment, all festive and shit, but Reed works — did list a little to the side, the eggnog not sitting well in his roots.
“Shut the door, Billy,” his mother called. “You’re letting the cold in…” she went on as the door slammed shut with a jingle from the wreath around the knocker. Vaguely Reed heard the woman scolding the child for lying.
Serves the brat right, Reed rustled inside. It was both a rustle of discontent and of chill being that it was a pittance above zero German — colder than science — and his sap was freezing near to bursting his bark.
His mistake, really. He should’ve gone dormant a while back, draining down to the roots to make room for the cold. But he was worried. Worried about his big sister out in the wide world.
She’d not come back from her Farwalking — some don’t, it’s their choice — but she hadn’t even sent a squirrel to let him know she was okay. So he worried. He fretted. And he sprouted about on wandering roots, sneakily seeking her in her travels — or so he thought.
Pictures were circulating — he later learned — of him scurrying out from a lake after taking a much needed drink. Of where he climbed up a rock in the desert to try and get a better look. And of the time he took a stroll through a foggy field feeling certain none could see.
Now he was cold and felt a fool — looked it too — donning tinsel and lights. It seemed a good idea after the nog warmed him up a bit.
These humans kept bringing the corpses of his kin inside — the barbarians — festooning them with frippery in humiliating fashion. Often displaying their trophies beside a crackling fire.
And he was cold.
So Reed had the bright idea — nog will do that — to filch some of the gaudy shit and get invited inside. They’d practically thrown it at him during the merry parade he’d stumbled into — freezing in motion as the lights and sirens of red trucks thrilled the crowds. Hanging red striped candies from his branches, circling a noose of shiny garlands about his neck, doffing his top with a star.
Soon they approached with the sharp metal teeth of a saw, at which point Reed sidled all circumspect, away from the vrooms, and broke into a trot — sending the crowds into shocked stupor. Later they’d blame Emmett for spiking the eggnog too hard.
It had not gone terribly well, Reed considered, and the young Trenynn slumped on the chill bench. Squirrels also lacking the sense to be burrowed and warm frittered about the park for scraps of human food, rushing up his legs and into his boughs. He was too tired to care.
“Care for a nip, friend?” Some third rate mall Santa sat next to Reed on the bench, proffering a flask of which he reeked. The tannin scent of the aged oak wafted from the stainless steel opening harkening memories of the field in which he’d grown.
Gratefully he slid a root toward the scuffed black boots — the alcohol would at least keep his sap running despite the freeze. The dribble of a dram tasted of Tennessee, he thought, high in the Smokies.
“Don’t worry my lost friend,” the mall Santa said. “I know a place to warm your branches and furrow your roots.”
Fog rose around them as Reed stood taller, nervous at the sudden shifting he felt.
“And you won’t have to wear that tawdry shit either,” the Santa plucked a cane from a crooked branch. Jollily he laughed, leading through the woods. “Owner’s not a huge fan of the season. But keep watch for the salty little cusses who pop by after bopping bumpers, they bite.”
The tree line ended and the pair came to a patch of tarmac rumbling with engines and smelling of burnt, glowing in the neon hues of a sign reading ‘Last Chance Molly’s’ above a vacant door.
“Merry Christmas, happy tree-friend,” the third-rate mall Santa bid as he backed into the night with a twinkle and a fright.
–j.e. pittman