Dead Willow (16 page)

She had thought the thoughts.

Doctor Paula had stood in the goddamn soil with that girl and had thought those thoughts. The soil had heard, and now it had turned its fucking back on her. Like an impudent child it had heard her questioning the bliss she no longer received, and the fact that it no longer spread out to make room for the blossoming masses.

Everybody knew you never challenged the soil while you were
in
the soil. It was just like the story of
Peter Pan
; if you wanted to fly you had to think happy thoughts. She should have just beaten her head against a rock.

The skin peeled off of her arms in paper-thin scraps, which tumbled down like leaves, falling from her grasp. The skin underneath was pink and mottled, and she could see little pricks of blood starting to surface. Soon, the scabs would form, and it would become painful to even move her arms and legs. That’s how much the tree loved her; it would turn her into a fucking burn victim for thinking an unpleasant thought!

The last time she was late, the
only
time, it had started the same. That was three winters ago, when she had paid a house call to Thaddeus Johnson. His foot had to be amputated after an errant musket blast had removed most of it. It was suspected that moonshine was involved, but witness statements were inconclusive. She would’ve taken him to the soil, but she had been down that road many times. The soil was good at cuts and scrapes, no to mention aging, but it couldn't replace parts that had been severed with powder and lead. And you didn’t dare complain about that, lest you be replaced altogether. Thaddeus was going to have a hitch in his git-along for the rest of his days, and if Paula wasn’t careful, she was going to be late to the joining.

Paul Greggson had dropped her at the Johnson cabin on his way to a delivery, and he had never picked her up. After the first few hours studying the ominous hands on Thaddeus’ mantle clock, Paula had started to panic. She knew she couldn’t ask to use another man’s winter bin; that was one of those things that just wasn’t done. So, she headed out on foot, the snow so thick she could never be sure which road she was on. It took several more hours until she finally stumbled up the steps of her own cabin, nearly frostbitten to hell. She could feel the scabs already hardening and scraping against her clothing. The pain was exquisite as she peeled each layer and saw her dead skin floating down onto the wooden floor. When she had stripped the last of her clothing from her raw flesh, she stared angrily at the ruin her body had become. She wasn’t even a day late. Not one day!

Paula wrestled open the lid to her winter bin and plunged her arms down into the waiting soil. The warmth infused her body, wicking through her limbs like water through roots. She crawled into the bin and slept the night. When she rose from the dirt, it was as if it had never happened. That’s what the soil did; it made you forget what it did to you, and made you feel guilty for asking.

This wasn’t right! She hadn’t been late, not this time! She was in the soil the day before with that girl and now here she was peeling like an onion.

Paula went over that night in her mind, the night in the cemetery. She had fallen back into the soil as she always did, and it had swallowed her up as it always did. As usual, there were no memories of her time in the dirt, and when she clawed her way out hours later, she felt what she always felt … nothing. She chalked it up to the tree withholding the bliss from her, but there had been something else, hadn’t there? Wasn’t the soil especially cool that night? It hadn’t taken her down as deep; she remembered breaking the surface so effortlessly. Had it been a deception? Was it possible to go down into the soil without joining with the soil?

The tree was revealing itself as she always knew it would. But, was she the only one who saw it? To most people in Willow Tree, the tree was God. And, you didn’t go up against God; everybody knew that.

Paula looked across the room at the fireplace glow flickering off of her winter bin, her
empty
winter bin. There would always be time to fill it next week, or next month. The ground never really froze over until December, she had told herself. Paula was smart like that.

She didn’t have much time to think on what to do. Soon, the blood-poison would seep down into her tissues and settle in her brain. Then, she would be ready for a padded cell. Except, in Willow Tree, they didn’t have padded cells; they had ‘the grinder’. By that point, she wouldn’t even care.

Life with the tree had made everyone in town a meltdown waiting to happen. She hadn’t had sufficient ‘doctor’ training online to understand why, and maybe that was intended. All she knew was that the poison was in their cells already, and without the special nutrients from the soil, it would begin to leech out of the cells and into their blood. After that, no one could help, not even the Almighty Tree.

Paula winced as she slipped her sleeves tenderly down over her arms, and then draped her shawl over her shoulders. Lacing up her bonnet, she headed for
Weeping Gardens
, and hoped that she wasn’t headed for another cold date with the soil.

“Sorry, ma’am,” boomed the huge Paladin perched at the gates to the cemetery, “but the grounds are closed for this evening.”

The moon was a good ninety percent full. Paula looked passed him, at the moonlight gleaming off of the scores of people already shedding their clothing in preparation for their nightly romp in the soil. When she turned back, the expression on her face made the Paladin grip his rifle a little more tightly.

Paula folded her arms like an iron shield.

“Guess I must have missed the deadline,” she snapped sarcastically.

“Private party,” the Paladin growled. “Invitation only.”

“How’s this?” Paula pulled back her bonnet and yanked down on the collar to her dress. Blood and skin came away with the cloth, and the dead flakes sloughed off and tumbled down her front. The Paladin jerked back a step, obviously horrified at the indignity of having to witness the truth behind the tree, or mortified at seeing the bare neck of a woman not in the soil. Either way, he was having trouble wrestling his eyes from the sight.

“Um … sorry, ma’am,” he grumbled, “… but I can’t let you in tonight … orders. Maybe, come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be dead tomorrow!” she yelled, causing a few heads to turn in the cemetery. She covered herself up for her own dignity and stared at the Paladin as if he were from another planet. Of course, she’d be dead! He could tell that just by looking at her! How could he say “No”? That was another of those things you just didn’t do; you never denied a resident access to the soil, especially when their life depended on it.

A feeling of dread closed in around her like a vice as she began to suspect that there were forces at work here greater than a Paladin with a rifle. She knew the name before she even asked the question.

“On whose authority do you bar me from the soil?” she asked, her voice catching in her throat.

“Madame Pembry, ma’am,” he answered her. Apparently, it wasn’t even supposed to be a secret.

When she pulled back a step, the Paladin stepped forward in a minor show of force that would have made her chuckle, had she not been so terrified. She gazed around the cemetery grounds at the people in the soil, swooning, and realized that she would never again be one of them. Paula began to shiver. She could feel the ember that was Paula Crispin going out.

She stumbled backwards, up the cobblestone path, up the hill, and looked longingly at the soil. There were groups moaning in harmonic rapture, rubbing soil on each others flesh, singing songs in devotion to a God who would kill them on a whim.

They needed to know.

Paula’s ember flared up, and she shifted her weight forward. The Paladin did the same. She looked over at him and his glare burned a hole in her. She leaned slightly to the side and he matched her motion, his eyes never leaving her. She would never make it to the fence with her story.

Goddamn it! Shot dead outside the gate, or left to slowly rot away while others shook their heads. Those couldn’t be her only choices!

As Paula turned to make her way up the path, she caught something out of the corner of her eye. In the cemetery, beneath the eastern branch, a group was huddled in the soil, but they did not swoon and sing like the rest. They worked, and Paula recognized the task that had their collective attention. Someone was being raised from the soil, a newcomer to Willow Tree, and Paula’s blood ran cold. This was her responsibility. She should have been there, tending to the process, making sure the newborn was delivered safe and whole. Her absence could only mean one thing; it was
she
who was being born.

The facts fell like dominoes.

Eunice Pembry wanted her dead. Or, the tree did; it didn’t really matter. Either way, she was gone. The tree had taken from her that night. Now, a new doctor would be stitching fingers and bandaging boo-boos, and all would be right with Willow Tree. And, for what? For thinking a thought? Paula decided that wasn’t good enough.

Eunice wasn’t the only one with power in this town. Paula had  power, too, of a kind. But right now, it seemed she couldn’t put her hand to it. A big man with a big gun was preventing her from doing so.

It was a secret, and secrets, like so many other things, were held in memory. She was the only one who knew, but if the tree had made another, then that memory might not be hers alone anymore.

She had to get into the soil again, and soon, before she rotted away to nothing. She knew the soil wouldn’t save her, but she could take what she needed from it.

And then, God help Willow Tree.

Jess had been sitting in her junky little car for over an hour, her steering wheel in a death grip and fogging up the windows with her sweaty breath.

He wouldn’t even give her a goddamn ladder.

It was horseshit! What guy, what
mechanic
, didn’t have a ladder in his own garage? Even her eighty-three year old grandmother had a ladder, and she was in an assisted-living apartment!

If he really expected this gullible little girl to believe that he was ladder-less, then fuck him! She would find her own way over the fence.

And, she did.

Willow Tree was a cozy little hamlet. Three thousand or so people, if that girl Crystal was to be believed. There were no gated communities, no security cars patrolling the streets in shifts, no surveillance cameras hanging from every light pole. This was Mayberry, and sheriff Andy walked the streets without a gun.

The third cabin she had driven past on Savannah Street had a ladder leaning up against the side of the shack out back.

It was only a six footer, and it appeared to have been carved out of a tree and nailed together by hand. But, it seemed sturdy and fit through the rear windows of her car with only a foot sticking out on either side. It was a trick she had learned from her father when they had driven home with a roll of carpet. Stick it through the windows and roll the windows up.

Her dad had been afraid that he would scrape the carpet on a parked car before they had made it home. Jess didn’t think that would be a problem on the vacuous streets of Willow Tree.

The ladder still stuck out of her windows like little wooden wings. The two inch gaps in the windows let through a current of chilly autumn air, and her hot breath kept condensing on the cold glass of her driver’s-side window. She wiped a hand across the foggy glass and peered at the fence bordering the back of
Weeping Gardens
.

Jess checked the time on her phone. Patrick had agreed to spark up a conversation with the Hatchet at the front gate of the cemetery at eleven, if he didn’t have anything better to do. Fuck him again! It was ten past eleven and the armed sentries were still milling around the graveyard like the undead. There were five or six, and they each kept to their jealously guarded section of the grounds.

Jess marveled at the fact that for all the tree’s gigantic size and lush foliage, the ground beneath its protective canopy grew no grass. She supposed that the vast leafy dome prevented the sun’s rays from massaging the soil of the cemetery. It was just endless black dirt from fence to fence. They could probably feed the entire population of Jackson county with what they could grow in this fertile rectangle. That is, she thought, unless they were already growing something else in there.

Jess shivered at the thought and was starting to calculate the odds of getting over the fence with the same number of holes in her body that she had on this side when, one by one, the Hatchet stopped their lumbering. The zombie guards all turned slowly to focus their attention to the front of the cemetery, and then began to converge on the rusty gate. Jess’ hands did a tap dance on her steering wheel.

Apparently, Patrick had arrived at the gate and started
his
tap dance.

“You are
gettin’ a big wet kiss, you sexy thing!” she squealed to herself, and Jess got moving.

Stretching between the seats, she reached around and rolled the windows down enough to slide the ladder out. She exited the car quietly and scanned the length of the fence.

No Hatchet appeared.

Jess felt the weak fear in her limbs as she inched the ladder through the windows and started across the street. She didn’t think about what she was about to do, but it was never far away from her mind.

She could only pray that Patrick was as captivating to the Hatchet as he was to her.

“Don’t touch the soil.”

Jess whirled around, catching the sleeve of her black zippered sweatshirt on the rough wood of the borrowed ladder. She jerked it free, causing the ladder to bobble loudly against the bars of the iron fence. Somebody had some ‘
splainin’ to do.

“What the fuck,” Jess saw a small woman creep from the shadows, “lady!”

The woman seemed much smaller than Jess, but she was slumped over, her head bowed, one gloved hand hanging onto the fence. She wore a dark hooded cape that hung down to the ground around her feet. It might have looked regal on someone with a less fallen carriage. The hood gathered around her head like a drawstring sack, barely showing the hint of a face. Jess could see the wisps of the woman’s faint breath hover in front of her.

How someone this frail could have just appeared out of thin air was the question, but it would have to wait for another time.

“Look, lady, I’m really busy right now, and …” Jess did a hasty pat of her pockets, “I don’t have any change on me. Sorry.”

“Don’t touch the soil.”

Jess was losing her patience. “Yeah, you said that.”

The woman pointed her finger at Jess’ hands. “You cannot touch the soil with your skin or it will know.”

“
Who
will know
what
?” asked Jess, feeling herself being drawn into this woman’s dementia.

The woman suddenly gripped a handkerchief against her mouth as violent hacking spasms began to ravage her body. She clung to the fence, until it seemed that the purging had reached into the bottom of her soul. After a time, when the retching had ceased, she wiped her lips and slipped the cloth back into the pocket of her cape. Jess wondered what she might see in that handkerchief.

“What are you looking for here in Willow Tree?” asked the old woman, and Jess felt the quiver of deja vu run up her spine. It couldn’t be.

“What have you got?” she replied, the way she had answered before.

The woman reached into the other pouch of her cape and withdrew a folded slip of paper. She held it out to Jess with a trembling hand. Jess took it from her and started to unfold it. The woman placed her knobby hand on Jess’.

“After I have gone,”  she said hoarsely. She took one of Jess’ hands in hers and turned it over. “Do you have gloves?”

“No, it isn’t that cold,” replied Jess puzzled.

The woman let out an exasperated sigh. Slowly, almost regretfully, she started to slip the gloves from her own hands.

“No,” argued Jess, “I can’t take your gloves.”

The woman ignored her protest and finished removing both gloves. She shoved them into Jess’s hands and then jerked her hands away. For an instant, Jess imagined she had seen … scales? It must have been a trick of the dim moonlight. She stood holding the long black gloves in one hand and the folded paper in the other. She had made out like a bandit tonight.

The woman slipped her hands into her cape pockets and confronted Jess.

“You must wear these and you must tuck your pants into your boots. The soil cannot touch you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I understand the words, but you still haven’t told me
why
.”

The old woman’s eyes lingered over the cemetery. She was almost entirely in silhouette. Had the clouds been thinner that night, Jess might have seen the woman’s face. “The answers, as always, are in the soil.”

The woman turned and shuffled down the grassy patch running along the cemetery fence. Jess opened her mouth to offer her a ride, but the words did not come out. Maybe because she couldn’t spare the time, or perhaps because she already knew the answer. When the woman got to the corner where the two fences came together, she was a dot on the horizon. Then, she turned the corner, and all Jess had left were the two gloves and a piece of paper to convince her that any of this had really happened.

Jess set to the task of insulating herself from the dangerous dirt. She knew she should have felt silly doing it, but whose idea was it to come to the cemetery in the first place? After she had finished stuffing her pants into her boots and her tiny hands into the long gloves, she glanced out over the cemetery again, and then went up and over the tall spiky fence. She landed in the soft loam like her feet were on feather pillows. Jess reached between the thin iron bars and pulled the ladder back through to her side. She tucked it down along the fence, and then wondered what to do next. She started to take the sightseeing tour of
Weeping Gardens
when she remembered that she had just been given instructions.

The folded paper crumpled open and Jess strained to see what was written there. She was going to need help. Turning her back to the cemetery, she took out her phone and opened the flashlight app. White light flooded the iron bars in front of her and she crouched down and bent her body over the paper. What she saw was out of a children’s movie.

On the paper was drawn a treasure map, complete with compass points and a rendering of a giant tree and a big ‘X’ next to the tombstone where the treasure could be found. It told how many steps from the tree to take and how many inches down into the soft ground to dig. It was Christmas morning and Halloween night all rolled up into one.

But, Jess wasn’t celebrating. She was staring at a short note scrawled in the bottom corner of the paper. It might have been added later, she couldn’t be sure. But, something told her that the cartographer of this map and the author of this scrawl were one in the same. Fate had come full circle.

This is the real deal.

a fan