Tree Fingers (6 page)

“Your name is Alan,” he told himself, repeating it even though the syllables sounded like nonsense. “Your name is Alan. You have to get home. Find the door.”

Finally he emerged from the channel. To his horror, he found himself in the exact spot where he’d awoken. Panic-stricken, he ran. So much time had passed. Halloween would end, and the gate would seal for who knew how long. He ran harder, flailing his arms at the bracken and twisted human limbs.

There was a tunnel up ahead. It looked like it could be a path—

Death hung from the ceiling, showering him in rot. Death crunched beneath his feet.

“Your name is Alan—”

What were these noises that he made? Why was he making them?
How stupid,
he thought, sniggering as he ran toward the corridor’s end.
Just ridiculous.
It was so absurd that he threw his head back and laughed as he ran through the trees.

Miles and miles of trees stretched in every direction, infinite, growing and dying, decomposing, and then pushing their way through the compost anew. Alan darted from one to the next, circling them, running his hands over the gouged bark.

How many centuries had he been running in circles? How many millennia remained of wandering, the only sentient being in this world? He’d been looking for something. What? What did it matter?

There was a tunnel up ahead—it could be a path...

Dozens of times Alan ran the circuit. Tormented mutterings resounded all around, coming from those hanging above and those interred beneath his feet. They grew louder and mixed with the sounds of emerging and expiring plant life, forming a maddening cacophony. There was no wind. The air felt moist and heavy. It stunk. A ghastly mixture of mud, rotted leaves, blood and fluids splashed up and coated Alan’s legs as he ran and ran and ran. Everything looked identical. Olive and sienna swirled around him. He ran harder, fighting his way through the thickening gunk.

He covered miles, but everything looked the same. Why was he running like this?

Then he noticed an opening, some sort of channel. Again he struggled through the gloom, wading through the awful stuff that almost reached his knees now. Things moved in the fluid, brushed his legs. A few times something grabbed at his ankle.

Leaves fell, floated for a moment, then decomposed and joined the mixture. Alan tried to look away from the greenish corpses rising from the swamp. He tried to concentrate on reaching the tunnel. I looked like it could be a path, though he couldn’t recall where he wanted to go.

At the entrance, Alan felt compelled to look left. Something glimmered faintly in the distance, almost drowned by the haze.

Though he didn’t know why, he went in that direction, winding in and out the massive trunks. Bones jutted from the ground and hung from the vines like morbid decorations. The trees grew thinner, greyer. The ground felt drier. Skeletons hung impaled from the saplings that had grown up through them. Moss and mushrooms covered them like skin.

He had to reach that light. Something about it felt different from the rest of this place. Looking at it even allowed him to regain some clarity. He’d been looking for a door. His name—damn, what was it?

“Remember the door,” he chanted as he pushed dry bones out of his way. They clattered like sickly wind chimes. “The door. The light.”

He could see it clearly now: a warm orange glow, like a candle. It burned beneath a broken arch encrusted with lichen.

Alan felt resistance when he tried to pass through: an invisible barrier that bounced him backward. Focusing his will, feeling it gather in the cavity between his hips and ribs, he propelled his consciousness forward with all his might.

Gravity felt crushing. Alan’s limbs felt made of stone. He couldn’t lift them, could barely breath with the weight on his chest. His eyeballs felt like they’d burst, and his pulse resounded loudly in his head.

Gradually he became aware of the ground beneath his back, the gravel denting his skin. He had eyelids that he could draw back. When he did, the stars shone softly above him. He smelled maple, pine and wet asphalt. Somewhere in the distance a fire burned in a hearth.

“Alan!” he cried out, as if he’d made a great discovery. “Your name is Alan!”

“No,
your
name is Alan,” someone said. “You had me worried sick. What happened?”

Alan knew that voice. With a great effort, he turned his head and found Graham crouched beside his prone body, holding one of his old-fashioned lanterns.

“Are you all right?”

Alan considered. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.” He stood slowly, awkwardly, as he tried to re-acclimate himself to the physical world. It felt strange and cumbersome to have mass again. His weight felt like it had tripled, making movement an exertion. But it would pass.

“So?” Graham said, his arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s taken care of,” Alan said, lifting and lowering his foot. The ground was so solid and unyielding, and it gave him comfort.

“Where’s our friend?”

Again Alan contemplated a fabrication; kids after all. But he took a deep breath, braced himself and told Graham about his encounter with the other magician. He neglected the gory details of his ordeal. One of them waking with nightmares would be more than enough.

“So,” Graham said as they walked slowly down the hill toward the little town and its twinkling orange lights, “you were right about them?”

“Yeah, and they’re not too happy that I told the world.”

“Is that how you got knocked out?” Graham asked, sounding horrified. “You fought with him?”

“It wasn’t much of a fight, actually. He hit me so fast I didn’t even see it coming. Knocked my astral body right into next week. I don’t know if I’d have found my way back if you hadn’t come.”

“Alan, you said there wouldn’t be any danger.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you going to do if these men come back?”

Lots of things,
he thought. First, he’d email his editor and put his next book on hold indefinitely, even though he wanted the world to know the truth more than ever. The shadow society not only existed, it was callous, willing to kill to keep its secrets.

Alan wanted to show the puppets their strings, so they’d know where to cut. But before he worried about that, he needed to be ready for them. He needed an efficient way to carry his spell components: a belt maybe. He pictured himself with his vials strapped across his chest, Rambo-style, and shook his head.

Somehow, he needed to learn to fight, to stand a chance in hell against the kind of power he’d witnessed earlier. Nor could he deny that he wanted some kind of retribution against the man who’d sent him to that lovely little paradise to rot.

“There are ways we can protect ourselves,” he said to Graham. “Completely risk-free ways. Gentle magic that draws its power from love. The spell will be stronger if you’ll help me.

If you can believe.” He reached over and gave Graham’s hand a squeeze, feeling soft flesh above bone.
So solid, so warm—
Graham stopped and turned to Alan, his irises darting back and forth. “Yes,” he said decisively, nodding once. “I’ll help you all I can.”

Alan and Graham stood facing the walnut tree, their backs to the Cook property. Several of Graham’s lanterns lined the fence, each providing a bubble of light. Beside them, spread on a tea towel, waited Alan’s potions and powders in their mismatched containers and a wood-carving knife of Graham’s.

It surprised Graham how right it felt to do this with Alan, to be a part of it. A few days back he’d have protested. Looking to his right, he saw Alan breathing regularly, looking up at the limbs with soft concentration. Graham knew Alan hadn’t told him everything about his time in the other world; he’d seen the way Alan’s mouth had contorted with fear as he’d spoken about it. His time in that place had traumatized him, but it had also changed him. A rosy-orange glow outlined Alan. He’d clearly become more powerful.

“What do you need from me?” Graham asked.

Rather than jarring Alan back to reality, Graham’s question summoned a wise smile, although Alan’s eyes remained focused on the tree. “Concentrate,” he said. “Concentrate on all the things you love. Not just people, but little things. Moments.

Sitting on the porch and watching a thunderstorm. A hot cup of tea on a winter evening. Don’t force it though. It’s—

“It’s a happy, contented focus. I guess it’s probably the way you feel when you’re painting.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Graham said, a little awestruck. He’d always found his younger lover wise beyond his years, but that description was so rich with understanding that Graham felt certain Alan knew just how Graham felt when he created. When he swirled and blended his colors across his canvas, Graham easily forgot about everything else. Happy hours rushed past. It wasn’t something Graham had to try to do; it just happened. Not so different, he supposed, from Alan researching or conjuring. He couldn’t believe the parallel had eluded him until now.

“Alan,” Graham said, “You seem changed.”

“I feel changed, I guess.”

“How so?”

Still looking up, Alan said, “I just feel a greater understanding. I can see connections between things that I can’t articulate. I perceive everything on a deeper level. I can’t exactly explain how it feels. But it might be a side effect of my time in that astral realm. It could go away. So let’s get on with it, okay?”

“Okay.” Graham closed his eyes and did as Alan had instructed, the memories coming vividly and easily. Both great victories and tiny, perfect moments formed in his mind. He didn’t try to recall anything in particular, but just let the recollections form and drift away at will. Some of them featured Luke or Graham’s mother. Graham didn’t push them aside, but watched with both sadness and gratitude for the time they’d shared. Just as Alan had predicted, Graham could literally feel the love heating and inflating his chest. As he’d been coached, he held the energy ready.

A finger touched just below Graham’s eye. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying until he saw the wet sparkle on Alan’s thumb.

“Take my hand,” Alan said, tangling his fingers into Graham’s and holding tight. “Focus all of your love, your desire to protect this place and the people you care about, into the tree.”

Both of them spread their fingers and pressed their palms against the bark. It felt proper to Graham to let his pinky venture into the heart he’d carved for Luke. As the energy flowed from Graham’s torso up his arm, he saw the severed limbs growing, spreading out and glowing golden-green. They stretched impossibly far, reaching like protective arms over Graham’s entire neighborhood. The two men continued, and the tree burned brighter, forming a dome of light over the yards and houses.

A moment later, though, it fizzled out, leaving the walnut tree a cropped mockery of its former self.

“So, was it real?” Graham asked.

“Oh, very much,” Alan said, turning to him and smiling. He looked quite satisfied. “Time to finish it.”

He crouched down and picked up the carving tool and a purple notebook with a plastic cover. He pressed the instrument into Graham’s hand as he flipped through the lined pages.

Finally he found what he sought: a swirling sigil containing various symbols and interlocking triangles.

Graham set to work. The bark fell away easily, and his knife cut the wood beneath it like butter. The first two inscriptions had taken Graham many hours each, but in just a few minutes he’d completed the seal in every tiny detail. Despite the ease with which the carving emerged, Graham felt drained. He leaned against the walnut. Alan traced the design with his hand, looking amazed, as always by Graham’s work. Flattered, Graham added another reason to the list of things he loved about the other man.

“Is that it then?” Graham asked, exhausted. Alan reached out and cradled his lover’s face. Graham leaned into the embrace, his eyes closing.

“Yes.” Alan spoke softly. “This place is safe now. It’s a very ancient, very powerful magic that takes its strength from love, and I don’t know anyone who loves as deeply as you. It’s not something that can be replicated. Every element has to be perfect. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I can’t imagine even the most powerful magician being able to comprehend what we’ve done here, let alone succeeding to cross it.”

“That’s very good to know.” Graham’s eyes flickered open.

“You’ll be making the preparations, then?” Alan’s expression changed from intense admiration to bewilderment in a heartbeat.

“That’s it, love. The preparations are made. You’re safe,” Alan reassured him.

“Not the spell,” Graham said. “You.”

“I’m not following,” Alan stated, honestly.

“Don’t be thick. I want
you
safe.” A smirk threatened to grace Graham’s lips. “You’ll be moving in, of course.”

“I –,” Alan began. “What?”

“You. Will be moving in. With me.” Graham grinned whole-heartedly now. “This place is safe, and I want you to be safe as well. So it stands to reason that
you
,” Graham placed his hand on Alan’s chest, “will be moving in with
me
in the safe place.” Alan’s eyes grew wide but he offered no response.

Graham continued, “I love you. I refuse to lose you.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You say, ‘Yes.’ It’s easy. Try it,” Graham smiled radiantly, enjoying this exchange entirely too much.

Alan opened his mouth to protest, to tell Graham he could protect himself. He’d say he didn’t need to live in the safe spot.

He closed his mouth. Graham watched his brows knit, knowing that he desperately tried to formulate an argument. Finally, failing miserably, he said, simply, “Yes.” Alan returned Graham’s smile and pulled him into a warm embrace.

They kissed beneath the walnut. The physical manifestation of the spell had vanished, but Graham could still hear the hum of the energy, like a soothing lullaby guarding against night terrors.

Together, they’d made something powerful. Special. And while neither knew what to expect in the years to come, both knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that they would face it together.