Beneath the Tree

Written by: Elliot (25-U1)

Designed by: Elliot (25-U1) and Avelyn (25-A2)

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The date was a few years after 2008, if he had to estimate — the woods tend to lack calendars — and the snow had finally reached his waist. In the city, this would be surreal; but the crisis had stripped his portfolio of any valuable assets, and by the time he decided to leave, the company was beginning layoffs.

The idea was simple. A house in the woods, fully furnished and self-sufficient. The survival books for this — trapping, fishing, cooking, cleaning game — had stayed in his library for moments like this. He had thus read them and memorised them, and committed himself to the long walk out of the rurals. A cabin would be built once far enough from any laws, zoning guidelines, or other mildly inconvenient barriers. This was the case: the escape was foolproof.

This was all assuming that snow is not stubborn. Snow is. It reaches into boots and pulls out the toes. If it feels playful, it nips you on the chest before it goes, heart half-beating. That night, it had taken his pistol off of him in a flirty gesture; he could’ve sworn the wind had spoken something sweet into the left ear. He felt where an ear was most probable to be, just to check.

“Damn it.” No ear. That was a shame: his earmuffs would only work on one ear now. That said, the earmuffs were gone, too. He was clad, he felt with his free hand, in the remnants of a parka and scarf. The hiking boots would have counted, if there were no snow in them.

Or around them. The snow at his waist was seeping through the fabric, and he was beginning to feel his legs go numb. Wolves would find him then. Maybe they would race to catch him before he fell. “Hello?” he called. They were still getting ready for the game. “Hello?” he called again. They were setting ground rules for the game. A howl sounded in the pines nearby. “Right.” He waded a little further, feeling about in the dark.

A branch snapped somewhere. That was because there was a bear in the tree. This is likely not a realistic judgement — he is mildly dehydrated from forest trekking, after all, and he’s likely not thinking clearly — but the branch sounded thick and large and only a bear could have broken it. The logical course of action was to flail about in the snow like a dying fish. This he did. He flung himself here and there for a time before he laid down, contemplating if a bear could reasonably be in a tree. He concluded it was a very small, but still very heavy (he’d call it fat; would that be offensive?) bear.

That would be it. There was a bear in the trees and wolves around the corner. No gun was in his pack; no pack was on his back; and he’d unfortunately misplaced his left ear, so listening for anything was slightly more challenging than normal. Clambering out of the snow he laid himself out, out of breath, atop it, and dragged himself to a fir tree. There he sighed and waited for the wolves to close in. He took his boot off; there was a pebble in the sock.

“Well.” Quickly he put the sock back on. The pebble was still inside. He took it off and checked again. No pebble.

“Where in…?” There was no pebble in the sock. There was, however, a minor issue with the boot, in that the sole had been pierced by a flintstone. He flung the boot aside, coughing. “This cabinbuilding business was meant to be easy.” So, one boot, one ear, one pistol, one pack less, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

For a moment, it felt suspended — the wait was always happening. He didn’t notice he was asleep until the rustle.

The fir had, he realised, grown quite much overnight. Somehow the branches, which just barely sheltered his person from the snow, had twirled and wound about themselves into a quaint tent-like thing. The wind, angry as it was, could do nothing but whisper through the cracks. “Whoa.”

He’d stand up, but his legs were quite committed to staying useless. He decided looking around was the better option. At his feet, hugging the bootless foot, lay the roots of the fir, winding about the ankle in a neat knot. The root tightened its grip slightly as he watched. Overhead, too, were the pinecones, glowing — so perhaps the dehydration had gotten more severe while he slept — like suffused warm baubles. The tree leaned onto him, as he leaned onto it; the wind outside was voiceless; the world had become a quiet place, encased in the boot, the branch, the root at his ankle, the light, what the tree let be.

“What kind of bear did this?” The tree did not answer. He halted for a moment — no answer.

He smiled. There was no problem with wolves, then. The tree-tent offered a good enough hideout for a night. The pinecones, too, seemed warm somehow. Even if they were hallucinations, they were better than nothing. “Yeah.” The snow was cleared just enough to lie on the brush; it was piled beside the boot. “This works.” It did. “Yeah.”

***

Dawn came faster than expected. With it came the prospect of a less treacherous hike; and hopefully, he thought, the prospect of finding a place to build the cabin. “Right.”

The plan was still simple, he thought, snacking on a cookie. (There were two he’d found in his parka’s pockets.) Why they weren’t in his now-lost pack, he wasn’t sure. He was sure, though, that they were edible, if dry and not a little too herbal in taste for his liking. He popped one into his mouth as he pondered.

Landmarks were hard to find in the area, and one could only hope to find another. Protection from the wind was a joy to have, if he wanted to not die of gangrene for the foreseeable future. The tree was now useful. “Thanks,” he wheezed, patting the branches—and he coughed. The roots clenched and withdrew from his ankle; he collapsed to the snow, legs buckling. The tree’s glowing pinecones still did not fade, only glowed brighter, warmer.

“Right. You need fuel.” Any good light and heat source did. He nodded. So then the tree — glowing pinecones and all, which was evidently not quite a hallucination — might have to be stayed near to. The fuel was, by comparison of firewood or sticks, simple to get. “Okay.” He wiggled his toes, feeling where the bootless foot was wet from walking on snow. The cabin, if he had made it by then, would have a nice, dry flooring to stand on. Until then, flooring in the fir branches might have had to do. He took the unusable boot and laid it before the fir.

”You stay there, and, uh…” He contemplated for a moment. Big game was out of the question; he had to find rabbits, or other small things. “…Thank you. Really.”

He hugged the fir. “Thank you.”

The rabbit (or other small game-creature-thing) would be hunted; right after he placed the second cookie in the boot. It was only fair for the tree.