A. T. Grant
I don't remember when the first tree fell, but I do remember the tree. A mid-size, mid-bloom dogwood halfway into the woods. A crack ripped from clear sky, to tree, into my ribs, and then back—ribs, tree, sky. Mouthful of pinkbloom, chestful of trunk, ears ring.
Ever since then trees have been falling. Japanese maple on my bike. White oak on my car. Holly on my house, and then another on the apartment after the house. Dutch elms and crab apples on sidewalks and streets, Birch in fields, into lakes and rivers. The blue spruce each Christmas when I worked in an office. At least one tree a day, every day, ever since that first dogwood.
That was why I moved from the country to the city, from the city to the desert, from the desert to the ocean. It's like they're drawn to me. Like my very presence pulls them toward me, whether for worship or attack I do not know. I flicker between feeling power and dread.
I left the desert because a freight truck with a load of timber toppled off the highway near my house, and all of the trees rolled right off. The last one rolled up against my front door, and when I opened the door, a path of trunks stretched out before me.
I packed up and made for the coast later that day. That was my last long walk—a scramble, really—through a strangely leveled wood.
Life on the water is fine. I sleep, have lots of dreams, and there is plenty of wind and salt. When I first arrived, it took some time to find a houseboat and set myself up in the harbor, pushed just a bit out into the water. But I found the cheapest and smallest houseboat I could, made a handshake deal to put down five thousand bucks, and then work off the rest giving tiny groups the tour of the coast.
It's not so bad. I miss the land, but there's the horizon. I miss the fields, but there's the sand. I miss the walks, but there are waves. A stillness that is always in motion.
And I think sometimes that maybe I will try land again. Maybe whatever magic fell on me has worked itself out by now. But then one day I bring a family from the Midwest back from a tour, Cheetos dust on their fingers and wind in their hair, and their four-year-old points her whole arm as three fan palms fall in the near corner of the parking lot.
"Mommy, wook!" she squeals.
"Hmm?" Her mother cocks her head and squints, then continues gathering their water bottles into her tote. "The wind must have blown them down."
I sigh as the boat rocks beneath me.
And then one night I have a dream that I am standing near a forest in a field that is open and bright, and in the middle of the field is a single tall cypress.
I am hunched down and watching the tree, holding my breath to stop the wind from blowing it down. I keep one eye on the tree and one eye on the forest in the distance.
The wind is still for a long time, but then a gust from the forest, and at its edge I see a man with knotty hair and rough-worn clothes. His walk is gentle breeze, and soon he is standing near the cypress. He looks at me, and then he climbs the cypress, just straight up to the top.
I almost shout "Be careful!" but clap a hand over my mouth for fear of a strong wind.
And now the wind is utterly still, and the man sits at the top of the tree. And now the man is smiling again as the tree begins to sway in the stillness. And now there is a great crack from the clear sky, and the tree is falling, is falling, is falling. And now the tree falls completely, and its impact drives the man deep into the heart of the earth.
I am running over to the fallen tree, and I am weeping. I am weeping, and the sun bears down where the man's body is planted. And there is weeping and sun for a thousand years. And from the place where the man was planted, a live oak grows, its branches wide and shady.
And there is still weeping and sun, but now there is also shade. The breeze blows cool. No other tree in the distant forest falls.
And in the dream, I fall asleep.
On my boat, I awake.
The morning of the dream, I wake to a fit of coughing, over and over until my eyes leak and my lungs are shreds of flame.
I stumble to the head for tissues and water, and that's when I notice. A yellow-green ash covers my face, my shoulders, chest, and arms: pollen. Pollen covers the mirror and sink, the floor and walls. I step out of the head and see pollen everywhere. Pollen covers my head, has worked into the toe of my shoes, clings to the windows, nooks, and everything else bow to stern, port to starboard.
Inside the cabin is the worst. I spend the better part of the day wiping out pollen, wondering where it came from, still stifling a cough.
As I finish wiping the last of the windows, I cough again and find my hand covered with pollen. Two sharp coughs more—a surprise I can't cover—and pollen sprays against the window.
I cough again and again, and the pollen is everywhere, once more draping each surface. The air in the cabin swirls with pollen. I cough and wheeze, eye water and lung shred, stumbling out onto the deck.
I rest my head on the deck and try to breathe, even as I wonder whether it would be better to quarantine myself in the cabin or move farther out to sea.
No, what happens is the morning of the dream, I wake to the sound of children calling and playing on the shore. I peer through the window, and there is the whole family waiting at the edge of the parking lot.
I can't tell where they are from. They have rough, brown skin and faces smooth as carved dolls. The woman and man are placid, sipping coffees from travel mugs. Their clothes are natural, scratchy. Their legs are rigid, but their hips sway gently as they watch their three little girls playing—almost blowing—between and around them.
The little girls are nearly identical to the parents—the same carved, apple cheeks. Their hair is long and windswept, despite the still morning air. They wear bright dresses—one green, one orange, one red.
The woman smiles and raises a hand when she notices me in the window. "We would like the tour!" she calls when I emerge from the cabin.
"Of course!" I call back. I excuse myself back into the cabin to collect myself for a few moments. From the head, I hear the children laughing, hear the boards creak as they dance and jump. When I emerge, the parents have not moved from their places.
"I'm sorry," I say when I emerge from the cabin and let them onto the boat. "I didn't realize I had a tour booked this early."
"We are in no hurry," the man says. He stretches his arms and scans the bright morning sea.
Their girls sweep across the deck and past their parents and me. "Your girls look so much like you both," I say.
"Yes," the woman says. "The apples did not fall far."
No, no, what happens is the morning of the dream, I wake to find a tree growing from the center of the boat.
At first I don't notice. I stumble blear-eyed past it on the way to the head. But then, toothbrush dangling from my foamy mouth, I see the trunk like a firepole cutting through the roof of the cabin.
The toothbrush drops, and I am running my hand along the bark, tracing its line from the floor and through the roof. I kneel and finger the dirt around its root: it definitely grows from the boat and not from below.
Sure enough.
I run outside and there, above the cabin, the trunk erupts with branches and leaves and fruits. A pear tree, full and vibrant, against the steady salt sun. A ripe pear thuds against the cabin roof as it drops. I pick it up and breathe in the soft and sweet and bright.
I begin to take a bite, but stop short.
What if this tree, too, falls?
But then the tree does not fall. And then the tree does not fall. And then it continues not falling, except it now and again drops some leaves and fruits. And I think where and how would this tree fall?
Before long, there are people lining up to see The Fruit Tree Boathouse. They crowd onto the boat, parents and children, young and old, all kinds from all corners.
They laugh with me.
"Can you believe it!" They clap and bounce.
"Do know how this happened?" They gasp.
"Look at this!" They shriek.
And I say, "I can't, I don't, I am."
Soon the tree is growing more than pears. There are apples and oranges, melons and kiwi, peaches, papayas, figs, and cherries. Adults and children eat the fruits, and the juice dribbles down their chins. Their shirts are stained with so much juice. The deck is sticky and sweet with juice.
Adults and children eat and dance and play around the tree. They swing their legs over the edge of the boat, laughing in its shade.
And the tree does not fall.
No, no, no.
What happens is on the morning of the dream, I wake up and I am that tree.