As The Old Pine Fell

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3989 words.

About the tree

It stood near the top of the hill that children sleigh down when snow falls, an old pine with the wound from a rope on its broadest branch - its presence cast a shadow on the village below and splintered the sun as it rose.


Read about the wound on the branch
Reach about some boys playing near the pine (continue story)

                               
The boys with the kite

The kite lands on a greedy patch near the old pine, where the ground soaks up rainwater it doesn’t need, only to spew it out as they run over it again and again. Amin gets there first and picks it up from the mud.
         “Let’s go again,” he pants and holds it up to Abraham, who brushes off the wet mould with the sleeve of his coat.
         “It’s no good.  The wind isn’t right. It tugs and tears in all the wrong ways, won’t let it soar” Abraham says, scraping away more mud with his fingernails. “Besides, you held it upside down. Don’t you know anything?”
         “Teach me how,” Amin touches the kite, but pulls back his hand when Abraham flicks mud at it.
         “We should head back,” Abraham replies. He looks down at the kite, a pair of sticks with the bark taken off and the ends cut with a knife, tied together with a string so that they form the shape of the cross atop the steeple - the fabric draped over it looks worn, as though torn from a dress that no longer fit.
         “This kite is too old and scrawny. Look,” Abraham pokes a finger through a hole in the fabric, widening it.
         “Stop!” Amin shrieks. “It doesn’t belong to you. Mr Grumpy will be upset if you tear his kite.”
         “That’s not his name,” Abraham chuckles.
         “But Abe, you said…” Amin rubs the side of his left eye with the hand that his friend flung mud at. A bit of mud clings to his skin and makes it nearly the same tone as his eyes. “Teach me to fly the kite.”
         “Alright, I’ll teach you. But if we can’t make it fly this time, we’re going home. Okay?” Abe wets a finger, leans down and begins to clean the mud off Amin’s face.
         “Okay,” Amin smiles.

Read about the kite
Read about how the boys got the kite (continue story)

To borrow a kite

Abraham crouched by the rail fence, peeked through the gaps to see the doorway.
         “Get your head down, idiot!” he hissed at Amin, whose grin faded somewhat as he got down on his knees next to Abraham. 
         Some segments of the fence had fallen over - the pieces lay stacked in or near the gaps they had left, as though this alone would deter - and rot appeared to have gotten to the other. But this fence had already outlived its purpose, as the wandering cattle it had been built to keep away - from the daffodils in their beds, the White Wisteria which held onto the side of the house and the annual sunflowers which began their life in wet cotton on a windowsill overlooking the garden before being moved outside - were sent to slaughter when the nearby farm went bankrupt after the owner got into debt before either of them were born.
         They heard the hinges of the front door resist being opened, as though the house itself wished to keep the old man inside, where it was warm. But the man got outside. He paused for a moment to wrap a scarf around his neck and cast a glance in their direction - they ducked behind the fence - before heading down the street which led away from them; Amin thought he saw the man smile.
         Abraham leapt over the fence and began to walk towards the shed tucked away in a corner of the garden, but paused half-way across the lawn to wait for Amin to get over the fence and join him, so they could open the door together. A slab of greening wood slid through some meal hoops, held the door shut.  Abraham knocked the slab out of its place so that it fell on the stone tiles which led to the house. The door hugged the grass and tiles as he pulled it open.
         “Won’t he be mad?” Amin whispered.
         “It’ll be fine. I heard father say he hasn’t played with it since his son left.” Abraham did not turn to look at Amin as he spoke.
         “Son?” Amin stared at the back of Abraham’s head and noticed that his mother had cut some patches shorter than the others.
         Abraham stepped into the dark without replying. Amin went after him.

The inside of the shed was lighter than Amin expected. Sunlight leaked in through gaps in the wood, a collapsed part of the ceiling and the open door. Abraham rummaged through a box in the corner. An old football jersey fell out. Amin picked it up and turned it over. ‘SAM’ had been spelt out in capital letters along with the number eight. It looked like it might fit him, but Amin folded it - like his mother did on weekends when she got time off work - and placed it on a wooden shelf that took up the entire left wall of the shed.
         “Help me look for it,” Abe put the box back and got started on another.
         Amin dropped to his knees and pulled out a cardboard box. A date became visible as he swept off the dust with the palm of his right hand, but time had worn its life away. He removed the lid and stared at the fabric stretched out atop clumpy objects which dented it. Amin reached in to feel its texture: soft, patchy in places and stained by a caked crimson mass.
         “Oh, you found it,” Abraham said. He grabbed the kite.
         “Let’s go before he gets back,” Abraham moved towards the door.

As they crossed the fence a second time, they saw the old man come down the road with a newspaper and a brown paper bag from the corner store in his hands.

Read about the old man’s son
Read about the old man (continue story)


An old man

Winston tears at the paper bag he bought down at the corner store. It opens up, just wide enough to pour a handful of filberts onto the mouldy windowsill. He left the window slightly ajar this morning, but makes sure to check that the wind has not blown it shut before settling down with the newspaper which had the least depressing front-page. A pot falls from the neighbour’s row of plants and smashes against the uneven tiles below. What awful wind.

Read about the boys flying the kite (continue story)


Flying the kite

“Hold it like this,” Abe guides each of Amin’s fingers with his own, sticks them to parts of the kite as he would tacks on a cork board.
         A squirrel stops to stare at them from halfway up the pine, and then moves up the trunk in four leaps with a pinecone in its mouth, disappearing behind the pine needles.
         “Do you want me to hold the kite this time, so that you can fly it?” Abraham asks.
         Amin nods.
         “But you mustn’t let go of the string, and pay attention to the wind so that you don’t lose control of the kite, okay?”
         Amin runs down the hill - soggy, slippery and uneven - a shoe comes undone and falls off. His sock absorbs cold mud through the mends. It tickles.
         “You’re doing it. You’re doing it! Amin, you’re flying the kite!” Abraham yells after him.
         The bare sock leaves marks on the ground behind him. Amin cannot see this, but feels the imprint being made as he leaps over a clump on the ground - a gust of wind tears at the kite - and stumbles, slips, falls flat and lets the string slip out of his hand.
         The kite lands in the pine tree, which stands on its own a ways from the forest, and becomes stuck, with the string out of reach from the ground. Amin gets to his feet as Abraham comes running.


Amin! Are you alright?” Abraham asks, the pitch of his voice higher his than normal.
         “I’m OK” Amin stands still as Abraham picks bits of grass out of his hair, which now looks nothing like the poster on the barber’s wall that he chose from, a week ago. “My shoe fell off,” he wiggles his toes.
         “You’re a klutz,” Abraham complains, but he gets the shoe for Amin and helps the younger boy tie the laces.

Read about the boys climbing the pine (continue story)


Climbing the pine

“Climb up and get it,” Abe points to the pine.
         “But it’s high” Amin says.
         “Tall” Abe corrects.
         “I don’t like heights”
         “Don’t be a baby”
         “What if I fall?”
         “I’ll catch you”
         “Can’t you..?”          
         “No.” Abraham avoids Amin’s pleading eyes. “You were the one who couldn’t hold on to it.”
         “I...”  Amin looks from the tree to his friend.
         “Don’t worry. I’ll catch you.”

Amin grabs the branch nearest the ground and pulls himself up with the help of a push from Abe. He begins to crawl away from the trunk so that he can reach a branch higher up and climb up to the kite, which Amin sees lodged among the needles far above. The bark is wet and parts of it smoulder and dirty his hands.  He is about to reach for the branch above when he notices a groove in the wood that look unnatural, as though carved, but not by a knife. Amin lets a finger trail the groove.
         A rope? Maybe a tire swing used to hang here. He sees Abe kick the grass below.
         Amin stands up on the branch, begins to lose his balance and - ignoring his hummingbird heart - grabs hold of a branch higher up that looks like it can hold his weight. It bends as Amin shifts his weight onto it.
         “What’s the hold-up?” Abe yells from below, “stop looking down and you’ll be fine”.
         Amin sways in tune with the wind as he drags himself along this thinner branch, towards the trunk of the tree. He holds around the trunk with both hands, but cannot make them meet on the other end. Amin looks up to where the kite is, tries to plot a route, then down at Abe, who waves in response. The thrashing wind makes the tree feel alive - when it lulls, Amin cannot decide whether it is the tree that shakes, or him. None of the other branches are close enough.
         “I can’t…” the wind drowns out his voice. The thought of falling makes his stomach curl.
         “Can’t you reach it?” Abraham responds
         “No,“ Amin stares at the kite. It is just out of reach. “Abe, I’m scared.”
         “Hold on. I’m coming up.” Abe says.

“Hold tight. I’ll get you down,” Abe comforts as he reaches Amin.  “Oh, but the kite is right there. Let me just go up and retrieve it, then we’ll climb down together, okay?”
         “Can’t we go down now?” Amin
         “We can’t just leave the kite here,” Abe flashes a smile to Amin and then begins to climb the path laid in his mind.
         Abe puts his right shoe in a hole in the trunk to reach a branch higher up. Amin thinks looks too thin to hold his weight. The branch bends under his weight, but doesn’t snap.  The kite lies on a bed of pine needles a stretch away from the trunk.
         “Urgh, the bark is wet - makes it hard to hold onto.” Abe edges towards the kite. 
         Abe tries to grab the kite - the branch cries - it is just out of reach. He gets to his knees and leans forward; Abe folds his fingers around the tail of the kite as something snaps.
         Amin shrieks as his friend falls - the arms flail like the paws of a cat about to splash into water - the body hits a part of the pine on the way down and goes limp as it disappears through the needles. A thump precedes the silence.

Amin slides down the trunk - his fear driven out by concern - and spots the old man near the bottom of the hill, coming towards them faster than men his age should. Amin kneels next to Abe, who groans and holds his right arm and seems not to notice the blood that trickles from his forehead. When the man reaches them, Amin becomes frightened, because the wrinkled face is contorted, as though angry or in pain.
         I hope he isn’t angry about the kite.
         But the man does not ask about the kite; he takes a brief look at Abraham’s injuries, and then turns to Amin.
         “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be alright. Now let’s get your friend to the doctor.” The man helps Abraham to his feet and wraps an arm around him for support. “Looks like you got a scrape on you too”.
         Amin looks down at his knee. It bleeds slightly, but doesn’t hurt. Amin picks up the kite and gets to his feet.
         “I’m Winston,” the man takes Amin’s hand; with the other he supports Abraham. They walk down the hill together. 

Read about the rope that once hung from the pine
Read about Winston before the accident
Read about what happens next (continue story)


A family

A noise by the window interrupts Winston’s grumbles about a sting of break-ins in a nearby town. Over the top of the newspaper, he spots a squirrel standing on the window sill, staring at him with some apprehension. Its tail stands up in the air like that of a scorpion poised to strike. Winston folds the paper so that his eyes are barely visible over the top and pretends to read. The squirrel sneaks closer, grabs the nearest filbert and retreats through the gap left for it.
         “Julia, come and see this. Your friends are back!” Winston calls for his wife. There is no response. He folds the newspaper and places it on the table next to the chair, puts his hands on the sides of the chair and is about to pull himself up as he remembers.
         Oh.
         Winston slumps back in the chair. His wet gaze drifts to a photograph of them over the sofa - sitting together, him with Sam on lap and an arm around Julia. Over the fireplace hangs another, of Sam in uniform - with an untrimmed beard and gold on his ring finger - kneeling beside his pale mother who lies in bed; Winston holds her hand, his smile worn by her decay. He closes his eyes.

Winston hears the patter of tiny feet on the roof tiles above - he opens his eyes - down the downspout and out the hole near the window. He gets up using the sides of the chair to compensate for the weariness of old age; the chair they bought together in a flea market decades ago has become V-shaped since his nurse found out that the money that paid for her services came out of his food-budget, and refused to come again. Claws begin to scrape against the outside of the window as he gets to the counter. The window is like he left it, open. But the cup is empty and lying on its side, with the shells of half a dozen filberts littering the windowsill. A squirrel sits on the portion of the windowsill that is outside, and a smaller squirrel hides next to the hole in the downspout. Up the hill in the background, he sees the boys play with the kite.
         What I wouldn’t do for another day under the pine.
         The squirrel scratches the window again.
         Impatient little bugger.
         Winston opens the nearest shelf and retrieves the brown paper bag and a handful of assorted nuts that he keeps there. He fills the cup, then steps away from the counter and watches the squirrels sneak up to the cup and begin to sort through it - the one that hid near the downspout waits as the other tries to get to a walnut near the bottom of the cup.
         Winston looks out the window just in time to see a boy fall from the tree and land on the ground below.

Read about Sam as an adult
Read about a day under the pine
Read about the boy who fell (continue story)


A day under the pine

Julia held her dress in place with one hand as the wind began to caress her legs. With the other she stroked the back of his hand. Winston shifted the basket she had prepared for the three of them, over to his right, and took her hand in his.
         “Damn” Winston slowed his pace and looked over at her.
         “Don’t worry, dear” Julia smiled as she pointed to the basket, “I brought the picnic blanket.”
         His laughter betrayed relief. Winston leant closer - she felt his reaction to her perfume
         “Eeew!” Sam grimaced at them from further up the hill.
         Julia took Winston’s hand and led him towards their son.
         “Let’s fly the kite,” Sam tugged at Winston’s free hand, trying to drag him towards the top of the hill.

Julia unfolded the blanket below the pine and began to unpack the basket while the boys ran around with the kite. Winston put the end of the string in his mouth and started running down the hill with the kite flying behind him; Sam chased after his father. As Julia laughed at their antics from under the pine, she spotted a squirrel with an oddly shaped ear. It leapt towards her through the tall grass. Julia reached into the basket - rummaged around without finding the paper bag.
         Winston forgot to buy nuts on his way home from work.
         She let out a sigh, but could not bring herself to anger: Winston had worked for the both of them since the recession took her job at the hospital away. The thought of his affection brought back a memory of them by the pine - before Sam - when her hand steadied his as he leant in with eyes closed, nearly missing.
         Julia reached into the basket again, taking out the bread she baked earlier. She broke off a piece, pinched it between her middle and index fingers and held it out to the squirrel she now recognized as Curly Ears. Curly Ears put a paw on Julia’s middle finger and grabbed the bread with her mouth. She ate the bread in front of Julia, who reached out a finger to stroke the squirrel.

Winston heard his wife cough - hard, so that she had to heave for air - it tore Sam’s laughter away and brought a lump to his throat as he turned and saw his wife’s shape slumped on the blanket, her dress stained by crimson.
         “Dad, what’s wrong with mummy?” Sam wailed.

This was the first the family has seen of the illness that would tear her away from them, bit by bit, over the years that lay ahead. As Winston took her in his arms and began to carry her briskly towards Dr Bind’s office, she felt his heart weep. But his face was stone - to keep them strong. Somehow, the kite ended up on her stomach, where she lay in his arms, and the blood seeped into the fabric.

Read more about the family
Read about some boys playing with the kite (go back to main story)


A letter

Sarah lets the mask slip off as she sits down in front of the typewriter - scrapes the chair against the hardwood floor to get closer. Her eyes fill with water as she opens the drawer and takes out the stack of letters Sam wrote her. The tears fall slowly at first - she unties the piece of string which holds the letters together and unfolds the top one - like a lake frozen in winter, resurrected by the breath of spring.
         “Sarah,” she wants to trail the curves left by his biro, as though a piece of his affection lies captured in each.
         “I write this from the outskirts of a metropolis whose oldest minaret fell today - our doing. Orders just came down: we’re to take the city back. Without that tower to help us navigate though, it’s going to be a nightmare making our way through those tiny streets.  We spent nearly three hours guarding the damn thing a month ago. I regret not sketching it back then. It had artwork that I wish you could’ve seen. We are waiting for a convoy to get here with more men and equipment.”
         She closes her eyes to conjure up the memory of his return; before he began tossing and turning in his sleep; before Winston held around Sam and told him in whispers that his mother had passed; when they met at the airport, where she kissed him and they both let their tears show when he promised to wed her that spring. But what comes instead, are his feet - how the autumn wind let them dangle from the pine, so like a dance that the growth inside her tummy would not let her join.

“Dad wrote that mum refuses to take her medication. Can you speak to her? Tell her that I miss her, but that I am here because she needs that medication - I can’t return until my tour is over. They should use the cheques I sent them to stock up on medication, because I don’t know where the money is going to come from after this. The convoy arrived just now. And there’s gunfire coming from the city. Have to go.”
         The letters are hurried and hard to read towards the end, except for the final sentence:
         “Love you.”


Read about the day when Sam found out about his mother’s illness


As the old pine fell

Winston’s slippers scrape towards the patch by the front door where Sam left wet boots that had stomped in puddles - hard and with bent knees so that the splash would lose to gravity right before his eyes. Where he shook off the snow and let it melt as his mother made him warm cocoa; the temperature was just right, because she would watch him from the kitchen window and put on the kettle when his snowballs no longer shook the glass pane of Dr Bind’s office - she took a sip to make sure. Winston steps into the moonlit street - still in his robe and slippers - and heads to the shed, where he grabs an axe.
         Its weight tugs at his arms and makes them feel stretched, as though the worn muscles are about to snap. As he wades through puddles, the slippers become like sticky film that grass and mud clings to, so that when they reach the place that his thoughts return to - stop beneath the pine - they are no longer the moccasins that his family gave him.
         Winston raises the axe. As he brings it down against the trunk, his vision begins to blur - soon he can no longer see the marks on the branch above, where a rope once hung. Moonlight dances on the blade and in the reflection he spots moving shapes; he sees the squirrels dart up the tree to escape the danger below. Winston frees the blade and lifts it to his shoulder, brings it down again.
         As the old pine falls, a man whose memories it held, drops to his knees and sobs.