In the Garden of Man

By: Matthew Trifan

In the black swamp, there is a tree. A holy and golden tree.

An infinity of leaves, not a single one alike, rustle with life on the golden tree. In daylight, they sway like candle flames, lustrous and sacred. Melted honeydew transpires from their veins, collecting in rivulets and cascading quietly off their waxen tips. In the evening, they are as soft and luminescent as a drifting cloud of fireflies, shushed by lullaby winds. Then, too, the passion of a forgotten sun flashes outwards, like a reflection in rippling waters.

And every leaf on the tree breathes with life.

And every leaf is a life.

One hundred thousand branches to bridge the stems of the leaves. The water of life flows through these lines—through millions of thirsty stems; through feverish bodies hard at work. Without these branches, the leaves would die—for no leaf can survive alone, broken away from its brothers, fallen from the tree.

One thousand limbs to hold up the canopy, to draw in life from all corners. Each with its own grasp on the world. Each struggling to exist alone, apart—while undeniably chained to the same massive trunk.

The trunk. The pillar of the earth, the tower of the world, the column of life. It is the indisputable elixir of mortality, anchored deeply into the soil—soil which bears water, food, air, and all else needed for existence. The trunk eats and drinks from this soil, sometimes in gluttony, sometimes with negligence, sometimes with gentle care.

Here is the golden tree. Here is the only source of light in a forest of eternal darkness. Here is a stubborn hope in the face of despair.

There is nothing like it. There can be nothing like it.

For the tree is everything.

The boy and his mother and his father are lost in the woods. They have come a long way through the darkness of the forest, and they are tired, hungry, and cold.

The father is concerned about the approaching evening. He dreads the forest during the night, when all the Wild Things rip free from their chains and sate their hunger and their lust on wandering innocents. Salvation does not exist in the woods at night.

“ Come,” says the father. “ We must find some shelter. And wood for a fire.”

The mother exchanges a worried glance with him. “ There is nothing to burn,” she says quietly. “ Everything around us is rotting or dying. The wood is wet from the storm, and the brush is damp.”

“ We need to do something,” the father insists.

“ Papa, what about our flashlights?” asks the little boy. “ What about them? The Guide gave them to us.”

The father frowns. “ No. The flashlights were fine while we were on the trail, following the Guide. But we’re lost, and we need something more. We need fire…to keep the Wild Things—”

A frightened look from the mother stops him.

“ What do we need fire for, Papa?” the boy asks.

The mother puts her arms around the boy and hugs him fiercely to her, whispering in his ear. “ Warmth. It gets cold at night.”

“ Even if we find wood,” the father says, “ we’d never be able to start a fire. No matches. Nothing to use as flint. Not a single goddamn stone in this swamp.”

“ I wish the Guide had given us matches,” the mother says.

“ We didn’t think we’d need them back then,” the father replies. “ The Guide gave us everything we needed. But now we’re lost, and we need some matches and the Guide was too cruel or too stupid to give us any!”

“ Please don’t get mad, Papa,” the boy pleads. “ Maybe we’ll find some fire up ahead. The Guide said that we were very smart, remember?”

Brooding silently, the father presses forward, chopping a rugged trail through the marshland. His feet sink deep into the mud, each step resilient and angry. He blames the Guide for their predicament. If the Guide had paid better attention to them, they would not have lost their way.

In the father’s footsteps come the mother and the boy, holding hands. Both are exhausted from a long day of travel, and they lack the father’s fiery passion to fuel their journey.

Far off in the distant mountainside, where darkness had just stolen over the land, a chorus of inhuman screams burst from the ground—as if the earth had been ripped open, releasing the cries of the condemned in Hell.

The boy is terrified. “ Mama, what is that? What is that noise?”

“ Shhhh,” she says. “ Nothing, child. Nothing to worry about.”

“ Move faster,” says the father. “ Darkness is coming.

The boy begins to cry. He does not stop, even after the father comes back and hoists him on his shoulders. He does not stop as the distant howls become louder, and the mother’s breath quickens in terror, and the father begins to murmur fearfully under his breath. He does not stop as the father begins to run, clawing at branches and moss and spider webs, all of which scratch and slap at the boy’s face. He does not stop as the father begins to stagger and stumble, laboring under his weight in the quicksand mud.

“ Where is the Guide?” the mother asks, over and over. “ Where is the Guide? Why did he leave us?”

The father trips again, tumbling with the boy into the swamp’s oozing filth.

“ I can’t…” the father pants. “ I can’t…”

“ Why did he leave us?” the mother weeps. “ Why? Why?”

And all the time, the howling gets closer and closer—the Wild Things come racing through the shadows—and only a thin sliver of sunlight remains to stab down through the forest canopy. Soon there will be nothing but darkness.

And then…

The boy’s weeping comes to a sudden stop. He squints through eyes distorted by tears and caked with mud. Then he points.

“ Look!” he says.

Just thirty paces ahead towers a tree of unparalleled magnificence. Millions upon millions of leaves twinkle like a sea of golden stars—like a vast and endless sea of unimaginable depth, rocked by gentle waves of wind. The nighttime sky itself cannot be seen behind the amaranthine beauty of the tree’s canopy, but the air around the leaves glows with its own warm night light, and everything about it is brilliant, peaceful, and holy.

A finer place for weary travelers to rest has never existed. The tree’s gargantuan trunk, as wide as a house, has taken root on a soft, grassy knoll, high above the stagnant waters of the swamp. The sweet smell of prairie grass and fresh, rain-scented earth wafts down on a soothing breeze. The tree’s roots twist to form cozy nests around the cushioned tufts of grass.

The family trudges up the slope to the base of the tree. First the boy climbs over the roots, then the mother, then the father. Together, they settle down in a sheltered pocket near the tree. When the warm breeze sweeps down from the golden leaves, the boy and the mother fall into an exhausted sleep.

The father remains awake long enough to peek over the roots—out towards the forest, where he can see the hungry red eyes of the Wild Things, gathering in the shadows around the fringes of the tree’s light.

“ They cannot come here,” says the father.

And without pausing to marvel at the tree’s glorious light; without stopping to wonder why the wild things could not encroach on this little island; without even thinking about the Guide’s failures and empty promises—the father drifts off into tranquil dreams.

When the family awakens, the Green Salesman is perched on one of the higher roots, charming the world with a toothy smile. He is a sprightly fellow, short and red-haired and freckled, with a golden tooth and the mischievous Irish twinkle in his eyes. Both hands are fidgeting with his green suit—a three piece, velvet pinstripe with a gold tie disappearing into a silken vest. His shoes are black and spotless, without as much as a trace of mud.

He is an anomaly, but he is there—and though he is indifferent toward the wondrous tree trunk, his eyes drift up frequently and longingly at the golden leaves.

He grins. “ Mornin’ to ya.”

“ Good morning,” says the father.

“ Ya folks come through the swamp, aye?”

The father nods. “ We certainly did. Last night. We nearly…well, yes, we came in last night. Thought we’d rest here for a while.”

“ Oh! Yes, man!” the Green Salesman prances to another root. “ An excellent place to rest, I must say!” He turns his smile in a new direction. “ And how are you, ma’am?”

Smiling weakly, the mother mutters something about being well. She is smitten by this charming stranger.

“ Tis a magnificent place,” said the Green Salesman. “ And such a tree! Aye, what a tree! Look at those strong, supple limbs, reachin’ up to the gods themselves. Look at those roots piercin’ the earth, maybe a thousand feet down! Aye, look how the dew drips from the leaves like melted gold!”

The Green Salesman grins at the mother and the father. Charming. Inviting. Winning. They begin to see the tree in a new light.

“ Aye…” the Green Salesman mutters. “ Aye…yer lookin’ at a new wonder of the world. I’d be a fool to say anything like this exists anywhere else on God’s green earth. You’ve stumbled on a wonder, I’d say. A true, gold-blooded wonder.”

The father rubs his face slowly. “ I hadn’t realized last night,” he admits, “ just what we were sleeping under. Do you really think it’s unique?”

The little boy stirs, uncomfortable with this discussion, uneasy from the demeanor of the Green Salesman. He sees nothing but cruelty and empty promises on the man’s clever face.

“ Is it valuable?” the mother asks, breathlessly glancing from the tree to the Green Salesman.

The Green Salesman lets out a deep, sonorous chuckle. “ Why, a tree like this? This tree here? Aye, I’d say so! I happen to deal in rarities—an old hobby o’ mine. I’ve seen some precious things in my life. Aye, this tree would certainly fetch a pretty penny. One o’ those great limbs alone, such fine, sturdy wood, would bring in a fortune.”

“ Do you think so?” asks the father.

“ Aye,” says the Green Salesman. “ I am a connoisseur of odds and ends, my friends. I’ve made a couple o’ fortunes in my day. I take a deep pleasure in making a lotta folks a lotta money, ya see? You let me barter some of this tree, who knows what I could scrap up? A small fortune, no doubt.”

“ Papa, please don’t hurt the tree,” says the boy. “ Don’t hurt it.”

The father looks down at the boy.

“ We’ve traveled a long way, son,” he says. “ We could use some money to help us get home.”

“ Yes,” the mother quickly chimes in. “ We’ve always needed the money. Let’s chop off one of those limbs.”

The Green Salesman continues to grin. From his well-tailored suit, he produces a small, sharpened ax, hidden near his breast for just this occasion. He hands it to the father with a nod.

The father holds the ax, looking down at it uncertainly. He glances at the boy, who is clearly distressed by the blade, and then looks back at the Green Salesman.

“ You know,” says the father. “ The tree really isn’t ours to give. We found it here. We have no right to cut it down.”

The Green Salesman is smooth, persuasive. “ Ya got every right to cut it down. Mankind’s been choppin’ down the woodland for years an’ years, haven’t they? And somethin’ like this—somethin’ so special an’ holy—who’s to say it’s got no value to the world? Think of it. They cut up plants an’ roots to make cures for all sorts o’ maladies. What’s to say that this tree here doesn’t hold the cure to some terrible ailment, eh?”

“ Yes,” says the mother. “ Yes, that makes sense. We’ll do it for everyone else. We’re helping others by doing this.”

“ We shouldn’t try to profit at the expense of others,” says the father, his voice disowning the words even as they came out.

“ Why not?” says the Green Salesman. “ What about all the doctors in the world? They make their livin’ helpin’ others, and they earn a lot for it. This is the way the world runs. A man needs money to take care of his family, his wee children, his children’s children… If we could all lend a helpin’ hand and expect the same in return, why, we wouldn’t be needin’ any money, would we? But that’s not our world, is it?”

“ He’s right,” the wife says. “ He’s absolutely right. You have to think of your family. Cut the tree.”

The boy begins to cry. “ Please, papa! Don’t hurt it.”

For the first time, the Green Salesman takes notice of the little boy. His grin falters—only for the flash of a second—and then he is down on the ground, kneeling in front of the boy. He pulls a red lollipop from his pocket and offers it to the boy.

“ Do you like cherry, laddie?” he asks.

The boy’s sobs subside. He nods, slowly and reaches out for the treat.

The Green Salesman holds back the lollipop. He says, “ This tasty little treat is all yours laddie, but you have to let your momma and pappa worry ‘bout the tree themselves, alright? No more cryin’.” He leans in very close and whispers, “ Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understan’. You’ll understan’ that money means everythin.’”

The boy backs away. He doesn’t want the lollipop.

“ Alright,” the mother says. “ Let’s cut down the branch.”

Without another word, the father takes the ax and begins to chop down the branches. One, two, three hefty branches, all come down. Golden sap runs down the father’s arms like the blood of angels.

With each stroke of the ax, the tree shudders in pain, the boy flinches, the Green Salesman smiles—wider and wider.

“ Here,” the father says, breathing heavily. He passes an armload of branches to the Green Salesman. The leaves have already lost some of their lustrous color.

“ Excellent!” the Green Salesman nods vigorously. “ Money for this! I’ll bring it right back, as soon as I fetch a profit. Don’t you worry ‘bout nothin’! Lotta people put their trust in me. They shouldn’t, but they do.”

He begins to waddle down the hill and towards the woods, whistling a sprightly tune all the way.

“ Wait!” the mother shouts. “ Where will you go? Do you know the way out?”

The Green Salesman peers over his shoulder. “ Aye, ma’am. But the way I’m goin,’ you won’t want to be comin’. I take the long road.”

“ I’ll go with you,” the mother says quickly.

The little boy immediately stiffens. “ No!”

“ Yes,” says the mother, her eyes distant. “ I should go with him. To make sure…I’ll bring back help.”

The father rubs his chin. “ I don’t know about that. I ought to go instead.”

“ No,” the mother says, and her voice is desperate, almost pleading. “ I’m going to go.”

And with that, she runs down the hill. Taking the Green Salesman by the elbow, she wanders off with him. She does not say goodbye to her husband, or her son. Her eyes are cold and unfeeling, and her head is filled with dreams of wealth.

The father tries to call to her, but she is gone. The Green Salesman is gone. There is only the forest.

Back at the tree, the little boy puts his fingers in the bleeding stumps of the tree and pulls them away, sticky with sap. He looks for his mother, then at the tree. And he begins to cry.

Another day passes. There is no sign of the mother. The boy and his father are hungry, though their thirst is quenched by the sweet dew running from the leaves of the tree.

“ Papa, what can we eat?” the boy asks.

The father sighs. “ I don’t know. Just look at this tree, though. If I didn’t know better, it looks like it’s just ready to burst into bloom. I can’t see any buds or fruit, but I just feel like…”

He trails off. The tree looks a little less glamorous today. Maybe it is a trick with the cloudy skies, but the leaves have lost a little bit of their sheen, and the limbs have begun to sag.

“ You hurt the tree yesterday,” the boy says.

“ Yes,” the father concedes. “ Yes I did. I hope it was worth it.”

By and large, the day begins to pass. The father and the boy rest in the shade of the tree, comfortable but for their hunger. They have no choice but to wait.

As evening begins to descend, the boy sees someone coming through the woods. He stands up and points excitedly.

The Red General emerges from the woods, dressed in a crimson military uniform, immaculately clean and well pressed. On his head is a beret, angled down to cover his finely-cropped silver hair. He has a black eye-patch over his left eye, but his right is alert, cold, and calculating.

“ You there!” he calls out in a crisp, British accent. “ Where the bloody hell am I?”

“ I’m afraid I don’t know,” the father replies. “ We came this way ourselves, just a few days ago. The swamp is too thick to keep pressing through.”

The Red General approaches, his back so ramrod-straight that it is almost painful to watch him move.

“ You have no idea where you are?” asks the Red General.

“ No,” the father says.

The Red General scowls fiercely. “ Bloody hell. Trapped in hostile territory. No bloody coordinates. And those things out there!”

Quickly, the father reaches out to touch the boy. It is meant to be an act of reassurance, but the boy feels the electric fear flooding out of his father. He is not reassured.

“ They…haven’t come close. We’re safe here,” the father says, quietly.

“ Haven’t they?” The Red General speaks absentmindedly, his good eye roaming thoughtfully up and down the golden tree.

He straightens and shakes his head. “ Well, they will. I had two men with me, and the Wild Things got them. Tore them apart.”

“ Please,” the father begs, “not in front of my son.”

“ Hmph! He’s got to learn sometime, hasn’t he?”

“ He’s only a child.”

“ You think that means anything to the Reaper? Know thy enemy, man! It’s the first thing a boy should be taught. Isn’t the Reaper the greatest of enemies? It damned well is, man! Whether you’re a priest, mother, or child, Death is always your enemy. Teach the boy a bloody thing or two about Death, man!”

“ What should I do?” the father asks meekly.

“ Weapons,” says the Red General. “ Weapons! Look at those strong, supple limbs on that tree—better than the bloody rotten logs in the swamp, in any case. We can sharpen them into spears.”

The boy’s eyes grow wide. “ Don’t hurt the tree, papa. They can’t come here, remember? We’re safe here.”

The Red General fixes the father with a calculating stare. He speaks with slow, cold passion. “ You don’t know a thing about them—the Wild Things. Nightmarish, ghastly beasts. They sit in the shadows, and they watch you, night after night. You let your guard down one evening, and you wake up with their teeth around your throat. Come on, man! You want to put your trust in that… tree? They’ll devour you.”

Hesitantly, the father says, “ The tree has kept them away…”

“ It’s almost evening,” interrupts the Red General. “ You’re going to risk your life, and your son’s, on that tree? Don’t be a bloody fool! Arm yourself, man! One can never be too ready for war.”

“ Papa, no!” pleads the little boy.

“ He’s right, son,” says the father. “ We’ve been lucky so far, but I won’t put our lives in danger. When they come, we’ve got to be ready.”

For a quick moment, the Red General’s cruel lips curve back with satisfaction. Then he licks his chops with a leathery tongue and snaps his head in confirmation. Reaching down to his polished black boots, he unstraps a 7-inch commando blade and caresses the metal edge.

“ Don’t waste another minute,” he orders. “Break off the most slender branches, and we’ll whittle them into points.” He barks with laughter. “ We’ll teach those bloody beasts! Yes, man!”

Wordlessly, the two men labor for the next two hours. The boy sits off to the side, his arms wrapped around his knees and his head bowed down. He rocks himself quietly, filled with despair over the fate of the suffering tree.

At last, the sun disappears in its entirety, leaving only the heavenly light of the tree to pierce through the shroud of nighttime. Much of the luster and brilliance from the night before has vanished from the tree. The swamp seems to creep up closer all around them, rotting the soil that had once been fresh and green.

Red eyes glow in the darkness around them. These are the Wild Things that have slipped out of the crevices of hell to haunt the world above. They gnash their teeth and howl at one another, louder tonight than before. They sense a new presence around the tree.

“ Steady now, man!” the Red General whispers.

The three of them have entrenched themselves in a natural foxhole, created by the thick, twisting roots of the tree. Over the breastwork, they have laid out a line of sharpened poles, some firmly jutting out, others within easy grasp.

An hour passes. The boy feels his eyes grow heavy. The warmness of the tree caresses him into a drowsy state. Through the haze of dreams, he can hear the Red General, talking quietly through gritted teeth.

“ Any minute now. You bloody bastards. You worthless bastards. Come on. Steady, man! Any minute now, you’ll see…”

The boy awakens at dawn, and the Red General is gone. His father is slumped against the edge of the foxhole, his eyes bleary and red with fatigue. His hands are gripped around a sharpened pole.

“ He left,” the father mutters. “ He left, in the middle of the night. Couldn’t wait any longer. I don’t know if he made it very far.”

The boy says nothing.

“ I need to sleep,” the father says. “ It’s dawn; we’re safe. I need to rest.”

“ Go ahead, papa,” the boy tells him.

Without another word, the father shifts his weight, laying his head against a mound of earth, and closes his eyes. Within minutes, he is deep asleep, but his dreams are not pleasant. He twitches and murmurs to himself.

Concerned, the boy shakes him awake.

“ You were having a bad dream, papa.”

“ Let me sleep, son. I need sleep.”

“ But—”

“ Wake me up when it’s getting dark. Okay?”

“ Okay.”

And he is gone again, fast asleep. The boy watches him a minute more, than stands up and walks to the tree.

The tree is hurting. Open, bleeding sores now occupy the spaces where limbs had once been. And from these wounds drip the golden honey blood of the tree, a slow and steady stream down the brittle trunk. Already some of the earlier damage—the sacrifice for the Green Salesman—has begun to clot and heal. That was, after all, the nature of the tree. It would survive any hardships that came its way.

“ I’m hungry,” the boy says to the tree. “ When will you make me fruit?”

The tree rustles in the wind, singing a hushed lullaby to him. There is pain in the sound of this song—the pain of loss. But there is also a remarkable strength and beauty in the earthly melody, too.

For the remainder of the day, the boy sits beneath the tree, waiting for darkness, waiting for his mother to return, waiting for…anything that would come.

As the sun slowly begins to set, and the howls of the Wild Things rise up from their nightly caves, there comes the sound of a large beast, pushing through the undergrowth. The snorting and panting is gentle, nothing to be frightened of.

The minutes pass, and suddenly, with a flare of brilliance, a stallion emerges from the woods. It is a magnificent specimen, completely white and unblemished, the color of sand on some faraway island in the tropics. It is heavenly and radiant.

Riding without a saddle on its back is the White Prophet, a proud and kindly figure with a snowy beard drifting down to his waist. His face is a wizened and wrinkled mask of benevolence, concealed behind a wispy beard and bushy eyebrows. In his right hand is a well-polished, wooden staff. Beyond that, he has little else to distinguish himself. The cloak that he wears, though resplendently white, carries no sign of wealth or distinction.

His noisy approach awakens the father.

“ Who are you?” the father asks.

The White Prophet peers down at the man momentarily. Then, in a deep, rumbling voice, he says, “ I am he that was delivered for your deliverance. I am the keeper of keepers, the voice of faith, the mystery of life. I am the road upon which all must tread, whether to paradise or death.”

“ Why have you come?”

“ I have come to offer you a chance.”

“ A chance? For what?”

“ A chance to find your heart’s desire. I offer you everything you yearn for, and

then much more.”

The father is hesitant. “ What would you ask in return of me?”

“ Only that you follow me,” says the White Prophet. “ Leave this world behind. Leave your child. Leave the tree. Come with me to the Lake, and I will bring you to a land teeming with the feasts of feasts. There you shall find bread and meat, with water pure from the Lake itself.”

Suddenly, the father remembers his hunger. He is famished and weary from sleeping in the dirt beneath the tree.

“ You would have me leave the boy behind?” he asks.

“ You must leave him,” says the White Prophet. “ You must leave everything you hold dear. You must trust in me completely. Only then can I lead you to the Lake, where you shall drink pure water for all time.”

“ Why can I not bring the boy?” the father persists. “ Surely there is food and room for him, too.”

The White Prophet turns to look at the boy, who gazes back with wide, frightened eyes.

“ The boy will not follow me,” the White Prophet says. “ His love for the tree surpasses his love for me. He cannot walk where I shall tread.”

“ Papa, please,” the boy whimpers. “ Don’t leave me.”

But the father cannot hear him. He is consumed by the aura of this majestic stranger, the White Prophet, whose gentle eyes wash over his face and smile into his soul. After such difficult trials and tribulations, the promise of Lake appeals greatly to him. He understands that he must place his complete trust in this man, to risk everything and to abandon the tree.

I have come to offer you a chance.

A chance—an opportunity, or a gamble?

“ Papa!” the boy begs. “ Please, don’t go. We’re safe here, by the tree. There will be fruit soon. We can eat. Papa!”

The White Prophet bestows a sincere smile on the father. “ For my mercy, you must sacrifice—your life, your dreams, your son. If you do not trust in me, you will never reach the Lake.”

The father is enraptured. “ I trust, and I will follow.”

“ Very well,” replies the White Prophet. “ Very well, then.”

And so the father left the boy, crying and alone, in order to grasp at the chance offered to him. But once he was in the dark woods, beyond the realm of the golden tree, the White Prophet threw back his cloak and blinded him with brilliant light, so that he was struck utterly blind. All that he could see was brightness, in the center of which was the hazy face of the White Prophet.

“ Behold!” said the Prophet. “ You need no longer see any thing but my face. You will forget what the Tree ever looked like. You will forget the shimmering golden leaves that caught the sun like holy flames. You will forget your wife’s kiss and your son’s laughter.”

And when he spoke these words, the father was struck deaf.

“ Behold! You need not hear anything but my voice,” said the White Prophet. “ You will forget the music of the Tree, the rustle of its leaves, the gentle sigh of its limbs. You need hear nothing except my call.”

And then the father was struck mute, so that he could not speak.

“ Behold!” said the White Prophet. “ You need not speak of anything except of me. You shall ask only of the Lake, and nothing else. You will never speak of the Tree, or your wife, or your son, again.”

And so the father chased frantically after the White Prophet, always in fear of losing him in the darkness. His days were consumed with terror—terror that the White Prophet would leave him, should he do anything to displease him.

And he wandered blind and deaf and dumb for the rest of his days. He forgot about the wonders of the Tree, and hoped only for the waters of the Lake.

And when, at last, the thirst became too much, he lay down to die. For the White Prophet was gone—perhaps he had never been real—and the father would die alone, always longing for the Lake that was not there. He had been offered a chance, but with it, he had gambled away all the happiness he could have ever known. The happiness that could have been with the tree. The tree that was very real. The tree that had given so much.

Now the boy is without a mother, without a father. He does not think that they will ever come back for him. He doubts that they will even remember him. He wonders what will happen to him.

Another day has passed since the father has left, and the boy is weak with hunger. He rests at the base of the tree to conserve what little strength remains in him. When he is thirsty, he drinks the sweet honey from the leaves, but his body still craves the nourishment of real food.

At night, he curls close to the trunk, letting its warmth wash over him. The night-song of the tree drown out the cries of the Wild Things, though he senses that they are drawing ever closer, pushing the boundaries of this sacred place. He does not think that he will live long enough to fear their danger.

Another day passes, bringing an unusually chilly evening with it. The boy is shaking, frail and feverish. His hope that the tree will bear fruit is waning. He begins to wonder if the tree has ever born anything.

He is dying.

In his sickness, he drifts in and out of dreams. It is nighttime, and the coldness steals around him, and the Wild Things are edging closer, licking their chops and panting with hunger. Their red eyes haunt him through his dreams.

When he wakes up, in the middle of the night, the Man in Black is standing over him.

The Man in Black hunches down on his heels, chewing on a long blade of grass.

His voice has a western ruggedness, all at once confrontational, truthful, and disarming. He has a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his face, so that, in the eerie moonlight, there is nothing but a shadow speaking.

“ Had enough?” asks the Man in Black.

“ No,” the boy says, looking up in the distance at the golden canopy of the tree. It is difficult to see through the cloud of darkness brought by the Man in Black.

“ You are brave,” the stranger says. “ One of the bravest boys I’ve ever met. You know that?”

“ No,” the boy replies.

“ Well, it’s true,” said the Man in Black. “ Your mother left. Your father left. You put all of your hope in this tree, and now you’re dying, and you’ve gotten nothing to show for it.”

The boy says nothing.

Wild and frenzied howls come from the nearby woods. The Man in Black cocks his head in that direction, and even through the darkness, the boy can feel him smiling a savage smile.

“ It’s not too late, you know,” the stranger says, shifting on his haunches. “ The tree’s dying, kid. Everything in this place is dying. Has been for years—I should know. I’m what’s killing it.” He pauses. “ But you wanna know what’s so funny about this whole situation? The tree’s letting me do it. It’ll stop the Wild Things from getting close, you know, but not me. I’ve been poisoning this place every night, for years and years and years.”

The boy begins to weep when he hears this.

“ Wanna know why, kid? It’s what I do. There’s nothing good about me. Ain’t never been anything good about me. But the tree can’t seem to realize that. I’ve been poison in its veins for years, and still it doesn’t realize that I’m killin’ it. You’ve been waiting and waiting for that fruit. I know. But it’ll never come.”

The boy’s tears begin to slow. He blinks, as an idea moves sluggishly into his mind. It is almost too fantastic to believe, but it gives him an inkling of hope.

The Man in Black pauses to mull over his thoughts. “Listen, kid. You don’t want to die out here. I may not be a good guy, but I know that ain’t right. I wanna get you out of here, alright? I wanna get you to a hospital.”

“ No.”

“ No?” the Man in Black is startled by the resoluteness in his voice. “ What do you mean, no?”

“ I’m not going to go,” says the boy, weakly.

“ Come on!” the stranger snaps, his patience dissipating. “ You’re going to die, kid! You got lost in the woods, you’ve been sitting under some tree for days without food. Your folks abandoned you. And you wanna die out here? Where no one will ever find you?”

“ I have to do this,” the boy murmurs.

“ You’re hallucinating,” the Man in Black retorts. “ You need a hospital. I’ll take you there right now. Give me your hand.”

He stretches out a shadowy hand, and the boy glances at it wearily, but does not move.

“Give me your hand, kid.”

Still he does not move. He knows that the Man in Black cannot move him unless he allows it.

“ Goddamnit!” shouts the Man in Black. He stands tall, trembling in fury, and for a moment the moonlight catches his face.

The boy shudders and turns his eyes towards the golden leaves that are gleaming far, far above.

“ You’ll die,” the Man in Black whispers vehemently. “ You foolish kid. You stupid kid. You would die to save it?”

“ Yes,” the boy says, closing his eyes. “ Yes.”

And then the Man in Black is gone, leaving only the stillness of the night, without the sound of a single breath.

The tree trembles, then sighs. The poison of the night is gone. Maybe now, the tree will bear fruit.