There is a tree down west
Where nobody should go. Nobody should go because
That is where people grow.
There is a Tree down west where
Nobody should go. Nobody should go,
If they fear below.
This is a tale that has been burnt into our memories. Our grandmothers, and their grandmothers, have told us never to go to the old elm—the twisted elm whose knots have formed faces of the forgotten. Tourists come far and wide to awe at the tree, much to their own misfortune. We’ve buried more dead in their foreign earth than we have our own, at least since the rise of morbid tourism. People have raided our land for not giving people back, without realising that their loved ones caused their own absorption. The Tree sits just on the outskirts of our town; a beautifully mangled mess; faces that are frozen in eternal sorrow.
The land is beautiful; rolling hills and gorgeous sunsets —— the type that resemble the cheeks of estranged lovers finally able to hold hands with one another.
Idiots come here, desperate to see it—a tree that shows the screams of the deceased, wood morphed to forge the wails of those who die from its curse. Every year, at least twenty idiots ridicule it in front of its roots, not realising the depth of its story; it’s right to be here more than we mere mortals.
There are many stories as to its origins.
‘It was the tree where Eve ate the fruit.’
‘Witches practiced there.’
‘A serial killer buried his victims there.’
None of these are true—none of them can be true. The roots of this tree grow lower than humans might comprehend. All we can know is to respect it.
Harry Glennys joined us. Middle School, Class B. He was rowdy, and had a nasty tendency to throw crumpled-up balls of paper at the back of girls’ heads. He had said his time at school didn’t matter, because soon his family would move, so he could do what he liked. Me, and the other girls smiled, and decided to tell him about the tree. He thought he was awful clever, and went up to the tree, cursing it, and cemented his fate by spitting into one of the open mouths formed by the wood.
He was right. His family did move, yet he didn’t follow. Soon, a face just like Harry’s was etched into the wood of the elm, and a new power was observed by all of us in Class B.
I’d grown to become a nobody in school, which proved to be in my best interest.
Petty dramas between prepubescent women is not fun, but not boring. Even if you have been saved by being voted by the group as, ‘least popular,’ you have no idea when you’ll be next. The constant threat of being put before the Tree, making anyone who had the slightest inkling that they’d be voted next would become the sweetest you’d ever known them; sweeter than sap. It was fun, from an outsider’s perspective. Seeing girls switch day by day, boys cowering in front of their girlfriends for stepping out of line. They all feared the Tree, after what had happened to Harry Glennys.
Yet, by High School, people had forgotten. Forgotten about the Tree. The elm that held faces was only visited by tourists, who inevitably vanished. People we didn’t know, who’d disrespected the Tree. Some people prayed to the Tree, for good results. Futile, really. It’s not some magical, wish-giving genie. Once exams were done for Seniors, a few faces formed. Boys and girls who’d grown drunk on whatever they could find in their parents’ closet, were, instead, growing in the branches and roots, screams etched forever in the Tree. I felt sorry for them, to be honest. They’d never considered contemplating the depth of what they were involving themselves in. A vigil was held there a week later. I got full marks on all my exams. I don’t worry myself about the Tree.
The Tree sat there for a year, untouched. People were too scared about the Tree. I spent most of my days sitting under it, studying. The faces helped me with the answers.
By Senior year no one messed with the Tree. It began to wilt, and screams could be heard late at night by drunkards on their way home. I watered it daily, trying to name as many faces as I could. It wasn’t like it would hurt anyone doing so. The faces thanked me, but beckoned for someone else. I pretended like I didn’t know what they wanted.
A girl, Sarah, accidentally relieved herself on the Tree when drunk. It’s obvious what happened. I felt frightened, because the Tree had called for Sarah when I was tending to it. It knew who was coming next. I watered the Tree once more, and they responded.
“There is a tree down west
Where nobody should go. Nobody should go because
That is where people grow.
There is a Tree down west where
Nobody should go. Nobody should go,
If they fear below.
That’s why she grows.”
I told my Grandmother that our Tree’s story had changed. That it means she’s next. My Grandmother took my hand, and smiled.
“I made the elm take those who ridicule our culture; our craft. Those souls will be released, and should do nothing but penetrate the Earth with more trees, that will breathe new life into the ground, as opposed to their wretched and useless breath.”
My Grandmother, and my maternal bloodline, have created the Tree. The souls entrapped there were never cursed to hell. The story lures in those who want to ridicule culture, and those who wish to sell their friends’ souls. However, the land we live in is rich, and full of life and death. Stories mowed down by corporations and tourism. We do not take those who are good, despite how they act. We simply rebirth the earth, Mother, with those who have taken so mercilessly.
The faces are thankful for it. They tell me from the grass beneath my feet.