Enchanted Forests (15 page)

I feel the poison.*

*SsssslowwwwIy. It ssstronnng,* the ancient tree thought.

Angie thought, *If it dies, have I killed a species?*

*I ... made it. Not ... natural .,. being. Mistake.*

Angie spent days tracing Kelton's branches and admiring the

angles his twigs made. She basked in warm awareness of his

tree-gaze on her bark, but also felt Stoker's lustful pull and trem-

bled, her leaves agitated. Would she have to endure this for cen-

turies?

In the dark time Angle's thoughts slowed. But she knew when

the creature crept, ever so slowly, to drop at Stoker-tree's roots.

*Don't touch me. Pain,* his anguished thought crawled into her

mind.

The first welcome rays of sunlight wanned her, and with her

thousand eyes she saw the creature, its scalelike leaves pale,

brown at the edges. It writhed, scratching at the ground. Then it

stopped, collapsed in on itself. Stoker-tree rejoiced.

But she mourned. *I'll never study it now.*

Pain began. Her sap dried, her roots and branches withered.

*We die with the creature!*

Other plant-people screamed, trembled. Trees twisted as if a

capricious whirlwind meandered through the grove. And not just

trees; a waxy white flower convulsed near her roots.

She could no longer see, could barely communicate. She

hoped she would fall across Kelton's tree body when her roots

gave way. *Kelton. I love you.*

*Angie, my love.*

Her mind twisted with pain.

Angie uncurled, stretched, looked down at her scratched and

naked body. Something furry brushed her arm—a rabbit, dazed

98                  Julia and Brook West

and blank-eyed. So it didn't eat the animals, she thought in near

hysteria. It changed them, too.

I'm alive.

Kelton.

He lay curled nearby, eyes closed in a face drawn with the ag-

ony of tree-change. "Kel, sweetheart." She massaged his back,

rubbed his arms and legs. "Wake up."

He stirred finally, sat up. "We didn't die after all."

"No." She leaned against him, soaking his chest with tears.

"Where are the others?"

"I'm sure they'll wake up soon. I want to enjoy you." She

snuggled against him, and his arms tightened around her,

"What happened to the creature?" he said into her ear.

"The herbicide finally killed it."

"I know. But is the body still about?"

"Hey, that should have been my question, mister business ex-

ecutive. I'm the one with the overwhelming scientific curiosity."

She sat straight up, looked around. Stoker lay nearby, barely

breathing. Seeing him made her remember her nakedness. She

looked for her clothing; found rags mixed with the dirt where she

had stood for—how many days?

The creature lay like a drift of crisp autumn leaves, already

disintegrating. She slid her tattered shirt carefully under the rem-

nants. This much, at least, she could study.

Kelton reached over and squeezed her hand. "Let's get back to

camp. We've got to get dressed, find the others, and ... and sort

out this mess."

"I have a feeling there's a lot more mess than we expect. What

about the guy who made that creature? And those other old tree-

people? Who are they?"

Back at camp they pulled on shorts, T-shirts, sandals. Sub-

dued, shivering students wandered in from the forest. Laurie

talked incessantly about the tree next to her; Colleen clutched at

her and sobbed. 'Told you so," said Helen—Angie and Kelton

nodded.

Something inside Angle's head drew her up-valley. She led

Kelton with her into the forest. Trees shivered around them,

though there was no wind, as something tree-tall and not human

emerged from amongst them. Branches and leaves crowned an

almost-head, grasping limbs angled below, and long root-toes

writhed forward, sank into the ground and drew it forward in an

oddly fluid stride.

WEEDS                99

"Little-one. You ... free us ... from my ... folly." The voice

whispered and boomed all at once.

Angie clutched Kelton's hand, then relaxed. After what they'd

been through, a walking tree was nothing to be afraid of. And

she knew "who" this was. "Where are the other people we

heard? All I see are the ones who came with me."

'Too ... long ... they ... be tree. Now ... like me. Stay.

Care for ... children."

"Children?" she asked.

All about, aspens shook and writhed in no-wind. "Few ...

trees here ... once men. Others ... we seed. Children.... We

... free to ... nurture ... now."

Pollination—natural reproduction, for trees. Seeds growing

into trees—children of changelings. They'd lived so long as

trees, they were more tree than human. How long were we trees?

Weeks, at least. Guess I've got roots here too.

"I wish you—and your children—well," she said. "I must care

for my own now."

"You -.. may ... return." Trees rustled again and the aspen-

man was gone.

/ will.

They went back to the students—to her students.

"George, Steve, get Dr. Stoker, help him back to camp. We

don't want to leave any noxious weeds in the forest. Pack up,

folks; it's time to go home."

Bennow

by Nancy Etchemendy

Nancy Etchemendy lives and writes in the San Francisco

Bay area. Her short stories and poems have appeared in

F&SF, The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror and a number

of other anthologies and periodicals both here and abroad.

She has also written three novels for children.

I never would have guessed the boy had a thick crop of green,

shiny leaves on his head. He wore an Oakland A's baseball cap

pulled low, so he looked pretty ordinary, maybe a little young to

be hitchhiking, thirteen or fourteen I thought. He carried a ma-

roon duffel bag, stuffed full, but with no signs of wear. I've been

around enough teenagers to know a runaway when I see one. He

was a textbook example.

"Thanks, mister," he said, as he climbed onto the seat of my

pickup.

I had been to Garberville for grocery shopping, something I

try not to do more than once a month, so the truck was filll. The

back had twenty heavily loaded bags in it, plus my old Labrador

retriever. Scratch. The overflow of two or three bags had ended

up in the cab with me. I watched as the boy carefully moved

them to make room for himself and his duffel as far away from

me as possible. A package of lamb chops poked up from the top

of one bag, and he eyed it as if he wouldn't mind ripping it open

and wolfing them down on the spot It seemed likely that he

hadn't eaten in a while,

"Just call me Chet. Glad to be of service," I said. "Where are

you going?"

BENBOW              101

"Benbow," he replied. "You know where that is? It's supposed

to be around here somewhere."

He had a pleasant voice, stiil fairly high, but rich and even,

not squeaky as is common among boys his age. I couldn't see

much of his face because he hunched down and turned away as

if he were trying to hide. What I glimpsed of him was dirty, like

his clothes, which were stained and specked with dead leaves.

He had clearly been sleeping outside. All my old instincts as a

teacher, a school principal, and a repentant absentee father rose

to attention.

I pulled onto the pavement and started slowly down the wind-

ing road, wondering what I should do. "Yeah, I know where

Benbow is," I said. "You know, there's nothing there anymore.

The last of the hippies left four or five years ago, and they didn't

exactly build to last. It's just a few empty shacks in the middle

of me woods. Nobody lives there but raccoons."

His shoulders went practically rigid. "I know," he said. He

was a bad liar, which was a very good sign as far as I was con-

cerned.

"Sure you still want to go there?" I asked.

"I have to. It's important. Real important."

"Okay, whatever you say."

I drove on in silence for a while. I had the window on my side

open. A summer day just like this one first convinced me that the

northern California coast was the place to retire. The resinous

smells of deep forest filled the mild air. The road meandered

among oaks, pines and even the occasional redwood. Bird songs

mingled in a pleasing cascade. We crested a hill, and I sighted

the Pacific Ocean. I knew if I parked and stopped the engine, I'd

hear the surf like a distant whisper. The big cities and their trou-

bles lay far away. I didn't even bother to lock my doors at night,

and it felt deeply good and right. Not everything between

Garberville and the sea was perfect. We had our own kinds of

problems in the coastal woods. But they didn't usually include

lost, hungry runaways.

"What's your name?" I asked the boy.

"Birk," he said without looking at me, still hunched forward,

his shirt collar turned up and his hat pulled down.

"Got a last name?"

He did look at me then, though he said nothing, just turned his

head. His eyes were dark and full of pain, his face pale and wor-

ried- I noticed for the first time that his hair, though I couldn't

see much of it, was full of leaves. The sight made me shiver,

102                 Nancy Etcnemenoy

though I couldn't have said why. Maybe I knew, in the back of

my mind, that there was something strange about him. It didn't

hit me till later that the leaves were green and fresh-looking. I

thought he must have gotten them from sleeping on the ground,

and that triggered in me a powerful urge to help in any way I

could.

I shrugged and said, trying to sound nonchalant, "None of my

business anyway. Well, Birk, there's a cafe in Whitethorn just

down the road from here. We have to pass it on the way to

Benbow. How wouid you like to stop there for a sandwich and

a piece of pie?"

He licked his lips, and a little smile skittered across his face.

But it was soon gone, replaced by the look of strain and worry.

"Thanks, but I can't."

"Why not? If it's a matter of money, it can be my treat. I'm

a rich old geezer anyway." Which was a long way from the truth,

and I could see he knew it. After all, what would a rich old gee-

zer be doing in a twenty-year-old pickup truck with 150,000

miles on it? I just didn't want him to think I was making some

kind of big sacrifice by inviting him to lunch. It might have hurt

his pride.

He hunched even further forward, and tugged his shirt collar

up higher. "I just can't, that's all."

I knew if I said the wrong thing, he'd be out of the truck like

a jack rabbit as soon as I slowed for the next curve. Why would

a starving kid shy away from a cafe? I had offered him a free

handout and he had turned it down, so it couldn't be money.

What was it then?

"You've got to eat," I said. "A growing person can get sick

and weak pretty fast without food."

"I know," he said for the second time since I'd picked him up.

There was a tremor in his voice. I had the impression he would

have said more, but he didn't want to risk crying in front of me.

He was a hard one to reach. If I wanted to find out anything

about him, I would have to hurry, because the window of oppor-

tunity was going to close at the tumoff to Benbow.

I tried to remember the contents of the three sacks of groceries

beside us. I had bagged them myself because that's how it's done

at the Garberville Discount Food Mart. I'm a sixty-five-year-old

man with high blood pressure. I don't buy much in the way of

snack food. But I had picked up a package of granola bars, and

I seemed to remember tossing them in with the lamb chops. I

lummaged through the bag with one hand, a challenge on a road

BENBOW              103

so curvy it takes an hour to go 23 miles. I found the granola bars

and slid me package toward Birk.

"Try some of these. They're nothing compared to Milky

Ways, but they're all right if you're real hungry."

That got me a little grin. He wasted no time tearing them open

and shoving two bars into his mouth practically whole.

"There's milk in mere, too, if you want it," I said. "It's skim,

and I don't have any cups, but you could drink it from the car-

ton. It's okay."

He pulled the quart container onto his lap, opened it, and

gulped it down greedily. Out of breath, he beamed and swiped at

a milk mustache.

"Thanks, mister," he said. For the first time since I'd picked

him up, he had a little color in his cheeks.

"Chet," I said.

**0kay, Chet. Thanks."

It was the first time he'd called me by name. I allowed myself

a smile.

The Benbow tumoff was now about ten minutes away- I had

no time left for finesse. "Look, I hope you don't think I'm trying

to butt my nose in where it doesn't belong. But there's something

you ought to know about these woods. They're not safe unless

you know exactly where you're going."

He frowned and turned away again.

"I don't mean dumb stuff, lions and tigers and bears, that kind

of junk. I don't even mean getting lost, exactly. I mean drug

dealers."

"What?" he said, looking at me from the comer of his eye as

if to say, How stupid do you think I am?

"No, I mean it. I'm not just making up stories to scare you,

There are a lot of marijuana growers up in these hills. Believe

me, they want their operations kept secret. They don't take

kindly to trespassers. The woods look real peaceful, but they're

full of shotgun snares and bear traps. You can get yourself in a

pile of trouble if you wander down the wrong path."

"So are you letting me off at Benbow or not?" he said, eyes

slitted.

"If that's what you want, I'll do it, but I don't have to like it."

We traveled on in silence for a few minutes. We passed

through Whitethorn and I waved to Milt Perry at the lumber

yard. The woods closed around us again, quieter now, dimmer, m

another hour, the sun would set.

Coming up on our right was a rickety hand-lettered sign that

104                 Nancy EtcLemenjy

said "BENBOW," with an arrow under it. I pulled over and set

the handbrake. "Here is it," I said. "You have to walk a couple

of miles down that trail. I'd take you in there, but I'd probably

need four-wheel drive and a chain saw."

He rolled down his window and looked out. The undergrowth

was fierce. Ferns, briars, and poison oak formed a matted wall

through which the path delved like a deep wound. The trees

above it shut out most of the remaining sun. Something rustled,

and the hoot of an owl wafted out of the twilight, hi the back of

the truck. Scratch growled deeply and continuously.

Birk reached hesitantly for his duffel. I could see this was

something he did to save face, not because it was really what he

wanted anymore. He had hoped to find people at Benbow, some-

one he knew, or someone who could tell him what he needed to

know. But the place was deserted, an ominous ruin. Carpe diem,

I thought.

"Maybe you'd rather wait dll you have some daylight. I could

bring you back up here tomorrow. I've got a little place down the

road at Shelter Cove. I built it myself. It's not much, but you're

welcome to the spare bed. Lamb chops for dinner, and a hot

shower. If you want a way to pay me back, I could use some

help in the garden."

Relief washed over him, visible as rain, loosening his muscles

and his troubled heart. He trusted easily, which meant that, what-

ever was wrong, he might heal easily, too. I had won a chance

to help him. It was one of those moments of great atonement that

I have sought since I left my own children half-grown and went

off to do things I thought were more important than being their

father. If I had stayed home with them, my son might well be

alive today. It's a hard thing to live with, even though it hap-

pened years ago.

When we arrived, Birk jumped out of the truck and started

carrying groceries into the kitchen. I didn't even have to ask.

Somebody had taken the time to civilize him beautifully, some-

body who loved him and was probably worried sick about him.

He stopped briefly to watch me lift Scratch down from the

back. "What's the matter with him?" he asked.

"Oh, he's just old. I've had him eleven years. He's got cata-

racts and rheumatism. It hurts him to jump down, and he can't

always see where he's going to land."

He held out his hand, and Scratch licked it, wagging his tail