The Last Stand of Daronwy (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

After days of enduring the screams of the dying while their bark melted away, after weeks of the brethren's fear permeating the wind, Daronwy relished the full moon. The white-blue light sprouted through the grove with silver-trimmed shadows. A cold wind nuzzled against the tree's bare twigs, coaxing Daronwy into a blissful, unaware sleep. And so when the intruders' rubber-shod feet cracked the fallen branches, Daronwy turned his full anger against them. He wove the coldness of the wind and the haunting power of the full moon with his hatred and the plaintive song of the dying. Daronwy hurled that dark magic toward the humans who stood on the broken plain of uprooted life that mere weeks ago had been part of his forest.

“Did you hear that?” Roland said.

Loren shivered. “No.”

“I never liked coming out here at night, man.”

“Dude, don't wuss out on me now.”

Another frigid wind rattled amidst the dead brethren in a chuckle of branch scratching on bark. Both of the human saplings stared at one another. Their fear transpired into the ether, ascending from their auras like a heavy, ice-burdened cloud. Daronwy wove that fear into his next spell as they shook their primitive bodies and marched toward the beasts of blade and steel. Daronwy's energy awakened the brethren.

Destroy them,
they said.

Hold for a moment. What do they have in mind?

The trees watched, silent in the darkness, bringing a stillness to the night that only occurs before a storm. That storm was what Daronwy held back in his branches, awaiting one more short-sighted, short-lived decision before unleashing his full fury. The saplings clambered around the steel beasts, putting tubers into the pipes, gashing the beasts' rubber feet with their own steel. The brethren's fear abated. They laughed, relishing the destruction. At least this time, the saplings were inflicting their sadism on beasts of their own making, leaving Daronwy's charges safe. Another mind crackled through the emptiness. The saplings were not as alone as they thought. Daronwy recognized the mind of a predator in a lean season: cool, calculating, craving. The predator drove its own steel beast. It crept along the road, made ready to turn its bright eyes toward the saplings. They would be captured in that spotlight. Unaware, they laughed, pulling wires from within the guts of the destructive demons. The predator neared; Daronwy decided to help the saplings.

Awake! Awake! Attack that bright-eyed beast!
As the predator turned toward the saplings in their joyous debauchery, birds bombed from the trees, rushing the glass at the front of the thing, making it screech to a halt, disturbing the prowling human mind controlling it.

“Cops!” said Loren. He tackled Roland and they threw themselves on the ground, hidden by the dead beast's shredded rubber foot.

Daronwy released the stark fear that he had prepared for the saplings, tumbling that unbridled rage onto the predator. The saplings trembled as the onslaught passed over them. Daronwy felt the clash with the predator's mind like a change in the weather. Already unsettled by the birds, the predator's mental pattern transformed from a pompous desire for confrontation to an unacknowledged, serpentine fear of shadowed lonely places where the haughty amber of street lamps could not penetrate. The predator coaxed its beast backwards, turned west, and fled.

Roland looked at Loren. “That was close, man.”

“Did you feel that wind? Like a dadgum ice bucket dumped down your back, y'know?”

“And what about those birds? Did you see them? Man, I told you we should get out of here.”

“Yeah, before he comes back.”

The beasts of blade and steel sat there, unmoving. They had no minds; quite obviously the slaves of humans, equipped only for destruction. Daronwy doubted they were even aware of their own damage. But, their human handlers would be aware. Perhaps this would give them pause. Perhaps this might be a spark to awaken their minds to the reality of what they did to the tree-brethren, providing them with a chance to learn from their last generation's folly. At least the saplings were learning, and Daronwy could return to rest beneath the moonlight.

The moon was giving way to dawn when Jeremy walked down his driveway, crossed the street, and stood in the cold at the bus stop. Loren was there, looking toward the tractors with Sy at his side. An unseasonably cool frost covered the grass in white. “Hey, Jeremy.”

“Hey, Loren.”

Jeremy followed their gaze. “Maybe this frost will keep them away today.”

“Shit, Roland and I almost got caught by the cops last night, dude.”

“What were you doing?”

“They were tearing up the tractors,” Sy said, smiling, eyes afire.

Loren nodded, hands on his hips. “Yep.”

“They don't look torn up.”

“Yeah, not from here, but dude, they got some surprises waiting for them. First, they ain't gonna start, ‘cause we tore all these wires out of the engine. Then, they're gonna see that we sliced up all their tires. Then, once they get all that fixed, they're gonna start ‘em up and find out we put potatoes in the exhaust. It's gonna explode.”

“What about the person driving the tractor? Wouldn't they be hurt if it exploded?”

Loren shrugged. “So what? It's what they deserve.”

“I don't think that's right. We should take those out.”

“Dude, don't be stupid. It's all the way in the engine. You can't get it out.”

“But I don't want some poor person to be sitting on an exploding tractor.”

Roland walked out of his house and stood next to them. “Y'all talking about those?” He gestured with his thumb at the tractors.

“Yeah, little Mr. Righteous here is concerned about our tractor drivers.”

“Nah man, don't worry. I did this once to my uncle when we were kids. It don't
explode
explode, like with fire and stuff. It'll just blow a hole in the exhaust pipe and spit mashed potato everywhere. It'll make a helluva noise. Scare their pants off, that's for sure.”

“Make them change their pants!” Loren doubled over, laughing and slapping his thigh.

Mira and her sisters walked up, bringing Rosalyn with them. “What's so funny?” Kelly asked, as the bus wheezed to a halt.

“Nothin'. Come on y'all,” said Roland.

Acrid, eye-stinging smoke penetrated the bus windows on the way home. Jeremy looked out, shocked to see so much of the bike trails were reduced to dirt. The burn piles were huge—as big as his room—smoldering with plumes of blue-gray smoke. Hadn't Loren and Roland destroyed the tractors? The bus stopped and he got out, walking to the edge of the road. Where the road was supposed to meet the wood, it now met only dirt. He stared across the pitted, track-marked ground at two faded yellow bulldozers. They sat next to the tractors, dwarfing them. Their heavy tank treads had chewed the earth and flattened a large swath of Helter Skelter. The opossum hills were smoothed over, pushed into a towering pile of red-hot plant carcasses.

An idea flashed through Jeremy's mind. He spun on his heel and walked home, finding his dad in the kitchen. “Dad, isn't it against the law to burn stuff in the city limits?”

His dad stopped cutting vegetables. “Yes, unless you have a permit.”

“Twin Hills is in the city limits, right?”

“I would imagine it is. Certainly ought to be.”

“Well, they're burning it down and I bet they don't have a permit. Can we call the police on them?”

His dad chuckled and went back to chopping. “I'm pretty sure they have one.”

“How can we find out?”

“You could call city hall. Somebody there would know.”

“Can we do that, please?”

“Don't you have homework that you need to be worrying about?”

Jeremy sighed.

“You'd better get to it. Then we can call city hall.”

Chapter Thirty

Two days later, Jeremy came home to a gray shade of misting rain. The bulldozers sat silent and unmoving. Jeremy ran through the woods before he went inside, knowing he wouldn't be allowed back out in weather that threatened to turn worse. He saw that there were no new trenches, but the pond level was lower. Helter Skelter had not been cut into any further. He went to the Tree, smiled at it, and then ran home, careful to not get mud on his jeans. As he passed the Gateway Tree, he noticed something up on it. Turning, he found a “No Trespassing” sign staring at him with red letters on black metal. Jeremy laughed. As if a sign could stop him. The fools in the bulldozers were trespassing, not him. He shook his head and walked home. He took his shoes off before going inside and crossing the floor.

“Jeremy,” said his mom. She stood across from him, eyes tearing. One hand rested on the telephone while the other wiped her eyes. Something was wrong.

He froze. “Yes, ma'am?”

“You know how Father Pat has been real sick, right?” Jeremy nodded; everyone knew that. What was this about? “Well, this morning, Father Pat…” She looked down, wiping her eyes. She took a breath. “He passed away.”

Jeremy's mouth hung open, his eyes staring, unseeing, at the floor. His stomach turned upside-down. “No, Momma, that's not right.”

“I'm sorry, baby. It's true.”

Jeremy ran to his room, slammed the door, and threw himself on his knees next to his bed. He dropped his head into an angry prayer. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you killing Twin Hills and Father Pat? Why are you doing this to me? You can't do this to me. You can't do this to me! Bring back Father Pat… ”

His parents found him there an hour later, still kneeling, still weeping, still muttering, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Jeremy,” said his mom from the door.

He stopped muttering, but remained facing the bed. “What?”

“It's ‘yes, ma'am.'”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Do you want to go to the funeral? They've asked that the acolytes attend.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It'll be Friday. I'll get you out of school.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Jeremy… ”

“Leave me alone!” He climbed into the bed and pulled the blanket over his head.

Under the blanket, Jeremy shook with each sob, curling into a ball as each wave of sorrow crashed over him. Father Pat couldn't die. He just couldn't. It wasn't right. And they couldn't bulldoze Twin Hills; it wasn't right either. But he could see the bulldozers from his window. Maybe he had been chosen, but he'd failed them. He had failed them both.

He wore all black on Friday. He said nothing to anyone. His mom picked him up just before lunch. They went to the church, but instead of going in and sitting in a pew, Deacon Thibodeaux organized all the acolytes. “Come on, boys. Get your robes and crosses on and let's go into the Sunday School building.” The church was full of people draped in black, standing shoulder to shoulder. Every single pew had been extended with folding chairs and still people stood along the walls. A jet-black coffin sat at the front of the nave, just before the altar, its lid open. He wanted to run to that coffin. It had to be a mistake. It had to be. This was a dream, and he was going to wake up any minute. Then he'd be able to look at Father Pat with his laughing blue eyes once more.

Deacon Thibodeaux marched the boys into the Sunday School building. Heavy gray clouds hung outside, bent low as though the entire world struggled to hold back tears. None of the boys said a word; the entire assembly was eerily quiet. The men that presided over them talked only in whispered Cajun French.

They stood for what seemed like an hour and Jeremy wondered if they were actually going to attend the Mass at all or if they were going to keep them in here. Finally, the deacon said, “Boys, listen up.” The silence continued, but their eyes shifted to him. “We're going to enter in two columns. Arrange yourselves by height. Shortest first, tallest last. The pews at the front have been reserved; you go up to the coffin.” He swallowed. “You bow, then if you're on the left, you go left to your seat. If you're on the right, you go right. Y'all got that?”

The boys nodded.

“When the Mass is over, file out of the pews and walk straight back to the front foyer of the church. We'll have a van there to take you to the graveyard.” He coughed, choking on the word. “When we get there, we'll tell you what to do, okay? After that service, we'll get back in the van and come back here. Everyone stay close together, and no one leave with anyone else. Y'all understand?”

No one responded.

“
Mais
, I swear. Any of y'all have ears? I said, do you understand?”

Mumbles of “Yes, sir” and nods rippled through the white robed boys.

“Okay, arrange yourselves by height; come on. We don't have all day now,
mais
yeah.”

They rearranged their lines. Deacon Thibodeaux led them out of the building, beneath the ashen sky to the church. It seemed even more filled with people than it had been earlier, if that were possible. The bishop stood with his tall hat and shepherd's crook in the foyer. Father Boylston stood, holding an incense burner that assailed Jeremy's nose with its bitter spices of myrrh and frankincense. The bishop made a motion and the music began. The column of acolytes began shuffling toward the altar. Jeremy followed the line out, the fingernails on his left hand biting into the back of his right.

The altar had never seemed so far away. With every step, Jeremy wanted to bolt for the doors. If he didn't see Father Pat, maybe it wouldn't be real. His shuffle slowed to a crawl as he neared the casket. Jeremy's heart fractured anew with each remaining inch as he neared it. Father Pat lay in the black coffin, hands peacefully clasped around a cross on his chest. His wispy white hair was neatly combed as it had always been. He wore the black suit and collar. He looked asleep. It had to be a mistake. It had to be. Jeremy fought the urge to grab the coffin and shake it, to wake him. Instead, he bowed and walked to his seat on the front pew.

The bishop came last with his attendant priests and a nun to anoint the coffin with incense. Before she even spoke, Jeremy knew that the nun was Father Pat's sister. Her old hands shook; her tears fell from the same Irish blue eyes. The bishop helped her up the altar steps. Tears streamed down Jeremy's face, but he tried not to make a sound.

The bishop said, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” Jeremy made the sign of the cross. The Mass moved through the motions like any Mass. Jeremy wanted to yell that Father Pat was only asleep, that he would get up and laugh and joke with them all in just a moment. Father Pat's sister spoke, but the Irish lilt of her voice just brought more tears to Jeremy's eyes and he couldn't pay attention to what she said.

Too soon, the Mass was over, and the bishop was anointing the coffin with more incense. The heavy black lid came down, snapping into place. Jeremy's fingernails cut into the wood of the pew, his knuckles white. This couldn't be happening.
God, don't do this. Please don't do this.
But God did not intervene. Left with no choice, he filed out of the pew after the others and followed the coffin to the front of the church. As he walked, Mr. Leblanc began the eagle song, playing the Irish flute. Its haunting notes ferreted out every morsel of grief and love in Jeremy's heart, pushing them through his eyes. They tasted salty on his cheeks. Father Pat's coffin went into a black hearse. Jeremy was crammed into a white van with the other robed acolytes. He grabbed the wooden cross that hung around his neck, holding it tight, relishing the way the wood bit into his fingers and palm, trying to stop crying.

It began to mist as they drove to the cemetery. The melancholy magic of the flute's song played through his mind. When they stopped at the cemetery, the coffin was unloaded beneath a green-roofed pavilion. Jeremy started walking toward the pavilion.

“Jeremy, come here.”

He walked back. “Stand here. You stand there. Arrange yourselves by height,” said the Deacon. “Come on boys, this ain't hard. By height, now.”

They were arranged into a human cross on the wet grass twenty yards from the pavilion. Jeremy wanted to go to the coffin; he wanted to see Father Pat, he wanted to say goodbye, but he held fast to his place in the cross. Misting rain fell like giant teardrops from the sky, mussing the boys' hair and drenching their robes. A tide of black umbrellas inundated the pavilion. He could hear nothing of what the bishop said, nothing of what anyone said. And then it was over. As suddenly as it had begun, it was finished. The black umbrellas swirled around the pavilion, drifting in ones and twos to their cars. Still the acolytes stood, a cross of white-robed boys pretending to be angels for the honor of a priest they loved. The mist changed to a constant, fine rain. Only the bishop and Father Pat's sister were left under the pavilion. One of the men said something about loading up in the van. Jeremy glanced at him, then sprinted across the muddy grass. He didn't stop until he was next to the coffin, surprising both the bishop and the nun.

Tears and rain streamed down his face. “It can't be right,” he said. “It can't be right. I was chosen. It can't be right.” He walked to the casket and put his hands against its metal sides. It was cold to the touch, and he pulled his hands away as though it were sculpted from ice.

“Laddie,” said an Irish lilt as sad as the flute that still echoed in his mind. “Pat's gone on ahead of us, now. He's up in Heaven, and he'll be a-watchin' you and me, and ever'one here for all our lives ‘til we get to join him. So, he's still here. In your heart and mine, and hearts of all the people that loved him.”

Jeremy stared at her vibrant blue eyes—the same eyes as Father Pat's. She held out a shaking hand.

“But… it's not right.” He took her hand.

She pulled him to her and embraced him. “Little one, we can't presume to understand God's Will.”

Jeremy wanted to say, “But He said I was Chosen,” but didn't. His voice was drowned. He let the Sister hug him.

“Remember, he'll be a-watchin' you, always. Always from up in Heaven.”

Jeremy nodded and then walked to the casket, touched it briefly with his left hand. “Goodbye, Father.”

He wished he had a flower to add to the dripping riot of color atop the casket, but his hands were empty. Jeremy took off the wooden cross and laid it against the icy ebony. He shuffled his feet through the wet grass, letting the rain soak him until he reached the spot where Deacon Thibodeaux stood, arms crossed.

“Get on in the van,” he said, half-choking on the words and failing to seem angry. They drove back to the church in a wet, musky silence. He found his mom outside the cloakroom where the boys dumped their saturated, muddy robes. At home, Jeremy lay in bed and watched the rain pelt his window as the soft mist grew into a full thunderstorm. His heart felt hollowed out, empty. God had carved out his insides with a spoon, making him into a human jack-o'-lantern. He had been chosen, but it didn't matter. He couldn't save anything.