The Man in the Tree (35 page)

"Hello, Piet. You knew, didn't you?"
"Yes. May I sit down?"
"Of course."
A wind was rising; Linck could hear it whispering in the branches overhead,
and the sound made him uncomfortable. "Gene, I know I shouldn't be here.
If you want to be alone -- "
"It doesn't matter right now. Stay tonight, if you want. Are you hungry
or thirsty?"
"No."
The wind was whipping the branches, and yet Linck felt that they two
were surrounded by a core of stillness.
"I'm tired," Gene said. "I've been driving -- " He settled himself
against the tree trunk; after a moment he closed his eyes.
The wind was still rising, but Gene did not seem to hear it. His chest
rose and fell with a slow and regular rhythm. Linck stood up cautiously.
He felt a moment of confusion; then he remembered. He picked up his
suitcase, opened it, got the revolver out.
He sat down facing the giant and steadied his forearm across his knee. He
felt calm and clear. Somewhere submerged in his mind there was pity and
sorrow, but the time for that was not now.
He aimed the gun at Gene Anderson's forehead. Slowly he squeezed the
trigger. There was a loud report, the gun bucked in his hand, and
then all motion ceased. The wind was no longer stirring the branches,
although they leaned aslant. Linck found that he could not move. He was
not breathing; the blood was not moving in his veins. A little drift
of smoke hung in the air as if painted there. Beyond it was a little
dark pellet, with streams of disturbed air radiating from it; it, too,
was fixed and motionless. Time itself had come to a stop. Then, to his
unutterable horror, he saw that Gene Anderson's eyes were opening.
Like a man underwater, Gene Anderson stood up and stepped away from the
tree. He felt the suspension of time as a weight in his flesh; he let
it go, and heard the echo of the pistol shot. When he turned, he could
see where the bullet had gone into the tree trunk. The wind had died.
After a moment he stepped over the dead man and opened the suitcase
Linck had brought. He found the block and tackle, and understood Linck's
intention. He put his head in his hands and wept.
Presently he took one of the ropes from the suitcase and tied a noose
around the neck of the man he had killed. He threw the other end of
the rope over a branch fifteen feet overhead, drew the body up until it
hung clear, and tied the rope to the trunk. Then he sat on the ground
and closed his eyes, waiting for a Voice.
After a time he realized that he was hearing it, and that he did not know
when it had begun. It was the same as before, a vast echoing sky-sound,
not in words, but in meaning. And then he knew.
He stood up again. All around him he could sense the other worlds, more
clearly than ever. They were like sheaves of shadows, multiplying in
every direction. He found one where there was something in the air that
said, "Here." There was a welcoming feeling in that world, a feeling
of belonging, of peace and acceptance. He gathered himself, reached in,
and turned with a convulsive effort.
Then there was no one in the forest but the dead man hanging from the tree.
* * *
From
The Book of Gene
, Chicago, 2036:
Then his enemy rose up before him to kill him; but GENE touched him with
the power that was in him, and he fell dead on the ground. Then GENE said,
"O God, what shall I do?" And God answered, "Hang this one from a tree,
and come to another place that I have prepared for you; and let not your
disciples sorrow, for I will return you to them at the proper season and
will gladden their hearts: and then you shall come in your glory." So
it was done; so it was told; and so it shall be.
A poet, a millionaire, a circus freak, Gene Anderson was all of these and much
more. An incredible eight-and-a-half-foot giant, he had a power, a gift that
enabled him to reach into other worlds and bring back miracles into this one.
He saw a magnificence in the universe that nobody had ever seen and brought
the light of truth to man where only darkness had been. But like all prophets,
he was feared as much as loved -- and hated by one tortured soul who was
determined to see him die . . .