The Bastard Tree: Chapters 1 & 2

8/2/2019 The Bastard Tree: Chapters 1 & 2

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M. C. Lang


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www.MCLang.net

The Bastard Tree

Copyright 2012 by M.C. LangAll rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in

whole or in part in any form

! ! ISBN-13: 978-1475191868! ! ISBN-10: 1475191863

Published by Fooco Fooco CommunicationsLethbridge, Alberta

www.FoocoFooco.com

Cover and graphics by Firefleye DesignCopy editing by Kate Lapin


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I

All Kinds of Morons

It happened, or, I should say started, near a small cottageoutside town. But it makes no difference, for it was notunlike any nondescript town you might know. If you like

you can imagine your own town, I dont mind. Snow hadfallen for the past two days, but had finally cleared early inthe morning. The fields and rolling hills that encroachedupon the town were swollen with a soft covering thaterased the nuances of the landscape, and a network ofbabbling brooks were muffled by a thin layer of ice. Thecharacter of the place felt restrained, temporarily buried.

Presently, a reborn sun towered playfully in the sky, itslong fingers clutching deceitful promises of warmth, whilethe wind that had so skillfully removed the clouds contin-ued its biting assault upon the little town. Together, thetwo formed a malicious tandem: the suns empty promisesof warmth the lure, the biting lash of the wind the hook.! It was Sunday, and that along with the cold keptthe town forcibly subdued. Mike Adams owned the cot-tage, which lay a mile west of town. He was a quirky fel-low who preferred the company of the succinct and re-served to accommodate his sporadic outbursts of chatter.! In his mid-thirties, Mike had never married. Hewas an excitable man who occasionally pondered the deepthings of life, but when in the company of others his fearof rejection seemed to wash those thoughts away in anavalanche of nervous energy. Thus, he often was left withnothing of note to say, though he tried hard. He was oneof those souls who never really found his way. If purposeand passion are the sustenance of life, Mike Adams was a


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bulimic soul. He dabbled in many pursuits but alwaysspit them back up within a month or two. As a result, his

apparent lack of substance was painfully obvious and hecompensated with quantity. Unfortunately for Mike, aquantity of words has always been a fading shadow in thelight of a single weighty thought. It is not as though Mikedidnt know this, but it was all he seemed to have.! On this day Mike found himself alone in his cot-tage. He didnt work Sundays and most of his acquain-

tances were at home relaxing with family. Feeling overfedfrom a late lunch, Mike decided to take a walk on his littleacreage. Lord knows he had to keep his figure, for the ex-terior was all he had to attract the available lady in town.Bundled in winter clothes he left the cottage and headednorth. The wind stung his face and upon reaching the endof his property numbness had set in. But he was deep in

thought of how he dreaded his various co-workers pro-truding love handles and how he was beginning to birthhis very own set.! Driven by this he turned left and continued hiswalk. The property was hemmed on the north and east byan old barbed-wire fence. Though the wire was no longertaut and the posts were well worn, it still marked the

property line. The south was bordered by a gravel roadand the west was open, except the northernmost partwhere a pond overlapped his land. He decided to followthe fence to the pond before heading home.! Coming to the edge of the pond he paused to takein the scene. The landscape was blindingly white and dis-turbingly serene. Mike didnt like the smothering silence

of snow. He was used to quantity not quiet. There wassomething about its purity as well. It seemed unnaturaland synthetic, out of place in this raging mess of life; itsunending whiteness far too uniform amidst a vast array ofshapes, hues, smells, feelings, and thoughts.

4 - The Bastard Tree


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! Perhaps the uniformity of that blank white canvasallowed him to glimpse the chaotic disarray of his own

soul: splattering and streaking the passionate colors of hisheart across it, with the formidable stroke of a brilliantlymad artist. That frenetic portrait was an unforgiving self-examination of the sort that no man cared for; at least noman Mike was aware of.! Furthering his discomfort, the snow seemed toinvest the landscape with a desolate, almost inhuman soli-

tude; draping itself around Mike as some uninvited andunwanted priestly garment, he was not about to bow andmake an offering at this great white altar. I dont like it,he thought aloud with a shake of his head.! Dont like what? came a voice from behind him,quiet as rustling treetops. At first Mike thought hed imag-ined it, until it came againlouder. Dont like what?

! Startled, Mike jumped and swiveled in one mo-tion. Across the pond, leaning gingerly on a rotten fencepost, stood a man. He was a plain fellow, his features softand banal, even homely. He wore a long gray coat with ared scarf around his neck. His thick gray hair dancedwildly in the breeze. The stark contrast from coat to scarfdrew the eye immediately upward, fastening the on-

lookers gaze to that face. Then Mike noticed the eyes.Hidden upon that boring landscape, like an animal peer-ing out from a thicket, they cut through him, but in a gen-tle way. He had never seen eyes like that. He didnt likethem. They made him feel naked.! Who is this stupid looking man? thought Mike in aburst of confusion. Doesnt he know this is my property?

How ignorant! Ive never seen him before, he cant be fromtown. And why is he eavesdropping on me? And on and onMikes mind raced as always when embarrassed. A lessjaded man wouldve seen a gleam of innocence about thestranger, not ignorance; but Mike was jaded, and judgedthe world accordingly.

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! Tired of waiting the stranger repeated his ques-tion, Dont like what?

! Recovering from his start Mike found his tongue,What are you doing out here? I almost had a coronary.! A coronary? Do you even know what a coronaryis?! His face flushed, darkening already wind-bittencheeks. Of course! What kind of moron uses words hedoesnt understand? Mike had only a vague impression

of the wordhed heard it used on television.! All kinds, came a swift reply.! All kinds of what?! Morons.! Did you just call me a moron?! No, the stranger chuckled warmly, grinning earto ear.

! You havent answered my question. Mike wasgetting annoyed; he didnt see the joke, though one usu-ally doesnt when blinded by self-consciousness. Thestranger stopped laughing but the grin remained.! And you havent answered mine, replied thestranger. My oh my, youre more dramatic than I wastold. I like that, Michael.

! So Im a dramatic moron? Is that about it?! I never called you a moron. You may feel likeone but He shrugged his shoulders.! Annoyance was billowing into anger. Why dontyou just get off my bloody property.! Dont get so angry, Michael. Youre just embar-rassed.

! Who told you my name?! It would be silly not to know your name. Its mybusiness.! Your business, he said with biting sarcasm.



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! And you say you arent dramatic? Really, I kindof like it. Its sort of cute. The stranger began to laugh

again.! Mikes face twisted in confusion, but his angerwas melting in favor of curiosity. Did you just hit on me?I mean, I dont care what youve heard or what the guys atthe bar told you. Yes Im still single but The strangerslaugh intensified wildly and Mikes embarrassment punc-tured the surface again.

! No, no, it was nothing like that. The strangercould barely get the words out between spasmodic chuck-les.! I dont see whats so funny.! Oh Michael, youve got to learn to laugh. Youtake the wrong things too seriously, and the right ones toolightly.

! Only his mother called him Michael and he didntlike hearing it from this stranger. He wanted to headhome but he needed to know how this man knew him. Ifyoure done enlightening me, Id like to know who youare.! Im a family specialist, the man said wryly.! Well I dont have a family; youve got the wrongguy.! Everybody has a family Michael. Even you.Thats why Im here.! I know my family! Do you? the stranger interjected.! Yes of coursebut what business is it of yours?If you think Im gonna pay you to research my family his-

tory, forget it.! Im not looking to get paid, but your tree is quiteinteresting. I think youd benefit from learning about it.The stranger was serious now.

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! My tree? I cant follow you. Youre like a schizo-phrenic hummingbird. First you talk of family, then youre

talking about a tree. He smiled at his clumsy wit.! Yourfamily tree, Michael.! Ohhh, he said, feeling stupid. You couldvejust said that.! I suppose I couldve. But nonetheless your tree isstill quite interesting.! A shadow of suspicion clouded Mikes face.Well, what then? Is this about my father?! Yes, it is your fathers side thats interesting. Itsthe bastard side of the tree.! What? Mikes face flushed red. The bastardside of the tree?! Yes, its the bastard tree, said the strangercalmly.

! Shocked fury stormed the citadels of Mikes mind.The man was right: He was a bastardthe product of alurid tryst between strangers who, in the grasp of passion,hadnt even exchanged names. Insulted and feelingdeeply exposed, his tongue fired forth, You call me a mo-ron and now a bastard? Screw you! Get off my property!Turning he marched rabidly toward the house.

! Over his shoulder he heard the man call to him,But Michael, I didnt call you a bastard. It didnt matternow, hed had enough. Reaching the house he lookedback but the man was nowhere in sight.



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2

A Blue Coffin

It was early evening when Mikes agitation began reced-ing. Hed spent the better part of three hours pacing hiscottage with hot emotion, his petulant strides chafing the

berber pasture of his living room. But now, like a longsummer day when the scorched prairie yearns for the coolof night, his passion was finding its twilight. His paceslowed considerably until finally he slumped onto thecouch, letting out a great sigh.! In the settling calm of his motionless frame, hismind slowed and sputtered in short bursts. However, his

curiosity still throbbed within; had you checked his pulseat that moment you may well have found two distinctrhythms. The lively drumming of his outwardly subdued,but inwardly untamed heart, alongside the wild and er-ratic mayhem of his curiosity. Like organic African beatsbeing infused with European structure, the two interpene-trated to the point of birth: Mikes own form of the blues

was born and, like a fawn fresh from the womb, it waswobbly on its feet. Half-formed thoughts stumbled uponone another in almost comedic fashion.! Like a slave driver beating his drum, so playedthis new tune, driving thoughts and forming questions:What was his dad like? Why did it matter? Was the old man

gay? What would life have been like with a dad? Mike movedquickly to blunt these introverted queries with an oldworn out thought: It doesnt really matter anyway. And thenhe used distraction to put them away altogether (for themoment) by focusing on one peculiarity of the encoun-terwhere had the man come from?


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! Finding a new bone to chew, Mike jumped to hisfeet and headed for the door. Surely he could track the

mans path on his property; there must be footprints in thesnow. Twilight had passed so Mike grabbed a flashlightfrom the cupboard and, having sloppily thrown on hisjacket, exited the cottage.! Not two feet out the door he realized the flashlightbatteries were dead. Having breathed the intoxicating,frigid air he hastily decided to leave the flashlight behind;

besides, a full moon was bathing the land in ghostly palelight. It was more than enough to see tracks in the snow.! As his eyes adjusted in the moonlight a forebodingfeeling grabbed hold of him. There is something peculiarabout a full moon, something otherworldly. Somehow itshypnotizing light illuminates the unseen, or at least paintsits shadows. But then the moon itself is unseen for most of

the day; always there hidden beyond the horizon, and be-neath the golden glory of the sun. It is only at night, whenthe sun is obscured, that the moon presents itself.! Everything looks different by the moons touch, itslight investing a portentous creativity. Like a muse fromGreek mythology, so is the moon; inspiring new ideas byhis peculiar outlook on the world. Maybe there is some-

thing to the blind man seeing what other men cannot.Maybe there is something to those fringe characters whoclaim to look with inner-eyes. Maybe they look at theworld by moonlight. So too was this light now openingMikes eyes to new perspectives. Yet these new thoughtswere tainted by his growing anxiety.! Maybe hes a criminaldigging for my personalinformation; damn him to hell if thats his game! sput-tered Mike, the wilder beats of that new drum emergingfrom the chorus. Why else would he have known aboutMikes family? Ill be damned if hes going to get the bestof me! He was whispering into the soft snow, half afraidthe man was lying in wait nearby. Maybe I shouldnt



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leave the house unattended? He looked nervously backat the cottage. What am I talking about? Have I lost

my he was arrested in mid-thought by the sound offootsteps.! Whos there? shouted Mike as he whirledaround. I saw you! Shadows seemed everywhere, flit-ting across the snowy landscape for but a moment, thendisappearing into the milky depths from which theydleaped. Standing still and silent, his bated breath hung

precariously in the thin air. Silence. More silence. And allat once he was taken with his surroundings anew, as if hehad fresh eyes. The landscape looked different to him bythat penetrating moonlight. The monotone canvas thathad disconcerted him in the daylight, now looked almostbeautiful to him; like a vast galaxy, the Milky Way herselfperhaps (as if shed be torn from the sky and strewn upon

the earth), breathtakingly white, and as the moonlight hitthe crystalline snow it refracted back, sparkling like mil-lions of stars.! In awe of the majesty before himthis Milky Wayin its virginal gloryhis irrational fears wilted. The shad-ows were no longer harbingers of evil, but of trees andhills and rabbits and deer. His delusions of murderous

strangers were swiftly rendered impotent when cast in thelight of this grandeur. The stranger was annoying butharmless. A pulse of embarrassment ran through him.How could he have been so scared? Even still, he returnedto the cottage to lock the door.! Making his way once more toward the pond hismind turned to his contradictory nature. Whats the mat-

ter with me? How did I get so conflicted? By day thissnow bedevils me and by night it soothes my soul. Is itany different in the night? And what does it say that I pre-fer the nights weary light? And what of those ridiculousfears? For Gods sake Im a grown man! he soliloquizedalmost poetically. Truth be known he felt a little silly. Not

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only of his momentary fear, but because he truly didntknow why he felt as he did. And that, he thought, made

him no better than an animal; operating not by reason orwit, but by instinct and emotion.! Approaching the pond he was careful to retracehis steps; he didnt want more tracks confusing things.Even by the moonlight he could clearly make out his pathfrom the afternoon. He was at the ponds edge beforereaching the end of his footprints. Having carefully iden-

tified his own trail he began looking for the strangers.Circling the pond he made his way toward the rotten fencepost. There was no trace of another set of footprints.! It made little difference, for Mike expected to findtracks only at the fence and leading away north, where heassumed the stranger came from. Reaching the poleproved far less fruitful than hed hoped. There were two

imprints in the snow, but they looked as though theydbeen disturbed somehow and no longer held the distinctshape of a human foot. There was no way to be certainwhat they were. Complicating matters more, Mike foundno trail leading to or away from the post. Staring upon theperfectly undisturbed snow he let out a frustrated snarl,Who is this guy?

! Mike scratched his head in disgust as he surveyedthe scene around him. His tracks were clearly visible inthe moonlight; as such, there was no doubt he shouldvebeen able to see the strangers tracks too. The two impres-sions at the base of the fence post must have been histracks. But no path in and no path out. How could it be?! Mike surveyed the scene again and somethingcaught his eye. He scampered over and came upon an-other impression in the snow. It was large enough to be ahuman footprint, but the shape was all wrong. Ten feet tohis left there looked to be another one. Pensively he madehis way over. What kind of man has a ten foot stride? hethought. Upon inspection his question was answered.



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Its not a footprint at all, he murmured dejectedly. Ivebeen chasing shadows. Standing over the shadow he

stopped and thought it through. Nothing made sense. Notrail leading in or out. The footprints he did find may nothave been footprints at allbut then they just as wellmight be. No, they had to be his footprints. They were inthe exact spot the man had stood that afternoon.! Deciding to examine the fence post once moreMike turned to take a step, but his feet shot out from un-

der him while his back and head arrested a short and swiftfall. There was a loud crack as he hammered the ground.For a moment the stars and moon fell from the sky, leavinginky blackness overhead. Fighting this haze of confusionhe tried to understand, but his groggy thoughts were in-terrupted by an unusual noise. Like an echo mocking hisfall, long dull cracking sounds were sharply filling the air

with a harmonious chorus. They seemed in perfect time,as an orchestra with conductor: there was the alto, thentogether the soprano and baritone, and finally the bass, allplaying a singular tune that revealed his predicament.! At once the shocking epiphany replenished thesky with stars and horrified Mike: He had inadvertentlywandered onto the pond. A frenzy of thoughts descended

upon him, clearing any cobwebs that remained. What do Ido? What do I do? he screamed inside his head. Help!Help! he shouted aloud with every ounce of strength inhim. He knew enough to not stand up, thereby keepinghis weight spread out. The chorus of cracking continuedand he knew there was little time. Squirming like a fish ondry land, he clumsily began sliding his body toward the

edge. Every movement sent a new splintering web intothe ice around him.! He was making little progress when a terrible feel-ing accosted him: a viscous undulation beneath his body.The sheet of ice was no more, fragmented into little conti-nents adrift on an arctic sea. Slowly bobbing from side to

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side, Mike knew he was trapped on this floating coffin. Itwas only a matter of time before he slipped into the icy

depths. Help! Help! he shrieked once more, hoping fora miracle. Help! Help! God help me! His voice wasquickly becoming hoarse.! His frantic screaming set his little piece of ice toviolent sway. Trying to steady himself, he swung his armsabout as unsuccessful counterweights. Then, in that palemoonlight, Mike reached the tipping point. It was surreal

as most climaxes are. We live so thoroughly in the waitingand chasing, in the desiring or dreading, that the now isaltogether foreign to us. Clinging to his semi-vertical liferaft, Mike found himself staring into the stars as he clawedfor traction. If I die, this isnt a bad last view. An oddthought for a frantic man, but as he hit the tipping point abizarre calm stilled his fearful heart. It was as if the still-

ness gripping the winter land had grasped Mike by theroot of his soul, and was about to swallow him; and it wasokay. There in the stillness, the peace of winter, it wassomehow okay. For the second time that night, the palemoonlight had captured his gaze and relieved his fears.And he thought to himself, Its not such a bad graveyard,here in this peaceful Milky Way.

! Jarred from this tranquility, if only momentarily,he lost his grip and slid into the jaws of the dark abyss be-low. His body seized in response to the frigid tempera-tures; his chest muscles convulsed, forcing the air from hislungs in an unbridled bodily exhale. Attempting to swimhe found his limbs clumsy and inaccurate. His whole be-ing began to feel increasingly viscous, including his soul.

! The lost tranquility found him once more. Mikewas now but another continent adrift in that sea. His armsfrozen at his sides, his legs motionless, while only a littlethought disturbed his growing inner stillness. I supposethis is it, he resigned. But where shall I end up? And what ifits Hades gates for me? Should this frozen fleshly icicle slip into



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the burning hubs of hell? How long would those flames take to

thaw me I wonder? No matter, theyd have an eternity I sup-

pose. Im sure Id have more chance than a snowflake. Hah!Maybe not. Maybe I could just stay here by the serene moon-

light and join the other stars in the Milky Way. Not a thoughtof family or regret crossed his mind in his peaceful slum-ber. Floating there, his frozen blue skin an icy casket, MikeAdams drifted into a deathly sleep.

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Documents

The Bastard Tree: Chapters 1 & 2