Chapter Text
Part I: Tangled
Chapter One
It did not have a name. It did not need one.
But in its glorious heart those majesties that shone were place, and memory, and watching, and there was a Wabanaki name for that which the birds remembered. The birds could feel what made up the heart of this tree because it was so old, and they thought the name to one another when communication was needed. About where a nest was being constructed, or where a branch was newly broken, or when a fox came and stretched mightily upwards against the tree, scratching its nails and its pads against the bark in a protracted, delicious elongation that made its back shiver before meandering off again. This name was Wewitahatomon, and as far as the animals were concerned, if concerned they ever were about this, that was the name of the tree.
The tree was content. This tree was enormous and ancient. It dwarfed the structure it stood behind, but it had been there first and it would always stand where it grew. It knew the people of its place. It had never heard the names Erikson or Columbus or Washington; it was older than those; but it remembered Wewiphoqe, a little girl who had lived close by. And Kuhusiske, a boy who had slept beneath its young boughs. And Pansinisqet and Si’losat. There were many names, many boys, many girls.
The last so far had been Elizabeth, who had told the tree she loved it. She had tried to pass her arms about part of the tree and would rest there, lovingly gripping. The last time she had come was to cling to the tree and weep with a black terror in her heart. Roger, a little boy who had routinely wept and kicked at the tree’s massive, towering roots before collapsing in a heap to cry at its foot, and absorb what comfort he could in the phantom embrace the tree gave and the protection that it would never retract. Little Carolyn, who had flashed between moods of playing and crying, and asked the tree what her father was like, then told the tree what her father was like, until the tree was sure that she had many fathers. And young David, who would sit silently with his back against the tree, not speaking and yearning for his mother. Wewitahatomon had felt countless children yearning for their parents and knew these feelings, and had reached out with its aura to hold David.
The last in a line of ages and ages of children.
It was not a tree of magic, though at one time something magical had been bestowed upon it.
A group of men had come and lifted another man into the tree by the neck with a rope and left him there. Shocked, Wewitahatomon tried to embrace and protect the man, but though his body dangled in the boughs, the man’s life was not inside him.
Wewitahatomon had seen much as the centuries wore on, but nothing like that before.
That same year, a man in bad clothes and with bloody feet came to the tree in the darkness and the tree tensed. There were the whoops of men and lights and dogs. This one man paused beside the tree and put his hand upon it. Wewitahatomon could see that there would be a repetition with the rope because this felt and smelt and sounded the same.
The tree cried out to Great Spirit to stop its life rather than witness such a thing again.
But you were made to witness all things.
But I cannot see this again and continue to draw water from the earth and feed my leaves and shelter the birds. If I see this thing again I shall forget how to do all things. I shall forget how to taste the wind and how to talk with the moon, and I shall forget how to love the long night. Let me not see this. Let me be no more.
No. But I will allow you to give the man the gift of yourself, if that’s the way you feel about it.
The hunched and bleeding figure crept to the tree and put his hand on it and paused, only the whites of his eyes discernible in the great dark. Gnats and mosquitoes danced before his sweat-slimed face. He was far from where he had been born, and his mother was sold and his father gone and the tree knew this about him. And the hunting party drew closer.
The man felt the tree and found a chink there, an opening, a crevice that wound inside the tree, curling around, leading to a roomy hiding place deep inside the tree where a moment ago there had not been one, and he advanced into it, and shuddered and crouched down and gripped his head. And men swarmed the Collinwood land, yelling, asking for lanterns and torches and assistance at the Old House, which at that time was not old. And the tracking dogs leapt gladly to find their target because they did not know that their masters had set them upon evil, and they rushed eagerly around the tree, sniffing hard, picking up no scent.
The tree kept quiet because that was one of the things it did best. The men roamed around because one of them was sure he had glimpsed a running figure but the dogs were unresponsive, and so the hunters moved on.
The man was called Hobin and the man who owned him was named Day and Day said with fury that Hobin was worth forty pounds, and besides that, he wasn’t going to allow to escape a buck who’d taught himself to read!
The tree housed Hobin for weeks. It kept him dry and warm, and when he was thirsty, a runnel of water began dripping from above him inside the tree and he could catch it in his hands and drink, and when he was hungry he found a damp patch inside Wewitahatomon that bled honey, which had not happened before inside Wewitahatomon. Day by day Hobin also found long pieces of bark that looked so much like bread that finally he took them up and sniffed them, and put them to his lips, and was astonished to find them edible and good. Hobin thought God was protecting him.
Eventually Hobin left the tree and went far away and found a life among people who saw him as a man and not chattel, and the tree remembered him as it remembered all of its people, and marked the memory.
The heart of the gigantic tree was strong like the rock hull of a massy ship and deep with memory. Rearing over Collinwood, it stood behind it and beside it with many arms lifted at the sky as if in silent, but emphatic, protection of the house.
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To Professor Elliot Stokes, Arundel Cottage, 4 Nahossett Lane, Collinsport ME 04387
From Bruce Lundford, 129 Rigby Street, Scarborough ME 04074
Feb. 27, 1972
Dear Uncle Elliot,
We’ve rung you six times since we got your Express Letter but no answer, and are sending this Express in return as requested. Yes of course come to us. Nancy’s wild to have you as we’ve just repapered the upstairs. You’re coming alone? Not bringing your lady friend and new baby? (Is everything okay? Boy or girl?) We will see you when you get here.
Your nephew,
Bruce
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To Professor Elliot Stokes, Arundel Cottage, 4 Nahossett Lane, Collinsport ME 04387
From Professor Marcia Stokes-Lundford, 310 Morse Pond Road, Falmouth MA 02540
27th February ‘72
Dear Timothy,
Why are you scaring Bruce? He called me. I write to offer you our home instead so you won’t be packed in with the newlyweds. Howard and I have been back from Europe since the new year and would be overjoyed to have you down to see us, and you know you love Falmouth, so do come and bring whoever it is. We have plenty of room. Bruce said you sounded upset. Weren’t you about to be married, or become a father or something, or have I got that wrong?
Trusting that all is well,
Your loving sister, Marz
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To Professor Elliot Stokes, Arundel Cottage, 4 Nahossett Lane, Collinsport, ME 04387
From Dr. Z.M. “Jack” Pother, PhD, Ticonet University, 150 University Avenue, Middletown, CT 06457
2/27/72
Dear Elliot,
I’m delighted to learn that you will, after all, attend the Symposium. Decker and Professor Jefferson especially will be in high fettle when I tell them. The last room accommodation is yours; you’ll be in Pickering Lodge with the rest of the lot, so expect warm quarters (clanking radiators) and good food, but not much in the way of laundry service. What a circle of scholars and savants it will be. Your letter sounded a bit rushed, so when we are together before the fire with glasses of Courvoisier in our fists you must tell us what brought about this lucky change of plan. And I am happily aghast to learn that you are finally, seriously considering our offer to come teach full-time at Ticonet – there are one or two fine houses open in my neighborhood. Clara is lining up her prettiest single friends in anticipation of your arrival.
See you at the Symposium!
Looking forward,
Jack
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To Barnabas Collins, The Old House, 1 Salt Sea Road, Collinsport ME 04387
From Elliot Stokes, Arundel Cottage, 4 Nahossett Lane, Collinsport, ME 04387
Stay away from me.
Stokes