Mr. Beedle wasn’t always a selfish man, in fact, if you asked the right people they would say he hadn’t become a selfish man. I suppose that’s the way the world and its inhabitants work, though, isn’t it. There will always be differing opinions on everything, no matter how simple it appears in one’s eyes.
But, to the majority of the people in the small town of Evergreen, Mr. Beedle was a selfish man, perhaps the most. Thus, the predominating opinion being as it was, he had succumbed to the life of seclusion their judgement imposed upon him, perhaps if only to spite those who accused him. The object of his label wasn’t money as you might suppose, but rather a large plot of land. I make no mistake in saying the plot was large, for it was well over the size of the town, and was the source of its name. This plot of land was filled with the largest and most wondrous evergreens most men had ever beheld. Or rather, that had been the town’s claim to fame at one time. This was before Mr. Beedle had come into possession of his father’s land.
You see, the issue was in how Mr. Beedle managed the plot of land, what he did with it. I suppose it may be more fitting to observe what Mr. Beedle did not do with the land.
While his father, grandfather, and great grandfather had used the land to attract visitors and thus benefit the town greatly, the current Mr. Beedle had sealed it away and refused all but himself to enter the vast woods. As you might have guessed, this stripped the small town of the one thing that it had become known for. No longer was it a destination for campers, nature enthusiasts, or vacationers. It had returned to a town full of nobodies, the majority of which held a violent grudge against Mr. Beedle and spoke of him only in lowered and angry tones. To them, he was the source of every problem thereafter. Whether it was a chipped plate or a pothole in the street, Mr. Beedle was surely at the root of it.
Mr. Beedle, however, appeared ignorant of their attitudes toward his decision. No doubt he knew very well that he had upset the entire town—many had refused to render him their services—but he acted as if nothing had changed since his father’s passing. He would stroll into town as casually as he had ever done, waving and smiling at those who turned their smiles upside down and growled at him, seemingly oblivious to the ill-will surrounding him. His visits to town ended shortly after he gathered that some of the townsfolk leaned toward violence regarding their grudge.
When he had first made the decision to seal away the land, many had asked for an explanation.
“Nature is not a show-horse, to be toted about and exploited!” he remarked in response. “It is a creature to be respected, revered, and set apart. Only those who have earned its respect may enter its sanctuary.”
Of course, the only person to have earned this respect was Mr. Beedle himself, who took long walks in the forest from time to time. Thus his answer and the tone with which he had delivered it outraged the people, turning them against him with even greater zeal. Restaurants refused to serve him, his servants and handymen quit, and nearly all civilian resources were cut off from him. But this did not seem to bother the man, for he continued to behave as pleasantly as ever, even equipping a sort of pompous air when he showed himself.
Several years passed in this way, with Mr. Beedle only entering town to gloat and smile at the unhappy townsfolk. This was the only reward he had received from his selfishness and a shallow one at that. But he largely stayed in his mansion, secluded from the world and doing who knew what. The town remained in a state of limbo, dead-looking but alive nonetheless.
On the sixth year of Mr. Beedle’s possession of the woods, a visitor arrived in Evergreen. He was the first in a long time, and was thus received warmly by all. Restaurants scrubbed their floors and washed their windows, convenience stores restocked their shelves and changed their light-bulbs, and the only hotel in town prepared their best room at a lower price.
“I’d like a room for one, please,” the man said to Imelda, the lady at the front, her dust-colored curls bobbing in excitement.
“Sure thing,” she said with a wide smile, yet trying not to be overeager at the sudden customer. “Can I get a name?”
“Mr. Bone,” he replied as dryly as the object of his name.
“Well, Mr. Bone,” she said as she removed a room key, much more of a skeleton key than the sliding cards in modern hotels. “We have a very pleasant room for you.”
“I don’t want anything fancy,” he said, putting up a thin and tight hand in clarification. “Just a room.”
Imelda paused but didn’t lower her smile.
“Well, it is for a discounted price at the moment,” she explained, “almost the price of a normal room.”
“One of the normal rooms will do fine,” he said.
Imelda’s smile lowered a bit, but only for a moment.
“Alright then,” she said cheerily, and then she nodded to a young man in the corner. “Rudolph will take your bags.”
“No need,” Mr. Bone replied, “I’ve only got one.”
Rudolph looked at Mr. Bone with lazy eyes, seemingly unimpressed by the visitor. The visitor was no doubt equally unimpressed and didn’t give him a second glance.
“Right this way,” Imelda said as she led him up a set of stairs.
There was an awkward silence as they mounted the creaking stairs, Imelda quite uncertain of how to talk to the visitor. He was not a very cheery person and didn’t seem to want to talk at all. His physical demeanor reassured this observation, being similar to the gray walls lining the inside of the hotel: very much in need of a more colorful coat of paint. Yet the walls were sturdy and respectable.
“Here we are,” Imelda said as they stopped at a door. “Room number three,” she said as she turned the key and opened the door. She led him into the room and introduced him to it as if the simple room was an acquaintance, pointing out the bathroom, closet, porch, bed, and television. She did so with pride in these very trivial features, for a lot of time and work had been spent on the hotel over the years, particularly in the last six. And while it had declined much since visitors had stopped pouring in, it was still a very decent room. “I hope you will be comfortable here,” she said in conclusion.
“I’m sure it will suffice,” Mr. Bone said.
There was another awkward silence as Imelda tried to prolong the conversation, but it soon became clear that Mr. Bone was ready to be alone in his room. So she turned to leave, pausing at the door to say, “breakfast will be available in the lobby.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bone said, and the conversation was ended.
He let his bag down on the bed and peered out the window a moment. The town looked quite dull from above, even more so than it did at street level. For up above, one couldn’t see the people meandering about, smiles—or in most cases, disgruntled frowns—plastered on their faces. From the window, they were all just little people walking aimlessly about on a dirty street.
“Small towns,” he sighed as he moved away from the window and over to a faded mirror against the wall. It was a consistent habit of his to check over his appearance in a mirror after traveling. He wasn’t sure when he’d started doing it, only that it helped him perform better both in business and in day-to-day life. It was a sort of progress report, letting him know how he had fared the day’s trials.
He observed slightly graying hair mostly slicked back. Several strands had fallen down or were peeking sheepishly above the others. A slight negative. His black suit coat was clean and unwrinkled, looking almost as if it had come straight from the ironing board. A positive. But his tie was a little loose. A negative. Inspecting his chin, he saw that he should have shaved either before he had set out or at a stop along the way. Little specks of gray stubble could be seen if one looked hard enough. A negative. Other than that, he had no bags under his eyes and his brows did not seem unrested. Both positives. As he judged, the positives outweighed the negatives, thus the day was a success and he could unwind. But even unwinding had negatives and positives.
Mr. Bone went to his suitcase and retrieved a folder labeled “Evergreen Property” written in a hybrid of calligraphy and cursive. He took it to the small desk, switched on the light, and sat down to review the contents of the folder. He did this until ten o’clock, when he retired to the small bed.
The morning came as it did any other day: a crimson sliver peeking over the restricted evergreens. The snow was beginning it’s early stages of appearance: first with a small shower that melted almost immediately, and then with small patches that stayed for a few days. The first lasting snow had not yet set in, and the young children of the town were eagerly awaiting it. The adults, however, had much more pressing business on their minds. Talk of a professional visitor, a Mr. Bone, had escaped Imelda’s hotel lobby and traveled the entire town by the time the sun had crept above the horizon.
“He’s a real businessman,” the whispers had said, “he’s here on official business.”
“About the evergreen woods?” was the hushed question.
“He must be!” came the gleeful response.
The whole town had come to the conclusion that Mr. Bone was here to change things. He was their knight in shining armor come to slay a dragon and return prosperity to the land.
The truth was quite different, as it often is when paired beside our expectations, and would have had a much opposite effect had the people known. But their ignorance of Mr. Bone’s business was as it was, thus allowing their hopes to soar.
Mr. Beedle, of course, had heard nothing of a visitor, being secluded and shut out of any sort of social loop. Thus it was with quite a shock that he received Mr. Bone into his mansion the next day.
“Forgive my lack of tidiness,” Mr. Beedle said as he ushered the guest to one of his few tidy rooms. The mansion had quite fallen out of order in the past six years, the natural result of the absence of attendants. “I am currently out of help, and tending to things on my own.”
“I understand,” Mr. Bone said while counting the negatives of Mr. Beedle’s management. The tally quickly surpassed any daily amount he had ever contracted, and he stopped counting.
“We do not receive visitors very often,” Mr. Beedle said, and then confessed, “I even less so.” He gestured down at an armchair, across from which was one he intended to sit in. Mr. Bone took the chair somewhat reluctantly.
“Yes,” Mr. Bone muttered as he took his hand off the arm of the chair he had been ushered to. A coating of dust had come off with his hand. A strong negative. “I understand that there has been a sort of falling out between you and the town,” he added.
“Oh,” Mr. Beedle chuckled a moment, “yes, a very shallow one of course.”
Mr. Bone smiled and nodded, his expression of belief much more shallow than Mr. Beedle’s statement.
“May I ask the nature of this falling out?”
“Well, you may,” Mr. Beedle said, but then paused uncomfortably.
“Mr. Beedle?”
“Yes,” he continued, “our falling out.”
Mr. Bone nodded again.
“It is a rather small thing, mind you, and entirely out of my control.” Mr. Beedle offered a smile and then continued. “You see, the possession of the evergreen forest came to me after my father passed away. It was a very large piece of property, and had been used for centuries as a sort of attraction.” He scoffed and shook his head. “Money was the object of the forest, my father and his father and so on had exploited the trees for their beauty, you see.”
“Exploited?” Mr. Bone asked.
“Why yes,” Mr. Beedle answered, “plain and simple, they exploited innocent trees for their natural features.” He shook his head again. “It was a horrible thing and I have done my best to right the wrongs of my ancestors.”
Mr. Bone was silent, but counted the man’s sentimentality toward the trees as a negative.
“I took back the land and restored the trees to their natural ownership,” Mr. Beedle concluded. “They are now in perfect solace, and not a soul—apart from myself—walks among them.”
Mr. Bone was silent for a moment but knew that it was his turn to speak.
“Mr. Beedle,” he began, his tone dry and unsympathetic. “I’m a businessman, coming on behalf of a much more powerful businessman who would like to purchase these woods.”
Mr. Beedle was silent, stone silent. He was not angry but shocked. No one had ever approached with such an intent. The townsfolk had been far too poor, and no one had given much thought to the land as a source of income after it had been sealed away.
“Why—” Mr. Beedle’s brows lowered in confusion. “Whatever for? I cannot see much profit in a sanctuary such as this,” he then chuckled and added, “and all businessmen seek profit, do they not?”
“They do,” Mr. Bone replied. “And there is profit in this land.”
“Profit?” Mr. Beedle’s voice became grave and solemn, “profit from the woods?”
“Not directly,” Mr. Bone continued. “You see, this area is much more than a woods. It’s—as you said—a sanctuary.” This seemed to please Mr. Beedle, for a small smile lightened his expression. But the expression did not survive Mr. Bone's next statements. “It’s remote enough to be private, yet close enough to civilization. If used productively, this area can be quite profitable.”
“You mean to exploit it then,” Mr. Beedle concluded, his breath becoming slow and heavy.
“No,” Mr. Bone answered, “I mean to buy it for a very large sum.” Mr. Bone’s heartbeat rose for a moment. He always got excited when it came time to reveal the amount of money being dealt with.
“It is not money I am concerned about,” Mr. Beedle said before the businessman could astound him.
“Not money?” Mr. Bone reiterated, his mind going to the decaying mansion. Money was certainly in need if the man wished to occupy his lifestyle much longer, and Mr. Bone judged that Mr. Beedle was not the sort of man to seek employment. He was accustomed to wealth and all the royalties that come from an absurd amount of it. Given the right amount of pressure and desperation, Mr. Bone knew that money would quickly become Mr. Beedle’s primary concern. “What is your concern?” he asked, deciding to oblige him for a moment.
“My concern is for the trees,” Mr. Beedle said, his brows lowering just a bit over his eyes. “Specifically what will happen to them.”
“The trees,” Mr. Bone gave a shrewd smile and then sighed before continuing. “The truth is, my employer wants to set up a factory here.” As he had expected, Mr. Beedle’s mouth unhinged and dropped open. Mr. Bone continued. “A whole slew of factories, actually, but he’d start with one.”
“A factory!” Mr. Beedle gasped.
“Yes, that’s what I said.” Mr. Bone watched as the older man began to unravel.
“You would murder the trees and desecrate their home with cement and metal!?”
“I wouldn’t,” Mr. Bone answered calmly, “I’d set up a resort. It’s my employer who’s going to set up the factory.”
Mr. Beedle shut his mouth, breathed in deeply, and rose from his chair. He stood in angered silence a moment, his whole body betraying his rage. Mr. Bone did nothing, to act fearfully would be a negative. Besides, Mr. Beedle was not a man to be feared.
“I suppose you’ll want time to think about it. I’ll take my leave,” Mr. Bone said before his host had the opportunity to throw him out. He promptly rose and made his way out the door, conscious of the heavy breathing and hot fumes being released from Mr. Beedle’s flaring nostrils.
Leaving the estate, he reflected on the meeting. He had acted efficiently and steps had been made toward success, strong positives in Mr. Bone’s book. Mr. Beedle had shown enough negatives to make any man feel good about himself, therefore it was easy to conclude that he had come out with a positive number.
The next steps, however, would prove somewhat more difficult. Mr. Beedle’s stance was firmly rooted, and it needed to be changed. No man was invincible, as Mr. Bone knew, and given Mr. Beedle’s gradual decline in financial health, he wagered that success was not far off.
“Does anyone maintain the land for Mr. Beedle?” Mr. Bone asked, interrupting Imelda’s continuous flow of eager chatter. She stopped, somewhat embarrassed at how deeply she had lost herself. And then her face darkened at the mention of the old man locked away in his mansion.
“No one,” she answered gravely, her beady eyes peeping out beneath her weathered brows.
“Not even the bushes around his mansion?”
She shook her head.
“And can you blame them?” she added, “his selfish hoarding of that land has hurt everyone in this town. Even those who worked for him.”
“He simply lets his property grow then, unchecked?”
“Unchecked, and without a check in anyone’s favor,” Imelda muttered. “There never was a more selfish man than Mr. Beedle.” She then shook her head again and shriveled her brows, greatly exaggerating her age. “You’d think that he’d at least use the land to get profit for himself. But instead, he locks it off from anyone getting anything from it.”
“I believe he has a different sort of value placed in it,” Mr. Bone mused. “One that, while entirely silly and stupid, is more difficult than profit.”
Imelda was silent as she watched the man think. She wasn’t following his line of thought but knew that he would come to a conclusion on his own.
“It surpasses even sentimentality,” Mr. Bone added. “Yes,” he purred, “Mr. Beedle’s greedy hoarding of the land stems from a faulty morality.”
“Morality?” Imelda scoffed.
“Faulty, mind you.”
She was silent again.
“Yes,” Mr. Bone concluded his thoughts.
“So you’ve been to see him then?” Imelda asked, her eyes brightening and the corners of her mouth curving directly toward heaven.
Mr. Bone gave her a smile—nothing more than a slight twitch of one side of his mouth—and a quick glance through his emotionless eyes.
“Oh Mr. Bone!” she squealed, “thank you!”
Mr. Bone smiled and accepted her gratitude, but said nothing more.
“Evergreen will be booming again!” she exclaimed.
—
As Mr. Bone explored the town, in a most nonchalant manner, of course, he began to understand better the connections between the townsfolk. Imelda was connected by blood to a large amount of them, and as such was his primary source of intelligence. But her knowledge was masked by a polite and somewhat righteous seal, one that prevented her from idle gossip and negative comments. The exception, of course, was when discussing Mr. Beedle. He received no courtesy and any questions regarding him were answered quickly and with a bitter tongue. But these sort of remarks were not what Mr. Bone was looking for. He needed an insider, someone who could do more than tell him about Mr. Beedle. Finding such a person was difficult, as they are often the sort who wish to remain hidden, but to forfeit would be a strong negative, and Mr. Bone was not about to tip his balance.
Therefore he did find his man, although it took him a little longer than he had hoped. A slight negative. But it was outweighed by the positive of finding and recruiting the man, so all was balanced in the end.
This man had in turn pointed him toward another man, one nearly as isolated as Mr. Beedle.
“Gert,” the man introduced himself as. Upon first sight of him, Mr. Bone noted that his parents must have had the gift of clairvoyance, for the name fit his appearance and personality better than any Mr. Bone had witnessed. He was dirty, a feature that did not change between any of their meetings, and was dressed almost entirely in animal skins. These skins were not fine or impressive, however, and looked more like the sewing together of lesser animals such as rats, squirrels, and possibly even a possum. His hair was a mess, tattered and falling about his shoulders and in front of his face in a manner that spoke and breathed of either poverty or isolation, the truth of which Mr. Bone soon learned was the latter.
“He’s made himself rich on skins,” the town gossip had said, eyes bulging and eager. “He ships them out to rich folks in big cities.”
Thus it was with some confusion that Mr. Bone beheld the man, for he saw no reason a man of wealth would choose to dress so miserably. But there was a job to be done, and Mr. Bone did not care much who accomplished it.
“I have heard a rumor,” he told Gert as they met one day in his cabin on the edge of town. “I understand you occasionally hunt—unbeknownst to him, of course—on Mr. Beedle’s land.”
Gert was shocked at first, this being visible in an even deeper silence than was his usual state, accompanied by the ceasing of all breath.
“Unbeknownst?” Gert finally grunted, sounding much like his name.
“Why yes,” Mr. Bone smiled, “surely he would not approve of you entering his sacred forest?”
“Approve—” Gert paused, “no.”
“But he does allow you to?”
Gert nodded but then froze. His eyes shifted to a knife resting on a table. It was a rather long knife, to be used for more than slicing vegetables.
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Bone quickly said, being sure not to allow an ounce of fear to slip into his voice. “I have no reason to betray this fact to the town.”
Gert nodded, but was skeptical for the remainder of their meeting.
“Why does Mr. Beedle allow you to hunt on his land when he is so opposed to others visiting it?”
Gert nodded to a skin hanging on the wall, bits of salt spread across it.
“He takes a cut from your profits,” Mr. Bone concluded.
“All,” Gert added, “I take only what I need.”
Mr. Bone almost smiled a full grin, realizing the potential such a discovery had. But he kept his enthusiasm—and his deathly white teeth—to himself.
“Thank you,” he said and then rose to leave.
“What will you do,” Gert asked before Mr. Bone had reached the door.
“I’m not sure yet,” Mr. Bone replied, and then added, “why do you allow him to take all the profit?”
Gert gave Mr. Bone a deep look and then moved his hand to the knife. A moment of anxiety leapt up in Mr. Bone, but he quickly suppressed it.
“The animal,” Gert said, taking the knife in one hand and running his finger along the blade with the other. “The blood, the skin,” he placed the knife back on the table. “It is my purpose,” he concluded. “I hunt so that I can feel,” he shook his head, “Mr. Beedle cannot understand that.” He paused and then added, “I gain much more than him.”
Mr. Bone didn’t smile or nod, but gave the man one last look before leaving. He was certainly a strange man, and his reasoning far beyond logic, but his information was invaluable.
The thought did surface that Gert’s position would make things more difficult, seeing as a factory would strip the land of wildlife. But Mr. Bone knew that one wildman, however wild, could be dealt with and was not worth stressing over. Giving in to stress was a negative, and so far the day had been positive. Best to keep it that way.
Mr. Bone saw more clearly now the way Mr. Beedle had managed to keep afloat. With all the profit of Gert’s skins going directly to him, he had been able to survive in the decaying mansion without lifting a finger. Granted, he was not thriving in any sense of the word, but he had not had to depart far from his lifestyle.
His home was in great decline, and he was likely thankful none visited him, but he was not so wealthy as he appeared, nor as righteous. He proclaimed himself to be a sort of guardian of nature, one who cared deeply for it and goes to great lengths to protect it. Yet he allowed blood to be shed in his forest so that his reputation and lifestyle may stay afloat. Such is a dangerous game, safe only when hidden. Exposing Mr. Beedle would no doubt destroy him and allow Mr. Bone to step in and secure the land. But herein lay a problem, for Mr. Bone had promised the wildman that he would not betray his secret. To go against his word would be a strong negative, one great enough to taint several days. Luckily, Mr. Bone had considered it while conversing with Gert. He had chosen his words carefully and said only what he knew he would stick to. Therefore, he could bring his knowledge of this information to Mr. Beedle, for he was in no way a part of this town, the townsfolk’s malice ensured that. Mr. Bone returned to his room with confidence carrying his steps, he had no doubt that the mirror would portray a successful man.
In the morning, Mr. Bone made no hesitation in going to Mr. Beedle. He was stopped, however, by Imelda and several townsfolk. The latter was a seemingly violent sort, who looked and spoke as one might expect of a violent sort.
“We stand with you,” one of them said, his eyes dark and grim. “And when the time comes, we’ll fight that crook if it comes to it.”
“One way or another,” one of them murmured, “that land is coming back to us.”
“It’s our money’s stored in those woods,” another said, “we deserve it.”
Upon hearing them, Mr. Bone believed that they were more of a threat than Gert could ever be. But he smiled in knowing that they were not a threat to him. As soon as the land was secured, he intended to leave the small town and its angry people. He would leave the protests and violent outbursts to the construction workers.
When he arrived at Mr. Beedle’s doorstep, he was not surprised that his knocking and ringing of the doorbell went unanswered. He had expected such, and retrieved a slip of paper he had prepared. He stooped and slipped it underneath the door, almost pausing as he heard a soft rustle from within. He smiled, turned, and began to walk away, glad that Mr. Beedle was either angry or intimidated enough to be waiting on the other side of the door.
“What do you mean to do?” came the man’s call after Mr. Bone reached the bottom of the entryway steps. He turned to see Mr. Beedle holding the slip of paper anxiously, his face contorted. “Surely you do not mean to—”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Mr. Bone interrupted. “Both with the town and with my employer.”
Mr. Beedle was silent.
“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Mr. Bone said, his face pale, his features rigid, and his eyes seemingly large and hollow; a stark opposite of his statement. “Neither does my employer. But these people have been lied to,” Mr. Bone lowered his thin yet powerful brows. “They’ve been cheated out of their income and made to decrease their standard of living. And all the while you’ve played shepherd while killing your sheep.”
“Please,” Mr. Beedle said as he approached, his hands searching for a way to express his desperate situation.
“I have no other option but to—”
“Sell it,” Mr. Bone interrupted.
Mr. Beedle froze, his lower lip quivering slightly.
“That’s the only option I’m giving you.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll—”
“I’ll tell the people what you’ve been doing.”
Mr. Beedle took a step backward, his hand shaking slightly. Mr. Bone waited a moment, counting in his mind before forcing the conversation forward.
“I’m a patient man, but my employer isn’t.”
“Please,” Mr. Beedle begged. “Either way, the people they—” he paused and his face grew white. “They’ll never be satisfied.”
“They don’t need to be,” Mr. Bone answered.
“They will kill me if they learn the truth!”
“Then sell,” Mr. Bone said firmly. “Sell it now, and disappear. They’ll never have to know anything.”
“It’s been in my family for generations,” Mr. Beedle mumbled, his mind distant and lost.
“Listen,” Mr. Bone sighed, “I’m going to give you until tomorrow. I’ll come back in the morning, and if you don’t sell I will tell them what you’ve been doing for the past six years.”
Mr. Beedle’s face froze, but his eyes were swimming with fear.
“Goodbye,” Mr. Bone concluded, and then left, another great positive having been struck.
Mr. Bone was received warmly by everyone once he told of his success. He did not go into detail, of course, but he made it clear that the land would soon be stripped away from the old miser. Regarding business, he was generally a more careful man and didn’t celebrate until after he had confirmation of victory. But he did not see how the outcome of the next day could serve anything but victory and thus felt that he could indulge himself. He wasn’t sure if such was a positive, but it did not feel like a negative, so he considered himself in a neutral state as he received praise from the townsfolk.
“You’re a hero!” they cried as they sought things to give him and ways to reward his service. “Our amusement park will be up running again before long, and Evergreen will be brought back to her original glory!”
Mr. Bone didn’t consider himself untruthful at the moment, for none had asked whether his employer was replicating the previous attraction, they had simply assumed it. Thus, due to their ignorance and lack of caution, they were fooling themselves. Also, he considered secrecy a safety precaution and did not dare announce the presence of a factory in the near future. A factory, no matter its produce, would not draw visitors as the previous attraction had.
He retired to his room later than usual, and much looser. He had partaken of several drinks and been served the finest meal produced in the town, all at the expense of the townsfolk. They had paraded him through their best locations and had many times boasted of his defeat over Mr. Beedle. This they did with a strange fierceness likening them unto animals, rabid and feral. If Mr. Bone had not been in a jovial mood, which could be traced back to the alcohol he had consumed, he might have been worried by their vigor. But he saw only gleeful smiles and balloons of hope spiraling upward.
When he entered his room, he was so pleased with himself and the people’s praise that he forgot entirely his ritual with the mirror. He went straight to an armchair in the corner, where he plopped down and sighed contentedly. But no sooner had he done so than a grunt of a voice echoed from the darkness.
“You lied to me,” it said. Mr. Bone froze, and forgot positives and negatives entirely.
“Who’s there?” he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone,” the voice replied. Gert stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlight streaming through the window. His face was of a ghastly white marble, his features set into grim commitment. Mr. Bone had never seen a countenance so intimidating, nor felt a presence so harrowing.
“I haven’t broken that commitment,” Mr. Bone replied, trying to gain control over his fluctuating heartbeat. “I have arranged for Mr. Beedle to sell the land tomorrow.”
“I was there,” Gert grunted, taking a step forward. It seemed heavy to Mr. Bone, as if it was made of stone and unstoppable. “I heard your threat,” was the damning sentence.
Mr. Bone was silent now, recalling the vow he had made to expose Mr. Beedle if he chose not to sell.
“No,” he quickly said, “I was calling his bluff, he’s going to sell.”
“You don’t know that,” Gert replied.
“I do!” Mr. Bone insisted angrily, although his fear yet escaped him. “I have dealt with many stubborn men! Mr. Beedle is no different.”
“Even if he does sell,” Gert then said, his tone somehow becoming darker than it already was. “Where will I hunt?”
Mr. Bone felt his sweat begin to form and run down his neck.
“I am a man of great influence,” Mr. Bone whimpered, “I can find you new land, better land!”
Gert shook his head, and then time seemed to stop. He reached down to his belt and retrieved the long knife Mr. Bone had seen in his cabin.
“Mr. Gert,” Mr. Bone said carefully, holding a thin feeble hand toward him. “Please, have mercy!”
“The land will leave me either way,” he said, “without it, I will have no purpose. That is death.” He gripped the knife in his right hand, his left was outstretched, the moonlight giving it a horrid color. “One more hunt,” he said, “one more skin.”
Mr. Bone’s body was uncovered very quickly, and all the town mourned his violent death. The knife had been left in his chest, a bold and honest statement from Gert. Therefore no one had any doubts as to who killed him, yet none admitted it. Instead, a different rumor began to forge a more attractive story.
“Mr. Beedle had him silenced,” they whispered.
“He knew he was going to lose the land,” they agreed.
“His greed drove him to murder!”
Thus the town was stirred, and an unquenchable fire was kindled. Each man and woman burned with violent intent, yet each waited for one to begin what they all wanted to see done.
Mr. Beedle heard as well of Mr. Bone’s death. And while he did not like the thought of him being murdered by Gert, he could not help but rejoice.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “I shall pay Gert better, and I shall take even better care of the evergreens!”
He gleefully ran outside his mansion, toward the great forest, eager to share the good news with his only friends.
“You will be safe!” he exclaimed, “that wretched Mr. Bone will not cut you down!” He frolicked about the trees, not minding the wet snow seeping into his shoes. A warm streak had come quite suddenly, and the snow and ice were beginning to turn to mush and melt heavily on the trees. The evergreens were, of course, as beautiful as ever, and their green tips peeked out through the heavy blankets of white. “Do not thank me,” Mr. Beedle said, quite giddy now. “You deserve my protection, you deserve to be nurtured and loved! It is my honor and desire to serve you!”
He intended to say a great deal more, but a stunning yet most natural thing interrupted him. As previously mentioned, the sun was returning and the snow was beginning to melt. Yet the trees were still quite frozen and cold, the months of frigid air not yet gone from them. Thus, one tree was quite under a lot of stress due to the heavy load it was carrying and the frailty of its limbs. Try as it might, it could not withstand the weight of the melting snow, and with a large snap, one of its high branches fell.
Mr. Beedle looked up to the source of the sound, saw the branch directly above, and then died in the forest. The evergreens towered over him, the only ones to attend his burial by the next snowfall, and they a very unsympathetic lot.
The townsfolk yelled and muttered, gritted their teeth and shook their fists, but not a one of them could muster up the courage to act violently toward Mr. Beedle, whom they assumed was much more alive than he actually was. Throughout the past six years, they had seen little of the man and therefore believed him still to be holed up in his mansion. None ever went to visit him, apart from the mailman, and he rarely entered the town. So quite some time passed before the discovery of his absence at the curiosity of the mailman. But even then, the town knew not that he was dead and assumed he had run off, fear of being caught for murder driving him away. Thus they went home in a state of confused joy. Their oppressor was gone, but they were unsure what the state of the property was. Obviously, Mr. Bone had not purchased it, thus it had to be assumed that the land still belonged to Mr. Beedle.
Thus nothing much was done with the woods afterward. They had all grown so used to life without the evergreens that they simply decided to live on as they were. Thus the property was untouched, save a lone man that ventured in and out, taking only his rifle. This man made use of the forest and respected it as well, which is more than can be said for any of the other townsfolk, Mr. Beedle, or for Mr. Bone and his employer’s intentions.
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