Gray was the only thing Scott could see out the helicopter window. In the horizon, where the water met the sky, it seemed to him only a transition from one shade of gray to another. The sky was lighter, but not by much. And it too shifted into darker gray as he scanned his eyes upward. He’d traveled a large portion of the world, but this seemed much more desolate than any place he’d ever even heard of. He was always surprised at how empty the ocean seemed from the surface yet how much it contained underneath.
“You see it?” the operator asked through his headphones as he nodded forward. Scott leaned forward and squinted. There in the distance, hardly recognizable, was a gray island. It appeared to be much less an island than a large square rock, not a place inhabitable by anyone. Yet it was. Somehow. “Get ready to descend,” the operator said.
Scott sat back and braced as they lowered. The closer they got, the more Scott disliked the island. It had a rise about halfway across it that came to a completely flat surface that spread through the back half of it. It was as if the winds had taken a knife and cleaved a straight edge and surface from what might have been a perfect square. It seemed unnatural, yet also magnificent in a grim sort of way.
The helicopter landed, and the operator signaled for Scott to get out. He did so, the wind sending ripples through his hair and clothes as he stepped onto the hard moist stone.
“Where is he?” Scott shouted, but the pilot didn’t hear him over the helicopter blades. Instead, the man waved, gave a thumbs-up, and signaled for him to close his door. Scott did so, realizing it couldn’t be hard to find a man on such a small island. The helicopter then lifted, and there left his last connection with the world for a week.
Once the sound of the helicopter died out, Scott turned and scanned the empty plateau he had been dropped on. Empty, save a small shack on one corner. Scott sighed and carried what little baggage he had toward it.
It was a very rugged looking dwelling. Not the sort of place anyone would aspire to live in but likely the best anyone on this rock could manage. It seemed to be made entirely of damp and moldy wood. Scott wondered if it had been set into the stone or if it was simply standing there, subject to the will of the weather.
“Hello?” he said as he knocked on the wooden door, “anyone home?”
There was a brief silence, in which only the sound of still waves against the base of the rock could be heard. And then the doorknob twisted, and an old man pulled it open. He was old, not decrepit but old enough to have white dominate the hairs of his head. His hair was down to about his shoulders, a few strands falling past. His beard hung down several inches, and seemed unruly. He had thick brows and a tough face, set with eyes that proved he was who Scott was looking for.
“My name is Scott, I’m from the West Side Press,” Scott said, stretching out his hand.
The old man’s eyes never left Scott’s. They surged fierce contact and held it with an unrelenting grip. He nodded and shook his hand. The old man’s hand was strange, and looking down Scott saw deep lines creasing his fingers.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice as bitter as the wind. He stepped inside, holding the door as Scott stepped in.
Scott felt relief from the wind, but very little from the cold. Once the door was shut, he saw that the only source of light was what little the clouds let through the windows on either side. He took a quick look around the interior of the house and found it to be as simple as the outside. Simple wood, and not a single decoration. He saw a bed, a table, and one chair, but apart from that the house bore no welcoming sight.
“Is there no heat?” Scott asked, rubbing his arms.
The old man shook his head.
“Surely you have a fire?” he asked.
“No wood, no fire,” the old man answered.
“How do you survive?” Scott asked, feeling the cold nip at him. The old man moved to his bed, where he picked up his blanket and carried it back to Scott, holding it out for him to take. “I’m sorry, I cannot take your blanket,” Scott said, feeling guilty at showing his discomfort.
The old man’s hands stayed in front, offering the blanket.
Seeing that he would not yield, Scott took it and wrapped it around himself.
“Thank you.”
The old man nodded, and then showed him to the only chair. As he did, Scott noticed an axe beside the door. It was heavily worn to the point that its blade was a chunk of steel wrapped around the handle, more like a mace rather than an axe.
“What’s that for if you don’t have any wood?” he asked.
“Cutting,” the old man answered.
“Well yes, but what?”
“The tree.”
“There’s a tree on this rock?”
The man didn’t answer, but moved toward a small box in the corner of the room. Scott lowered his brow at the whole scene. When he had first received the order to report on an old man who had survived living at this island for over forty years, he’d been beyond disappointed. He enjoyed the big city, politics and everyday struggles. This felt more like one of the ads hosted on online news sites: Old Man Survives Forty Years On Deserted Island. But now, seeing the old man, Scott was curious as to how this man had managed it.
“Here,” the old man said as he removed a small fish, long dead and thoroughly chilled. He placed it on a plate and set it in front of Scott before getting his own.
“It’s uncooked,” Scott said, watching with awe as the man bit the fish in half and swallowed one part. “Won’t we get sick?”
The old man shook his head and swallowed the other half. He then nodded for Scott to do the same.
Scott looked down at his plate, at the thin creature laying placid and damp. He took it between his index finger and his thumb, and, with a sour face, bit into it. It was cold, that much he’d expected. But he had not considered the strange texture of a fish eaten raw. Its scales were rough but not enough to cause any pain, and the inside meat was rather rubbery. He’d purposefully eaten the front end first so as to avoid the consideration of the fish’s eyes being swallowed whole whatever the first bite had tasted like. He was glad he had, the back end didn’t stare at him like the front had.
“Thank you,” Scott said after he swallowed the last bit.
The old man took his plate, and without washing it returned it to where he’d retrieved it.
“So,” Scott began, reaching into his bag to retrieve a small notepad. “Supposedly you survived over forty years on this desolate rock. Is that true?”
The old man nodded.
“It seems to me that, apart from the fish, there’s no wildlife around. Do you live solely on fish?”
He nodded.
“And what about water, where do you get water?”
The old man pointed up.
“The rain?” Scott asked. “You mean to tell me that all your fresh water comes from the rain?”
The old man nodded.
“No boats pass by to give you food or water?”
The old man shook his head.
“No boats,” Scott said to himself. “What about other things, like clothes and stuff?”
Again, the old man shook his head.
“And the house, did you build it?”
The old man shook his head, and Scott paused. He lowered his brow and gave the old man an uncertain glance.
“So who built the house?” he asked.
“Someone before me,” the old man answered.
“Did he leave?”
The old man nodded.
“Can’t say I blame him,” Scott chuckled. “This doesn’t seem like a nice place to live if you don’t mind me saying.”
“It’s not,” the old man answered.
“Why do you live here then?” Scott asked, leaning forward slightly. “You’re not trapped here are you?”
The old man didn’t answer.
“Are you trapped?” Scott asked.
“A long time ago I came to this rock at the call of the man before me,” he began, his voice an icy scrape against the air. “He left shortly after I got here, and I have carried on his work.”
“His work?” Scott asked, growing more confused. “What work?”
“Tomorrow,” the old man answered. “Tomorrow you will see the work.”
“Can’t you explain it to me?”
The old man didn’t answer. He rose and walked over to the bed, standing above it and pointing down at it.
“Sleep now,” he said.
“Where will you sleep?”
The man didn’t answer, and his eyes told Scott that he had best do as he was instructed. As he lowered himself into the bed, fully clothed and without having brushed his teeth, he grew afraid of his host. And furthermore, of this situation. The old man was silent and eerie, either by nature or the progression of character, and he fit the island all too well. It uneased Scott. It was unnatural that a man should be alone like this, and in such a forsaken place.
“I will wake you in time to see the work,” the man said after leaving his bedside. He then sat down at the table, and within a matter of minutes, engaged in a silent, motionless, death-like sleep.
Scott tried to initiate the same deep sleep but kept recalling the axe beside the door. The old man had said it was for cutting down a tree, but Scott couldn’t help imagining waking to find it raised above him, ready to sever his head from his body. He did his best to put this thought aside, remembering all the dangerous locations he’d spent time in. He’d reported from war-zones, hurricanes, and amongst hostile people. He could report on one man for the week he was here.
It took several hours, but he slept.
Scott woke to the old man standing above him. He shifted, somewhat startled by the weathered features. The axe was not held above him, and Scott breathed a sigh of relief.
“Wake,” the man said. “Wake and see the work.”
Scott breathed deeply and pulled himself out of bed. The old man stepped back but remained before him, his eyes fixed on Scott.
Scott felt the damp coolness of the world outside his blanket and regretted stepping out of the helicopter.
“Alright,” he said, “will we be eating breakfast first?”
“The work comes first,” the old man said, and turned toward the door.
Scott didn’t argue, although his stomach pleaded him to.
The old man took the axe from its resting spot and, holding it three-quarters of the way up the handle, carried it out the door.
Scott followed, eyes on the stubble of steel at the end of the handle.
The moment he stepped out of the house, Scott felt the gray world close around him. The rock, dark gray, the sky, light gray, and the sea a deep bluish gray. It was as some ancient creature, barely clinging to the last threads of a miserable life.
They walked across the plateau, the old man’s ragged shoes making little sound as he walked and Scott’s bleeding the volume of healthy shoes. When they came to one edge of the plateau, the old man stopped. Scott arrived beside him and peered down.
A long stone stairway carved into the rock wall led down to a flat area at the bottom, upon which nothing could be seen.
“Is the work down there?” Scott asked, the stairway looking treacherous when combined with the wet rock.
“Yes,” the man answered, and began to descend. He did so with much more precision and grace than Scott, who had never before walked the steps. He double-checked each step to be sure that he wouldn’t slip or misplace his foot, and end up dead at the bottom. Several times he almost did lose his footing, wobbling as he regained control. The old man never looked back, walking ever silently toward the end.
When they reached the bottom, Scott found it similar to the top, only the sea could be seen leaking over the side, the gray water spilling onto the flat stone. It didn’t strike the rock like waves do, instead, it seeped on as if it and the rock were joined.
All around was the gray rock that the island consisted of, only at the center stood a withered, black tree.
“Is that the tree?” Scott asked as they approached it.
“That is the work,” the old man replied.
Drawing closer, Scott saw that it was implanted in the stone floor, not a speck of dirt in sight. He puzzled at it, seeing no possible way it could live.
“Is there dirt beneath this rock?”
The old man shook his head.
“Then how does it grow?” Scott asked, while noting that it did seem to be dead. It’s branches looked charred, as if burned, and so dry that they could almost be dust. It was almost powerful, but dead-looking all the same.
“Its roots are in the heart of man,” the old man answered.
Scott didn’t ask, finding the old man’s response too bizarre to pursue. He knew there was an explanation to it, that trees grew out of rocks in other places too.
“So you’re going to chop this tree down?” Scott asked, “that’s the work?”
“Yes,” the old man said, tightening his grip on the axe and moving forward. “The work of living.”
“But why? What’s so important about cutting down this tree?”
“It grows to consume,” the old man answered, his voice like an ancient prophet. “The living must repel death by the tools of his hand.”
Scott took note of his response and stood back. He concluded that it had to be some sort of religious thing, and that it was harmless. But he didn’t see why the old man stayed on the rock if this was the work. If he had been here forty years he could have cut the tree down by now and left if that was all the work was. He pondered these things, but then refocused when the man raised the axe.
With clenched teeth and a fierceness the likes of which Scott had never seen in the eyes of one so old, the man swung the gnarled axe down at the base of the tree.
Thwack.
The old man breathed heavily, his face determined and his energy captivated by his work.
Thwack.
He struck again, and his hands seemed to tremble as he raised the axe for another blow.
Thwack.
The axe struck like a hammer, it bashed the tree, large dents and creases appearing with each blow.
Thwack.
Scott felt that something was happening, as if this work meant something.
Thwack.
He could see it in the man’s eyes, this tree was important, and its felling even more important.
Thwack.
The tree creaked and fell to the ground.
The old man, now breathing heavily and holding the axe loosely, gazed down at his defeated foe. Scott look at the tree as well. It seemed so weak and simple now that it was on the ground.
“Well, you have some firewood now,” Scott said with a smile.
The old man shook his head.
“You’re not going to use it for heat?”
“It provides no heat,” the old man answered. “Such is a heart of darkness.”
He then walked toward the tree. Taking it with one hand, he began to drag it toward the water.
“Wait!” Scott said, following close behind. “Can I try to burn it?”
The old man looked at him, his face stern and tired.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he said, “only that I want to test what you said.” The truth, of course, was that he was very cold. He knew the tree, if he was able to light it, would burn like any other tree. It was certainly dry enough.
The old man dropped the tree.
“Thanks,” Scott said.
“The work is finished for today,” the old man said, and then began to walk toward the stone staircase.
“Wait!” Scott called out, between the felled tree and the old man. “Can you help me carry the tree up?”
“No,” the old man replied without turning back. “Death cannot sleep with the living.”
Scott watched him go, confused and somewhat frustrated by the man’s impertinence. He sighed and turned back to the dead tree. He’d hoped to keep it until night set in, so that he’d get some heat when the atmosphere was coldest. But he wouldn’t pass this opportunity for heat by, as he knew he’d likely get no more through the week. Thus, he set to breaking the tree limbs into smaller pieces, so as to build a fire. This was accomplished easily, each branch snapping with little effort. Dry specks of wood crusted off the tree when he broke it, creating a small litter of black dust around the area. Within several minutes, the tree was dismantled and ready for a fire.
Scott removed his lighter, a sturdy piece of equipment he carried with him at all times. It had served him well in similar places where he’d been forced to make his own camp.
“Alright then,” he said as he held the lighter to a thin branch. “Let’s get some heat from you.”
He held it to the branch for a good while, watching the orange flame bob and weave around the stick until it caught on. Once it was attached, the flame spread quickly.
“Yes!” Scott said eagerly as it continued to move along the branch. He removed his gloves and held out his hands to receive the natural heat, but was stunned to find only the cold damp air. He lowered his brow, and, as the fire grew, he moved closer. Still, no heat.
“Impossible,” he muttered. He stood back a moment, eyeing the growing fire. He then removed his lighter again and lit it. He moved his hand to it carefully, and, after feeling the heat produced by the small flame, pulled it away. He glanced back at the staircase, half expecting to see the old man looking down triumphantly at him. But the man was long gone, and the gray wall only reflected the chilled air.
“If there’s no heat,” he began as he again reached his hand out. He moved it closer and closer, until he touched the burning branch. “Ah!” he exclaimed, yanking it back and holding it in his gloved hand.
A small red boil shone brightly against his skin. It stung and burned, despite the lack of heat from the fire.
“This is impossible,” he repeated, holding his burnt hand. He then took out his phone and took a picture of the fire as well as his burnt hand. He then pulled out his small notepad and wrote down what had happened.
He watched the fire until it was burnt out and only piles of ash remained, dampened by the moist ground. No other significant thing happened as the fire ended, and its remains seemed as normal as any fire’s. He contemplated the whole thing, combining what he knew of fire as well as what the man had explained.
For one, if it does not have heat, a fire is not a fire. Yet, it had heat enough to burn his hand, this much Scott was certain of. How could a fire not send heat through the air while heating its fuel?
Scott recalled the old man’s explanation but considered it superstitious nonsense.
But, he decided that the old man knew some things. So, he returned to the staircase carved into the wall, ready to listen more attentively to what the old man said.
When he returned to the house, he found the old man preparing to leave again. He didn’t mention his experiment with the tree, somewhat embarrassed by the burn on his hand.
“Where are you going?” Scott asked.
“To fish,” the old man replied, holding up a thin line. Scott couldn’t help but notice that he was missing a rod, and pointed it out. The old man didn’t respond, but stepped outside and motioned for Scott to follow.
They walked to an edge of the plateau opposite the one they’d descended. Scott peeked over it to see the water hundreds of feet down below, surprisingly still.
“You’re going to fish from here?”
The old man prepared his line.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to fish from the bottom, where you cut down the tree?”
The old man gave a stern look and Scott decided to refrain from asking questions for a time.
The old man carefully prepared his line, although Scott noticed he had nothing but a hook attached to it. He would have asked about this, but decided to wait and see what else the man could surprise him with. After ensuring that his line was put together, the old man wrapped one end of it around his hand matching the design of the red lines Scott had seen earlier. He then dropped the hook over the edge, and they both watched as it fell to the water.
Scott waited a moment, watching the water where the hook had fallen. He didn’t doubt that the old man knew what he was doing, that he would indeed catch something, but was curious as to how. Scott wasn’t a fisherman, but even he knew that bait was almost always used.
“The sea provides,” the old man said.
Scott nodded, wondering what sort of religion he had stumbled upon. Suddenly he saw the line tighten, wrapping violently around the old man’s hand and turning his fingers red. But the old man never grimaced, and he didn’t jerk forward as the fish below pulled. Instead he calmly pulled at the line, taking bits of it in one hand and wrapping it around the other. He did this for a long time, until the hand that was wrapped with the line began to shake. Scott grimaced at the sight, and felt that he should help.
“Here, let me—”
The old man shot Scott down with a single stone-faced glance. He then continued, until the fish was brought over the edge. By that time it was dead, having been exposed to the air far too long.
Scott remarked at how small a fish it was, and realized that it was no larger than the ones they had eaten. Scott looked again to the old man’s hand. It was still shaking, but as he unwrapped it the blood began to flow freely again. The old man noticed Scott’s curiosity and spoke.
“Living requires sacrifice, pain is life.”
Scott nodded. It was remarkable that such a small fish could cause such damage. Had the fight lasted much longer, it could have cut off the circulation from the man’s hand. He couldn’t help but wonder why it was done this way, however. If the man simply wrapped it more carefully, or tied it to his axe handle, then he could perform this task without such pain.
“Now we catch another,” the man said, after pulling the fish off.
“Another?” Scott asked, “your hand, shouldn’t we wait till you—”
“I have another,” the old man said, holding up his other hand. He then proceeded to repeat the process, wrapping the string around his left hand and pulling it up with his right.
Like the last time, his hand shook and grew red as he pulled the fish up. But just when Scott thought the old man’s fingers would pop off, the fish appeared over the edge, dead.
Scott breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the old man unravel the string.
Without a word, the old man then left, carrying the two fish and the line. Scott sighed and followed.
They reentered the shack, and while Scott was hoping they would eat the fish, the old man put them in the same box the previous fish had been retrieved from.
“I’d like to ask you some more questions,” Scott then said, remembering the reason he was here. “About your time here, as well as where you came from.”
The old man moved over to the axe against the wall. He picked it up, opened the door, and stepped out. Scott waited a moment before following. He’d come to assume that silence didn’t mean no, although it didn’t always mean yes either. When he did follow, it was with uncomfortable determination.
Stepping outside he saw the old man at a different edge of the plateau, sitting with his legs dangling off it. Scott approached him, noticing that the old man still held the axe. As he drew closer he saw that the man was sharpening what little stubble remained of the once full steel blade. He scraped it against a piece of the cliff that jutted out, his only tool recklessly held out above the gray sea.
“A blade cannot be sharpened in safety,” the old man commented. “Only when exposed to danger can it be made effective.”
“Where did you live before you got here?” Scott asked, taking a seat beside him. “And how did you get here?”
“A current carries a boat downstream,” he answered, his eyes fastened on his work. “So too is a man carried through life.”
“Shipwreck then?” Scott asked. “What country did you come from?”
“The same as you,” he answered.
“Oh really?” Scott said with a scoff. “Where am I from?”
“The country of man.”
Scott lowered his brow in confusion. He was starting to realize that his conversations with the old man were similar to those he’d once had with a drunk man.
“Geographically, though,” Scott continued.
The old man did not answer.
“Alright then, new topic.” Scott looked over several notes he’d prepared. “Have you ever tried to leave?”
The old man was silent, but Scott saw that he intended to answer, and waited.
“To leave the tree is to let it grow.” He paused, and then turned his head to face Scott, “to let the tree grow is to die.”
“But you cut the tree down.”
“Only what has grown of it this past night,” he answered. “Tomorrow the tree will return and tomorrow I will cut it down again.”
“No tree grows that fast,” Scott scoffed.
The old man took his axe in his hands, running one finger along the mangled blade. Satisfied, he rose.
“The heart of darkness grows when night comes and the watchful eye closes,” he said, and walked toward the house.
Scott sat a moment. He was getting tired of the old man’s mysticism, it made interviewing difficult and creeped him out. Looking down at the water below, he couldn’t wait to be off the rock.
Yet there was something here he couldn’t help but be attracted to. It all possessed the familiar smell of a good story. He knew the man’s weird rituals had some purpose, and that if he watched long enough he might gather some interesting information.
And so he decided to spend the week waiting and watching.
But the next morning convinced Scott that something was off. They began as they had the previous morning: the old man standing over Scott and leading him down the stone staircase.
“Look!” Scott exclaimed once they reached the bottom.
There, sprouting from the same place it had been the day before, was the dead black tree.
“It’s impossible,” he murmured, moving closer to examine it. He touched it, felt its dry surface, and was convinced that it was actually here.
The old man stood by, his stub of axe ready.
“You did something,” Scott said, “you put a tree here while I was sleeping.”
The old man didn’t respond.
Scott frowned and stood, turning from him to the tree. He knew that there had to be an answer, that somehow, all that was happening was logical.
The old man approached, his fingers gripping tightly what was left of his axe.
“You’re just going to cut it down again?” Scott asked, stepping aside. “Why not let it grow?”
“A heart of darkness, if left unchecked—” the old man raised his axe—
Thwack.
“Spreads,” he concluded, looking down upon his nemesis. “And is twice as hard to remove.”
Scott watched the previous day’s events repeat, the old man breathing more heavily with each axe stroke.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
He didn’t say a word during the procession, watching in confusion as the stub of steel pounded at the dead trunk. The tree fell, almost identically to the way it had before, and the old man stepped back, his axe hanging heavily beside him. He and the axe shared something, an aspect Scott had not initially noticed. He saw that they were worn, nearly finished, yet striving toward some unending purpose. He said nothing of this similarity, and watched the old man toss the tree into the water and then climb the steps.
Everything seemed different that day. The old man was more tired, and he spoke much less, often ignoring the questions presented to him. Scott didn't know what to do. He had several days left on the island, and knew that once the helicopter arrived he would have to take the old man with him. For his own safety.
After the old man had completed his tasks, he set to an early bed. Scott insisted that he take the bed, as it seemed that the old man would keel over if he hadn’t proper rest.
Once the old man was asleep, a sort of morbid curiosity came over Scott. It was the tree, its shadowy limbs stretching out in a desperate attempt to claw away from the rock on which it was cursed to grow. Scott couldn't comprehend how a tree could grow on a rock or sprout overnight. His curiosity persisted until, after ensuring the old man was asleep, Scott crept out of the house.
He descended the stairs carefully, ensuring he wouldn't slip and fall to the cruel rock below. The last thing he wanted was to die on the island.
He made it to the bottom before it was completely dark, and found the small stump that had once supported the tree. He sat down in front of it and took out his flashlight.
“A tree without dirt, gives off no heat when burnt, and grows overnight,” he mused. “What is your secret?”
He sat, determined to watch the tree grow, if it actually did grow overnight.
The night grew cold, and a chilled rain set in as darkness fell. Scott shivered, his flashlight shaking, but remained focused on the tree. He would not be here much longer, and this was something he would not pass up seeing.
But as the hours dragged on, no sign of growth appeared. Not the slightest inch.
Despite the cold, he began to grow incredibly tired.
There, in front of the tree stump and subjected to the cold rain of the wretched place, Scott fell asleep.
He woke to a familiar sound.
Thwack.
As his sense came alive, he felt a vague pain deep in his chest and leg.
Thwack.
His eyes opened, and he adjusted to the dim light.
Thwack.
The pain suddenly became real, and he realized several things as his adrenaline spiked. There, in dark lines all about his view were the horrid branches of the black tree. It had grown, exactly as the old man predicted it would, only it had grown outward. Toward him. Into him. He saw with horror that the pain came from the tree, and looking down he saw tips of black limbs protruding into his body like arrows.
Thwack.
Scott screamed.
Thwack.
Scott pulled at the limb in his chest, feeling the rough bark scratch against his flesh.
Thwack.
The final stroke was dealt, and with a sickening creak the tree gave up. But the pain persisted, and Scott continued to pull at the horrid limbs.
The old man quickly moved to him, clutching the limbs and snapping them off the main branch. He left protruding pieces of the limb within Scott’s chest and leg, however. He then immediately pulled the tree over to the nearest edge, where he threw it into the sea.
Scott kept his hands at the chunks of tree still lodged in him, but didn’t have the strength to remove them.
“Do not try,” the old man said, noticing Scott’s feeble efforts. “I will remove them,” he said, after which he slung Scott across his shoulders.
The pain of the wretched branches spiraled and sent him into a state of being neither asleep nor awake. He saw, heard, and felt the world around him, but felt pieces of it that didn't belong, pieces that were dreamlike. If a dream, nightmarish.
He heard voices, wretched beckonings taunting him to do horrible things. They were incomprehensible, yet Scott knew precisely what they were saying. The darkness followed them up the stairway, and wormed its way into his flesh through the branches.
He was suddenly removed, flung down upon the bed, and found himself staring into the face of the old man. The old man was tired, grim, and knowing.
Scott couldn’t speak, or if he could, he couldn’t hear himself, the voices were too loud.
The old man took a match, and once kindled, set it to the wood lodged in Scott’s chest.
The world reeled then, the voices screeched and shuddered as they were exposed to the heat of the match. Yet no heat struck Scott, not until the fire reached his chest. Once that happened, there was no controlling his senses.
His chest burned, and his ears filled with the screaming of the black tree. Yet they sounded like his own voice.
The old man held him firm, keeping the wood burning and Scott from wrenching it out.
Once the branch had sizzled out, completely consumed, the same began with his leg.
Scott tried to writhe and wriggle away from the pain, but the old man held him still.
After it had all been consumed, utter darkness took over.
It wasn’t the charred darkness of the wretched tree, it was a still blue darkness, issued from the deepest of sleeps. He was not there anymore, he was not anywhere anymore. Yet he was everywhere and anywhere as well. All that was deep, blue, and restful was where he was.
A light, far in the distance of somewhere, split the darkness. It shimmered slightly, but was not a star or angelic creature, as he would have expected in this state. It was an axe with a clean and full blade, one capable of great violence. His hand stretched out toward it, but stopped. He felt surging fear and sudden pain in his chest and leg. A conflict struck him as heavily as the old man’s stumped axe had struck the tree. He wanted to take the tool and swing, to cleave in vengeance the wretched tree. But he also felt the bitter sting left by it, and did not want to face it.
He woke, before a conclusion was made.
The first thing he felt was pain, both in his arm and leg. It wasn't as intense as before, and didn’t carry the sick blackness he'd felt when the old man had burned the tree out of him. It was the pain of a wound, not fresh but healing.
He opened his eyes and stretched his hand across his bare chest. His skin, where the tree had woven itself into him, was gnarled and rough, dried blood and twisted flesh. It hurt to touch, and he quickly pulled his hand away.
In several minutes, he eased himself up. He felt down to his leg and found that wound much the same as his chest. He could see this one better and noticed that it was completely black rather than the brownish red of dried blood.
“Do not move,” the old man said, seeing Scott reach out and feel his leg.
Scott complied and laid back.
“What is this place?” he asked weakly.
The old man didn’t answer immediately. He seemed busy with something at the table. When he did answer, it was with a tired voice.
“This place is memory,” he began. “It is a reminder of who we are. Of what lives within us.”
Scott closed his eyes, trying to understand what the man was saying.
“It is who you are, Scott.”
“What are you talking about?” Scott asked, his breath coming slowly.
“Tell me,” the old man said as he pulled his chair beside the bed. “What happened when you woke up, with the claws of death in your heart?”
The way he said the words made Scott shudder, and he didn’t answer.
“Did you hear voices?” the old man asked. “What did the voices say Scott?”
Again, Scott could not answer.
“What did they tell you to do?”
Scott turned to the window, where he could see the cliff of the plateau, off of which was a steep drop and a final stop.
“I know what they told you,” the old man said. He then lifted his ragged shirt. On his side, a dreadful, black, jagged scar stretched. “They tell all the same.”
“Why?” Scott said, nearly in tears at the horrible memory. “Why is this happening?”
“Fate, chance, call it what you will,” the old man said. “The tree does not care who it infects.”
“I need to leave,” Scott said, making an attempt to rise.
“You must stay,” the old man said.
“Why would I stay?”
“Because you cannot leave,” the old man said. He then moved to the table and took up that which had been resting on it. It was his axe, in pieces. The handle was cracked but connected, while the steel stubble at the end had shattered. He pointed to Scott’s scar, and then to his own, “The tree has chosen you, as it once chose me.”
“No,” Scott said. “The helicopter is coming in a few days, I’m leaving when it comes.”
“No distance, whether across land, water, or fire can take you away from the tree now,” the old man said. “The tree is embedded within you until your time is up.”
Scott lay back down and closed his eyes. He wanted to return to that deep blue darkness that had soothed him before.
“How am I supposed to cut it down? I don’t have an axe,” Scott pointed out.
“The sea will provide it.”
“Of course,” Scott sighed.
There was a moment of silence, in which Scott nearly fell asleep. As sleep came near, he felt darkness creep toward him, heard the early whispers, yet didn't resist. And then, in a sudden burst of energy, the old man spoke.
“Get up!” he shouted. “You need to eat!”
Scott opened his eyes wide, the gray light returning, and the mangy face of the old man staring down at him. He had not slept, but knew he'd been cheated of it.
“Get out of my bed!” the man shouted, pulling at Scott.
“Stop!” Scott shouted, feeling his pain resurface. “Leave me alone!”
The old man shoved him out of the bed and sat down on it.
“If you do not eat, you will grow weak,” he growled, “if you grow weak, you will not cut down the tree.”
“Leave me—”
“If you do not cut down the tree—” the old man’s voice twisted into a hoarse croak. “It will climb, every night, inch by dreadful inch until it is at your door.” His eyes were wide, unblinking, and harrowing. “And then, Scott, it will pierce your heart and take you.”
“At least let me regain my strength!” Scott shouted.
“A man who does not act is a dead man. Surviving the darkness of your heart depends on your willingness to act,” he said. “Your physical health has nothing to do with it. Whether you are whole or half a man, you must climb down the stairs every morning and cut down the darkness.”
“But I can’t!” Scott shouted, clenching his teeth and shaking angrily. “My leg is on fire and my chest burns when I talk! How can I walk out there or do anything?!”
“Because you must,” the old man said, his face fixed in a determined glare.
“Why does it matter?” Scott whimpered. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
The old man sighed. He was silent a moment and then looked out the window.
“Darkness will come soon, Scott,” he said. “The tree will grow. And only you will be able to cut it down.” He then walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Scott called out, still angry but hesitant to lose the only help he had on the dreadful rock.
The old man opened the door.
“That is your tree now,” he said. “My axe has broken, and my fight with the heart of darkness finished.” And he left, never to be seen by Scott or any man ever again.
Scott faded in and out of a waking sleep, paradoxical in all senses, for it supplied him with no rest but passed the time. When night came, and all light faded from his surroundings, his sleep took an ill turn.
He felt the tree, felt its growth and yearning to stretch its crooked fingers around his heart.
He couldn’t keep from glancing at the door, half expecting to see it creak open at the whim of snaking black branches.
But in the morning, he woke to the gray light that shrouded the island. No branch protruded from him, and no presence of evil was felt. He sat up, the pain in his chest and leg present but not as strong as the day before.
It dawned on Scott that something was missing, something that the mornings prior had included. The old man, who had begun each day by standing ominously over Scott, was gone. His chair was empty, and Scott recalled what he had done the day before. He rose quickly, hoping he was fishing or sharpening his axe, but knowing full well that he was doing neither of these things.
He stepped outside, the cold, damp air confirming that he was in a place of isolation, even from the old man.
“Old man!” he called out. His voice dropped dead in the air despite the silence of the water around the rock. He sighed bitterly, the plateau empty apart from himself and the house.
Then he felt the morbid call of curiosity, a sudden desire to see if the tree had again grown overnight or if it had vanished with the old man.
When he reached the bottom of the stone staircase, he saw the claw-like limbs of the black tree reaching toward the cliff. His hands trembled, and he felt a sudden burst of fear. He couldn’t face this monstrosity on his own, not without an axe. And even then, he recalled the grim fate that he would be resigned to if he began cutting the tree down. He had plans for his life, he didn’t want to end up being stuck on this island for forty years, until he—
It was either cut down the tree or be killed in his sleep by it. Scott realized it wasn’t a very difficult choice.
“Where’s my axe,” he muttered. He remembered the old man’s instruction, that the sea would provide. “What am I supposed to do, fish it up?” he scoffed. But looking back at the miraculous tree, decided to try it.
He again climbed the stone staircase, and rambled through the old man’s shack until he found the string and hook.
He unraveled it and held it over the cliff for a moment.
“There is no way this is going to work,” he muttered, and then dropped the hook.
It fell gently, being of very little weight, with no wind or spray to disturb it. He wrapped the end around one hand, tightly, as he had seen the old man do. It hurt at first, but his hand gradually lost feeling.
“Come on,” he muttered, his fingers growing red and bloating. He remembered the old man’s patience, but doubted he could endure the strain long enough to catch a fish let alone an axe. Suddenly, he felt a jerk that nearly separated his fingers from his hand. He clenched his teeth and pulled at the string, feeling his hand grow numb and begin to shake. He knew he had to, but wasn’t sure he could continue to put up with the pain. “Come on!” he shouted, and gave a final tug.
A small fish, no bigger or smaller than the ones the old man had caught, flew over the side and landed on the plateau. It was dead.
“Ah!” Scott shouted, unraveling the string to see deep red lines crisscrossing his fingers. He sat down, holding his hand and rocking back and forth as he bit his lip. His hand wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t get it to feel anything, not even pain.
After several minutes of gentle rubbing, his fingers felt the dampness of the gray air again. He laughed, a defeated and despairing laugh, and shook his hand angrily.
“I don’t want it!” he shouted, his eyes blazing at the fish. “I don’t want to live off two fish a day for forty years!” He shook his head and let it sag into his hands. He hadn’t thought of the tree during his fishing, and considered that it might have been worth something. But he didn’t bother casting for another fish, his hand was still aching from the first one. Instead, once he’d given himself a good deal of time to contemplate his situation, he ate the cold, raw, dead fish.
And then he turned to the matter of the tree.
He didn’t want to face it, he didn’t want to see it ever again, but wanted even less to be killed in his sleep by it. Killed or taken, whichever.
So he descended the stone staircase, noticing that the gray was growing grayer. When he reached the bottom, the tree’s wretched figure stood as a silhouette against a gray canvas. It had no color, no need for color. It was the absence and devourer of color. And if he did not cut it down, he would be devoured as well.
As he stood facing the tree, he felt his hand fill. Or perhaps it had always been full. Scott looked down and saw an axe of strong wood and even stronger steel firmly clasped by his hand. He held it before him, taking it in two hands to observe it. Seeing that he had the means to destroy the wretched foe before him, at least for today, he walked toward it.
Thunk.
His axe was quick, and much more effective than the old man’s battered one.
Thunk.
The tree cracked and groaned, already half defeated.
Thunk.
To Scott’s surprise, after only three strokes, the tree fell. He stepped back, suddenly realizing that he felt weary as well. He had not noticed it in the moment, but cutting down the tree costed a great deal of his strength. He breathed heavily as he pulled the felled tree to the side, where he pushed it to the water below.
He walked back to the staircase, glancing at the crooked black stump as he passed it. As he climbed the stairs, he felt tired, as if he’d been cutting for a long time. He returned to the house, but before entering, recalled the final piece of the old man’s ritual. He disregarded it for a moment, but was immediately reminded of the old man’s axe. It was old, destroyed by daily use, yet until its end it had achieved its purpose. Such a prolonged life came only from daily care.
Scott walked to the edge the old man had sat at and sharpened it on the same stone outcrop. Once he had finished, he returned to the house.
It seemed different then, smaller, and much more familiar, as if he’d always lived in it. He placed his axe against the wall beside the door and sat down at the table.
Before him was the open window, outside of which the gray sky stretched as far as he could see. There was no end to it, nor could there ever be.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
The tree fell, and the old man’s breath came in short rasps. He was tired and weak as he lugged the tree toward the edge. He pushed it over and watched it sink to the black depths beneath the gray surface. He turned and walked toward the stone staircase.
One foot slowly lifted after the other and his back hunched as he climbed. His axe swung loose beside him.
When he reached the plateau, he was breathing heavily and his legs were shaking. But he wasn’t done yet.
He continued slowly to the shack, creaking open the door and entering the dark dwelling. He placed his axe against the wall beside the door and retrieved his line and hook.
He dropped the hook over the edge of the plateau, the other side of the line wrapped tightly around his hand. In a moment, it tensed and the line gripped him. He gritted his teeth, knowing that the pain was necessary. Even when his fingers began to shake he didn’t let go. The first fish plopped over the edge, dead. He removed the hook from its mouth, bound the line around his other hand and dropped the hook back into the sea.
After carrying the two fish into the house, he took his axe and sat on the edge of the plateau. He stretched it out and began to sharpen it on the outcrop. It was half the blade it used to be, but he managed to get it sharp enough to draw blood. It would be sharp enough to silence the black tree in the morning.
Looking up, his eyes caught on something. Something in the distance, a white splotch on the gray canvas before him. He placed his axe beside him and stared at it, wondering at the little speck on the horizon.
Soon it became a crumb in the distance, and then a pebble, gradually taking on shape and size.
White sails, mounted to a smooth vessel cutting across the gray complacent sea.
He watched it a moment before realizing that its trajectory would carry it beside and then past the rock, away from the black tree. He breathed lightly, and felt a skip in his heart. He looked down at his axe, at his scarred hands, and then back up at the white vessel. He then looked down at the still waters below. Not water, cement.
He stood, and feeling that he’d reached some sort of climax, dropped his axe.
He then turned to the stone staircase, moving as quickly as his age could carry him. He moved carelessly, several times almost falling. But he made it.
He gazed out at the vessel, and seeing that it was much closer, realized he had little time left. He began to move to the side of the rock, where he could more easily slip into the water. He heard a sudden sound behind him, a crackle and a creak. He turned, and through the gray mist that was setting in, saw the black tree. It wasn’t fully grown, only a sapling, but already dry and as charred as it had ever been. It didn’t grow during the day. That was the agreement. He turned from it, his eyes lighting on the white sails quickly approaching.
Even as he lowered himself into the deathly gray waters, he could hear the tree groaning as it forced itself out of the rock. He didn’t look back now, all of his focus on swimming.
The waters, usually still and as dry as death, seemed to come alive now, as if a foul breath was pushing them against him. Waves appeared, washing over his mouth and nose, filling his lungs with frozen fire. He pushed on, feeling every bit of his body tense against the force of this gray world. The tree began to speak to him, as it had when he’d been punctured. It bade him return, to retrieve the axe and cut down the tree. That was the answer, that was the solution, not the white vessel nearly upon him. That ship was a lie; it would pass him by and leave him to drown.
But no, he could see it, he could hear the wind striking the shimmering sails. The sound silenced the tree, although even then it was reaching into the water to pull him back.
“Wait!” the old man cried as the boat drew near. It could not pass him, if it did, he would drown and be lost to the grim darkness beneath all that breathed.
He saw it then, a line cast from the boat. He gripped it, much tighter than he’d ever gripped his fishing line, and it pulled him forward.
Let go! The tree called, tugging one more time at the old man’s heart. But he would not listen, not now. Whatever was happening would be the end of something.
He was pulled to the side, and reaching out, grabbed hold of the boat and lifted himself over the side. The moment he did so, the voice stopped, and the sound of wind against clean sails gently filled the silent air. And onward the boat sailed, toward angel rays breaking through the gray clouds.
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