BRANDON WITT
Eric,
There are not words to thank you enough for your pivotal role in making my dreams come true. It was your kindness, sweetness, and encouragement that opened up the doors for me to become an honest-to-goodness author. Thank you for your genuine and giving spirit. AND—thank you for your epic contribution to our world of Gay Literature. I cannot wait to read your next novel.
TJ,
I loved you as soon as I read Into This River I Drown, but my awe of you—your humanity, bravery, transparency, and love—continues to grow as I watch you in this journey from afar. You are the best of us! I pray I can measure up to the man you have proven yourself to be.
I look forward to meeting you both face-to-face one day. Until then, you have all my love, respect, and devotion.
ROOTS TUMBLED over one another, causing moss-covered ground to look like waves in slow motion. The gnarled veins twisted and braided, then plunged back into the soil before resurfacing great distances away. The woven earth stretched as far as the eye could see. Numberless trees soared toward the sky, each unique, each seeming to sing as the breeze danced through their leaves.
She stepped tenderly over a tangle of roots and approached the willow nearest her. Never had she tripped, caught the hem of her flowing skirt, nor stubbed a bare toe. She was as much a part of the landscape as the trees for which she cared—the only creature that moved or breathed. Alone. Never lonely. In a fluid motion, her wizened hand stretched up and lovingly grasped the pod, pulling it toward her with enough care that the spiraling branch bent but didn’t break.
Breath caught and held as she inspected. Even as she watched, a purple hue began to spread out from the stem over the taut green skin of the capsule. Her cloudy eyes crinkled at the corners as she brought the pod to her lips. A kiss for bravery. It was nearly time. It was the first produce the tree had offered. With just a little courage, it should ripen and blossom. A new world coming into existence.
Letting go of the pod, she watched as it lifted to be partially concealed once more in the leaves of the willow. She took a step away, then looked back. This was her favorite part. She never tired of a tree’s first bloom. It would be like no other tree’s offering before or after.
Even as she stepped out of the willow’s enclosing boughs, the old woman’s thoughts continued to linger on the newly maturing fruit. She could feel the human’s awareness begin to grow. She could sense the questions begin to form, as well as the doubts and fears, all laced with the delicious thrill of anticipation as the quest’s voyage drew nigh.
Still, there were others, countless others, to which she must tend.
In effortless grace, her feet sank into the cushioning moss, then lifted over more writhing roots, never needing to glance down to avoid their shifting progression. She lifted her eyes instead to the sky, watching the glistening sun spiral slowly, its heated rays burning away the trail of the moon and stars that spun in their endless rotation.
She was beyond time; she knew it not. She was as old as the first human consciousness, and she would remain until the last. Until souls and words faded alike. She and her trees. She and the swirling sun and moon in the sky. She and the crashing waves in the distance. The only semblance of time in her eternity was the birth of new trees and the abundance of their fruit.
Pushing the newly ripening pod from her thoughts, the lady paused at an insignificant pine, the green of its needles yellowing and brown. With a scowl, she reached out and plucked its dried pod, a crackling snap breaking the serenity. She lifted it for closer inspection. Her lips tightened and grew thin as she slipped her thumbnail into the seam of its skin and lifted it open. She was not aware of the tear that made its way over her wrinkled cheek. She’d thought this might be the one. Hoped. There’d been some before on this tree, but none had ripened as fully. Her eyes narrowed as she peered closer. Indeed, she could make out the forms inside. What seemed like a malformed face here and there. Even as she watched, what was left of their golden hue faded to gray.
This would be the last. There would be no more fruit from the pine. Though not gifted with clairvoyance, she could read the signs. Soon the tree itself would have no more substance than the pod she slipped into the pocket of her dress. The pod rattled as it fell against the other dead worlds she kept there. Nothing would emerge from this tree. Whatever events had transpired in the life of the connected soul had smothered out the tale that had been meant to be told, the words that had been slated to flow.
She’d seen it countless times before. Watched as a tree struggled to survive, to grow. Agonized as its fruit labored to form, only to fade away. From fear? Possibly heartache? Maybe just from life. What did she know of a soul’s existence?
Maybe there was a flaw in the creator’s design.
The woman shoved the thought from her mind before it fully formed. It was not her place to question. Not her place to cast judgment. Her purpose was to care for the trees that grew from human souls and nourish their fruit as best she could.
Patting the hard shells of the pods in the folds of her skirt, she stared off into the distance, to where the moonlit mountains emptied into the sea. As if bidden, her gaze traveled of its own accord past the jutting crags and to the malevolent land farther to the west. She would have to journey there soon. Give the worlds that failed to form over to the darkness. The old woman had never known fear, but its kin traced down her spine every time she laid the pods to rest.
She’d never stepped more than a few paces inside that shadowy place, no further than necessary to bury the untold tales, and she knew not the how or why, only the must. It was not her place to question nor discover. Only tend, only nurture, only give.
With a brisk shake of her head, sending the silver strands of her hair tumbling about her face, the guardian abandoned the mountains, the sea, and the dark place, all three, and turned back to her eternal hills of trees. Already the pine had begun to crumble and decay, returning back to the soil. Making room for the next soul’s tree to emerge and to enrich the roots of others as they burrowed by.
Even as she watched, two roots broke the surface of the soil, twisting around each other before plunging deep once more, each burrowing in a similar, yet varying, direction.
Stepping spryly, she closed the distance in moments and knelt by where the exposed roots intertwined. Closing her hands over the twists, she felt the life that surged from the joining. A contented groan escaped her lips as they curved into a smile. She didn’t have to follow the roots back to their source; she knew by their feel. Her gaze found them. First an old, monstrous oak. It had offered many worlds since it blossomed so long ago. Some of its fruit had been dark and held forms of evil, but much hope and kindness had been issued as well. These trees were the ones she loved the most. The souls that required the greatest outpouring of her love. Craning her head to see past the larger tree, she could make out the thin form of a recently sprouted aspen. As she watched, both trees grew, seeming more alive and full. Even from their distance, their flowering fruit shone more lush and vibrant. The worlds produced by both trees would be filled with words of greater passion due to this connection.
Almost reluctantly, she let go and stood once more. She continued, as she always had, and always would. Meandering among her trees. Caressing the branches and leaves that reached for her. Singing in nearly incoherent softness to the roots. Stopping every so often to whisper encouragement to the pods as they ripened.
On and on she walked. Plucking another withered fruit. Another shattered world. Another glance toward the dark place.
On and on she worked. Loving the souls who birthed the trees. Inspiring the words that streamed forth. Pruning back leaves so the fruit might find the sun.
She returned to the willow. It was time. She’d felt its call from acres away. Before stepping inside the curtains of it cascading leaves, she removed the dead pods and placed them tenderly on a mossy mound. She’d not take chances. Not with a tree’s first fruit.
Her joyful laugh sounded as she pulled on the branch, drawing the fruit closer. It was indeed time. There was no green to be seen on the pod; its skin was a deep violet, and fierce crimson colored its seams.
When met with no resistance, her thumbnail punctured the closure and slipped inside. At her beckoning, the pod burst open, and the amber petals of the flowering world inside unfolded with dewy leisure, revealing the golden forms at its center. As she’d expected, a few of them were of a darker hue. The vast number, though, were unblemished and gleaming. The best fruit had both. She’d known she loved this willow a bit more than usual.
Though she could discern the features of each form, there were two faces that were clearer than the rest. Two males this time. She leaned in closer, just to be certain of the tale she saw. Her smile brightened. She could perceive the soul that birthed this fruit beneath the myriad of golden forms. Yes. She was certain. This world was to be one of love.
With a whisper to both the soul and the blossom, she released her hold on the branch. The flower gleamed from its place on the tree, the sun shining off its golden forms.
Exiting the willow’s shelter, the old woman bent, scooping up the pods she’d left, and returned them to her pocket. Humming, she made her way down the hill, stepping over shifting roots, and eyed a catalpa tree in the distance. There was work to do.