Yew - A long story, short

For David, who is gone but not forgotten.    
   
..     
     
“Yew:      
For Tomorrow We Dine!      
And Are Renewed!”      
     
Prologue:      
     
Sometimes I take very long walks.      
     
Dipped my right hand into the corresponding pocket and scooped a few times, to gather all its contents.      
     
The cloth followed my hand’s exit, like a linty tongue sticking out from my pants.      
Brought my hand down on the counter and swept the contents out in front of me. Left hand followed its partner’s example.        
     
The contents of my pockets were as follows:      
     
Right pocket,      
     
Wallet, containing driver’s license, social security card and various other cards.      
     
Smartphone, scratched up on the back, desktop is a picture of a fire elemental.      
     
Wilted honeysuckle bud, wisps of fragrance still wafting up invisibly.      
     
Key ring, miniature discount cards to Walgreens, CVS and a penny with a cross cut into it, upon the ring, along with a wad of keys to doorknobs, deadbolts, and padlocks.      
     
Half a torn dollar bill. David had the other half.      
     
Left pocket,      
     
Folding knife, scene depicting a fish being hauled from water on a line, along its side. Water froths mightily along its glistening tail, which ends in a sharp, bifurcated fin. Sun shines on the disturbed waters. Fisherman in beige jacket and brimmed hat, face turned toward the catch.      
     
White envelope, standard letter size, stuffed with two bulging folds of hundred and twenty dollar bills.      
     
Distance reading glasses in red protective sleeve.      
     
Withdrawal receipt, Woodland Trust Bank.      
     
Crumpled bill of sale, yellow, Paul’s Used Car Liquidators.      
     
Plastic hospital bracelet, torn.        
     
I look down at the contents of my pockets a moment. All is quiet, except for the buzz of a halogen light. Dead or alive bugs resting, twitching and fluttering, somehow within. A long but narrow shelf below the mirror of the restroom, where I placed my belongings.      
     
I look at myself. Eyes look back. Could use a shave.      
     
Moments pass.      
     
I leave.      
     
Make it about seven paces before I pull up hard and turn on my heel. Grab the cold metal handle, tug, the door swings outward and bangs the wall. I grab the envelope.      
     
I snatch up that torn half of a dollar, too.      
     
I move on.      
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.      
     
..      
     
Chapter One: Wildness.      
     
When it’s quiet, in the hush as dawn begins to crest and the sun to rise, you can hear the metal heating. It begins to sing with a vibration that is almost audible. You feel it, are aware of the growing agitation of molecules within this seeming solid. You imagine it singing. It meets you halfway.      
     
The rail tracks are couched in a gravel bed. A hard bed where these girders lie down and sleep. I joined them a few hours and was decidedly uncomfortable.      
     
Rise and stretch. Rise and shine.      
     
Walked up the tracks a good piece.      
     
I had seen this road sign many times in my travels to and fro, back and forth in the rote of my work and return to home. “Astoria 88 miles.”  Each year, around this time, there would be another, handmade sign, attached to this one. It was there now.      
     
“Yew:      
For Tomorrow We Dine!      
And Are Renewed!”      
     
Always struck me curious. Wondered at it, as I inched along in traffic or quickly passed in my automobile, depending on weather and traffic conditions. I always looked forward to it, either way. The multiple colors, the hand drawings of figures dancing, bursts of fireworks, steaming food, the overall impression of gladness, the lettering, so vibrant with energetic wildness.      
     
I would crane my neck as I drove past, to keep my eyes on it as long as I could. Getting a longer look at it was the only upside to a lengthy crawl along the highway.      
     
It was strange, to stand before it now, on my two legs. To see it stationary and in solid relief, before me. The festival was listed as lasting 2 days, beginning two days from now.      
     
Time begins to drag. I walk around the sign. Move on.      
     
Hours crunch beneath the steady metronome of my feet in the grass and earth or more pronounced grumble of the gravel bed. Sometimes I walk upon the girders, amused of my catlike reflexes, sans the balancing grace of the prehensile tail, before slipping this way or that.      
     
Hungry. Thirsty. Pass signs for McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Stuckey’s, Denny’s. Spot billboard with a relief of a curvaceous woman, scantily clad, smacking an ogling man across the face with a frying pan, eggs and bacon fly outward, enlarged as they approach the perspective of the viewer of this zany scene. Sign reads, “Legs and Eggs. Stop in for a meal and a show!”      
     
I make my way to the exit ramp, but spot a hole in the fencing amidst some trees and bushes.      
     
Bend some branches back, get a face full of cobweb that I smear, spit and mutter loose.      
     
There’s a hollow just beyond the initial thicket. Well-worn ground, circled about a makeshift cook fire at the center. Fire is out, pot resting over the ash. Odd bits of detritus litter the whole. Beer, water and soda containers, some holding crushed cigarette butts, like little ships in a bottle. Food wrappers. A stack of cardboard, flattened and crushed. No occupant. I stop a moment, move on through.          
     
Parking lot asphalt feels alien all of a sudden. So solid beneath my heels. Take an awkward step or two before falling back into rhythm. Truck stop between me and the restaurant, I decide to stop in and clean myself up a little. Purchase a road shaving kit. Use a shower stall. Tidy up a bit.      
     
Guy a couple stalls down is singing, "La Marseillaise" in boisterous tones, with an exaggerated and clearly false French accent. Makes me chuckle. I wait a couple bars, like a kid getting ready to jump between a skipping rope, finding his rhythm, finding his opening, and I join him. He doesn’t miss a beat. We belt it out together. Never saw my singing partner. He was onto, “Oh Susana” and then “Dixie,” by the time I was dressed and gone.      
     
Head into the restaurant. Blasted by music as soon as the doors open ahead of me, a gentleman with a dour expression coming out several feet ahead of my approach. Gave me a head’s up as to what I was walking into. Catch a glimpse of a stage, floor lights, poles, a couple of gals standing languidly around them. Men sitting back or hunched over. Booths around the room, more men similarly hunkered over or sitting back before plates of food.      
     
I slide into a booth. Enjoy that cold air conditioning that has settled onto the vinyl. Look over the menu. I choose the fully loaded hash browns. Waitress comes over. French maid outfit is bright and perky, but her eyes look tired. My automatic scan of her curves elicits nothing and I feel a quick jolt of awkwardness. She must get this same appraising look a thousand times a day. She won’t remember my face in an hour.      
     
I casually watch the floor show from a distance. Cigarette smoke burns my eyes, occasionally a cloud makes my view a bit hazy.  She turns, takes sultry steps, bends over, collects a few bills. Does a quick spin around the pole. I see the rote in her motions that I had felt, at work, inching along the highways.      
     
I leave a twenty for the waitress. I walk over to the stage, sit down a moment, smile. I hand her a hundred. Her eyes sparkle for a moment. I get a smile with some real pleasure in it. I walk back over to the booth, pull the twenty I had left and replace it with another hundred dollar bill. I move on.      
     
Back through the open end of the hollow in the thicket. Occupied, this time. I stop, a disheveled and unwashed man, lay upon the cardboard pallet. He opens a single eye, but doesn’t stir otherwise. I reach into my pocket and fumble with the envelope. I slide out 3 bills, kneel down carefully and set them down, across the cook fire from him. That eye watches, but he doesn’t stir. I make my way out beside the highway.      
     
I hear the branches rustle behind me. I stop, turn. He’s standing there.      
     
“I’m Dennis.” He says.      
     
I look at him a moment, walk back over. He extends his hand. I take it. I look in his eyes.      
     
“I’m Daniel.” He smiles.      
     
I walk beside the highway. The road signs for Astoria begin to count down the miles, as the day waxes and wanes, giving over into night. More hand painted signs for Yew. I enjoy how each of them is different. Each reflecting another unique envisioning of whatever this sign represents.      
     
I walk past a highway travel stop, round about midnight. The moon is high. There is steam rising from a reservoir of water, its pumps beneath the surface having kicked off for the evening, just before my arrival. A breath of falling water settles across the surface. I watch. I listen.      
     
Lights on within the building at the travelers rest. There are metal benches painted blue, within. Road maps, tourist destinations, within glass fronted cases upon the walls. Vending machines between the bathrooms.      
     
I use the facilities, fish a five dollar bill out of my pocket, left over from a broken twenty at breakfast, get myself a bag of Cheetos and a chicken salad sandwich. Drink from the water fountain, unpleasantly warm but refreshing. I sit upon the bench and soon lie down. Sleep washes over me, broken only intermittently by travelers coming and going, the occasional crash of a soda can or water bottle, the bang of the flap as they retrieve their item or a distant flush.      
     
A family enters. A child with a colorful spinning wheel deserts his parents' side to approach me. I open one eye, but do not stir. I smile, he closes one eye and smiles back. He carefully holds the wheel up to my face and I blow on it. The pedals turn. His smile widens.      
     
His mother turns, stiffens, the father reacts instinctively, tensing, gathering his son to his side, giving me a somewhat warning look. I close my eye.      
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the second day.      
     
..      
     
Chapter Two: The Yearling and the Foal.      
     
Felt the sweat beading on my brow, soaking into my collar, around the back of my neck. Perhaps I felt the pain in my back and side more acutely, but the discomfort of the sweat bothered me more. Sunlight pours through the doors of the travelers rest. Many more cars out there, now. The parking lot had been largely deserted, the night before. Vehicles whiz by on the highway beyond, displacing the air in ripping whirs and whuffs.      
     
Not much in small bills left. So I walk around the parking lot and ask a few folks for change. Most are pleasant enough, but quickly turn me down. I trade a twenty for two fives and a ten with a young man who was checking his tire pressure. He was blasting something by Lil Wayne and singing along under his breath. He had a bright, easy smile that coaxed a similar one onto my face. He goes right back to gauging and singing, after our exchange.      
     
I go back inside, get myself a handful of the orange peanut butter cream filled crackers from the vend. Take a few heaping gulps from the fountain. Eat one pack and stuff three more into my pocket. Road food, reminds me of my book tour in 09, which makes me smile. I fish a water bottle from the trash, clean it in the bathroom sink and fill it from the fountain. It hangs loose in my hand as I walk beside the road, occasionally passing it from one to the other.      
     
A car full of screaming adolescents flies past. I am struck in the side with a mostly empty bottle of warm cola. I flinch instinctively, wince from the pain of being struck with an object that had been traveling over seventy miles an hour. Howls of delight and hateful jeers are quickly swallowed by air, distance and the surrounding din of automobiles. I decide to make some distance from the roadside, walking in the grass, several dozen feet away.      
     
Long lines of fencing begin to encompass the countryside, I gaze past at the cleared pastures beyond. Giant rolled bales of hay lie on their sides in stacks, with no sign of who gathered them or what their purpose is, anywhere in sight.      
     
Hours pass. I drink about half my water and eat two packs of crackers. I deposit the plastic wrappers in my left pocket, alongside the single remaining pack. I see a couple of horses in the distance, beyond further fences. I walk directly along the fence now, trailing my hand absently along the wood.      
     
The fences begin to show signs of damage from the hurricane last year. There is some strain and rot. I cease touching them, not wanting to catch a splinter where the wood has buckled and split from the pressure of that colossal wind and water.      
     
The distance between myself and the highway has grown as I traveled along the fence, now only a distant hum of traffic, cars and larger vehicles, small, heat wavering upon the road, light glinting from the polished, metallic surfaces.      
     
I had probably missed a few signs for Astoria and their attached invitations to Yew, which rankled me a moment. I had wanted to see all of them.      
     
Sit down against a fence post, open that last pack of crackers. Sunset approaches in hues of orange, purple and red. For having spent a couple of days and evenings walking, I was surprised at my lack of fatigue. Still, dogs were barking. Took a little breather to ease my feet.      
     
There is a clop/thud noise, somewhere behind me. A snorted breath. I tense, but do not move. A shadow falls across my leg, I turn my head, and standing at the fence is a young horse.      
     
He was brownish tan, with a white diamond on his muzzle. I had never seen a horse in person before, not this close. I carefully stand up, wipe my hands on my pants. I look at him. He looks at me. He takes a step forward, his face comes over the top of the fence.      
     
I raise my left hand, bring it up to his muzzle, he snorts and raises his head away, I freeze in place. He lowers his head to look at me again. I slowly bring my hand down on his muzzle and stroke it, gently, once, twice. Breath pours from his nostrils.      
     
His head seems massive, even though he is obviously young, a yearling. I place my hands around both sides of his head and bring my forehead to rest, gently, against that white diamond. We stand like that for a long moment, I slowly release his head and back away. We gaze at each other.  He moves on. I do as well.      
     
Moon rises, a bright waxing gibbous. I have followed the fence line, keeping the highway in sight. Distant headlights pierce the darkness. I come to a dirt road, leading to a gate in the fence. I begin to follow the road back toward the highway.      
     
Tired. Hungry. Follow the lights. No road signs for Yew or Astoria.      
     
Follow a billboard and an exit to a steakhouse. Bowls of peanuts on each table, shells litter the floors. Din of diners, rush of servers, savory smells. I wait on benches with a dozen others to be seated. Families, it mostly seems.      
     
A small girl in a blue cotton dress plays with a toy horse. Clopping and neighing. Her brother snatches it away, runs around, holding it overhead. She chases, screams, begins to weep. The mother brings the children to heel quickly enough, hands the horse to the boy, reads to the girl from a composition notebook. They practice letters.  She whuffles a bit with emotion at first, concentration and her mother’s soothing tone bringing her back to calm.      
     
After fifteen or twenty minutes, a few families move off, a few new ones arrive. The girl child doodles in the composition notebook, wandering around. The notebook brushes my knee and falls between my feet. She turns, looks at me, her hands come together sheepishly, she flicks her thumb with her forefinger.      
     
I pick it up, see a drawing of the foal her brother was playing with. I smile and say, “Did you draw this?”      
     
She twists left to right a moment, unsure whether to respond and says yes. I tell her it’s very good. She smiles. She holds out the pen to me. I take it and for a few minutes, I write a story.      
     
I hand her back the notebook. She looks, frowns a bit, probably expecting a drawing. I hold out her pen, but she has wandered back over to her brother. The child’s mother sees me holding it up, comes over and retrieves it with a patient smile. They are called to a table and before long, I am as well.      
     
Enjoy my meal. Steak, potatoes, broccoli, a whole bowl of peanuts and 2 tall glasses of delicious cold water. Enjoyed just tossing the shells to the floor, as seemed the custom here.      
     
The mother of the children is looking through the notebook with her daughter. She stops, the child points over at me. She reads, looks over and smiles. I smile back.      
     
This is what I wrote in the child’s composition notebook,      
     
A Tower of Giraffes      
     
Once upon a time, giraffes did not have such long necks as they do now. When the world was young, the trees were shorter, so the giraffes did not have to reach so high for the leaves they loved to pluck and to eat. Still, the giraffes were proud of their long legs with knobby knees, and the beautiful spotted coats they wore.      
     
There was a very proud giraffe, with a neck a bit longer than the others. He loved to hold up his chin and display his long neck. The giraffes were envious of his long neck, so they would hold up their chins, tensing their necks and willing them to grow and grow! And grow they did. The proudest of the giraffes held his chin up higher than the rest and he strained his neck harder and, once again, had the longest neck of all his friends.      
     
Each giraffe began to follow suit, each holding up his chin, not looking at his friends, but straining to grow the longest neck, to be the envy of his friends. The trees found this all so tiresome, so they drank of the sunlight and the waters beneath the soil, and they grew very tall indeed, so tall that the giraffes could no longer reach the leaves they loved to pluck and to eat!      
     
Now there was a foal, a giraffe who had legs not so long as his friends, his knees were not so knobby. His coat was not so spotted and, what’s worse, he had the shortest neck of them all. He continually looked up at his friends, seeing them straining their necks, raising their chins and he wished, instead, that they would talk and be friends like they once had been.      
     
Looking up at his friends now, he could see they were hungry and afraid. He saw the tears that welled in their eyes, so tears began to well in his own. Standing as tall and straight as he could, the smallest giraffe held up his chin and strained his neck very hard. He thought only of his friends, how he wanted to make them feel not so hungry and not so afraid. He strained and strained and then, something wonderful happened! His legs grew longer, his knees broader, and most of all, his neck grew so very long that he could reach the tops of the trees! The trees were very glad to greet him, for they could see why he had strained so very hard to grow, so that he could help his friends. They were happy to offer their tasty leaves to him and, ever so gently, he began to pluck the tasty leaves and offer them to each of his friends.      
     
When everyone had eaten their fill, they laughed and talked, as they once did. They felt silly for how hard they had strained to have longer necks than their friends and, they admitted, in all that time they held their chins up so hard, they had missed talking to each other.      
     
As the sun fell and the moon rose, all agreed, that their long, graceful necks had never looked so beautiful, as when each bent his neck and lowered his head to the feet of their friend the foal, who had loved them so well and had tried so hard to help them.      
     
Went to a hotel, this night. Comfy bed, air conditioning cranked to the utmost. Soft sheets, hot shower. Television. Looked out the window at the moon. There was a brief rain that fell quietly, then fireworks from somewhere nearby. I slept.        
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the third day.      
     
..      
     
Chapter 3: The Music      
     
Woke just after dawn. Walked to the laundry room. Deserted. Lights on, though. Galaga video game machine next to a Fanta vend. Looked around, stripped down to my bare ass and put my clothes in a washer. Played some Galaga. Drank an orange soda.      
     
Sat with a newspaper across my lap. A maid came in during my dryer cycle. She looked at me, I at her. I nodded toward the dryer and smiled, I hoped, disarmingly. She shook her head, emptied the trash bins and left. Got dressed, decided lingering for my continental breakfast might be ill advised. Moved on.      
     
Saw my first sign for Astoria and Yew in a while. “Almost there!” the hand painted sign read. This was the first day of the festival. I was excited. Couldn’t remember the last time I had been, but possibly the first time I had been, came to mind. Coney Island. Delicious Nathan’s hot dogs and fries, so crispy and hollow in the center. The rides. The games. The Wonder Wheel. Standing impossibly tall, its arms filled with screams of delight.      
     
For all my expectations, it was a pretty sedate little town, from a distance. I fixed my eyes on this or that, people or vehicles in motion. An enormous banner over the avenue declared that this was indeed where the Yew festival was being held. A great tree stood in bright relief upon the banner, roots reaching down, becoming colorful streamers that twisted and lifted in the early afternoon breeze.      
     
Music began to reach my ears. Drowsy and muted, from a distance, growing in clarity, as I approached.      
     
Walked to a convenience store. People milled about outside. Went in, pretty rustic décor. On a long table were many clear plastic containers of what looked like homemade treats, from their lack of labels.      
     
Cakes with designs of the tree logo upon them or in the arboreal shape, pies, cookies, all following the theme. Colorful, all the colors of waning summer and arriving autumn represented in shades of gold, orange, browns and greens.      
     
I selected an assortment of cupcakes and lifted them up, an elderly man sat before the display table, eyeing me disinterestedly. I said, “How much?”      
     
He smiled in a wry fashion, replied, “Nothin here is for sale, son, just on display, til tomorrow. Local folk, proud of the festival. You come back then, proceeds go to the town.  On the first day of Yew, we fast, but tomorrow, we feast. Anything from the regular shelves is for purchase.”      
     
I looked around, was hungry, but I felt like buying anything to eat wouldn’t be right. I could fast til tomorrow.      
     
A bandstand had been erected in a park, I followed the throngs and the music, more than anything.      
     
People under these circumstances are especially beautiful, I think. We’re of a mindset, troubles pushed aside for now, hearts open and readied for joy. Like the halted, expectant smile on the face of someone who is watching a standup comedian. You want to be amused, so, you’re already halfway there.      
     
There were people everywhere. I thought, how many had come from parts unknown? It seemed this little town’s lungs were filled to bursting with sounds of gladness.      
     
Children darted around their families on an invisible tether of trust and obedience. Adolescents stood about in groups, some chatting, some stood in a hush as one of their number gesticulated and spoke excitedly, falling still in a struck pose as those gathered about fell to hysterics of laughter.      
     
Older folks sat at benches or walked along in pairs. Blankets had been laid out, where some lounged, playing music. Tents had been erected, hand painted signs of attractions within stood just outside the partially lifted flaps. I looked into a few.      
     
Sleight of hand displays, little productions of theatrical performances, a tent filled with helium balloons, being thrown about by an enormous fan beneath a mesh flooring, children jumping and screaming to catch them. Once popped, little prizes lay inside.      
     
I made my way to the center of the festivities. The bandstand. The sounds of hundreds of hands clapping at once hit me in a wave as the previous performers left the stage, followed by a hush.      
     
There seemed to be few, like me. At the festivities alone. I spotted an older man, leaning against a tree, puffing on a corn cob pipe. A wistful and satisfied smile lay fixed upon his lips, his eyes casually surveying the crowd. I thought, he had something to do with bringing all this about. An air of relaxed accomplishment lay across his slender shoulders.      
     
Giggles and hollers surged through the crowd as a group of young performers flew through the throngs, toward the stage. A theatrical entrance or were they just a little late? Didn’t matter, the effect was the same. They set their instruments in their places, final tuning and sound checks ensued. Gentle curiosity settled across those gathered.      
     
A girl with a cello about as tall as she was set the bow to the strings. The din nearest the crowd slowed to a murmur, then a sigh, then a hush. It reminded me of the waters of the reservoir I had seen falling still, a couple of nights ago.      
     
The first note she struck, was long. It was more than long. It stretched across time. It reached back into some place within her, within me, I suspect, within all of us. Some distant memory that held as much love as it did sadness. It warbled in a perfectly attuned throat as the bow sawed across, her nimble fingers placed with such expert and fierce confidence, she was magnified suddenly in that moment.      
     
Here was no longer a girl cradling a musical instrument that might topple her over. Here was an artist. Here was art being born, carrying all the grace of sentience. Her soul swept across the audience, a finger placed with that expertise and ferocious confidence upon every heart.      
     
That single gorgeous note, that knell that drew mouths to a close, motion to a standstill, it lingered in the air, after it had departed. The eye inside us watched it go. Longed for it to return. Ached with gorgeous agony that it would not ever do so.      
     
Her compatriots had positioned about her in a semicircle. An oboe sounded, layering note upon note in quick but measured tones. A violin then began to sing, followed by a flute in high voice. The bows of the string instruments followed another, the wind instruments did the same, and as they spoke in unison, a dance of vibrations played across my heart.      
     
I close my eyes. There is nothing but the music.      
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the fourth day.      
     
..      
     
Chapter Four: Blazes of Light and Shadows      
     
I awake, in this moment.      
     
In this silence.      
     
This merciless church.      
     
Impossibly quiet.      
     
Something quakes within.      
     
A memory.      
     
I had sat down against a tree, with the throng all around me.        
     
Now, all was hushed.      
     
A morning bird’s sweeping cry falters.      
     
Perhaps a hawk had descended, like the sword of Damocles, weary of its suspension, now become the guillotine.      
     
Mist lay upon the ground, low, barely a thimble’s breadth above the manicured lawn. I swept my hand through the grass.      
     
The shock of dew. The almost imperceptible swirl of vapors. I rise and the sun follows on my shirttails, straighten my clothes.      
     
I walk to the convenience store from yesterday. Closed, now. I lean against the wall and slide down.      
     
Footsteps, a jangle of keys. A door swings and strikes a bell. I sit, for long moments. The day swells into a murmur, swiftly now, then there is much sound and motion.      
     
Round the corner to find many tables had been set out. Many treats lay upon them. People stood behind their displays, eyes bright with excitement and pride. Each treat lay in many duplicates upon long tables. Children danced with impatience to be handed something to nibble on. Parents indulged with ease and joy upon their countenances.      
     
Purchase price was optional. Whatever you wanted to pay. Children were delighted to offer a dollar, adults often paid more. I fished out a twenty for a cupcake and a hundred for sweet potato pie. Walked about as the day began to rise into the fever pitch that had defined the prior. Happily eating with a plastic fork.      
     
There was music, there were games for young and old, but now there was food, everywhere. Competition followed competition. It seemed every hour held either a vigorous show of physical prowess or a banquet, laid out under the open sky.      
     
Ribbon and trophy followed ribbon and trophy. As day waxed, waned and fell to night, I ate ribs, a deep fried twinkie, funnel cake, beans and bacon. Ate til my sides were splitting and there was much evidence of the same abounding.      
     
Older folks seem to depart the earliest. Children and families seem to mostly fall to sitting upon the rows of picnic tables as the moon rose. The height of the evening was for the young, lovers dancing in intimate twos and for me, who moved like a shadow, gently, across the festivities, smiling, making small talk occasionally, but moving on, before long.      
     
Drowsiness swept over me, round about midnight. I was gone. Behind me, the band played on.      
     
I walked a piece, into the open fields that lie outside Astoria. Lie down in the swaying grass. There was wind. In the darkness, a single bolt of fire shot up into the sky, sparking into a thousand different blazes of light. Fireworks exploded in the night. One upon another, they rose, blasted the stillness of the air into a rainbow of illumination, before all I saw was shadows of their passage.      
     
Many small displays are dwarfed by a massive burst at the finale. A cry of delight finds me, even at this distance. It reached me like invisible smiles. Like eyes that saw me, soon forgetting.      
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the fifth day.      
     
..      
     
Chapter Five: Into the Wilderness      
     
Woke in the beating sun. Woke with a heat pounding between my ears. Sun blind, I turned onto my side.      
     
Tall grass waves hello, simultaneously, waves goodbye.      
     
I pull up stakes, as it were. Glance back toward Astoria. Distant buildings. No trace of the previous day’s festivities. Time moves on. We move with it.      
     
I wander a while, come across a country store. Make use of the facilities, thought to buy something to eat, but my stomach was sore from yesterday’s debauch. Got a big bottle of water instead.      
     
Spot a dirt road, smoke rising in the distance, down that way. I head toward it.      
 
The road winds, first toward, then sharply away from the smoke. I stand, looking in the direction of the source. I step off the road, into the wilderness.      
     
Brush was close and thick, thin trees with pine cones bulging, their fallen brethren crunching painfully underfoot. I began picking my steps more carefully, raising my legs high to get clear of the tangle. It was an uphill battle, of sorts, and sweat began to pour from my brow and gather at my neck.      
     
After a time, I began to smell the burn, still closer, to feel the dry and heat in the air, still closer, to hear the crackle. There was the flame. A small wildfire. Burning against the blackened trunk of a palm.      
     
The ground was soft as I approached, heaps of ash began to make my steps more awkward still, like walking in something between sand and dust.      
     
I looked at the fire for a while, standing only a foot or so from it. The flames danced in shades I could not recall if I had seen before. Amidst the usual orange and black, purple, yellow and crimson seemed to coalesce for the briefest of moments.      
     
In the flames, I imagined that I saw a woman dancing in a long train gown. Legs thrusting, feet pointed, head thrown back, one arm across her chest, the other flung aside, hair flying above like a crown.      
     
I walked back to the road and along its length, spotted a hill of cleared grass and decided to climb it, perhaps take a short rest. It was steep and taller than it looked from a distance, but I crested it before long.      
     
In the distance, a metropolis. I thought I knew which, being somewhat familiar with the area, but had not been in some time. Skyscrapers jutting into the sky at different intervals, forming an alternating line across the horizon. Forest lay between me and it, roads cloven through its length and breadth. I sat a while and regarded it. Started down the opposite side of the hill, toward it.      
     
Finding the road did not prove as simple as I had thought it might be. I wandered this way and that, listened for signs of cars or passage.      
     
Snapping branches was a welcome sound, until I spotted the source, a very wild and gnarled looking dog, ribs showing at its flank, growling and bearing its gums.      
       
I stopped, took a wide berth, but it followed. As I walked, it loped closer, coming near to my heels at one point and snapping its jaws loudly. I stopped, turned and hollered at it, threw my mostly empty water bottle and nearly struck it. It barked in enraged protest.      
     
At this point my heart sank into the pit of my stomach, because I saw he wasn’t alone. There were more of them. Different breeds, but clearly together. Two, three, perhaps more, moving in the periphery. I turned my head this way and that, then back to staring down the leader. He had moved a bit further away, but was raising and lowering his lips to reveal gums and teeth.      
     
I turned and began walking away, swiftly, I could hear them following, behind, to the sides. Moving in closely, moving back. Barking, to each other, I suppose, probably also to unnerve me. I ripped lose a branch of decent length. Kept moving.      
     
Another line of smoke appeared ahead. They circled in this predatory dance, I kept moving like an arrow, toward it. I emerged from the brush, into a campground. Trailers stood around. I huffed and puffed, full of adrenaline, made my way over a log fence, into the enclosure.      
     
The smoke I had seen was coming from several sources. People barbecuing, pit fires.      
     
I spotted the central office. A couple of benches out front. I plopped down on one of them. Felt stupid. Felt lucky. Felt alive.      
     
I went inside. An older, portly lady with thick coke bottle glasses sat behind a desk. I told her about the wildfire. She flatly informed me that it was a controlled blaze, clearing brush for construction. I told her about the dogs. She didn’t seem surprised, but told me she would phone it in. She asked me where I had come across them. “Nature walk.” I said with a smile.      
     
Wandered around the grounds a bit. A group of bikers. Looked about a dozen. Families, mostly.      
     
One group was singing. What seemed the father on a guitar. Mother held a tambourine. 2 little girls clapping, singing through their smiles. It was a song I knew, a song I loved, Plush by Stone Temple Pilots. I was seized by gladness, perhaps a bit hysterical after that ordeal, so I just started belting the lyrics out. They didn’t miss a beat, though. So, we all sang together.      
     
Everyone clapped at the end, so I did too. Somehow it wasn’t awkward at all. Their smiles were friendly. I smiled, too.      
     
The man stood up and walked around the fire. Guitar in one hand, held the other out to me.      
     
“What’s your name, stranger?” He had a kind of wild twinkle in his eye, rough hands and red skin of a man who works, works in the sun. He reminded me of an old friend.      
     
“I’m Daniel. Just passing through.”      
     
He laughed and said I sounded like an old movie. I laughed, too. “Well, where ya headed then, pard?” He said, with a little wink. The children were running around us now. Who I assumed was the mother had set her tambourine down and was digging through the ice in a cooler.      
     
“South. The city, not far now, I guess. Was out walking and got lost. There are wild dogs about. I warned them up at the main office. Said they were sending animal control out.”      
     
He scans me up and down a second. Absently gathers his daughters to either side as they run around him. He says, “I’m Derrick. These two firecrackers are Annabeth and Susie. Lady who can’t seem to find a cold drink in a 5 gallon cooler is my wife, June."      
     
She raises one hand from the cooler to give him the finger, raises the other triumphantly with a bottle of Gatorade. Twists off the top and has a gulp. Calls her girls over and gives some to both.      
     
“It’s good to meet you all, but I guess I’ll head out,” I say. I turn.      
       
Derrick calls after. “You say you got lost?”      
     
I stop, turn back. “Yeah. I’ll stick to the road this time. Though.”      
     
He strokes his chin, pops an eyebrow that reminds me of The Rock. He was a character. I liked him.      
     
“Listen. After we eat, we’re heading that way, straight through. Wouldn’t be more than an hour by car, but you’re in for a pretty long walk. Why don’t you eat with us and hitch a ride?”      
     
I pause for a moment. June was already getting food out, hot dogs, burger patties. The kids were chatting together. A cool breeze was blowing.      
     
“Alright. I think that would be good. If it’s no trouble.” I stop. I walk a few steps closer.      
     
“I can pay you.” I said.      
     
He extends his hand again. I take it. He leans in and says. “We’re headed that way. Sing a couple more songs with us, and we’ll call it square. ” He smiles. I smile too.      
     
Everyone gets involved in the cooking. Derrick keeps the spatula to himself, though, lifting the meat occasionally, stroking his chin, turning the dogs and the patties on the grill. June lays out plates, makes portions of salad, ladles in beans, plucks roasted corn from the grill and butters.      
     
The girls eye me here and there, giggle, make silly faces, eyes crossing, tongues wagging up and down. I do the same in return, which elicits further bubbles of laughter.      
     
I help with the cleanup. June seriously instructs the children about how you put out a fire, before leaving. We pile into the car. June drives. Derrick sits in the back between his daughters, with his guitar. I sit in the passenger seat.      
     
He plucks at the strings and they sing. Everyday Is A Winding Road, by Sheryl Crowe.  Ramblin Man, by the Allman Brothers, Keep The Car Running, by Arcade Fire. I sing along.      
     
Highway peels by, under the tires. Swift moving clouds in the sky, overhead. Sun glare on the road, on the windshield.      
     
It’s quiet, for a while. The girls are playing across their father’s knees, surging back and forth. Derrick has set his guitar down. June concentrates on the road.    
   
“So, what do you do, Daniel?” She asks.      
     
“Well, not very much, at present. I had jobs, but I never felt like they defined me.”      
     
I pause, searching for the words.      
     
“I’m a storyteller, I guess.”      
     
“Well then!” Derrick chimes in from the back. “You can’t make such a declaration and not tell us a story!” He claps me on the shoulder with force.      
     
I wince. Headache is coming back. Cup my hands over the air conditioning, then hold them to my temples.      
     
“Alright.” I say.      
     
This is the story that I told them.      
     
A Parliament of Owls      
     
“Once upon a time, in a great, vast and dark forest, there lived many creatures. Some that dug holes in the ground, some that slunk on their bellies, some that clopped along on cloven feet. Some that climbed up and down on the trees, calling them home. “      
     
“It was widely agreed, that of all the flying creatures that made the air whuff beneath their wings, the owls were by far the wisest, for they could turn their necks around so far, seeing everything and they would question everything they see.“      
     
I cupped my hands in front of my mouth and said, “Who? Who?’ The owls would ask.” The girls giggle and imitate. I see Derrick grin in the rearview mirror.      
     
“Though everyone agreed the owls were, indeed, the wisest upon the wing, they were also considered quite indecisive. The bobcat, for instance, was a creature of few words, but swift in action. The boar was reckless, but brave and would charge ahead, no matter what it faced. The bear was cunning, dauntless, because he could both swim and climb trees.”      
     
“Now, one frightful day, a great storm began to blow through the forest. The sky rumbled, the lighting flashed and flashed, the rain began to pour down in great sheets. Each of the forest creatures began to flee. Some into their hollows in the earth, some clung to the trunks of the trees and many of those on the wing fled to parts unknown.”      
     
“Now, the owls sat upon the branches, huddled together, turning their heads all the way around this way and all the way around, that way.” I turned my head in either direction, doing my best impression of an owl. Derrick followed suit, and then his girls. Everyone chuckled a bit.      
     
“The lightning crashed into the trees! Setting them ablaze! The wind howled through the branches, carrying the flames to the other trees, spreading the fire rapidly! The owls begin to hoot in terror, turning their head, calling ‘Who!? Who!?’ Wondering who would save them.”      
     
“Just then, one of the younger owls stood tall upon the highest branches, where the flames had yet to reach. Puffing out his chest, he called down to the others a word that the owls had never spoken before.”      
     
“Me! Me!’ He cried!' The owls ceased their frenzied flapping and turning of their heads and each looked up to their friend. ‘Me! To me!’ He cried. And so, the owls all flew to him and sat in the branches about him. Then, he circled the branches that were burning and flapped his wings mightily. He blew the rain that was falling onto the burning branches and they began to go out with a hiss. Seeing this, hearing the hiss of the quenched flames, the other owls began to do the same. Branch by branch, tree by tree, they beat their wings as a team and, one by one, the trees were saved, and since the trees were saved, the forest was saved, too.”      
     
“Before long, the sky quieted, the rain slowed to a drizzle and then ceased. The wind calmed to a gentle breeze and each of the forest creatures began to emerge. Standing upon the branches, were the owls. No longer afraid.”      
     
“The forest creatures all wanted to know, who had saved the trees? Who had saved the forest, and all of them with it, but the owls were wise and so not given to pride. They simply turned their necks this way and that and joined in the chorus of the woodland creatures, saying, ‘Who? Who?’ As they always had.”      
     
“The end.”      
     
There is a rousing round of applause. I look out the window, a bit embarrassed. Derrick clops my shoulder again, even harder. June looks over and beams a smile.    
   
“Thank you, Daniel.” She says.      
     
“You’re welcome.” I replied, smiling at her, then looking away.      
     
The city looms up ahead, then swallows us whole. Derrick asks for my address. I tell him I am staying in a hotel. He asks which, I see a sign for the Radisson and I tell him there.      
     
We pull up in front. Say our goodbyes quickly. Derrick moves to the passenger seat. The sun is going down. I walk inside, pay for a room. Head up.      
     
I have a shower. There are grass stains on my clothes. I decide, in the morning, I will buy something new to wear.      
     
I watch a little television. Open the curtains and stand before the window. No stars, the superior lights of the city greet me from windows and illuminated signs. Cars rush along the avenues, flying along the highways beyond, like whispers of wind down an adjacent hallway, from this distance.      
     
I slept.      
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.      
     
..      
     
Epilogue:      
     
I am filled with a dream. A dream within a dream.      
     
I am standing on the platform of the train station at Penn. Wind howls steadily through the tunnel.      
     
Wind swept newspapers fly about, slapping against the walls, dragging and flying on.      
     
The newspapers show me standing atop the hill, overlooking the city. They show me standing before the bandstand, eyes closed, heart open. They show me fleeing through the forest, feral dogs circling like lean shadows in the brush.      
     
There is no one. I am alone.      
     
I wake. There are spots in my vision, for a moment.      
     
Silence. I am still alone. There is still no one.      
     
I get dressed. I stand before the bathroom sink. I empty the contents of my pockets onto the counter before me.      
     
The contents of my pockets were as follows:      
     
Left pocket,      
     
A creased and folded white envelope, considerably less bulging then it had been.      
     
Three receipts from convenience stores, two from restaurants.      
     
A packet of peanut butter crackers, broken and crumbled within the opened plastic.      
     
Right pocket,      
     
A folded flier for activity schedules at the Yew festival.      
     
A peanut shell, cracked and empty.      
     
A half a torn dollar bill. David had the other half.      
     
I look at myself. Black rings under my eyes. Skin a bit tanned, rosy on the cheeks and forehead.      
     
I place the white envelope in my left pocket, the torn half of a dollar in the right. I move on.      
     
I wander the streets. Take in the pulse of the city. It is ll:33 am, according to a digital clock. I follow the slant of the mid morning light, down the avenues. I walk into a pizza parlor for a soda and a slice. Good pizza. I have another. Absently fold the paper cup and walk with it in my hand.      
     
I look into the window of a tattoo parlor. Scan the customers at the seats, with that look of mild discomfort. Artists concentrating on their work. Wiping, the needles whine in metallic tones as they do their work. Flash art on the walls.      
     
I spot a men’s clothing store. I go inside and purchase a suit, socks and dress shoes. My first suit. Standing with arms out, being measured, it was a bit awkward, but the clerk chatted me up amicably. I made short answers, but was friendly. I was tired, in spite of having slept well.      
     
Tossed my old shoes and clothes into the bin, on the way out.      
     
Wandered into a wide park area. Joggers in pairs, moving along with a practiced pace. Old folks sitting on benches or moving with a careful, measured step.      
     
Young people running about. A few gathered together, operating a drone. There were a few flying kites, too. New meets old in this modern world of ours.      
     
I lean against a great, tall tree. Reminds me of the symbol of the Yew Festival. Close my eyes. I sleep.      
     
I wake. I have a frightful headache. Hammering between my eyes. I walk the avenues, it is night. There is thunder threatening, flashes of distant lightning. Much time between the flash and the roar.      
     
I find a pharmacy and purchase painkillers. I down a handful.      
     
Across the street, there is a gentleman’s club. I pay at the door and go inside. Just wanted to get out of the rain, which had begun to drizzle gently on my head and shoulders.      
     
Music was not as loud as I had expected, which was a blessing. I find a seat at a table, at the back. I order a drink. Crown and coke. I sip, drink, have another. Turn down several dances. Have another. Time passes. The warmth felt good in my skin.      
     
Another dancer approaches me. Slides a hand around my shoulders, slides around the chair, face only inches from mine. Pale, raven dark hair falling to her waist. Large, beautiful eyes. I smile, a bit drunkenly, I suppose. She sits down in my lap, sideways at first, then straddles me. I accept her offer for a dance.      
     
Afterward, I pull the envelope from my pocket, it sticks, I pull harder, a bit clumsily and it falls to the floor. She bends down with the languid grace of a cat and picks it up, hands it to me. I remove a hundred dollar bill and hold it out for her. She takes it with her fingertips, looks down into the envelope.      
     
She leans in, whispers in my ear, her breath is hot and inviting. She says, “I like you sugar. You have kind eyes. I’m Fantasia. What’s your name?”      
     
“I’m David.” I smile, my eyes meeting hers.      
     
“I’m off in about twenty..” She trails off. Purses her lips thoughtfully. “If you’re up for something a little more. Bring that party favor that you just slipped back into your pocket and we could go somewhere. It isn’t far. How does that sound?”      
     
She traces her lips against mine as she speaks. My blood runs hot. Headache threatens, like flies buzzing outside a screen door. “That sounds pretty good to me.” I reply into her mouth.      
     
I stand under the awning outside, rain is pouring, still. Had to be coming down for hours now, unrelenting. She comes around the side of the building, head to toe in a coat, could hardly spot her in the folds of the thing. She grabs my arm and hauls me into the rain. We walk, down one avenue, up another. We enter a hotel. She walks up to the desk, turns, leans back and looks at me, smiling a sultry smile. I had perhaps never seen anything so inviting.      
     
I pay, we head up. Walk inside. She pushes me against the wall with her fingertips and saunters into the room. Shedding first her coat, then items of clothes, as she goes. She walks into the bathroom.      
     
I linger there, a moment. She turns the door so I can see her in the mirror upon it. She is leaning against the sink.      
     
My clothing trail follows hers. I walk in nude, come up behind her. She quickly reaches back, placing a condom between us. I don it. I enter her.      
     
She leans forward. I move against her, within her. My excitement builds, looking at her lovely face in the mirror. Planting kisses on her neck, my hands roaming her body. I lift her leg up and hold it as I approach climax.      
     
Afterward, I lean my head against her. My mind is swimming, my face feels hot.  A fat dollop of blood escapes my nostrils, falling onto her back. She startles and turns around. I pull a towel from the rack and hold it to my face.      
     
“Are you alright?” She asks.      
     
“Yes, I‘m fine.” But I wasn’t. I needed to sit down. I walk into the room and sit on the closer of two beds.      
     
She eyes me with suspicion and concern as she dresses.      
     
“Nothing you need to be concerned about, really.” I say, softly.        
     
I lean back, look at the towel. My nose seems to have stopped. I wipe and take a long breath.      
     
I lean down, grabbing my pants, remove the envelope and hold it out to her.      
     
She takes it. Looks at me. I make a dismissive gesture and smile. She shoves it into her coat pocket.      
     
“So, what’s wrong with you?” She blurts out.      
     
I lean back on both my palms a moment, then come forward, elbows resting on my knees. I look at the carpet. Looking up, I reply, “Well, how much time do you have?”      
     
She turns her head a bit to the side. She smiles. I smile in return.      
     
She thumbs through the envelope.      
     
“Couple of hours, I guess.”      
     
So, I tell her a long story, short.      
     
Time passes. She gives me a hug before departing.      
     
She turns, just as the door was about to close behind her and shoves it open. Standing in the doorway, she says. “I’m Teresa.”      
     
I stand in the middle of the room, just getting my jacket back on.      
     
“I’m Daniel.” I say, smiling. “It was nice to have met you, Teresa.”      
     
“Same, Daniel. You take care of yourself.”      
     
“I will.” I finish buttoning my sleeves. She blows a kiss. She moves on. Before long, I do as well.      
     
I wander the avenues, leaving downtown behind.      
       
I stand before a lake.      
     
Moonlight walks a shimmering path upon the surface of the waters.      
     
Night creatures call from all around. Belching, whooping, chirping.      
     
Wind sweeps across everything, swaying the grass. Gently bending the boughs of trees.      
     
I quake, within.      
     
I remember, a poet.      
     
I had been.      
     
There is life, all around me.      
     
Yew. For tomorrow we die and are renewed.      
     
Sometimes I take very long walks.      
     
I close my eyes. There is nothing but music.      
     
And there was evening and there was morning, the seventh day. And it was good.      
     
..      
     
Yew      
A long story, short      
By      
Daniel Christensen      
     
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Christensen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.