I know, why is there fiction? I’m having a hard time writing any of the essays I want to write in relation to current events and I’m on a hard deadline for a few other things and I just…wanted to put this old tale out there. I wrote this a few years ago, submitted it a few times (got rejected), used it in grad apps (whole other story but it was liked). I’ve clung to this as my good piece of fiction and I need to let it go so I can write more fiction. If you have thoughts, please share!
Image is Giovanni Bellini’s Madonna and Child, and I found it on the Metropolitan Museum’s website.
The Willow Tree
I’m not sure I believe that opposites attract fits romance, but it can certainly be true of friendship — not being opposite in terms of interests or directions, necessarily, but having the flip side of the other’s problem.
I was detached from my body from a young age. I did not go through anything traumatic, and I feel that I was loved, but I simply couldn’t relate to the world that way. I was chronically clumsy, was pathologically forgetful of things like needing to eat, and I won’t even get started on comprehending the idea of roles based what your body was. No, I was purely cerebral, in a pridefully self-conscious way, and of course stories, science, and the lore of the world and investigating our ideas about it drove me.
That was why I was seated in Early Renaissance Art 101. This elective was a break to try and appreciate the physical through a lens that came naturally to me.
Vincent (one row behind and two seats to the left of me) was there for the opposite reason — he was all about the senses and loved art, and maybe he hoped that enough priceless pigment and lack of proper perspective would be elevating. I doubt it.
Whatever the reason, we were both half-focusing on some Madonna or other, and when our professor who looked as sleepwalking as us on that November morning slammed the book shut and gestured towards homework, we both got up and stared to leave and as a result collided.
“I’m so sorry!” I started up, and nearly tripped again over one of my highlighters.
“Don’t worry about it,” my future friend put on his glasses with a polite smile, which turned into a puzzled stare at my face as he helped me up. “How did you get a hold of that lipstick? It looks fabulous on you!”
“I have my ways,” I joked. “Bit of a fashionista?” I gestured at his green tweed and Churches combo.
“I try!”
***
Vincent had been in my life for a handful of years. He wasn’t really the type of guy I could go on philosophical rambles with, but I already had people for that. We were going on adventure friends — I got to get out of the house and away from my advisors, and my good sense likely kept Vincent out of trouble. I would be going about my business and then he would call up. “I found this dance club!” “Want to come with me to antique hunt in another state?” “Time for a makeover!” “Want to go to Switzerland on winter break?” Sometimes this was fun, and sometimes exhausting, like he was a storm running out of momentum as a result of all the swept up debris.
For context, Vincent was from a very wealthy family, and he didn’t meet their expectations of success and propriety. He never spelled out what that meant specifically, whether that was being gay or not very Catholic or not greatly enthused with pipes (the subject of his family business). Part of my bond to him was that I wanted to be understood by someone who didn’t fit the expected heterosexual dynamic, but this quickly fell apart as he apparently thought being a libertine came with the territory, while I was a monastic sort of girl who happened to like other girls. And literary quarterlies, which he constantly stole me away from when I finally had a moment away from my scholarly toil.
I was laying out my calendar for the next month when my phone rang.
“Raven, I think I found something more your style! It’s very peaceful!” His voice shook with repressed laughter, and I looked despairingly at my new Ploughshares.
“What happened to hello, how are you?” I said with laughter and exasperation, downing my cup of coffee to prepare myself.
“Oh no need — I can tell by your voice that you are happily being an industrious little bee, bothered by my butterfly ways. Have you heard of the Willow Sanctuary?”
Well, it at least wasn’t buying a rundown café or going on safari. “Can I get some nice matcha there?”
A muffled chuckle. “Probably? More of a white tea person myself. Anyway, it’s just a nice hostel retreat thing up in the mountains, and their whole thing is about quiet meditation and getting out into the wilderness. They’re on a nature preserve, hence the name — something about protecting a rare species of willow. The cost is on me, and I picked a date in June — it’ll only last a weekend.”
“And why exactly do you want to go on some nature lover’s spiritual quest? Not the most efficient way to annoy your family.”
“Because I thought you might like it! I barely ever see now that we graduated and ended up on opposite ends of the country. I’m trying to be less of an ass.”
“Alright, I’m sorry and thank you. I assume it’s a good idea to only pack muckable clothes?”
“Mostly…always add something elegant just in case.”
“Alright, see you in three months and one week.” I added it to the calendar and started making a list of books I needed to bring.
***
It was one of those delicately warm days where the smell of lilacs hung in the air, and I was waiting with two overstuffed suitcases and trepidation in my heart. Reggie, a large and spoiled designer cat that I found in someone’s trash, was getting acquainted with the pet sitter — hopefully in a non-violent way.
I did have a problem of not having fun, of being too attached to routine. That was why I had only actually gone on a handful of Vince’s big adventures. To be honest, I wondered how he functioned, running around with no direction or anchor.
Some terrible bass heavy music blasted from up ahead, and Vince pulled up in a sleek red car. Flashing his signature smile, he waved me in. After I put my luggage in the trunk and got comfortable in the passenger seat, I noticed what seemed like a tear on his cheek. I looked again and saw nothing.
As we left the spires and dirty air and song of the city, a strange switch started to happen. While I opened up the popcorn and set up the soundtrack (a mix of soft jazz, a couple of songs for our mutual favorite musical Ride the Cyclone, classical artist like Vivaldi, and miscellaneous odds and ends), Vincent was staring ahead in uncharacteristic silence, as we passed under the fresh green of oaks and birches.
“Do the trees make you feel small?” he suddenly blurted out.
“What do you mean?” I had paused undignified with popcorn halfway to my mouth.
“I don’t know…they’re so patient and longer lived. We’re just dumb monkeys, dragged along by our needs and feelings and ambitions, with no roots…”
“Should I take over driving?”
With an emphatic shake of his head, old Vince came back — that careless light hit his eyes and his hand went to the radio. “I know you’re going to hate me, but I’m in an 80s mood.”
***
Many long hours, two pit stops, and an argument about nothing later, we pulled up a dirt drive and a cluster of buildings came into sight. White and serene, they were old New England farmhouses, reconstructed here, and much smaller structures were dotted around. There was a light background noise of bustling, laughter, and one industrious woodpecker.
I grabbed my luggage, ready to get unpacking over with and get to go back to my comfortable cocoon of distance, and walked three steps forward. And stopped, my eyes magnetically drawn upwards.
It was just a tree, a willow tree, that was taller and more beautiful, and silver tinged than any willow I had seen. Like a divine presence in a renaissance painting, the sunlight shot through the leaves in sharp points. The soil around its roots smelled freshly rained on, and above it all there was a marvelous gathering of birds – robins, goldfinches, blue jays, one woodpecker, and a few much larger were circling in the sky. A chipmunk ran past my feet and up the tree. I stood there, dumbstruck — everything about the tree was so beautiful and intense, and I felt for the first time truly blessed and without any worry.
“Isn’t she magnificent? Margie, our groundskeeper, does take special care of our willow.” I jumped back nearly a foot, and straightened up politely to greet the respectable lady who had suddenly appeared right next to me.
“Yes, indeed. Please to meet you…?”
“Anne Pinkerton, but do call me Anne. Welcome to my creation! The gilded willow can be a bit overwhelming when you first see it — only Margie seems to be immune, which is of course why she’s our groundskeeper. And you must be Vincent Clyburn! Do let me show you to your rooms.”
Vince looked very unsettled and was staring at the tree like I had just been, though he didn’t seem struck by wonder. I knew it was bad when a guy who looked straight out of a Brooks Brothers ad, all stylish and horribly dressed for the context of a fancy camp, appeared beside him and he didn’t even crack a smile.
“Why are you wearing your office clothes out here, such a peacock…” With a wave of her paisley shawl, Anne gestured at the young man. “And this is my son Thomas, a bit more business minded. Tommy dear, would you show Mr. Clyburn to his room? I’ll take Raven Linehan. Would you like help with your luggage?”
I was fairly certain I hadn’t given my name. Maybe she just had a good memory.
***
I settled into my little bed. Peace at last. The bed was small but comfortable, I had my own coffeemaker and a little shelf with books (as if I needed more), and there was wallpaper with a vine motif.
What was with Vincent? I was supposed to be the glum, off putting one, too lost in my thoughts to be present. I had never been more present and here he was, all existential dread and dark clouds. If I had an oven accessible, I would have baked him some macaroons. It would be serious indeed if he didn’t respond to his favorite dessert.
On a cloud of contentment, I lounged and read Carl Sagan until dinner, not putting away my clothes. For once, the task could wait.
***
The dining room was modestly active — apparently there were only a handful of other guests that weekend, which was incredibly strange considering that the tourists should have started to swarm. At the table was me, Anne, Thomas, a doctor whose name I never caught but whose lime green suit was very memorable, a young woman going by the name of Lara Smith who looked rather a lot like a certain pop star (far be it for me to pry), Elle Wilkens, the chef who had made us a wonderful bean soup and tahini cucumber salad (I took a bite and looked further down the table), Brad Wilkens, Elle’s husband and the librarian of the place, who was carrying rather a lot of the conversation, and right next to him was Vince.
They were loudly debating the existence of absolute morality, and the temperature in hell was dropping fast. “All I know is that there’s things that are cut and dried, and I’m probably not on the right end of it,” Vince said, setting down a wine glass emphatically. “It’s either absolute or it doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t see how that follows, that’s like denying relativity exists. All the same forces apply, they just look different depending on the angle. Lying is generally bad, but you’re hiding a…”
“I thought you thought there wasn’t any point to philosophy,” I cut in cheerfully, not wanting to hear that old chestnut again.
“Maybe I’ve changed, maybe the senses and frivolity and acting like a shit aren’t working for me anymore. Maybe that’s just how you lose people!” He yelled, and I watched horrified as Vincent slammed down his glass.
I stepped over and said quietly: “Well, maybe don’t drag me places and then make an embarrassing mess I have to clean up. You’re trying on existential crisis just like you try on everything else.”
Vincent got up and left. I winced in sympathy at Brad and got ready to deliver my old apology, when I heard Anne from across the room.
“Don’t bother about it — people do get shaken up sometimes by the influence of the forest.”
“I wouldn’t say that was the forest, more like his usual entitlement,” I grumbled into my soup. “Soo…who’s read the latest George Saunders?”
Just as powerfully as I had felt ecstasy at the willow, I was feeling rage at Vince. Those small seconds had thrown into stark relief a pile of resentments about his lack of respect for my time, all the times he flew off half-cocked, the general distance that was always there. We never made much sense as friends.
The dinner went well otherwise (I kept my feelings to myself) and after matcha (which reminded me so much of the trees) I departed for my cabin.
It had been raining and I was questioning my life choices so I suppose I should have been more careful. A stretch of mud ambushed me, and I found myself falling.
“Watch yourself!” I had been caught. I straightened up with a muffled thanks and looked up at a very tall woman in a lot of muddy green who I had not seen before.
“I’m Raven and you are…?”
“Margie. Nice to meet you! I got rather caught up with checking out the trails I’ll take you guys on tomorrow, so I wasn’t present for dinner.” She had a warm laugh and I found myself smiling in spite of myself. “Are you okay? No ankles twisted or anything?”
“Yes, I’m alright — thank you. See you tomorrow!” I bolted, my face burning with emotions I didn’t want to deal with just then.
***
Tomorrow came much sooner than I wanted it too. I had no idea why we had to get up at the witching hour to forage for mushrooms. Stomping in my decidedly uncomfortable rubber boots in the damp air and dragging behind everyone else, I wanted nothing to do with the physical again. I particularly didn’t like Margie shouting ‘encouraging’ things at us. Vince was a lot further up, but he looked out of his depth and miserable. Good — if he dragged me here and embarrassed me, he deserved to be uncomfortable.
“Can I have a moment?” I asked, looking like a stray puppy, I’m sure.
“When we get to the top in about 10 minutes!” shouted the hideously jolly voice of my guide. As I suppressed a large amount of swear words, I saw Vince trip over a root and faceplant. Margie bent down to talk to him, and I took the opportunity to lean against a rock. Then he was up and going again as if nothing had happened.
Suddenly, much more smoothly than I expected, we were at the top in a clearing and finally a little sunlight was starting to appear. It was time to search for those little mushrooms for the dinner. As we were led down one adjacent path or another, and my basket remained empty, I felt useless.
I was bad at senses, norms, knowing when to eat, so why was I here on some semi wilderness thing? Sure, Vince had dragged me here, but I had still acquiesced. Was I (1) incapable of asserting my will, or (2) was I looking for something in this experience?
“Need some help?” I jumped (I was doing that too much, I thought). Margie had ended up next to me in my frustrated thought.
“I’m not really meant for foraging, I think,” I mumbled, fighting back an urge to apologize.
“Why do you think that? Because you’re a beginner? Pretty much everyone here is. Remember, foraging is a basic survival skill — if humans weren’t made to do it, you likely wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah, I do seem to be bad at things I’m supposed to be instinctively good at,” I kicked a rock. “I’m sorry that was rude. I should go back.”
“Wait a minute and take a breath! What are you good at?”
What was I good at? Stories, deep thought, understanding patterns?
“Okay, fungi are of course living. They need a habitat, they have a life cycle, and they have spots they like to end up. Follow the story or pattern. Brad, that isn’t a good idea!” And she was gone.
Had I said any of that?
Alright. Many trees have grown and died here, which means they then are good habitats. This is a trail, so there’s fewer right where I can see. I struck off the path a few feet and walked alongside, slowly and carefully.
There it was, a snapped tree and a lot of damp, so much that I saw a toad hop in the dead leaves. Some ancestral idea awoke, and I started to focus intently.
I laughed as I finally saw a crop of chanterelles.
***
Wild mushroom lasagna does taste better after physical exertion, and happy socializing feels easy after conflict. I had made friends with the other guests and had become nerdy with Elle about the history of food. Vince was there — subdued but no scenes. I was coolly polite to him.
Once again, all the food was eaten and the after dinner coffee was drunk and I headed back, feeling disoriented.
What was it about this place? I felt stronger and more alive, happier, but it felt like someone had gotten into my head and shifted some boxes around. I was a little different and it all started when I looked at that tree. It also made someone who was important to me — difficult at times, but important — behave erratically. I wondered if I should go and check on him…
No. He needed to apologize for the other night. I wanted to be there for him, but if he wasn’t letting people in, he wasn’t. That ride back was going to be awkward, and perhaps I should make other preparations.
And was I talking out loud to myself all the time? That morning and the incident when I arrived were unsettling me. The tree too. Maybe there was something in the food?
***
It was the witching hour again, and this time, no one else was awake. I sat bolt upright; shaken from a nightmare I didn’t remember fully. The shadows of the room looked like people judging me.
I do seem to be bad at things people are instinctively good at…was that what I was meant to take from this whole situation? That maybe that wasn’t true or, if it was, that it didn’t matter that much?
I wanted to see the willow at night, and for the fun of it I wanted to see the tree in my best clothes — it wouldn’t matter as long as I kept myself from being clumsy. Wide pants, a blazer, little red boots, binder and belt for the right silhouette, whimsical eye makeup (no one would see me anyway). Throwing my old jacket with a loose button over for comfort, I light a candle and walked out into the night.
The sound of the bats fluttering through the sky reminded me of flipping pages, and the soft chirps and rustles and creaks of the night didn’t scare me as they usually did, but I was alarmingly awake. Fireflies blinked around me, like the start of some enchantment, and I felt the urge to run.
There I was, back at the tree. I thought I heard faraway music, and I noticed for the first time that there were glowing mushrooms in a big ring around the tree. Around me as a matter of fact.
“So, you found what you searched for,” a being said. I say. Being because while it sounded like Margie and looked like Margie, this was a radiant forest nymph with leaves spinning around her and she was wearing a dress. Definitely not right.
“Were any of those mushrooms magic, by any chance?” I joked, deciding that this was a dream and that I would not worry too much about it. I didn’t really have a better option.
“It’s okay to be scared,” her voice sounded far away and underwater one moment and incredibly loud and pronounced the next. She (because I was really doubting it was the chipper groundskeeper I had met) stepped forward, a midnight blue dress hugging her frame. The hem seemed to dissolve and float away, leaving flowers in its wake, and fireflies landed on the fabric and left again, making ever-changing patterns. “After all, you came here to feel more alive.”
“Well, I came here because of my friend dragging me around,” I grumbled.
“On the surface, yes,” She was much closer now. “He had his own lessons to learn, and you will hear from him in the morning. I made sure of that.”
“What is the deal here? Pocket dimension? Divinity? You didn’t answer to magic mushrooms, despite the fitting imagery. Definitely betting your name isn’t Margie. And by the way, did I come here of my own free will?”
She laughed and had the audacity to grab my hand and look it over. “Yes, you are here of your own free will. You felt called to the tree because it was one of the most vivid things that you’ve seen, and you’re here now because you need to go on your own adventures. To you this patch of land is full of beauty because that’s what you needed — a way to balance your inward focus. Meanwhile, your companion was running away from doubt and hurt with frivolity, and I’m afraid he had a much more uncomfortable stay as a result.”
A sigh and a shake of her head (sending all the fireflies up again). “Shall we dance? It’s been a while since I was able to just have fun myself.”
***
I woke up feeling disoriented and disgruntled with my shoes on. I didn’t remember doing anything strange, but I must have had some peculiar dreams — more trees, pomegranates, dancing with someone pretty.
Perhaps when I got back home, I should make plans to go out more. I needed more friends that made sense in my life, and more friends period. Vince and I had relied on each other too much.
Speak of the devil! A knock startled me as I was pouring myself a cup of very hot coffee. “Damn it.” I emphatically placed my cup on the bedside table and opened the door.
“Hi, can we talk?” Vincent looked like a forlorn opossum who got lost in the rain.
“I’d say we need to,” I replied, dragging him in. “What’s been happening with you? Have you gone through some trauma, or did you just decide you didn’t like me at some point in the past couple days? I was seriously embarrassed at dinner you know! I hope you apologized to Brad.”
“I did. Can I have some of your coffee?”
“…”
“Please?”
“Yes, of course you can, goof.” I poured what little was left, and he took it. With a bracing sip, Vince finally started to talk.
“Aunt Eloise is sick, and it might be serious. She’s one of the few people in my family who gets who I am, and the potential grief hit me hard. I tried to do what I’ve always done when I had a negative feeling and run off, but I just felt haunted. I’ve never been any use to anyone, even myself, and the thought of death…just…” Vincent was clearly trying to not cry and failing, and I sat next to him and held him close.
“I know we don’t tend to talk about serious things together, but can you maybe not hide everything from me? I care about you, even if you are a bit…”
“Obnoxious?”
“You said it,” I said and got a muffled laugh into my shoulder in return. “I do have my own issues I’ve been thinking about. I’m afraid I’ve been using you as a social lifeline and I shouldn’t — especially if I’m playing into your bad habits. I’m always working, and I get tired and aloof, but I shouldn’t be relying on you to be the fun one all the time.”
“I appreciate that. So, when are you taking me to Paris?”
“Never if we don’t pack and get out of here.”
***
It was a little past noon, and I shot a glance back at the willow as I buckled my seatbelt, being careful not to disturb the pile of snacks and the complimentary goodie bag. Vince, in an uncharacteristic plaid, was making sure everything was in place before we left. Two people were talking by the willow.
“Look back. Doesn’t that remind you of that painting we were talking about when we met…what was it called?”
“Fall of Man? That was very clearly a tiny apple tree and not a willow though. Aren’t you glad no mutant legged snakes are around?”
“I can’t deny that. Who’s in charge of music?” I asked. And as we went back down the hill towards civilization, the image of an imposing lady in Madonna like blue robes under a tree stuck in in my head. Seemed more fitting than the Fall.