Sentinel

A family selects a Christmas tree that doesn't want to be taken.
Story by Phillip Psutka

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Transcript

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Phillip Psutka

Thank you for joining me in this strange small town in northern Ontario. My name is Phillip Psutka. If this is your first time visiting, I’ll be your guide; if you’re a familiar face, it’s good to have you back. The town embraces newcomers and old friends alike, but be warned: it doesn’t easily let you go. And stay close, for you never know what might be waiting for you around the bend.

So dim the lamps, settle in; welcome to Dark River.

Crunching in the muffled silence. A bull moose raised his head and stood stalk still, listening for the source of the sound. All around him, the world was covered in white as if partially erased, with bits of green and brown piercing through, like scratches on a canvas. A steady snowfall settled its soft weight on the trees, blurring boundaries and swallowing the echo of … ah: approaching footsteps. 

The moose remained, his ears perked. There! Dark shapes moving through the trees, growing larger by the minute, four of them, trudging towards him. Then one of them stumbled and fell with a whump! in the snow and the moose jaunted off in search of a more secluded spot.

“I’ve got you,” said Michael, helping her up.

“Don’t fuss, I’m fine!” his younger sister said, but that didn’t stop him from brushing winter’s dust off her wool mittens. “Danny, wait up!” she cried.

“Follow our footprints,” came the reply, setting off a cacophony of bickering. Being only two years apart in age, May and Danny were always picking on one another and their father often had to raise his voice to even be heard, let alone break up the squabble. Today they were in fine form: chaos in the silent void around them. Their father put a quick end to it, and the peace of the forest returned once again.

They pressed on deeper into the woods. The branches billowed with snow, like a condensed world with low-hanging clouds above. 

“How far?” asked Michael.

“Nearly there,” their father replied.

While their father hadn’t shared many details of their outing with them, Michael had deduced a bit more than the others, but he was still at a loss as to why they were continuing on past perfectly good balsam firs. It was getting well into the afternoon and the light was beginning to dull around them; soon it would become too dark to find their way back home.

May was informing them all about the frigid state of her hands when her father said: “And here we are.”

A miniature forest lay before them, for the trees here were no more than a few meters tall and, although there were variances in colour and shape, they all fit the mould of ...

“Christmas trees!” exclaimed May, jumping up and down, barely managing to avoid another collapse into the snow. “Oh I love them! How many can we take?”

“For every one we take,” said Danny, “we have to leave a child behind. Starting with the youngest.”

“That’s not how it works, fart-mouth!” spat May.

“May!” barked their father. “One more of those and you’ll be gettin’ your mouth washed out with soap when we get home!” 

“How do we choose?” asked Michael.

Everyone gathered close, their father’s tone changing abruptly from stern reproach to an invitation to adventure. “I came upon these beauties last week while huntin' -- remember that moose I bagged?”

“It was huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge!” said May. “Like a really big bathtub.”

“I owe my luck to them trees,” he said. “The bull was just standin’ there, starin’ at ‘em long enough for me to get a good shot.”

Although their father didn’t elaborate further, Michael knew the rest of the story, for his father had shared with him how wrong it had felt: he’d said It was unnatural behaviour for an animal not to even look in his direction; the snow always betrayed him. It had arrived earlier this month, which was late for northern Ontario, but when it came it had come with a vengeance and even the most densely wooded areas had a thick layer, making getting in for the kill harder but getting out of the woods easier. This moose must have heard him coming long before they could lay eyes on one another, but the moose didn’t even look his way. When he had pulled the trigger, it felt like shooting an animal in a cage. But his father was right not to mention it, for ideas like that weren’t for children and they certainly weren’t for Christmas.

“Anyway, that’s when I saw them. But I am trusting you all with a much harder task.”

“It’s OK,” said Danny, “May has already agreed to be the sled, so we can pull it back home on her.”

“I have NOT! Eat pine needles, dummy!”

“What’s the task?” asked Michael, cutting in to save the outing from turning rotten. 

“You all gotta pick the one to take home,” their father replied. 

And with that, all of them entered the miniature forest.

Michael immediately noticed that most of the trees were balsam fir, a common tree in this region of Ontario; in fact, balsams were not only native to Canada, but they were rarely found in any other parts of the world. They had taken on the mantle of the classic Christmas tree. There were a few white spruce in the mix, their foliage much denser than the firs. I’d choose one of these, he thought -- the dark green foliage and the symmetrical shape made them a very attractive tree -- but before he could announce his choice, he heard his sister cry out, “What’s this one?”

She was standing in front of a much heartier tree than the others. Though hidden initially, you couldn’t miss it once you saw it: it was the only tree that stood on its own, as if marking its territory. This tree, it seemed, intended to take its space.

“Don’t know,” their father replied. “Never seen this kind before.” 

Michael wasn’t sure if it was just the light, but the tree had a blue tinge to it, as if frozen from the inside. 

“This one,” said Danny, and Michael agreed; there was something … compelling about it. They looked to May.

May didn’t pipe up right away; instead, she gave the tree a hard look. Her eyes were misty, as if looking through ice, a strained look on her face and she cocked her head slightly -- ever so slightly, but enough for Michael to notice.

“May?” She didn’t respond. Her brothers looked at one another; they had never seen her so still or quiet. 

“Oh Maaaaaaay,” said Danny. “You there?”

“Sweet bun?” said her father.

At the sound of his voice, she snapped back.

“We all like this one, what d’you think?” asked Michael.

“We can’t,” she replied.

“Can’t we,” said Danny.

“Why not?” asked her father.

“It don’t want to be taken,” she said. “It says it needs to stay right here.”

“Ooooooh you’re a tree-talker,” said Danny. “I knew you’d find a way to make friends.”

But May didn’t shoot back a heated retort or even seem to hear him. She was staring at the tree once again.

“We’ll be gentle with it, give it lots of water,” said Michael.

They went back and forth a few more times, Michael and Danny saying that it was the best of the lot and it had a good life and it will never get the chance to be as pretty as in the dining room, and her father reminding them of the darkness pressing in around them and they should be getting home soon. In the end she relented.

“But I’ll need to keep my eye on it,” she told them. 

They didn’t think much of it, as they were already in the process of chopping it down, switching off with the axe. May refused to take a turn. On the way home, she wouldn’t stop looking at the tree and, once or twice, Michael caught her mumbling. Some imaginary friend thing, he thought. He’d had one when he was younger: a coyote named Scruff who would tell him tales of all the wondrous places he’d been around the world. But until now, he hadn’t been aware that May had one. “It’s the tree.”

“It sure is,” Danny responded, giving Michael a start. He hadn’t realized that he’d said it aloud. He stole a quick glance at May and saw her looking directly at him, a glint in her eye. He threw her a smile, but his face clouded over the instant he turned back to their footprints ahead.

A pair of eyes watched them as they reached the edge of the forest. The moose stood there long after they had disappeared into the old farmhouse. 

They set the tree in the dining room, propped up in a pail of water, and their mother joined them to help decorate it with gleaming strands of silver tinsel, and affixed candles securely to the sturdy branches, making sure that they were far enough away from other limbs. When they were done, they stood back and admired their work. 

“Folks,” said their father, “We done well.” And they had. 

Everyone was so busy looking at the tree that no one noticed May mumbling under her breath again. No one, that is, except Michael, who thought he heard the words “have to” and “still.”

It wasn’t long before they were all in bed, exhausted from the day’s haul. The house was dark and quiet, save for the sound of their father’s snoring, which permeated the upstairs hallway. Downstairs, the tree stood silently in the dark corner like a green shadow. A bit of tinsel slipped off a branch. 

Michael was the first of the children up every morning. Feeding the horses and the cattle was his responsibility. It wouldn’t be long before the others followed, Danny cleaning the pens, May feeding the chickens before helping her mother milk the cows.  

As Michael crossed through the dining room on his way to the front door, he stole a glance at the tree. Their father had lit the kerosene lanterns and their warm glow illuminated the greenery. Michael loved this time of year more than any other, for what other season could warm the soul like Christmas? And the tree was the symbol of that -- one look at it, and the rush poured in. 

The yellow-green branches flickered in the lamplight, casting long shadows on the walls behind it, as if the spirit of the tree itself had escaped, finally given the space to expand to its true size. It has a presence, thought Michael. No doubt about that. 

He took a few steps towards it. The tinsel glimmered like sunlight dancing across water. A memory from the previous summer flashed through his mind. They had been down at the river when Julie Barker showed up. Michael had met her at the Corn Smash three years ago. [Sound: Into the Maze theme] He had been building up the nerve to ask her to dance all evening when that other boy -- Jake or Jack or something -- had vanished in the maze. Since that night, he couldn’t get her out of his mind and anytime he saw her he would try to find the courage to talk to her, but each time he lost his resolve and was left tripping over his own words. He would often catch himself just standing and staring at nothing when she was around, lost in daydreams he would never share with anyone. Sometimes, he would come to and find her looking at him with a half smile.

And then one of his daydreams came true.

He had been playing in the water with Danny, the two boys splashing each other and seeing who could skip stones the farthest, when Julie had appeared on the bank and announced that she was coming in.

“Where’s your swimsuit,” Danny teased.

“Don’t need one,” she replied, removing her dress and plunging into the water in her underclothes. 

Michael distinctly remembered the hot rush he had felt in that moment, for he was feeling it again now, standing in front of the tree.

He took another step towards it. The top branch was tilted slightly to the left, as if cocking its head. He felt warmth rise within him; it was not a pleasant Christmasy kind, but more akin to the hot flush he felt whenever he was near Julie, an invasion almost too much to bear.

The matches were lying on the side table to his right. Usually they were tucked away in the drawer, but his father must have forgotten to put them away after lighting the stove this morning. 

He looked back at the tree. A single candle presented itself … but no, that was a tradition saved for Christmas eve.

Defiance rose within him. Adults were always telling you what to do, telling you that it was the right way, the only way and you had to follow it. But what about the freedom found in breaking the rules, in carving your own path? Would Julie’s father have approved of her swim with the boys? That was her own kind of freedom, and Michael longed for that more than anything else, even more than he longed for her.

Just light one, he thought. Find your own freedom. You can replace the candle with a new one in a few minutes and no one would be the wiser. These thoughts flickered through his mind. He had no idea where they were coming from, but the feelings they brought forth were too good to resist.

He picked up the matches, removing one before turning back towards the tree. The topmost branch was now bowing forward, as if to lean in and tell him a secret, the same way Julie had done at the river. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, and lit the match.

The light flashed on the tree the way that warmth had surged inside him as Julie whispered in his ear, her lips almost touching him, the secret for no one else.

“Don’t be shy,” she said.

His hand extended out, the small glow of the match throwing its illumination on the bone-white candle. The wick was long and a thin strand of wax encased it, ready to capture and hold the flame. It leaned towards him as if reaching for the light; Julie’s mouth grazed his ear lobe. 

“What you got there?”

Michael nearly dropped the match as he whipped around and saw his father standing in the doorway to the Kitchen.

“You know we don’t light no candles yet. What you playin’ at?”

“I … I …” Michael stammered.

“Spit it out.”

“I wasn’t gonna light them, really I wasn’t,” said Michael. “I just wanted to see it clearer that’s all I was -- ow!” The flame had worked its way down the match and kissed his fingers. He shook it out.

“To your chores, then.”

“Yes sir,” Michael replied and headed out to the barn, leaving the box of matches on the side table. He stole a final glance back at the tree on his way out and saw his father staring at it, an iced-over look in his eyes. The foliage was once again tinted blue, the same as it had been in the forest.

It was more than five minutes later before his father joined him outside.

Later that night once everyone had gone to bed, Michael lay restless, tossing and turning. He had added another blanket onto the bed, but still he shivered. He thought of bowls of hot stew, warm summer days, the river tickling his feet, Julie’s breath tickling his ear.

He got up, wrapping his dressing gown tightly around him and pulling his slippers up as far as they would go. Hands tucked into his armpits, he quietly tiptoed along the hallway towards the stairs, carefully avoiding the creakiest floorboards like a robber from one of his old adventure books working his way into a bank vault. He didn’t read those books anymore, but the stories lived on in his mind and he secretly kept them alive by acting them out when he was alone. Michael dreamed of being a performer, perhaps walking a tightrope with some wandering troupe. In a way, that’s what he was doing every day, navigating the landmines of family with every step. But a rope in the sky would be far better, for he would still have the possibility of landing on his own feet if he fell.

It took him a few minutes to make it down the stairs, silently transferring his weight with each step. He had mastered this descending dance years ago; he would sneak downstairs in the dead of night to see if he could catch Santa, but their house must be one of the last stops the jolly old elf made each year, for Michael would manage to make it until four in the morning before his head started bobbing and he’d give up, returning to bed, no presents and no reindeer in sight. He no longer upheld this secret tradition, as he knew things now that he did not know then.

He turned the corner into the dining room and nearly screamed, but slapped a hand over his mouth in time to stifle the sound. 

There was a ghost floating in front of the tree, staring at him. He couldn’t make out its features, but it was white and had long hair and a flowing gown. Before he could move a muscle, the ghost spoke. It said, “What got into you?”

“You gave me a fright. What you doin’ sittin’ down here by yourself in the middle of the night?”

“What’re you doin’ up?” his sister countered.

“I came to …” but what was he to say? To light the tree? To play cops and robbers? To kiss Julie? After a moment’s hesitation he said: “I think we picked a good one.” 

“It don’t think so,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. That’s when he noticed all the tinsel was lying on the ground and asked why she had taken it off. She told him that it wasn’t her and he should quit assuming it was her fault; said the tree didn’t like it, and didn’t like him either for that matter.

She finished by saying: “If you’re not gonna help, then leave us be.” 

“Help with what?”

But she didn’t say anything more. Instead she slipped her hands out from the sleeves of her nightgown and now he saw what she was holding, the flame flaring to life as if by magic. He watched her hand float up towards the tree.

Thank you for listening thus far. In a moment, we’ll follow the match to the tree, but first, as we have new original stories coming every two weeks, don’t forget to tune in on Christmas day for a very special haunting Christmas story, which we’re very excited to share with you. And if you find yourself not being able to spend as much time with friends and loved ones over the holidays in this year of the pandemic, consider sending them on a brief journey to Dark River. It’s always welcoming new travelers -- more so than ever at this festive time of year. But now, let’s rejoin Michael by the Christmas tree.

She slipped her hands out from the sleeves of her nightgown and now he saw what she was holding, the flame flaring to life as if by magic. He watched her hand float up towards the tree.

“You’re not …” but something stopped him and he watched, helpless, as one by one she lit the candles, bringing each flame to life, and he watched as new flames appeared, joining the gathering, working their way up the branches -- now a bright yellow even before the flames caressed them -- and he heard a ringing in his ears, Christmas bells piercing the gloom of every corner of the dining room, and the smell -- the smell! -- of sharp evergreen stinging his nostrils with medicinal intensity, and suddenly there was light, brighter than any lantern, brighter than the sun on a clear Christmas morning, brighter than the smile on his sister’s face when she tore open her first present every year, and the only thing that eclipsed the pillar of fire were her eyes, entertaining the dancing flames, the storm reflected back as she stood, unafraid, waiting for the departure.

When it was all over, Michael opened his eyes and found himself standing in the dining room, alone, the corner where the tree once stood now empty. The wooden walls and old curtains -- which should have gone up like tinder -- were unscathed, and the kerosene lamps were peacefully burning their meek glow into the depths of the room. May was no longer there and though Michael didn’t dare go into her bedroom to check, something told him that she wouldn’t be coming down the stairs for breakfast the next morning.

Outside, all was dark, save for the moon. The moose stood on the edge of the forest, looking towards the far-off house. Something had caught his attention, a slow roar and the scent of evergreen. He sensed them emerging from the house and stood his ground, for it was not a predator and it passed by.

The velvet deepness of the forest embraced him as he returned to its folds and his wide hooves crunched lightly in the snow, allowing him to almost glide along the surface like a ghost with snowshoes. What his ears had lost, his great nose held as he penetrated the darkness, now finding the path carved by the human herd, and he settled into a trot through the tall shadows, soon arriving at his destination.

He wove his way through the miniature balsams and spruce, nudging each one with his snout as he passed, before settling into a quiet reverence of the shape before him -- a greeting to his constant companion, now with a smaller one next to it, standing guard together in the depths of the forest.

This has been a tale from Dark River, written and performed by Phillip Psutka, who also arranged and performed the music. This episode is directed by Lindsay Bellaire, the co-creator of the show. Podcast artwork by Chris Psutka. The show is hosted, edited, and originally conceived by Phillip Psutka. Thank you for stopping by, and see you on Christmas Day.

Copyright © 2020 Phillip Psutka