The Trees Swallow People: Part 19

It's easy to think there's only one outcome to events. Often the printing press is said to have brought about a new era in information, literacy, and free speech, but rarely is it mentioned how it privatised communication and mass-produced falsehoods. People will talk about how the fall of empires lead to the rise of nationalism, but never mention libertarianism, communism, or democracy. We don't wish to admit good and bad or indifferent outcomes can share a source. In the same way, the trees caused people to join not just Shepard's cult. I found out on a seemingly "normal" Wednesday that there was another group forged from the birth of the trees.

I was returning from the local shop, complaining about the extortionist prices, begrudgingly enjoying my over-priced fizzy-drink when I heart it

Pssst!

I froze. It happened just at the back alley to the Riverforest shopping strip, where deliveries are made. It's a stretching road, abandoned besides the commercial-sized waste bins. It was from behind the nearest one, a recycling bin for the pub, that I heard it again.

Pssst!

I stared at it, waiting, rewarded with the peculiar sight of a man I've never seen before. Haggard and aged, though I got the impression younger than he looked, his prickly coat of grey beard contrasted against his long, stringy light brown hair, sadly not long enough to act convincingly as a comb-over, he slowly peered out, locking eyes with me. He searched around, throwing out another hiss for attention before darting back behind the bin again. This was Declan.

I asked was he talking to me.

WHAT! Shut up! Don't draw attention to yourself, ya thick!

I looked around; we were alone. Not difficult these days, even with March giving way for a pretty pleasant Spring.

Get over here!

I stalled, unsure, but this drained his patience quickly as he peered out once again and repeated his request. I walked over, my shopping swaying gently in my grip. I walked right around the other side of the bin, finding Declan crouched on the balls of his feet, his hands pressed against the side of the dumpster for support. It took him a moment to see me standing over him, confused. He jumped, asking me what the Hell did I think I was doing. I could have asked him that, seeing as it was he who told me to come over. He spat a quick barrage of insults.

Go stand on the other side! It looks suspicious otherwise!

Me reasoning we were past the point of suspicious didn't land with him, so I went back around the front. Satisfied his secret identity was safe, he introduced himself as Declan. He asked if I was the legendary Tree Guy. Besides being amused by the prefix "legendary", I wondered aloud why would he call me over if he wasn't even sure who I was.

…

The pause of silence confessed he hadn't thought this whole thing through, but continued, in what he thought was an encrypted code;

We meet half-four-night in the double-half-four courts.

It took me a second before I asked did he mean he wanted to meet tonight (half-four-night) in the Four Courts Pub down the village (double-half-four).

…Yes.

Now usually I don't accept invitations from strange me behind bins, asking me out for a drink at night, but I made the exception this once. I had not recognised Declan from the cult, which meant, if he was a local, at the very least he had no interest in Shepard's strange obsession, and, if he was hiding, he knew how much of a target that painted on him. Even the level of failed secrecy was a big indicator that, unlike the boldness of Intellex, nor the obliviousness of those who had fallen victim to the trees, Declan was neither working for anyone nor was unaware of how serious things were. To be honest; I was intrigued. He never specified a time, so I guessed around eleven would be a good time to head down.

Walking down that night, I saw some cult members standing outside in the dark, down a cul-de-sac, watching me cross the road, turning their heads. I stopped in the middle of the road, staring down at the grouping of five, clumped together, illuminated in the amber street light. I noticed a glass bottled lying at the edge of a footpath curb. I picked it up and lobbed it at them, thinking it was funny when it struck one in the head, laughing as they yelled out. I was kept amused for the rest of the walk down into the village by that.

I entered through a side entrance from a car park because I didn't want to deal with the bouncer. Even with my beard, I wasn't in the mood to try explaining why I hadn't brought my passport. I'm sure Declan would have appreciated my covert inclination.

I wasn't expecting the pub to be completely deserted, but I was surprised to find a collection of men gathered around a table, hunched forward and low, struggling to stay together, as their chairs and stools blocked one another. They all dressed the same; Canada Goose jackets, bright blue jeans, and warn Nike runners. They ranged in age; as young as sixteen, as old as sixty. They were all white, too. That's not unusual for Ireland, but by contrast, Shepard's cult seemed more diverse. I must have stood there for some time since I heard a voice whisper.

Hey! Who's that lad?

They all turned around, facing me, a collage of faces through the life of a disappointing man staring back at me. Declan stood up, pulling himself away from his pack, shaking hands, and bringing me closer to the stern-faced men.

This, lads, is him! The Tree Guy!

This did little to appease them, though no one spoke any objection to my presence; some just returning to their huddle, whispering. Declan jostled me with his firm grip on my shoulder.

You're here just in time, lad. We were just about to head out and we'd like you to join us.

Before I could ask what was I in time for, the group, breaking apart, revealed stacked on the table a collection of Molotov-cocktails, petrol cannisters, lighters, matches, and deodorants. The men gathered up these items, shoving them into rucksacks and shopping bags. Declan, to my side, watched proudly. I asked what was happening.

They marched out of the side entrance, through the beer garden, past the bouncer, who pointed at me with an expression of annoyance, and down Main Street. Declan, escorting me with his grip upon my shoulder and elbow, explained as we went.

You see, Harry-

My name is not Harry.

-We are a group of concerned locals who just want to protect our community. You're one of us. You tried warning people before all this started. We figured you'd want to be involved it this. These trees have taken our children, our women, our jobs. Do you know what's really happening in the trees? Because we do. Do you know what's in there?

I waited. I wish he didn't go on.

Immigrants.

Yeah, that's just my luck. I'm hanging out with God Damn morons.

You see-

Oh, why is he still going on!

-The government is hiding refugees in the trees. That's what's happening. Foreigners are being shipped in and they're pretending the trees are doing these things, controlling the branches, breaking into people's houses. Hear about what happened in Maynooth? Did you know that there were Polish in that job centre? You can't say that's a coincidence!

Yes, you can.

What about those kids going in? See, it's the grooming gangs.

Christ.

They turn the boys into girls online and then get them into the trees. That's what's happening!

I feel conflicted hearing eejits like this. On one hand, they're stupid. But on the other, I do realise that they are just reacting to strange and scary circumstances far beyond their comprehension, lashing out with nonsensical rambling. That being said, they're still reactionaries who can get lost.

To my chagrin, Declan kept going as we pass the fire station and walked up a hill that led to the back entrance of the park.

Don't even get me started on the Feminists, Garth!

Again, not my name. And again, brain-rot.

You see, you and me are men. We're all men. The Woke want us to think being a man is a crime, "toxic". They'd rather me were weak and submissive. They'd rather take the kids and leave you for some black lad. I'm not racist, but we need to protect our people. So we're going to scorch the trees. Set them on fire. We're going to smoke the immigrants out and rescue our children. And then…

At first I thought Declan had realised how all this sounded. I thought maybe he could see that there's no end to conspiratorial thinking; there always has to be something in the shadows. But no. He had trailed off because a teenager ahead of us had lit their molotov.

What do you think you're doing, ya thick eejit!

Aren't we there!

No, ya wank stain! We're still like ten minutes off!

The teen, a boy of about sixteen, panicked and tossed it back down the hill, shattering at the base, spreading out into a sudden carpet of flames spanning the width of the road, shimmering in the night. As the smoke rose, everyone turned instinctively to the fire station, still visible only a few yards to our left.

SCATTER!

Amazingly, that came from me. We all hurried up the hill, not stopping until we were far enough down the plateaued road to not be seen by the firefighters, who, judging by the dying glow and the distant calls, were busy putting out the fire. In the reprieve, Declan, surprisingly calm, told the teenager to break into the water treatment plant, called the Shit Farm by locals, to see could he get any…"fuel". The poor lad was young and dumb enough to take him seriously, rushing off and over the gate, just happy to make up for his mistake. I felt sorry. I feel sorry for young people when they have men like Declan in their lives, cackling in the night, heading to try to set the trees on fire, thinking about nonsense.

Long before we made it to the pitch, the central evergreen I had seen last time was peeking out again, taller than ever, even from this distance, far down from the old monastery. It was no longer just the tip stretching above the others, but rather what looked like a green pyramis with a wide base, hiding its foundation behind the lesser surrounding trees. The March winds only further advanced the appearance that the mega-tree was bending forward, peering down on us fragile little humans. I don't like that thought; of it seeing us as dehumanised obstacles. I was worried Declan was rubbing off on me, like he had on the others we followed onto the pitch.

The group froze. Staring ahead of them, they saw Shepard's cult, gleefully clapping and celebrating as the branches wrapped around another victim, a sacrifice, carrying them up and over the paddock walls, screaming until they vanished into the darkness. It wasn't long before one of them noticed us staring at them, alerting the others. The stand off lasted only seconds before the molotovs were ignited, wasting time as the cult charged, stampeding forward, kicking up the ragged earth. By the time the group got moving, the cult had already taken up most of the pitch. Desperate, a few of the bottles were tossed too early, landing upon the soft dirt, pooling out with fiery puddles of mud and sugar-filled cheap vodka. I tried standing back, but the fight was soon surrounding me, forcing me to duck and dodge as I avoided being swept up, still getting knocked and pushed by the odd body stumbling into me or pair wrestling clumsily on the ground.

I looked up and saw the trees shake, rattling and hissing with the rustle of branches and leaves, pleased by the carnage. The pawing branches at the paddock walls beckoned the few cult members who had managed to subdue Declan's men and were dragging them closer, passing the shimmer of the fires. The heat and smoke choked the surrounding air so much one beer-bellied man, using a cannister to block punches, dosed the flames with a stream of petrol. The fire snaked up the spray and exploded in the cannister, knocking many onto their backs and sprinkling them in a splatter of flames, seeping into their jackets, jeans and hair, burning through. It was complete mayhem. The screams persisted as, trying to put out the flames or tear off their clothes, more of the men were dragged off to the trees, either tossed over the wall, silenced instantly, or else held up to the trees, slithering branches coiled around the bodies and pulled them into their ranks, fading out their screams, like the last sounds before sleep. The mega-tree… I saw it grow.

Declan was no where to be seen. Perhaps he was already gone. I ran. I was lucky no one had taken notice of me, not even the squat silhouette of what I was sure was Tabitha, nor those few lucky enough to escape alongside me, running back down the hill, passing the monastery. I slowed down, watching the others run ahead. Passing the shit farm, the teenager who was sent in, now covered head to toe in a thick coat of excrement, like a nightmarish snowman, calling out to the others, wondering what happened. I explained. All I got was a subdued exclamation of surprise.

Oh.

I looked back, seeing no one else was following. It was only us who managed to escape. I really don't know what they expected. I turned back to the boy, ignoring the repulsive stench, and offered to walk him home. He did most of the talking along the way.

I was really looking forward to tonight! I just, you know, I just wanted to help, and do something… some friends of mine are in there. Sometimes I see they're online in the chats. Ma says it's a glitch, but it's not like she knows.

I asked did his mother know he was out tonight. No answer. No answer either when I asked what about his father. I figured I might as well ask the only question he would be willing to answer; why join these lads?

…Why not? At least they're doing something. Guards do nothing. School does nothing. Grown ups don't care about lads like me. So why not? Decky, you know, Declan, guys like him at least do something. They try. People call him a thick or a racist, but I don't see them doing something.

The rest of the walk home was quiet enough, but his remarks stuck with me all the way home to my own bed in the wee hours of the morning, as the chill of the night met the early rays of the sunrise. Yes. People like Declan are, unfortunately, doing something. And unfortunately, that's all they can do. Something.

#HI