Tree Teller

“Grandpa! Can you tell me about the trees? Remember? The ones who talk!”

She was bouncing on his knee, staring intently at her grandpa and his bushy eyebrows. The room was hazy, as if it was built from smoke and memories.

The old man sighs, he leans back in his chair and blows smoke from his cigar. The small child on his lap follows his distant stare to the dusty shelves in the corner. The book. “No, no, and no. Your mother made me promise.”

She tugs at the old man’s arm, bringing his attention to her. “But she’s not here right now! Please grandpa, I don’t want to forget.”

“Well… I suppose she doesn’t have to know.”

***

My hands tremble lightly over the spine of the small worn black book. He was gone now. What I wouldn’t do to hear his stories again.

When my grandfather’s health took an expected turn for the worse, we unexpectedly realized that I was to inherit his cabin in the woods. Although it’s sum worth was maybe $20,000 on a good day, I could never sell it. I had too many cherished memories here. My mother couldn't even bear to step foot into this cabin until his things were gone. That left my Aunt and me to clean out all of the old man’s belongings. Aunt Theresa is shuffling around in the kitchen, and from what I hear she's going through his pots and pans. The rattling alone, would turn my grandpa in his grave. He was a bit of an eclectic; everything had its place. Everything belonged. Getting rid of his things, felt… wrong.

Sniffing, I carefully open the book. Inside a small note was taped to the cover.

Dear Mel,

Go ahead, just beyond there.

This was always something he said, and it never made any sense to me. However, it stuck. Towards the end, that is all he would or could say to me during my visits. I wipe at my face, it was now wet with tears. My hands fumble with the book to close it and I shut my eyes. I’m unable to go any further. The pain from his loss is still too much. Indulging the heartache, I begin to think back to those days when the house felt magical, instead of decrepit. Pushing the book to my chest I begin to relax into my thoughts.

He would weave tales of the Tree Teller.

A man whose book could change the fabric of his being. So much so that if he wanted to, he could become the very spirit of the forest. Of course, the story took the usual fantastical route, and the village people began to fear the presence of the man who lived at the edge of the woods. In his cabin the Tree Teller became consumed by the book. The only people who visited were his family, and even then, they refused to speak about the little black book. The story continues and at this point my little self would hang onto every last word my grandpa could muster. I remember laughing as he inserted himself into the story, almost every single time. Except, sometimes instead of himself, he would tell it as if I were the next person in the story.

One day a stranger knocked on the Tree Teller’s door, or at least that’s what the village people could tell. They were the ones who wouldn’t approach the man and his home after all. From the account of the villagers’ the stranger would sometimes be my grandpa, or myself. Or was it the Tree Teller who told this part of the story?

A knock on the cabin wall brought me out of my stupor. Aunt Theresa stands with a box on her hip. “I’ve done about all I can handle for today. I’m going to take this to the car, can you lock up?” She asks.

“Of course, Aunt Theresa.” I reply. I hadn’t realized I was still crying, but it didn’t matter because my Aunt’s eyes were also blotchy from freshly shed tears. I wait until I hear the screen door smack shut. I was never allowed to open the book. My mother forbade it. Somewhere deep down I knew that it resembled the book from his stories, but this note was the sign I needed.

The silence inside the cabin doesn’t sit right with me. From the tea kettle to the old record player, this house was never quiet when grandfather lived here. Especially when he had his Sunday night programs playing. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts I realize that I’m still waiting. I’m not entirely sure of who or what to expect. It feels like the cabin is waiting with me. My voice in a whisper breaks the silence “You told me to wait until you were gone to open the book.”

It feels like I’m cleaving two worlds apart, separating my childhood from the present. My hand rests on his note before I carefully turn the page. My eyebrows strain, much like his did when he was perplexed. Instead of print, his cursive filled the page. I flipped through the book quickly noticing that each page was carefully filled with his handwriting. Most of it was nonsense, further bemusing me. This couldn’t be the book from my past. I quickly flipped it over to its spine. Embellished into the book are three ornate words in golden trim, The Tree Teller.

I close my eyes again, this time not able to grasp the present. This book was actively changing properties in my hand. First it was a notebook filled with my grandfather’s writing, and now it’s a seemingly published book. A book with a story that only existed between my six-year-old self and my grandpa.

Against my better judgement, I open the book again. This time there are small illustrations and notes written within the borders of the pages. My grandpa’s handwriting, again, but this time combined with the print from The Tree Teller. “What are you trying to tell me?” I ask myself.

I read some of the words on the page I had flipped to.

The stranger knocked at the Tree Teller’s house twice beforehand. However, the door remained closed. On the third knock, the door begun to open.

My grandpa had written a note underneath this line.

Knock thrice to go beyond.

Knock on what? He couldn’t seriously be talking about knocking on this book, could he? The cover, unassuming and worn, has no words on it. I knock on it three times, expecting nothing. I try not to be disappointed as I get up from the corner of the den. I’m covered in layer of dust and my knees ache. Carefully, I place the black book into a cardboard box and close it up. I have no idea how my grandpa managed to collect so many books.

I grab the keys and the box and the door to the outside. My aunt’s car must be around back. I could’ve sworn it was just outside the door. As I step through the door, I find myself back inside the cabin. My hand lies outstretched, as if I’m about to open the door. I frown and open the door to go through it. Again, as I walk through the threshold, I find myself inside about to open the door.

I set the box down and look around the kitchen. On the table the book lies open. The keys fall from my hand and skid across the floor. I know I put that book inside the box.

I approach the book slowly, biting my lip. “Hello?” I ask.

“Hello.” A voice says. I jump, my lip now bleeding. Someone approaches from the other room. His face looks familiar, but I can’t place it.

“Who are you? How did you get inside?” I ask. I back up, towards the door that I desperately want to leave through.

“I’m who you think I am.” He says. I nod, gulping. The Tree Teller lies on the table, almost shimmering. It’s like I can see the energy from the book connecting to the man. He must be the one my grandfather told me about. Looking outside, I notice we were no longer on the outskirts of the woods, but deep inside the forest.

“Where are we?”

“We’re there.”

“There? Where’s there?”

“Just beyond.”

“So, we’re just beyond there?” I ask.

“You catch on quickly.” The man says. He shuffles closer to the book. I put my hand out instinctively.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is grating, and low. “I’m giving you the book. I’ve outgrown my need for it.”

“But…” I couldn’t think of anything to say. I could barely even remember the stories my grandfather told me. Now I was inside one. The man grabs the book with a wrinkled hand. He’s wearing a grey cape, worn from age, like everything in this cabin. He seems to fit, everything belongs. Now he looks to me, dark stormy eyes gleam from beneath shaggy grey hair. “I think I need to sit down.” I say.

“Suit yourself.” He says. I sit down in one of the rickety red wooden seats around the table. As if to distract myself, I stare out the window, at the dark green trees and foliage bending in the wind. My thoughts are never ending, making me feel a little dizzy.

“Your grandfather and I were good friends. He refused the book at first, he wanted to stay with his family. He used to keep it on his shelf, and would occasionally make notes in it.” The Tree Teller says.

“What do you mean refuse?” I ask.

“I’m not meant to be the Tree Teller much longer. I need to pass the book on.” He pulls a chair out across from me and sits down with a grunt.

“You want me to become the Tree Teller?” I ask.

“Yes.” I can feel the power of the book, thrumming slightly. The forest outside whispers, I listen and understand. My grandfather, he must have known about this book all along. I know my answer almost immediately.

“Okay, I accept.” I say. I almost regret it, but the old man pushes the book towards me. As I pick it up, I feel an intense sense of connection. It’s as if I’m everywhere at once, but at the same time the only thing that matters is this small exchange of energies.

The man across from me shudders. I blink and recognize him immediately. “Grandpa!” I say. Questions no longer seem to be adequate. He smiles at me, and I feel the way I felt when I was six listening to his stories.

“Go beyond there for me, Mel. I love you.” My grandfather, the Tree Teller, begins to fade into nothingness. I reach for him, but he’s gone. My tears have returned, I huff to stop myself from sobbing. The book closes, and I am no longer sitting at a kitchen table, but beyond there.