MicroHorror

Some trees are all bark, no bite. Their center, a hollow bole enough to shelter in, but the tree itself is dead; home to ivies and lichens; a nesting hole for rats.

This tree was just the opposite. It had been stripped by time and harsh conditions, yet was as vital as it had been two hundred years before and would perhaps continue so for centuries. It was a survivor.

“Why’s it called the Boney Tree,” asked one of our group. As if a child could not see from its form, devoid of bark, that looked much like bone?

On this ridge-way above the river it stood, the countryside spread all around, overlooking Vilnius. I left the tour to admire the view and didn’t hear our guide’s caveat against lingering there. I have to say it looked a pleasant spot. That was my undoing.

They continued unaware of my absence. I ambled up to the tree and stood admiring the panorama. I clicked away with my camera so that I would remember. How I wish now that I could forget!

I first became aware of a low moaning which made me look at the sky. But there was no breath of wind, only spring sunshine. I heard it more clearly a second time and felt as surely as I could that the sound had emanated from the tree. No doubt its fabric expanded or shrunk according to the season. The creaking of the wood was like the timbers of great ship–a ship of the damned. I could hear the chatter of the group drift back from the river. There is safety in numbers.

I had an urgent need to touch the tree and approached closer. I put my hand flat against its trunk. “Hello, old friend,” I said aloud and did not know why. The tree responded with a deeper exhalation than before; such a contented sigh, I felt it knew me. It quivered beneath my touch.

All voices now were quenched. I felt suddenly isolated and afraid. Unbidden tears streamed down my face and splattered the ground, creating an inexorable cold fog that sprang up consuming the landscape. Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I shuddered, put my back to the tree for support and slid to a sitting position at its base.

It was then I saw them: war weary troops, a staggering, spectral army lurching past towards the river with a few emaciated horses in tattered ranks, and many bloated corpses all around. I knew I was seeing through another man’s eyes. The stench of putrefaction was nauseating.

Such misery as I had never known possessed me. The sky darkened. I could no longer feel my legs or stand. I heard scuffling at my feet and as my eyes accustomed to the gloom, I saw the rats. Beady eyed, ravenous, they tore at the cloths which bound my feet. I could do nothing to discourage them. They gnawed away my toes, their ochre teeth tearing strips of flesh.

I screamed a scream that would have startled hell. It did not deter the rodents from their feast. Yet I was aware it did not hurt. Only the pain of hunger seemed to gnaw me to the bone, and bitter cold and utter desolation.

What if I ate the eaters, I thought. If I could grab a rat… but no, for that would prolong the agonies of death. Better let them have their meal in peace. Peace. Ah, peace! I longed for it above than all else. Yet, what peace can there be for souls that die thus in vain, their sufferings nowhere acknowledged? Their only epithet, missing…

I prayed that I might come back to myself. A sob that started deep in my stomach, made its way out in an earnest cry of sorrow. I truly mourned that wretched, nameless victim through whose dying eyes I witnessed these horrors.

In that sacred moment, the Boney Tree released me to bear witness, his living memorial.