Culling

(February 2005)

Culling

         It was a numb and faint night. The trees outside whistled in the arduous wind, sending brittle leaves to fall upon the wet ground. There was not but a crescent of the moon that hung in the deep sky, an edged sliver waiting in the shadows. Stars mingled between drab clouds as if wandering, waiting for a hope that was not going to come.

         I sat at a corner of my library, sitting by a receding fire that burned within a hearth in the stone walls. The candles that I had lit were long lifeless, sitting still in hapless heaps. Only the fire generated a glow, tinting the gray walls and ceiling overhead with reddened and orange hues that danced as spontaneous rifts across a vast expanse. Its heat radiated in colorless waves, while cold winds addled the fire’s warmth, signaling from breached windows along the walls.

         My eyes shifted from the blazing hearth back to my wooden desk. Upon it was a collection of written and unwritten parchment. I dipped my quill into the small flask of ink and then continued to scribe my unfinished manuscript.

         I heard a faint thunderclap, and I paused my actions to stare thinly into the twilight. The sound of soft water began to thrum; the rains had begun again. Their listless droning brought my mind into a weird trance, whereupon I started to work again. Sleep would have claimed me then if it were not for the sober character of the milieu. It must have been a few hours since I meticulously, yet absently, began to pen my documents.

         I awoke from my trance when my feline friend jumped upon my lap. What was normally a benign occurrence of friendship I now sensed was altered. Setting down my pen, I looked intently at the cat, instinctively knowing that something was amiss. The cat settled on my lap in a reclusive position with his head collapsed in a quaint pose, staring at me. The eyes of the cat were large and rounded, and his fur was prickled in an apprehensive manner. It cringed at my touch as I brought my hand down to soothe the animal. With a solemn resolve, I stroked the terrified cat, and eventually it calmed to a less confused state. It was then that I felt a warm liquid upon my hand.

         Startled at first, I became curious. I pried through the fur slowly in the meager lighting to find the source of the bleeding. It was nothing more than a small cut in his side. The cat’s eyes were still bulbous, and it would stare either back into my eyes or into empty space.

         A severe gust of wind streamed into the room, sending spouts of rainwater to collect upon the worn floor. The flurry also brought with it the dead leaves of autumn. Some blew into the fire, igniting in a crackling crisp, and some flew randomly into the room, while others were tossed over to me. One of the leaves fell onto the creature upon my lap, and with a most uncommon agility, the cat sprang from my lap and hurried towards a cornered shelf in the room.

         I bent down to recover the brown, star-shaped foliage. It was rather unremarkable, so I simply set it upon the corner of my desk, knowing without a doubt that the next surge of wind would send it to the ground. What had caught most of my interest was my cat’s strange behavior. In the shadows, I could see where the cat was, due to its glinting eyes. This time it was staring past me, so I followed its distraught glare.

         My gaze was led to the center of the library where an archaic appendage stood transfixed. Sitting in a deserted arena was a wispy tree, venerable with utmost age. Its bark cast a foreboding shade, and its curling branches extended into a magnitude of undecipherable directions. The ancient token resembled a blackish thorn, for the tree’s limbs were defoliated and struck out with pointed stoicism. I had always imagined that this was planted generations ago when the room was constructed, flowing as a marvelous arbiter where one could stare wistfully. Now it was only a beacon of elapsed time, and the dying tree appeared to cast the room with ancient rebuke, collapsing the library into an age of silent lineage.

         A quiet shiver took hold over my body. For some reason, the tree reproached my being. It must have been the dark hour and the traumatized cat. Still, my attention held to the extremity. Firelight gave it a queer and undesirable look, as if drawing the tree into its smoldering ashes where the unknown lay rest. I tried to focus upon my writings, but an edged feeling kept its stealing strength upon me.

         The cat was still huddled in among the tomes, yet its figure was fleeting, for my sight fixed upon its shape only briefly. Instead, I arose from my seat to stalk over towards the giant enigma. I could see with greater clarity its puzzled bark and branches. With a remote impulse, I placed my hand upon its serrated, yet nameless girth.

         I did not feel the pain, only the warmth. As I removed my palm from the tree, I detected upon it a large smear that peered menacingly at me. With foreboding, I surveyed my hand. Running down it was a defiled mass of blood, gouging it in freakish abnormality. Dizziness overcame me and clouded my horrified state with a being void of sensation. The fire hummed unremittingly.

         It was dark when I awoke from my crazed slumber, for the fire’s light stood in almost complete abeyance and the evening had fallen further into the night. Instinctively, I clasped my wrist and brought it to my face. In ready anticipation, I beheld my hand. The palm was as clean as ever, not a single wound upon it, no stains of blood. Furtively, I turned to the old plant. It loomed in passive dignity, amiss and humble in its sheltered surroundings.

         Then I refocused my attention to the cat’s whereabouts. I strode over to the shelf where the animal was earlier. A cold chill enveloped my senses, claiming me in its overriding authority, and the darkness of night abruptly seemed to dilate in entropic error. A sour dankness in the growing gloom gave me a sense of an ill and odd humor of helpless despondency. Upon the wooden shelf was a pool of retched gore with scraps of unsettling and eviscerated bowels scattered throughout. The viscous fluid tapered down the shelf onto the ground as a trickling stream of blended drops to where signs of shredded skin and patches of fur lay rest. What unnerved me most was the defined trail it had created.

         With frightened resolution, I steadily followed the unnatural path. Although the firelight was scarce, I had no trouble determining its destination across the dark stone of the floor. The trail came before the sinister tree, whose twisted branches cut hideously into the quiet air. Spattered against its trunk was a diabolical symbol that was freshly dripping. A whirl of ominous wind whistled into the room, which sent the fire into a dying dance, flooding the interior in complete opacity.

         Through the black, I heard the eerie rustle of cacophonous boughs above and about me, suggesting stark and drab realities that suddenly became real. For the first time in my life, I had the disquieting sentiment of the accessibility of death. I knew I could die at any instant, where none would know or care. At death’s exacting whim, it could claim my life in its supple embrace, whipping me from a state of life into a nonexistent entity that was no longer. This notion gave me misgivings that eluded me in ebbing direction, for I knew not when or if my life would be torn asunder in these secluded moments. I only knew what I feared, and in the infinite dark, I perceived an appalling and shadowy outline. It moved and brushed against my face in an antagonizing entangle, causing me to cringe. Pain spread across my face as jagged cuts dragged upward.

         I could see the clouds shift in the lofty horizon, bringing a dim glow from the sequestered moonlight that displayed the sinuous silhouette of a viselike prison that only dug closer.