Nature Adapts

He landed hard, his head just missing the large dirty root that lived more above the ground than beneath it.

“Useless ladder,” he muttered, his brogue heavy, even after years away from his home country. “Cannae even bide still fur fife minutes. Ah shood have turned yer worthless legs intae firewuid lang ago.”

With some effort, he heaved his bulk into an upright position and brushed off what he could of mud, slightly damp from the previous night’s rainfall, sending a surprised earwig flying. He woke up that day in a foul mood. Fouler than usual. He had spent most of the dark night listening to the wind howl, and the tree limbs scrape and scratch along the wall like a man buried alive, desperate to break through the barriers that would seal his fate.
He decided that morning, enough was enough, the limbs were coming down.

As he clamored back onto the ladder, reaching for the rusty saw that was hanging from the half-cut limb, the tree shook violently, nearly sending him sprawling once again. He grabbed at the trunk for balance and saw the other nearby trees sway with apparent determination as well.

“If you’re going to cut us, then do it right, old fool,” a dark voice whispered. He heard murmurs of agreement.

He froze. Listened. But there were no further sounds. For a brief moment, he actually thought the trees were talking. Then he chuckled to himself, “Aye, hud one too many last nicht.” And he began cutting with a vengeance. “Ainae gonna lose sleep coz ay ye onie longer.”

And branches began to fall. As the last of what he considered the reason for his obvious hallucinations hit the ground, he heard that same dark whisper again, “What if it were you? How would you like your good limbs cut down?”

Realizing the sounds he was hearing was nothing more than the result of a lack of sleep, he quickly put the ladder away and without looking back, walked a little quicker than usual into the house.

Three months later, he sat and stared out the window of his small, lonely room. Sat and stared, just like every other day. Sat and stared. When he was admitted into this convalescent home as they called it, they told him he should be happy to have a window, not many of the residents did. He could see the trees; it would help brighten his days, they said, while the doctors tried to diagnose his condition. He just nodded, motionless, arms quiet at his side, staring through the window.

He had woken up shortly after midnight after his tree-trimming extravaganza to a sharp tingling in his right arm. At first he thought heart attack, but then recalled that was the left arm that rang that alarm. He had fallen asleep in the old recliner chair, television flashing, and the not-quite-empty glass beside him. He reached for his drink, hoping to relieve the sensation radiating from his shoulder, but his hand didn’t have the strength to hold the glass. Within days, it was useless. Within weeks, both arms were the same.

He knew the doctors would never diagnose his condition. If he tried to explain it, he would end up in the east wing he often heard others that wandered the halls talk about. Where the crazy people go. He looked out the window and watched the trees sway and bow towards him, almost joyful in their movements, knowing he could never tell the truth, while the clear, sap-like tears that the doctors could not yet understand, continued to roll down his face.