Are you all right?
The question seemed to echo in my head. But the only thing that flowed into my ears was the rustling of leaves. Hand pressed against the tree as I leaned there to catch my breath, I peered around, trying not to look like a crazy person.
You heard me?
I yanked my hand away from the trunk and took a step around the tree. Someone was messing with me. But I didn’t see anything on the other side except for sun-baked grass and a knotted plastic bag that most likely contained dog poop. (Seriously. There was a trash can ten feet away. How hard was it?)
My heart was still pounding—I was really out of shape—and I didn’t see any reason to start running again, so I just stood there for a few seconds, listening to the leaves and breathing in the fresh scent of greenery. It had rained earlier, so everything still smelled really interesting: earthy and wet and alive and dead, all at the same time. I strolled around the tree trunk, hoping to hear the voice again. But the only sound I heard was my shoes slithering through the wet grass… until I tripped on a root. Then there was a thump and a swear, and I threw my hand out to stop my fall.
Hello?
“Holy crap,” I said out loud, keeping my hand pressed against the bark as I straightened up. “Hello?”
Oh, good. You did hear me.
“What the hell?” I whispered. “Is this some sort of trick?” I peered up into the leafy branches. “Where are the speakers?”
Speakers?
“Yes, speakers. Things that make sound.”
I know what they are. Why do you think there are speakers?
“Because I can hear you.”
Can you?
I opened my mouth to retort, still staring up into the leaves. Then I quickly closed it again.
Take your hand off the tree and see what hap—
The voice in my head cut off as I pulled my hand away from the bark. “Whoa,” I whispered, then slapped my hand against the trunk again. “So I’m talking to a tree?”
Sort of. I guess.
“What do you mean, you guess? Are you a tree or aren’t you?”
I’m not a tree. At least, I wasn’t a tree before.
“What were you?”
There was a tickle in my brain that I interpreted as a snort. How many non-human creatures do you know of that speak English?
“How much time do you have?”
The tree was silent. I put my other hand on the trunk and leaned forward, pretending to stretch out my Achilles tendon while a woman ran past with her jogging stroller. As soon as she was far enough away, I kept my head down and whispered, “Are you still there?”
Are you afraid to be seen talking to a tree? It sounded amused. I straightened up but continued the act of stretching, even though I wasn’t exactly dressed for a run in the park. As I pulled back one foot to stretch the front of my quad, I shook my head slowly.
“How’d you become a tree?”
How much time do you have?
I sighed. “I don’t have time for this.”
Got a hot date?
“It’s none of your business,” I snapped.
Get stood up?
“I get stood up and go sprinting through the park?”
You tell me.
“Do all trees have an attitude?”
Probably. Would you want to be turned into one?
A shudder ran through my body. I almost pulled my hand away. But something made me want to keep it where it was. The energy I could feel coursing through the trunk was strange… but not unpleasant.
What’s your name, human?
“Hazel.”
The leaves above me started to whisper. I could’ve sworn the tree was laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
That’s a good name for a tree.
“Yeah, well, I’m not a tree. You are.” I frowned as I stared at my hand pressed against the bark. My fingertips looked yellowish from the pressure. “Do you have a name?”
I should hope so. I haven’t always been a tree.
“So? What is it?”
Why were you running through the park?
“Exercise.”
In the rain?
“It’s not raining now.”
It’s going to rain again soon.
“How do you know?”
I’m a tree. I suppose weather forecasting comes with the territory.
Glancing back down the path, I took a deep breath. This was weird. I was either having some sort of break with reality… or I was talking to a cursed tree. Well, cursed person. Who wouldn’t tell me their name or how they’d managed to get themselves into an arboreal mess.
You seem nervous.
“I’m talking to a tree,” I said, tilting my head down as I saw another jogger enter the park and start down the path. I was quickly running out of ways to not look completely insane, so I just kept my hand where it was and pretended I was communing with nature. People did that, right?
You’re talking to me.
“That’s what I just said.”
No, you’re talking to me. A person.
“I don’t know who the hell you are. You won’t tell me your name.”
Are you sure you want to know?
The words, unspoken but still clear in my head, made my blood run a little colder. I backed up, pulling my hand away from the trunk. My fingers felt stiff and cool. Almost like they’d been replaced with articulated wooden dowels. I shook my hand as I backed away, staring at the trunk with wide eyes.
“It’s a pity,” the tree’s voice said, slapping my eardrum with such force that I sucked in a chaotic gasp. The breath on my cheek felt too hot, and I spun around, coming face to face with its source. He frowned, but the expression didn’t seem sincere. It was almost… mocking. “All that potential,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“I already told you. I don’t want—”
He held up his hand, cutting me off. The rest of the words stuck in my throat, as if he were physically holding them back. My hand flew to my neck as the pressure intensified.
“Stop,” I mouthed.
“We take our deals seriously. If you weren’t prepared to uphold your end of the bargain, you shouldn’t have asked for our help.” He leaned closer, letting his hand fall to his side. The pressure on my throat eased, but I still didn’t feel much like talking. “Did you really think,” he said, his voice a languid purr, “that running would do any good? Silly girl. We are everywhere. And where we’re not, we can impose our will.”
My eyes bugged. I took an experimental breath. “You projected yourself into the tree?” I whispered.
His shoulders rose in an exaggerated shrug, causing the nylon of his jacket to rustle. In his jeans, sneakers, and logo t-shirt, he looked more like a college student out to grab a coffee before class and less like the powerful mage I knew him to be. “In a manner of speaking,” he said.
“That’s not fair.”
His eyebrows rose. “And breaking your word is fair?”
“I never agreed to anything!” My voice got loud for a moment before a flash in his eyes warned me back down to a more sensible volume. “You assumed.”
“You’ve got a lot to learn about dealing with us, I’m afraid.” He slipped his hand into his pocket, and, for some reason, I was terrified he was going to pull out a gun. Not that the folding knife he slipped out was any less threatening. But I tried not to let my fear show.
“You’re going to take me out with a pocketknife?”
He jerked, almost as if I’d slapped him with a ridiculous statement, before letting out a chuckle. “What an interesting idea.”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not. I’m also not going to ‘take you out,’ as you say.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
His lips curled. “What do you think I’m going to do?”
The answer came to me as his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, the blade tasting my palm before I could even make a sound. I looked about in terror, but understood soon enough why he’d picked that moment: There was no one else around.
Sibilant whispers in a language that I didn’t understand—that I would probably never understand—slipped from his tongue as he pulled me to the tree and pressed my bleeding hand to the bark. I watched as the skin of my fingers grew rough and woody before finally sliding deep into the tree itself. I couldn’t feel my hand anymore. I turned to him in horror. Without missing a beat, he kept chanting, his eyes crinkling in perverse pleasure as he saw my distress. I took a deep breath to scream, but the knife was at my throat in an instant. My voice locked up again as blood trickled down my neck.
“What a pity you can’t become a hazel tree,” he said, placing a warm hand between my shoulder blades. “But a maple will do nicely.” As he applied forward pressure, I reached out with my other hand, trying to push back. But the spell was already running, and that hand disappeared into the tree, too. “Relax,” he said. “It’s not so bad.”
He gave a final push.
The world went dark. There was no pain from the cuts of his knife. But I could still feel… everything. Branches reaching upward. A faintly creaking trunk. Moisture on leaves that had yet to be shaken off.
And a warm hand pressed against bark.
“See? Nice and cozy.”
Let me out!
“I’ll consider it. After you’ve served your sentence.”
How long will that be?
The hand gently patted the trunk. “We’ll see,” he said.
About The Author
Nissa Harlow lives in British Columbia, Canada where she dreams up strange stories and writes some of them down. Her short fiction has appeared in Biome, PseudoPod, and Rat Bag Lit. You can find her online at nissaharlow.com.
If this work met you somewhere real, you can help us continue sharing work like it—by staying close, and by supporting when you can.
Thank you for being here 🖤
Nice work.
Love this!🌳💚