All Howls Tree
By: Rui Alves
Tags: Creativity, Halloween, Beyourself, Horror, Love

All Howls Tree

Photo by Juvian Duff on Unsplash

I invite you to read my first ever horror short-story — “All howls tree”. Motivational claps are appreciated, and I really would love to hear from you! Please drop me a line with your insights and feedback, and let’s celebrate All Hallows’ Eve together.

Please make sure you have already read Part 1— Blood on Snow, before moving on.

“All howls tree” is a tale of awe and horror that will haunt you on long winter nights, whenever you hear the wind faintly howling outside your window and lightning surges through the night sky, severing the thin veil between life and death.

However, this is also an allegorical narrative about love and the invisible thread that binds all living things together and how that powerful sap nurtures the everlasting circle of life.

Life is always sad — tears, beating, and bread; such is their fate all the way to the grave. Listen: these wounded saplings will someday yield a mysterious Tree.”

― Raul Brandão, Os Pobres (translated by Karen Sotelino)

Part II — Love on grass

The lumberjack went back home, but he was no longer the same man. He had become a human rag. Something about him had forever changed.

He sat and waited on the porch for hours. His empty eyes always fixed on the old tree stump where his ax laid useless.

Embedded in the wood, the blade decaying into crimson rust. The handle resembled a worm-eaten branch of an old tree. The woodworms were gnawing at him from inside—time hacking at him from the outside.

When passing by the stump, he would feel a tingling phantom pain. Reaching for the knob of the handle with imaginary fingers, he couldn’t grasp anything no more.

No, it wasn’t an arm that laid chewed by worms in the sanatorium ditch. It was all his livelihood.

One morning, the rosy fingers of dawn touched the lumberjack face as he hanged by the neck. A scent of freshly cut lilies evolved around it. His face peaceful, as if he had died a long time ago.

Another funeral. Poor. Almost anonymous. Storyless….

Shortly afterward, the lumberjack’s wife and their children left the village. Grandfather bought the family house out of pity and guilt.

Spring came pouring down the mountains. After weeks of harsh weather, I was finally allowed to go out and play. An there I went, jumping from puddle to puddle. My thoughts wandering, I found myself far away from home.

Suddenly, I stopped. There, across the road, that’s where the lumberjack lived. There was no soul around. Everything was silence and desolation. Silence only disrupted by the window shutters swirling around the hinges.

I wasn’t scared. The frail wooden gate was open, inviting me to go in.

As I walked towards the hovel, something unusual caught my eye. Nearby, still embedded in the stump, the lumberjack’s ax had gained roots, leaves, flowers—myriads of tiny, blood, and snow colored buds.

The ax handle carved from the trunk of a massive chestnut tree had covered itself with pain. Nature had taken its course and claimed what was hers. This was all impossible. Life itself is incredible. Surpassed solely by the absurdity of death.

In front of me, the ax, a mix of metal and dead wood, came to life. Death draws everything together. Death is life. This is the absurdity of death and the undeniable testimony of life.

When the lumberjack lashed at the tree, his gesture, both creative and destructive, awoke the secret life lying hidden inside. At that moment, he also signed his death sentence. There before my eyes, life had again flourished.

I remember cutting with tender and humble devotion one of those flowers — A gift to my mother! I thought, leaving and closing the gate behind me.

The same puddles of water and dreams guided me home.

It was a beautiful sunny day! Inviting me to dream. Lying on the grass, I could hear the ants’ weariness and the recital of the cicadas and crickets.

A motherly shadow sheltered me from the sun. I felt embraced as I laid on that soft floor, shrouded in the gloom of the white tree canopy. But it disheartened me to see her always alone. Neither a flower nor a weed grew next to her.

Even birds were afraid of it!

There was a huge crow, with leaden plumage, each feather sparkling like the blade of a dagger. A bird with black, empty, inquisitive features, squawking rough and chilling caws. One of those dreary tenants of graveyards, an opportunistic scavenger.

The first time I saw it, the crow flew through the meadows. Searching with morbid excitement for something below. The crow plunged and came back, holding a small rodent.

Searching for a place to have his meal, he perched on top of a branch of the white tree. Reckless and defiant, the crow mocked long caws of gluttony.

Swiftly, a skeletal branch flickered. The raven had overlooked that movement while he focused on the anatomy of the rodent. When he woke up to the nightmare, it was too late! He was struck with surgical precision on both legs. Droplets of blood drizzled on the grass.

The crow fluttered in shock and flew away, to never perch again.

Spring was in full blossom. Nature was spawning everywhere. Nests were chirping in the treetops.

Bingo, our German shepherd, had run away again to the neighbor’s house to meet his Lady. Even Whiskers, a Romeo stray cat, was meowing long serenades to Juliette.

Two sparrows in love were hopping through the grass. Their love was young, with moving displays of affection. But so much youth and inexperience cost dearly. Distracted by the idylls of courtship, they neglected all mundane affairs. It was late, everyone else had nested, and they had nothing. It was urgent to find a nesting place as soon as possible. Flying over the surroundings, they saw a large oak that seemed inviting with its green mane. They went into the branches and disappeared. A sudden racket and a chaotic flight. They had barely escaped. The tree was too crowded, and the neighbors cranky.

A few flights later, the neighbor’s cherry tree looked like a pleasant place. High branches, fruit at the door, and a luxurious estate. But a couple of blackbirds had already claimed it.

Then they tried our roof. Good shelter from the rain, futuristic design, but a beehive already owned it. Nightfall was about, and spending it outdoors seemed like the young couple’s cruel fate. They had been chased away from all the trees in the vicinity.

Well, not all. They overlooked one—the tree right in the center of the garden, but whose reputation everybody knew.

That one was obviously unoccupied. Who would call that abomination a home?

No way, not there! But the wings were heavy, and the light was already leaving the world. They filled their hurried little heart with courage and flew to the white tree. If they would meet death there, at least they would die together.

Humble. Trembling, they landed on the treetop. One by one, placing and nestling the modest twigs they had brought as luggage. Silent and static, the tree seemed to disregard the sparrows. But, a sudden movement… I feared the worst.

I closed my eyes, terrified, and waited for the worst, biting my lips. When I opened them again, the entwined tree branches formed a long canopy. There the sparrows could finally nest.

As night fell following the spasms of the sunset. I left them asleep on the canopy, each with their heads under the other’s wing, sharing common dreams. Tenderly cuddled up by the white giant.

The days passed, nights too, and on a sunny morning. They woke me up, eagerly chirping. I got up and peeked outside, there they were, three pink heads with open beaks shouting… — Breakfast! It was my mother calling me downstairs.

Afterward, I went out into the garden. The tree was in bloom. The circle closed….