THE BLEEDING TREE: chapter I
fiction
“The rapist was once a victim of rape.”
— Chayenawa
I wake and my heart sends armies of blood to wage war on my brain. What’s happened? It’s hard to think beyond the pain. I remember my mother stabbing my father as he raped me. I remember him murdering her. Blood everywhere. I remember stealing his boat, running away, and getting caught in the storm.
I’m now in a strange tent made of animal hyde. Who lives here? Am I dreaming? The clothes I wear aren’t mine. They’re made of the same material as the tent. The vest and pants are aged but snug and comfortable. Tassels dancing from their edges remind me of wind in the summer fields. I’m eager to see if I’m still a replica of my mother in these odd clothes but there are no mirrors.
I trip over my old clothes folded neatly in a pile on the ground. They anchor me to a familiar reality. I press them to my face smelling my mother’s perfume still hibernating in the fabric. It fills me with the memory of how she lived instead of the moment of her passing. She wanted to be remembered as bright, alive, and beautiful, and she will be. Tears build in my eyes, but are held back by a stronger force. Maybe it’s her. Maybe some part of me has access to a deep river of understanding that is stronger than the sadness ever could be.
I feel vulnerable knowing how much of my skin is showing. Who changed my clothes? Are they waiting for me to leave the tent? How long have I been out? Under the vest I put on my baggy white sleeve shirt to distance myself from any strangers’ sexual stare. To calm myself I twirl my arms so the ends of my sleeves frill out like a skirt and kiss my wrists.
Trying to run my fingers through my hair I’m met by the firmness of two braids splitting my head. I stroke my hands on each one, bringing them in front of my shoulders, and notice the rings. They’re not mine, but fit as if I’d picked them out myself. The two turquoise stone rings wrapped in silver on my left hand are smaller than the sunset orange ring resting on my right.
A twig breaks outside. Swinging my head around to face the sound my earrings sway. They’re not mine either. A woman must have dressed me. I relax. She must be the one wandering outside. Snow crunches as she walks. I should look for ways to defend myself but more blood invades my brain pulsing so loud that it’s all I can do to track her footsteps.
An older man enters the tent holding a bundle of grey leaves. His hair is mostly white and braided like mine, like a woman’s. His pants are the same as mine. Fresh fuzzy snowflakes cry down his shirtless shoulders. Surprised I’m awake, he stops to acknowledge my presence. He bends down and breathes on the dying embers of the fire in the middle of the tent I failed to notice. He ignites the leaves and circles me, painting with smoke and chanting in beautiful verse. The melody guides my mind up and down like his hand movements. And although reluctant, I surrender to his sweet rhythm washing my mind of pain.
He finishes and bows to me, extending an open hand. I take it and follow him through the tent’s flap. I inhale the clean morning air and he tosses the burning bundle into the hissing snow. I stop and release his soft grip when I see the others roaming around outside. They all have the same black braided hair. The women are wrapped in blankets, dresses, or wear a vest like mine. Most of the men are shirtless, wearing pants draped in tassels. Some people laugh around a large fire, some carry roots or fish in wooden baskets. The children are clothed well and hop around the adults like rabbits. Dense snowflakes cascade resembling falling feathers and I catch one on my tongue. Most at the fire are older and bound tight in animal furs. The pit isn’t bordered with river rocks like most are, it’s surrounded by eight logs even in length all aimed inward like a friendly little volcano.
Winter chill sneaks past my braids and meets my scalp. My hat’s in the tent. I scramble back inside but can’t find it. Once outside again I scan the villagers. I lock onto a distinguished middle-aged man who smiles when he knows I’ve found what I’m looking for. He walks over to me. The hat’s black circular brim compliments the caramel brown of his aging skin. He hands it back. My fingers look extra pale holding it after him. He untangles a large white feather from his hair, sticks it in the band, and goes back to his seat without saying a word. It’s cleaner than I remember it being. How long has he been looking after it?
Huddled over the ripe fire is a woman studying me with penetrative eyes. Panic fills me and I look away. When we lock eyes again she shows off her colorful patterned blanket. The cloth waterfalls over her pregnant belly. She gestures for me to come closer. Lighter skin on her fine fingers tell me she’s missing a few rings. The ones she’s kept on are alive with springtime greens.
I don’t believe they want to hurt me but I still want to run and hide. I approach cautiously like a cat in my new animal skin shoes that look primitive but feel sophisticated. I can tell they’re fashioned for me because of their hug. I’ve never felt so connected to the earth. The snow isn’t biting my toes either. Much better than boots.
Little by little children and adults stare at me. With a wave of her hand the pregnant lady tells them all to go away. She could tell I was overstimulated. Parents carry away reluctant and curious children who are captivated by my existence.
She dissects me. I loathe that she can read me with such ease. Am I that easy to understand? She gazes into the fire with a heavy look on her face. What did she catch? Something she disliked? I can tell that before things take place she predicts them. My mother had the same gift: interpreting the words of the moment foretelling where the story is headed while others are still occupied with the past. This woman is capable of exploiting me, yet chooses to investigate. They all investigate.
The man who loved my hat extends his open arm. Does he want it back? He smiles and points to an open seat by the fire between him and the pregnant woman. His wife? Who has more authority? I reach the fire, sit on my stump, and offer him the hat. He accepts it nodding at me and at the skeptical faces around the fire. I’m glad he approves. He pats the hat and sits down next to me. It fits him better than it did me.
His sharp vision catches three children, one girl and two boys, peeking out from behind a fallen log. He calls to them and I get lost in the magic of his words that bring an image to my mind: colorful fabrics weaving into blankets. As the vision fades a child wraps me in one of them. Now I see his power.
To avoid eye contact I glance into the fire. Even with people I know eye contact can be difficult for me. In my thoughtless gaze I realise they are heating rocks. What for, to melt my skin? I shake the last residue of fear from my mind. They have been nothing but kind. I trust them.
Across the fire the man who painted me in smoke claps twice to grab my attention. His deep set eyes and wide mouth grin at me. I assume he has known great sorrow yet he is still willing to offer sufficient kindness. I clap back. His smile grows, and the two tense old women next to him relax. When someone extends courtesy without wanting anything in return I am eager to engage. He has gifted me confidence. The world benefits from people like him. I am starting to like this place.
As peace spreads over me a young man jumps out from behind the fallen tree wearing a large animal’s skull on his head. It takes both of his hands to keep it on straight. I laugh as he dances around me kicking his heels out in crazy directions. I love the way his tassels fly. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. He stops when he receives a stern look from the hat-man. He removes the skull, smiles at me with clean white teeth, and waves with tender strength. My heart races. I blush and wave back like a shy child. I hate blushing because there’s no stopping it. He playfully glares at the hat-man and tosses the heavy skull into the snow across the fire leading my attention back to the pregnant woman. Are they his parents?
She sends the young man to get something and he returns with three logs lashed together. Something is stretched open and hanging underneath them. An animal’s stomach? The same one as the skull?
The pregnant woman talks and strange sounds leave her mouth similar to the words of the others yet hers are softer and open like a blooming flower. I’ve never heard a language so musical. Her rhythm and tone soothes me, handing me brighter thoughts. She stops speaking and I deflate. I want her to continue but realize by the scrutiny of those around the fire she has asked me a question. I shrug my shoulders and shake my head. They understand this response. They whisper the beautiful words back and forth. I perk up again. She smiles, rubbing her belly in thought. She touches the hat-man’s muscular shoulder and exits towards the only tent that’s been painted white and covered in black hand prints. And then I see it.
Over the tents towers a watchful guardian: a yellow tree glowing as bright as fireflies in the night. A glowing tree! I rub my eyes. Its thick branches shoot sideways like provoked lightning. The magnitude of it makes me feel foolish for not seeing it sooner. My gaze soars into the tree’s snowy mane that moves without the wind. How does it still have leaves when all its neighbors’ have long since fallen?
The young man delights in my wonder and digs up a pebble underneath the snow and tosses it into the leaves. On impact they launch off their high branches like a synchronized flock and fly over the tents and empty trees. The children jump up and down trying to catch the teasing… butterflies! The children’s small bodies are unable to contain all of the excitement. Before landing back in the tree, one visits me crawling onto my blanket. It moves around unpredictably, reaches my head, and tickles me with soul and wonder. I can’t suppress my smile or laughter like normal. Luckily the others join in my delight, ending any self judgement that would’ve kept me from fully embracing the moment.
This place must be a dream. I shake my head hard to wake myself up. I will be back in reality, back to the last thing I remember: being on my father’s boat sailing away from him. But I feel only the slapping of my braids and a pair of gentle hands taking hold of mine. I expect to see the pregnant woman but am greeted by the young man’s perfect eyes. He places a hand on my cheek and caresses my forehead with the other. He must think I’m crazy. I’m not crazy! This place is crazy!
He trades a serious look with the hat-man who pulls out a blade made of stone and bone from behind his seat. Making sure to show me he’s not a threat both his hands lift as he drifts away towards the glowing tree. He reaches its bright roots and calls for the young man who, with a finger, kisses my nose stirring joy on my chest. He removes the stomach hanging from the wooden stand and joins the hat-man at the tree. The hat-man’s silhouette strokes the tree’s beaming surface as if grooming a cherished horse then kisses it. He flickers the knife at his side and thrusts it above his head deep into the tree. Turning bone white on impact, the tree no longer glows.
The fire gets brighter because the surroundings dim. He repeats the stabbing motion many more times, like my father, before letting go of the knife. He kneels down and takes a quick bite of snow. I can feel his reverence. Without warning he springs up and twists the blade counter-clockwise, torquing it with both hands, using his legs for leverage. Even from thirty yards away the scraping sounds are absorbed by my body. I pull my blanket tighter trying to ignore my memories, but I can’t look away.
Blood flows over his blade from the wound, streams down his forearms, and drips into the snow. He ratchets out the final chunk of tree-bone that stood in the way of him spinning his blade freely within the bloody hole. The removal of his blade unleashes a red river pumping out of the wound. The tree has a heartbeat? He cleans his gory arms and knife with the snow in thoughtful motions. Singing a low tune the younger man collects blood from the fountain with the transparent sack until it stretches full. He waddles it back to the fire in silence. The snow around the tree absorbs the blood like the flowered cloth of my mother’s dress.
The hat-man clears away clean snow and rips out chunks of grass. He stuffs the cavity with the initial handfuls and repeats until the bleeding stops. From a new location on the trunk he slices and peels off a fresh strip of its outer layer, delicately lays it over the grassfilled chasm, and smooths it over until I can’t see where the bleeding chamber used to be. He has a final wash in the snow and wipes down the tree.
The younger man re-secures the blood sack back underneath the stand. It gapes open at the top. The tree blood steams in the air. Amused by my astonishment, he takes me by the hand and walks me to the tree. I like the way he leads me, the lightness of his footsteps. We pass the hat-man hiking back to the fire examining his hands for blood before risking an adjustment of his hat. The young man places my hand where the tree’s hole should be but the flawless surface makes me question if it ever happened. I am confused. I lean on the tree and slide down to its base taking deep breaths. I’ve had crazy dreams before. This is different. This one feels as real as rocks or wood or grass.
The pregnant woman exits the painted tent holding neat stacks of butterflies. They look paralyzed, wings extended flat. Until the young man takes me back to my seat everything is blurry.
The fire draws out a threatening sickness in my stomach. Popping embers escape the flame. The younger man leaves my aid and returns with antlers. Reaching them into the fire he pulls out a glowing red hot stone. As if carrying a newborn he walks it to the sack of blood and drops it in. An immediate and explosive hissing attacks my ears. The hat-man grabs my shoulder and shakes strong encouragement into me, warmth passes through and my neck muscles relax.
The elders begin to sway in small circular motions on their seats. Chanting begins. The pregnant woman takes periodic inhalations of the screaming steaming blood. Bright hot stones are continually placed in. Each stone added changes the color of the blood. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and then purple. When all the rocks have been used the boiling stops. The blood stays purple. He removes the stones with the antlers careful not to puncture the stomach, and stacks them on the ground.
The pregnant woman sharpens a bear claw on a rock, then, on a wide wooden plate, uses it to cut out patterns from the butterfly wings. She carves in such a precise manner, and the idea dawns on me that I’m witnessing a sacred ritual, that she is customizing the butterfly bits for something or someone. She finishes and sweeps the scraps aside. She sprinkles her deliberate pieces into the sack of blood and they dissolve instantly coating its surface with a swirling multicolored shine. They look at it with reverence but I hate the smell of blood and I adore butterflies. The hat-man dips a bone cup into the brew, takes it out, cleans its edge with snow, and offers it to me.
He wants me to drink the blood.
Thanks for reading!