Short Fiction
Barry Charman
Roots The tree was sinking, of this they were sure. Far beneath them, they saw the lava churning, and knew the tree was done. They had climbed as high as they could, up the tallest tree they could find, and now they had to stop, and reflect. The man who’d worked the land was a stout man, who looked at all the fire and thought of the animals that couldn’t climb. Above him was the man who’d dealt money, sweating in his suit, a uselessness of words tumbling from him as he stared, eyes grotesque, at the base of the tree. Above him was the man who’d spoke for God, who tried to finish broken prayers. Gone was his recent superiority, his assuredness assuredly done. His face was pressed to the tree, as if it was taking confession. Last rites given to flesh from wood, and suddenly not the reverse. Above him was the man without portfolio. The man who had talked, as if for all, and only now run out of words. He’d offered everything he had for the chance of salvation. He threw a gold watch, a bulging wallet, into the wastes. He watched as they quickly burned. He divested himself of these things, as if they were poisonous, and recognised as corrupting. Above him was the woman who’d taught. She was young, and her hair, tied back practically, revealed green eyes, the last green in all the world. Quiet, she had poured out her bitterness, she had turned out her anger. She had climbed, not to escape, but to catch the breeze a last time. To be in the feeling of a certain calm. To be in the arms of something living as she died. The ecstasy of a death that might bring peace. Around them were rolling hills of fire. Tumultuous crops of writhing, hissing, steam-snakes. Below, the blackened-red, reddish-black tides licked against the roots of the tree, and it gave thought to its passing. Roots curled, and the tips of leaves quivered, reaching out blindly, and without question. The sound of dying had passed. All that remained was the gentle surf of fire. Slowly, the tree gave way at last. The man who’d worked the land cried for it, the man who’d dealt money screamed now nothing could be bought. The man who’d spoke
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