The boundary between Mason’s backyard and the old forest behind his house isn’t obvious to the untrained eye. Mason, however, knows that there are exactly five trees on his side of the property line, just before the trees multiply and turn into a properly wooded area. There used to be a sixth tree, but it had fallen in a bad storm several years ago and taken the fence with it, resulting in the blurry border. Mason has never gotten around to replacing the fence. Now he has no fence and only five trees.
Sometimes, when Mason is anxious and in need of some fresh air, he sits outside and counts those five old wooden beasts. One, two, three, four, five. They are comforting in their exactitude, their relative permanence. It brings him comfort. The certainty.
Today is one of those days where Mason needs to be reminded that some things are fixed.
But today, there are six trees.
Mason’s slouched posture becomes upright and rigid, shooting up straight. He goes from sitting at an odd angle, letting his shoulders sag, to perked up like an eager pupil at the front of the class; stalwart, sturdy, like the trees themselves.
He counts again: six.
Once more, for good measure: six trees.
Thinking he must be misremembering where the boundary lies—never mind that he’s lived in this old house since before his new life, beginning a decade and a half ago, never mind that this is the first time since the storm seven years ago that he’s counted anything more than five—he gets up. He walks slowly and carefully over to the tree that shouldn’t be there, can’t be there. He keeps a good few feet away from it but looks past it. He sees a large rock another meter or two beyond, the rock that he placed to remind himself where the border actually lies. No need to get in trouble with the township for doing anything off of his property, after all. When they measured, they would see exactly where his property line ended: right at that rock.
The tree is before the rock.
The sixth tree.
While still keeping his distance, Mason turns a slow circle around the tree. If he’s right, the tree stands at about the right distance from the rock to be roughly where the old sixth tree was. It looks precisely like the kind of tree that could have fallen and destroyed a fence where the rock now sits, ancient and oaken.
Any sane man would be looking for an explanation. Any rational man would at least be confused and afraid.
Mason is afraid. He is. But he is also prematurely accepting of the existence of this sixth tree, resigned to it. The tree seems like an inevitability.
As he circles the tree again, back to the rock and to the side of the tree that faces the forest, Mason notices an old carving in the bark. It is old, too, old enough that the tree has begun to grow over and around it, making it hard to read. He steps closer, examining the wound in the tree.
It says, Maddison was.
That’s it.
Though his mind briefly revolts at the sight of a too-familiar name, instinct wants Mason to fill in the blank. Maddison was here? He looks for any fainter markings after or below the phrase, but there is nothing, not a single cut or nick out of place in the bark that could indicate someone had intended a further message.
Maddison was, then.
Mason nods to himself, as if this makes perfect sense, when truthfully, he’s about ready to go out of his damn mind. Because if it doesn’t make sense, he’s not sure what else to do.
Mason turns away suddenly, with an idea. He steps around the old tree—and it is an old tree, just like the carving is old, the tree is at least as wide around as any of the other five trees on his property—and heads back to his house. He ducks in through the screen door, still ajar, and around his snoozing cat, and into the closet. There, he finds a toolbox and he fishes out a utility knife.
When he turns back for the door, he has alerted the cat. She watches him as he goes outside, meowing for attention, but he ignores her for now. Holds up a finger to tell her to be patient, as useless as that is—she will never be patient. Mason heads back to the tree, walks around to the eastern side of it, the side that faces the forest.
He is nervous at first to touch the tree, but instead of letting himself question it too much, he carves a simple reply:
Mason is.
Tyler Battaglia is a queer and disabled author of horror, dark fantasy, and other speculative fiction. He is interested in subjects that interrogate the connections between faith, monsters, love, queerness, and disability. He has publications in The Summer Gothic and upcoming in Devout: An Anthology of Angels, among others. You can find him on Twitter at @whosthistyler and online at https://www.tylerbattaglia.com/.
photo by Jon Moore (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 