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Twenty-Three : Pine

I creep into his mind, trying to spark a soft conversation with some lame remark about cougars, but receive only a one-word answer in reply.

The tree from my vision towers up ahead long before we are anywhere near it. It's a bit of a tease, actually. Like a desert mirage, magically emerging to desperate travellers.

It feels like we will never arrive. And the strained silence doesn't help.

But right as our legs begin to protest and our stomachs start to grumble... there it is. Perhaps only five minutes inland from the river. It seems really out of place, like it's been there a million years longer than the other trees, just babies congregating at their mother's feet, tugging on her skirt.

Corin and I speed our pace to reach it. My fingers feel naked without his wrapped around them. It's funny how quickly you get used to something that at first was strange.

We push our way through heavy foliage all the way to the base of the trunk. It's wider than a car, and in terrible condition. The bark, although thick as roofing tiles, is shedding in places, giving the tree a half-naked look. There are deep gouges all the way up, as though someone has hacked at it with a large knife. It's kind of sad. Such a huge, impressive tree, yet completely unable to defend itself. I run my fingertips along it's face. It is scratchy, brown fibres flaking away beneath my touch. Corin has wandered around the circumference. I can't see him on the opposite side, just feel the elastic pull between us, willing me to follow him. I sigh, and do so.

He sees me coming and his face, surprisingly, lights up. He points skyward. The damp, misty low-lying clouds of this morning have dispersed, leaving a sky that's clear and pale blue.

"Look," he says, "at the cuts that've been made."

I wince. They are much deeper around this side, raw and jagged, carved into the flesh of the trunk. There are heaps of them, too. "Isn't it horrible? Who would do something like this to such an old, impressive tree?"

Corin stares at me for a moment, unblinking. "No, Benna, actually look."

My eyes trace the cuts, all the way to the top until my head is bent right back, painfully compressing the top of my spine. The slashes are careful, intentional. Reaching high.

"A ladder."

Corin grins. "Yup. Let's climb it. We're obviously meant to."

My stomach drops. "I don't know..." It's not the heights that's the problem -at least, I don't think so, I've never been anywhere really high- it's the thought of jamming my feet in those wounds.

"Come on." He reaches for my hand, curled in fists by my side, but seems to abruptly change his mind. Instead he moves closer to the tree. "I'll go first."

Corin is like an overcaffeinated monkey. The soles of his boots recede into the treetops before I have even made up my mind whether to follow. I can't stay down here alone, not with the memories of the copter humming through my mind. And the further he climbs, the worse the pain burning through my limbs.

"Wait," I link desperately, not wanting to shout, in case we are heard. "Slow down."

Sorry, he immediately replies. His words settle inside my skull like a warm blanket around my brain. Got carried away. It's been a very long time since I've climbed a tree. I used to do it all the time when I was a kid.

"Well, I didn't," I link back. "Could you let me catch up?"

I hear a chuckle from above. Sliding my hands into the crook of the lower branches, I look up and see a shadowed face peering back at me.

Come on, slow poke, he teases, mentally prodding me. His face disappears, swallowed up by a rustle of browning needles. I don't dignify him with a reply. I wish he would make up his mind, is he over last night, or not? I can't tell and it's driving me insane. It's almost as bad as the L-word situation with Jesse all those months ago. Bracing myself, whispering an apology to the tree, I use my grip on the branches to hoist myself up, and shove my boots into the deep cut rungs of the ladder.

To the top we go.

I don't look down. I just keep climbing. Pulling and panting and slipping and, oh, the pain in my thighs and shoulders. Someone has set me on fire, heat consuming my muscles. Corin remains a short distance above, guiding me on the best places to hold and bear weight.

He reaches the top first, triumphantly, clinging to the spindle-thin tip of the tree. Shading his eyes against the sun and straightening his body to gaze at the view, he reminds me of childhood stories of pirates, searching for Treasure Island atop the Crow's nest. I expect him to return his attention to me, because obviously he is not a pirate, and there is no Treasure Island. But there must be something in that view, because Corin's jaw tightens, his forehead furrowing beneath the shadow of his palm, and he murmurs aloud, "What the...." trailing off mysteriously - which has me scrambling up the final few feet, curious as hell.