The Trees Have Eyes

Kurdarius Keyes

Chane’s plant adjusted in the windowsill.

And Chane… well, he was too busy doodling in his word search to see it, white-pressing thorn pricked fingers on a gel pen.

“Mmhmm, espionage… ire. Let’s see,” he said, grumbling like a growling stomach.

With each new word, he’d note the ones he’d look up in dictionaries later, cutting through the page with arrows, stars, and circles. Blue, pink, and yellow highlighters. He was on the fifth to last page, treating each puzzle like a race to the final word. Though unlike any real race, the grand prize would have been a bad case of carpal tunnel. But I digress. Chane had shelves of word search books in what was supposed to be an extra bedroom—shelves stacked on shelves, books crammed into other books, floor littered with sticky notes and marked up pages. What a mess. If it hadn’t been for his plants, his cabin would have smelled of musty ink. Though, do not judge Chane for his obsession; he was just a humble logophile before his disappearance. In fact, those that knew him described him as being a walking thesaurus.

Those two people had been his parents—Carol and Maximus.

Though after some time, they found exactly how he went missing and never spoke of Chane again. 

After crossing out the word “metamorphosis,” he stood—nearly scraping his shiny head on the chandelier. Though, it wasn’t because the light fixture hung too low, Chane simply stood too tall. His friend, Sam, used to tease him for his lanky size and how he and his cabin weren't compatible. He’d call him “Chane the Mountain,” and the elaborate “King Hyperion.” He’d bump his head walking through doorways, blow at the dust atop his fridge; and he could only shower chest down.

But that's what happens when you inherit a home rather than have one built.

He grabbed a saucer of jelly swirls and smeared eggs, along with a mug rimmed with orange juice. The plate was still warm, and the smell of burnt butter perfumed the air. A haze of smoke remained from the cook. Chane stepped over to the sink and placed his dishes to the side; he ran hot water and smiled down at his plant—dimples deep and brown eyes sparkling. The plant was a devil’s ivy, whose leaves stretched over the counter and down the cabinets to the floor. “A cute plant for the kitchen,” is what Chane said to the clerk before he bought it—to which the clerk spat tobacco at his feet and said, “Cash only.”

Chane ducked and glanced out toward the forest surrounding the cabin, watching their branches cackle and leaves hush the wind. Though a single oak tree was most towering of all, sitting in the front of the forest and five strides from the cabin. Lifting the window, Chane let in the wild cologne of oak and pine; and he thought about what Sam had told him before his own disappearance.

“The trees have eyes; they can hear you too, communicate!” he said, scratching his palm. He sounded young and airy, spewing contagious mirth. He watered some tulips and shot to his feet, dropped the water bucket and pointed toward the forest.

“And more, they can feel your energy!” It was as if he was a child, having discovered Santa Claus’s closest secrets. Chane chuckled as Sam turned toward the oak tree, grinning.

“Is that right?”

Chane watched from the ground, scratching his knees.

With the squeak and crackle of the faucet, he smiled as Sam’s face flickered in his mind,

those last days of him were the most lively he’d ever been. His eyes had been a saturated green, skin a milky olive. He laughed more, smiled brightly. Though, he had the strangest scabs on his hands and knees. Like he’d been crawling on rocks. Before Sam was gone, he left Chane a letter, saying he’d met a family of trees and that he’d visit them for some time. He said they needed him. He’d even invited Chane to come along, to which he politely declined.

Though hesitant, Chane shared his friend’s infatuation with nature, having tree-themed word searches and an expansive garden. Sam loved those days helping Chane with his garden, even coming over just to water the plants on occasion—those outside as well as the hoard of them inside. One for each corner. Some on the stairs, a dozen on the walls. If he could’ve, Chane would’ve planted trees in his living room. But there was still some pushback; while the idea of talking trees was charming, he thought it was hysterical. Sure, every now and then he’d say “Hello gorgeous'' to his plants and talk to his backyard trees about how tall they’d gotten; but he never expected a response.

At least, until he directly asked a tree to touch him.

And it did.

Leaves fluttering down to graze the round of his shoulder. Sam had been delighted to hear about it, but Chane simply blamed the wind.

“Eh, a coincidence.”

That’d been no coincidence, nor had the other four times. Though for Chane, coincidences, they remained.

"Just daydreams,” Chane said aloud, huffing and lowering his gaze.

Oh, what willful ignorance.

Plunging glass in soap and foam, he rubbed away some dish soap that splashed onto the window plant. Calloused fingers scraping soft petals.

The trees shifted as Chane scratched a knee against the cabinet.

When the moon sat comfortably above the forest, the wind had picked up and a multitude of leaves swayed in commotion, Chane saw them all from his bedroom window—trees shuffling about and stretching wide, seemingly breathing. Arms crossed and pajamas loose, he entangled his toes in the curtains and let his fingers dance on the logged wall. Such a tilted stare he wore, entertained by the oak’s twisted arms.

It was large, larger than the cabin. And it was like a cruel phantom, its mangled limbs blackened by the night and leaves like thousands of hands reaching for the cabin. Some branches rested on the ground, too long and heavy to stretch in the air. Others pointed toward the sky; every moment of growth spent in search of something. To Chane’s parents, the tree had been abominable. But to him, even then, it was breathtaking.

He thought of the days he spent reading under that tree, nestled in the curve of its trunk. He never felt an eerie presence. And as he looked upon it that night, he still felt nothing. To him, the tree was without heart and breath; to him, no such thing was feasible. Unfortunate. Just how most humans would think: going about life fearful of the things they’d rather discard than confront. Thinking that reality is fact without whimsy. Ultimately, he was foolish—oblivious to all those eyes watching him, studying him.

Crack.

Thud.

One of the oak’s branches fell to the ground with a metallic bang.

“No, no, no…”

Down the stairs and through the kitchen door, Chane ran out, arms flailing. He was met with the night’s cool breath and the plush of earth beneath his toes. There were fresh fallen leaves and pieces of metal strewn about; and there to his left, his generator had been crushed down the middle, without a hum or growl. The branch was like a petrified snake, so large that Chane wouldn’t consider lifting it.

He let out a grizzly groan.

“Heavy Swayman… Why tonight?”

You heard right. He had a name for the fallen branch. He had a name for all the branches in fact. The first row of trees at the start of the forest were called his “Fortress Guardians.” Consider what names he had for his garden flowers, the plants inside. I recall a “Twinkle-Bud Barry,” and the creative “Lord of Flies” for his Venus Flytrap.

They were progressively worse with each plant.

The conflict at hand was that Chane no longer had power for his cabin, nor any reading light for his dictionary research. Most people would’ve cursed the sky about their generator breaking and planned to get it replaced. They would’ve gone to bed, tossed in the heat and groaned about the repair cost. Though, he wasn’t sleeping as he should’ve been, he was still outside, staring at his oak—who of all the trees had been the most mischievous. Chane gazed upon the oak, watching its leaves frolic in the sky. He wanted to debunk a myth: can he talk to trees?

His was in a hurried march, steps thumping earth’s skin like hands beating drums. His expression was stuck, skin moon-kissed, eyes raised, and lips pressed thin.

The oak tree waited for him, as it had for years.

Bodies of thick roots had long surfaced the ground, coiling, springing up toward the sky.

Chane stepped over them and stomped up to the tree as if to scold it. The trunk was as wide as the side of a car and as tall as a two-story building. Chane was a pebble to a boulder.

The smell of decaying wood was thicker than it had ever been. It swirled around Chane and reeled him in like rotten meat to a vulture. For a moment, he stared up at it. But this time, it hadn’t been a look of pure admiration or awe; it had been an expecting one. As if by some chance, he’d notice it breathe in his presence. As if by some luck, he’d catch its eyes blink.

He clenched and released his fists, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Okay Oakinson, I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if you can feel my energy. But I need to know… can you talk? Can you understand me?” He sounded as if he had gargled crud.

The tree said nothing.

Chane grinned at a thought.

“Your branch, was that on purpose?” Chane stood in silence for a full minute, frowning as the seconds ticked.

“I feel so… stupid for even doing this. I mean, you’re a freaking tree. But ever since Sam went missing, I’ve wondered. I’ve wondered if what he said was true… that maybe he—that there was something else. Something he didn’t tell me. Something he wanted me to find on my own.”

Chane folded his arms and looked back to his cabin, the broken generator, up to the moon and back to the tree. His expression softened, and he let his arms fall.

“Is what he said true? Are you alive? Are the others?” He motioned toward the forest, “Are they alive?”

Nothing.

Chane waited a moment.

He touched the trunk of the oak—of Oakinson and sighed.

Courageous he had been indeed. No one he’d known aside from Sam would have ever done such a thing, asking a tree to speak with such expectancy. He was not insane, just curious; that’s what he thought at least. Call it succumbing to intrusive thoughts, whimsical urges. Being alone for months on end. Still, there had been a sliver of hope.

The longer he waited, the more Chane felt that he had wasted time. Maybe Sam truly had gone insane and gotten himself lost in the forest with this nonsense. Maybe Sam was really dead. Not among the trees, exploring his fancies like Chane had thought.

What Chane failed to grasp was that he had been in a daze. His eyes had frosted over in a cloud-gray, and his brown skin coated in sallow green. Scabs, much like the ones Sam had, began to form on his knees and palms. His hand was stuck to the oak and began to spawn a layer of tree skin.

He felt no pain. No pain at all.

He was warm, soothed even.

Though he dribbled from the mouth and quaked all over, he had been at peace.

The world around him had drifted to the background; leaving only him and the oak tree.

Carol and Maximous parked in front of the old cabin, letting the car roll onto a path of moss licked rocks. The path was conquered by wildflowers and sedges, grass so high the car twinkled like some discarded dime in nature. 

The parents gazed out from the window toward the cabin, which, aside from the yard, was a gorgeous sight. Rich mahogany wood and a shaded porch for tea sipping and afternoon chair-rocking. However, the roof had mountains of debris spilling over the edges, specs of cool blue shingles peeking through.

“Well, looks like Chane isn’t doing as well as we thought.” Max mumbled, shaking his head. “No… he’s gotta be doing better than…”

He paused, looking over to Carol with knotted brows.

“Oh, don’t think like that dear. The boy was never good at keeping a clean home.” Carol’s voice was bubbly, though it trembled. She fiddled with her fingers, looking at the uncut grass.

She grinned.

“Anyway, we haven’t seen him in weeks. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see us this time.”

There was a pause.

“Yeah Carol, I hope so. Yeah… yeah, I’m sure he’ll be happy.” Max huffed, tightening his hold on the steering wheel. There was a tug of war in the man’s mind. He pushed away his feelings most times, believing that saying things aloud wouldn’t make any difference. But with each visit, he saw how little of his son remained.

They brought his favorite tulip seeds and home supplies, some framed photos of the three of them too. Carol reached for one under her seat, rubbing away a spec of dirt from Chane’s face.

As they stepped out, both in jackets and jeans, grocery bags on their arms, they smelled pine on the cool breeze. The scent of the city—bus diesel and coffee—spilled from the car and mingled with the air.

At the door, Max found the cabin keys on his chain with about twenty others, unlocked and pushed it open with his foot. The door creeped and whined.

The scene before them was a smack in the face. Soil, dirt, and mud on the floors, plants galore entangled over the kitchen counters and living room couches. They even heard the scurrying and crunching of animals unseen. It smelled like moss and wet tree trunks.

“Chane?” they both called.

Carol held her photo close, tiptoeing around the home.

They both eyed the plants, frowning at the movement of the floors and the thumping coming from the rooms.

“Chane! We have your favorite! Come on out, don’t make your mother wait to see you!”

Carol went into the living room, studying the pictures above the fireplace. Some they brought on the last visit and others were there long before. There was one picture of the whole family, Chane grinning. To the right of it, a more recent image, one without a frame and layered in dust.

Carol grabbed it, blowing at the buildup. She frowned, holding the picture up for a better look.

It was an image of Chane.

Carol wanted to believe he wore a painted-on costume and colored eye contacts. But she knew more than she wanted to. Chane’s eyes were bright green, and his skin was unnaturally paler than before. His smile was the brightest it had ever been. He wore no regular clothes, but instead was clad in layers of bark-like scabs. And he stood with the oak tree, except it was blurred.

“Chane…”

Upstairs, Max found Chane’s room of word searches. One inhale and he slammed the door with a cough.

“Goo-good gracious…”

He called out to Chane again, knocking on his bedroom door. After some pause, he pushed his way in, putting down the bag of tulip seeds near the entrance. This room was worse than the others. Bed sheets were covered in green growth, and the floors were blanketed in dead leaves and wild plants. There was a bird nest on a dresser—eggs and all—and the walls had a bark-like texture. Max gagged at the sight. Ahead, the window was open, letting fresh air into the cabin.

“My boy…”

He walked over to the window, to see two oak trees in the backyard.

One was dying, while the other was healthy.

Their branches were tangled and Max thought it had been strange: trees of that kind so closely grown.

He stared at the healthy oak tree, eyes unblinking and mouth smileless.

“No…”

Downstairs, Carol flipped the photo, noticing some writing.

Parents, I’m seeing the world brighter these days. I see nature as it truly is. I think I’ll be with it. One with it. 

You’ll come to see me as I’ve seen myself. You will look upon me in awe. 

Know that I’m now what I’ve always been.

Carol fell to her knees, fingers piercing the photo, body trembling. She sobbed, holding both Chane’s image and the family portrait to her chest.

She breathed in deep, mashing her brows together like two trains colliding. She stood and stomped over to the kitchen sink, turning on the water to wash the photo of Chane to nothing. It disintegrated down the drain as tears ran hot on her face.

It was then that she looked up and through the kitchen window, met eyes with the oak tree.