Tree Fingers Read Online Free PDF Page A

leaves and sticks into his legs. The mist, though, remained undisturbed, not even wavering in the gale. Then it sunk into the threadbare cotton and walnut wood the way dry soil absorbed rain. Barely visible, a faint viridian light spilled from behind the button eyes.
    “Yes,” Alan breathed. He thought he’d be terrified if the spell worked, but found he felt only exhilaration, a dizzying rush of power. The consciousness of the other being touched his mind, chaotic, as unknowable and impenetrable as the deepest, most overgrown, thorn-choked recesses of an ancient wood.
    “Woldengeist!”
    The name invoked more wind. Larger bits of debris pelted Alan’s bare body and face, hurting. He didn’t care, barely noticed. Intent, concentration counted for everything now.
    “I have summoned you to protect that walnut tree, Phantom of the Forest Shadows.” He pointed. The wooden frame of the scarecrow creaked like living limbs in a tempest. Alan gathered all of his will, his love and anger, so that the demon would respect him and do his bidding. “See that no harm comes to it.”
    With a swoosh and a flapping like a startled bird flying from the brush, the scarecrow’s garments rose from the sticks that supported them, fluttering for a second and then going still.
    The green glow faded; the wind settled. Somewhere down the block, a little dog yipped.
    Alan hung his head. He hadn’t really expected it to work, not on his first attempt. The spirit had departed, finding the conjurer wanting, unworthy. Or maybe he imagined its presence.
    He hadn’t seen anything but smoke, leaves in the wind, and the subtlest glimmer. Maybe. It was late. Maybe Graham was right, calling the sorcery nonsense. Probably Graham wouldn’t have wanted Alan to succeed. Tomorrow he’d go to Cook’s house, find a more mundane way to save the tree that Graham adored.
    Tonight he couldn’t wait to crash against the mattress, cuddle close to Graham, and breathe in the scent of his hair until sleep claimed him. He’d never been more exhausted.

    The next morning Alan woke alone. Graham usually rose early, often before daybreak, to paint or draw when he said he felt most creative. The old clock on the wall said half past eleven. Alan sat up and stretched. The cut on his hand hurt and felt hot with infection. He slipped into the robe he’d donned the previous night and went to look for Graham.
    The other man stood on the back porch, sipping a cup of tea and watching as several people moved around the Cook property. Alan saw a police car, an ambulance, and some non-descript sedans.
    Placing a hand on Graham’s shoulder, he asked, “What happened?”
    “You’ll never believe it,” the other man answered, looking upset. “Mr. Cook died last night.”
    “He was murdered?”
    “No. What makes you say that, Alan?”
    “Nothing. Go on.”
    “He died from a heart attack. I spoke to his daughter a few moments ago. Was a bit odd, though. She found him in front of his living room window, with his face pressed against the glass. Miss Cook said he looked petrified, like he’d died screaming. He’d scratched at the windowsill until he broke all of his nails. Then cardiac arrest, the coroner thinks.”
    “He was pretty old,” Alan said, plunging his lacerated hand into the robe’s pocket.
    “I suppose,” Graham said, looking at his lover suspiciously.
    “What’s going to happen to the property?”
    “I presume it’ll be sold,” Graham answered. “I doubt the daughter’s in the right frame of mind just now to worry over the details.”
    “Well, um, Graham?” Alan said, shuddering despite the warmth of the sun. “Since your tree’s safe for a while, do you think we could get rid of that thing?”
    “The scarecrow? Actually, when I first woke up and looked out the window, I thought somebody had taken it. Kids, perhaps. I went to dress, and I guess I wasn’t quite alert, because when I looked again it was right there where we’d left it. But I