Short Story / Parson and the Pocket Collapse (Analysis)

Chapter One

The day that Parson left his life behind him was not particularly remarkable to his memory. The majority of it had passed much like it always had—riddled with routine and tiring circumstance. It was a rare occurrence that he’d recall any times he’d spent as memorable. Of course, it could be argued that each and every period of night and day is just as unique as the one that preceded it as well as that which will follow, if only for their position on a Calendar. Even so, there was only one date that Parson anticipated and looked upon more fondly than the others—his birthday.

But even this day was a distant thought at such a point in time, and it’d be months before excitement would begin to reel him with giddiness. With each passing night, Parson would suffer dreary, uneventful visions of boredom and drudgery that would always be forgotten upon awakening. This is when he’d remember where he really was and how he got there, and how it would remain so for an unfathomable amount of time.

It was summer, meaning School was on break. As it should be assumed, all staff members were at home with their families, experiencing a well-deserved vacation, so there were no able bodies to keep an eye on the children in the lodging areas. Thusly, the children were allowed time-off as well. Most of the students looked forward to such lengthy periods away from their studies, but these fortunate ones all had homes and families to return to.

Parson never remembered himself having what could be classified as a home, only places where he’d sleep and keep his things. The sight of his parents was sparse and historic if not in the form of photos from faraway lands with vague details of their latest travels. Father had done well enough to retire early and promised to reward Mother for her patience and understanding, and so while Parson pursued his studies they were able to concede with their plans.

What days weren’t spent at the prestigious private institute his parents contributed to, routinely and significantly, took place in the care of his Grandmother. She was austere in every sense of the word, and had you glanced across her in a public area you would be inclined to remain her a stranger. Time and impatience had invested deeply in wearing down this woman and it certainly had paid off. Her face was contorted in such a fashion that it almost always formed an impassionate sneer, and the sound that rasped from her throat when she spoke was enough to drive those in earshot to cringe.

While the sight of his Grandmother was rather unpleasant, her demeanor wasn’t far from her appearance. She spoke in short bursts, doling out orders and demands of Parson, forcing him into the mold of caretaker for every short season spent with her. His Grandmother was aged, with cracks in her loose skin that rested gently over her shrinking frame. For years she had been unable to tend to the many upkeeps required by home ownership.

During the seasons that Parson spent away at school, his Grandmother’s house would grow dirtier, dustier, grimier, and stinkier than the year before. The grass would grow relentlessly long, thick with weeds and lifeless patches. All of the rain traps’d be clogged with varying manners of storm-filth. The trees would be unruly and in dire need of trimming. Every summer, a quarter-years worth of chores awaited him and was enough to keep him busy throughout the entire holiday. This summer, so far, had been no different than those previous, and never had it occurred to Parson that his life might undertake a radical transformation within nothing more than a fleeting moment, as it was, is, and always will be the case concerning most tales of adventure.

It wasn’t the preferred way to spend his time, comparable to a maid. Should Parson have had his way, he’d squander the summer doing little more than sleeping and eating. After all, he thought he’d earned it after the hellish semesters he’d experienced. And Grandmother was never as inviting as he remembered in his earliest memories of her. These days she was little more than his foreman. No longer considered within the realm of a nurturer.

But Parson’s kinship to the elder woman bound him to her commands inexplicably. Never would he ever disobey her, though the thought often crossed his mind. He would always dismiss it, setting aside his grievances for the simple sake of a love that he knew in his heart existed. She may not have shown it as often as he’d liked, but he knew it was there. Somewhere.

Chapter Two

“Parson!” his Grandmother’s call clawed its way through the halls, finally reaching him as he meandered amongst the shadows cast below his bed. Fully able’d to hear her call yet not quite keen enough to sort it through his thoughts, the boy continued his fruitless search for clean socks, moving on to another thorough examination of his drawer of underthings. A few moments passed before her normally harrowing footsteps brought about her presence in the doorway, observing her grandchild frantically scour his room.

Her brow furrowed even more from it’s regularly furrowed position, indicating her displeasure was perhaps greater than it normally was. Once again she shrieked. “You’ll get a smack in the gums, Parson, with all your messing about. What say you of all this commotion? I hear it all the way through the cellar.”

“I seem to have misplaced a clean pair of socks, Grandma.” He replied, his body still working through the investigative motions. It showed his Grandmother a lacking display of respect and affection that she wasn’t willing to tolerate, so she rightfully delivered a swat to the back of his head. He clamored an indecipherable remark, now fully attentive, as she began her vehement criticism of his work ethic.

“If you’d organize and keep your room, you’d be able to find a decent set of clothes for once that didn’t smell of cowshit! And then, maybe you’d find yourself finishing a chore in a timely manner for a change. And then, maybe I wouldn’t have to come scream at you to get something done on time.”

Parson sat rather beleaguered. “But how would I find the time to organize and keep my room when I’m always behind to begin with?”

And Grandmother delivered another stinging slap. “Don’t play funny with me, young man! Just keep wasting time with these plentiful blunders of yours, we’ll see where it takes you.” They shared a moment of intensity, their eyes awkwardly interlocked with neither daring to be the first to break at first. Parson finally succumbed, attempting to misportray it’s purpose by continuing his search. “Hurry and finish. I want the Tree dug up by Supper.”

The Tree of mention is that which has been planted in the backyard of her home for more than a century, predating both Parson’s and her own birth for quite some time. It appeared as if it harbored fruit long ago, but the days of flourishing had long since left the now lifeless tree, with its skeletal and brittle limbs stretching across the sky like a spiderweb. Now it was little more than a waste of space.

Armed with no more than a hatchet, a pickax and a shovel, Parson complied with his Grandmother’s demand and approached the Tree. His will was diminished. He’d always undertake whatever task she asked, no matter how daunting. But never before had he felt smaller than the duty bestowed upon him, an overwhelming feeling and not at all comforting. He’d regret working without socks, but first found it best due to his Grandmother’s persistence to keep him busy. If anything, his soles would be on the path to harden much quicker.

The first half of his time spent, dismantling the Tree, was dedicated to the trunk. He worked the small blade of the hatchet vigorously through its thick body. It took hours to progress completely through, but after exhausting the most of his strength he was finally able to sever the top-half of the Tree from its roots.

But those roots were a different story. Already tired from repetitive chopping, Parson was now forced to dig up the dirt at the base of the Tree—as much as he’s physically able. Just enough digging to expose the roots so the pickax could be utilized. Unmotivated, hungry, and physically exhausted, Parson began his half-hearted dig in a condensed section along the outskirts of the Tree’s base. He really had no intentions of finishing the job that day, despite the incessant cries of his Grandmother, and decided to squander his time by pretending to be working. He planned on explaining to her that it was far too much to accomplish in a single day, and that the labor would pass over unto tomorrow.

In the sliver of land he’d unearthed, Parson came across an unusual knot of roots that stretched further than his section. They were tight and vast, like a massive woven textile that once blanketed the planet’s surface. It was definitely a strange sight, one that Parson never chanced upon throughout all of his books considering matters of science and plantlife. He thought that the roots were far too abundant to be left for one day and elected to get a head start, replacing the shovel with the pickax. Raising it high overhead before each strike, it took blow after blow after blow after blow, and so on, until Parson was able to rid his sliver of that layer of roots…

...only to come across another layer.

It was truly bizarre, but Parson paid it no mind. Instead he wiped his brow and continued swinging the pickax. He’d chopped through the most of the second layer when he struck his ax one final time, gashing deeply into a root that appeared to move upon receiving the blow. It wasn’t a movement resultant of brute force, but was more… natural. Serpentine-like, in the way that it slithered amongst the other identical roots.

Such odd characteristics required Parson to further investigate, so he prodded the gash with his foot. Surprisingly and rather shockingly, the root slid from its position amongst the blanket and retracted below, leaving a dark and hollow gap in its place. “What in the Devil…?” Parson wondered aloud as he gazed within the hole, unable to make anything out. He dared not to reach a limb in, for fear of finding it absent upon its withdrawal. So, his curiosity called for him to once again take up the pickax, squeezing what little energy he had left, and dig up the rest of the roots.

It took some time but not too much before Parson was able to chop out a hole big enough for his small body to squeeze through, and big enough to allow a bit of sunlight in. Placing the ax on the ground with the other tools, Parson took a look back to his Grandmother’s house before turning his focus back to the hole. He didn’t anticipate the unknown ahead of him but very rarely are people blessed with the gift of foresight.

Chapter Three

“Is there any body—or any thing—that could answer me?” Parson called out to the darkness as he stood in the sun’s spotlight, cast upon him through the hole he just created. It was hard to see exactly what lied within the shadows at first, but the boy’s robust eyes could make out even the slightest movements. There was something else, and it stood directly before him. “Come on with it, I know that you’re there.”

What sounded like the wind blowing in autumn quickly filled the void, something the boy found quite strange because he could detect no wind upon his skin. How could there be, in a cavern that appeared to be at least ten feet below the ground? The air he breathed was still and murky, smelling stale.

“Please. You needn’t be afraid.”

The wind blew harder, despite Parson not being able to feel its cool touch, until it almost sounded as if it were speaking. It took a moment, but when Parson decided to listen to the breeze it was as if what was a faint voice was suddenly crystal clear, and it said to him, “What do you want?”

The question confused Parson because he had no answer for it. “Did I hurt you?” He asked instead, taking a slight step forwards.

“Not hurt. Only damaged.” The wind blew, more intangible than Parson ever recalled.

“I’m sorry, Mister,” Parson called him ‘Mister’ because the wind’s tone was assuredly masculine, despite being faint and slightly distant. “I only meant to see if you were alright, and to be truthful I was sorta curious why you’re living underneath my Grandma’s Tree.”

The wind spoke again. Parson recognized the tone to be light, slightly rattled, perhaps afraid. “No business. Just wish to be left in peace.”

“Aw, come on, friend. There’s no reason for moping. My name is Parson. I’m a student out of Elderbrook, here to stay with my Grandma for the summer.” Parson took a few steps into the darkness, no longer afraid of the unknown. His eyes were slowly adapting. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” The wind blew questionably.

“Yes, your turn to introduce yourself. You’ve got to tell me your name and shake my hand,” Parson gestured to his outstretched palm awaiting the person’s touch. When he noticed that they weren’t extending their own hand, Parson squinted to get a better look. Why would someone be so rude?, he thought, but was frightened by what he imagined he saw… an octopus in the shadows. His knees began shaking along with his lower lip, but he did not turn away.

“I never took on a name, nor do I possess what you deem a ‘hand’, and if I did I would not know how to shake it.” The leaves rustled.

“Well,” Parson’s voice faltered a bit as the sweat began to mount over his brow, “You just stick your arm out like I’m doing here, you grab on and move up and down real quick. Come on, I’ll show you.” It was hard to keep his wrist steady, not knowing if a tentacle will quickly reveal itself and snatch him into the darkness, becoming forever lost to what would be a horrifying and unfortunate demise.

But then whomever-whatever-Parson spoke to approached the small pool of light and , while it was alarming, it failed in driving him to terror. Instead, it was almost pacifying in its presence, instantly putting the boy into a calm that he could not explain.

It was a Tree, which as far as basic appearances go was not unlike the same Tree he had been digging up. It was large and round at the base and kind of tall, not tall enough to reach the top of the cavern but tall much the same, with leaves on the top while it’s bottom was firmly planted into the ground (like every basic Tree would look). But this Tree was very much different from its dead brother above in that it was very much alive, and that it also appeared to have adopted the characteristics of those comparable to human beings. Very visibly, near the top of its trunk, Parson could make out a very detailed and unique face, bearing no resemblance to any persons he could recall. The features, such as the nose, mouth and eyes, were all unfathomably detailed. It looked as if each blemish and divot in its surface was placed purposefully by a meticulous artist, unable to excuse any detail to be wasted.

Moving across the ground, sending small vibrations that Parson could feel through his sockless, shoe-covered feet, the Tree came approached him by maneuvering itself with its roots. They dug and crawled beneath the soil with ease, as if Trees were always meant to swim through dirt.

His arms were, though conditioned to fervent sessions of window washing, growing tired steadily, prompting “Now, hold out something.” Its “limbs” were exactly what you’d expect them to be: long and thick branches that expand from its near-apex, where they lead into a luxurious and plentiful bed of leaves that sat strongly atop its head. It was hard to make out exactly what kind of Tree this person was, but Parson could not find any unmistakable details in this light nor was he prolific with a knowledge of trees. That’s not to say that his curiosity wasn’t piqued.

A branch lowered to the height of Parson’s chest, allowing him to awkwardly grasp it and then shake it up and down. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” He said, while he examined what his gut told him was a confused expression upon the Tree’s chiseled face.

“Greetings.” Parson watched the mouth of the Tree move slightly, matching perfectly to the syllables that the wind echoed through the cavern.

“What’s your name?” The expression read dumbfounded, as if such a question weren’t common around his home.

“Name? Why, I’d never taken one.”

“You don’t have a name? That’s stupid! Whatever would I say for your attention without a name to recall?”

“I do not know, for it is not of my knowledge that I have ever been called.”

“Well, fine then. We shall pick a name for you, right now, so you never have to be deprived of such a common luxury. What say you to ‘Winston’? It was supposed to be my baby brother, once.”

The Tree’s leaves blew indifferently, as if it were sighing. It never much cared for names, but it never much cared to turn one away, either.

Chapter Four

“So where are we going, Winston?” Parson asked his new friend as he clung to his trunk tightly, both arms fastened around a large branch for support. The speed at which they passed through the underground caverns surprised him, though he was not sure of what wouldn’t surprise him at this point.

“To my home. You know this.”

“Well, I know that. I guess I meant to ask, what is this place we are going to? Is it a city, a village? A forest?”

“Hmmmmm.” The leaves rustled. “To the First Great Pocket, the site of our first coming together and where much of us have remained for many ages.”

“So there are a lot more of your kind?” He said quizzically

“Many more than you will see.”

It didn’t take long for Parson to realize that his new friend was not only short with words, but lacked the proper comprehension to communicate effectively. There was great difficulty, back in the cavern, in finding out what exactly Winston was doing in that gap under the tree. He always spoke in short sentences that never fully revealed his hand, but he wasn’t intentionally guarding it.

As he was first getting to know his new friend, Parson realized that it would be a short while before Grandmother would call him for supper. If she’d even glance towards the work-site of the deadened Tree, she’d be driven to madness by the absence of her only Grandchild. Parson didn’t exactly what to see that, but he didn’t exactly want to return to her, either.

Then, Parson had an idea. He decided that he’d never do another chore or attend another study, ever again.

“I appreciate you taking me here.” Parson said to the Tree as if it were by his suggestion. The truth is, it took Parson quite some time to talk Winston into taking him to his homeland, but he was the aggressor and would not take no for an answer, had it been said. But it wasn’t that Winston was defiant, he just didn’t go along with various insinuations and assumptions that most people would deem as obvious.

He could feel a vibration rocking through the thick of the trunk, but couldn’t decipher whether it was a heartbeat or a result of their traveling.

Parson took a look ahead, at their path, and found that the road they traveled began to veer up the walls and onto the ceiling, where the path disappeared outside of a large round opening. There were tracks ahead of them, the same tracks that they left behind, indicating that others have traveled the same path before. Parson became a bit fearful and gripped the bark firmly.

“If the path goes upside-down,” Parson quivered, “wouldn’t Gravity take me with it?”

“Hmmmmm. I suppose you’re right.” The Tree mused. “You should hold on tight.”

Chapter Five

Never in his studies, never in his imaginings, and definitely never in his dreams could Parson have even begun to understand what lied just beyond the opening of the tunnel. It confused him at first, and while it was by no means able’d to call glorious, but it was magnificent.

It appeared as if it were a city, or a village, or even a forest. There were Trees of various heights, massive and minuscule all the same. Some of them sat further to the ground than Parson himself, but much of them stretched far beyond where the boy could see. He never knew that Trees could grow to be so large, but soon reasoned that these were far from normal trees. Everything was different about this society, different than anything Parson had ever seen. They moved and worked, but not like pack or family. It was purely organic.

It was poetry, not in any way animalistic. There was an innocence to their way of life. There were no carnal urges or instincts that hid in their bloods.

While hard to adjust to the inversion of the Trees stance and their relation to Gravity, it wasn’t before Parson was able to ignore it. His sights were extraordinary, and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste for the sake of asking questions that would be much easier to figure out himself.

As far as he was concerned, they were skating across the underside of the Earth’s crust. They stood as if they were mirrored by human life above them. The ideas proposed by Sir Isaac Newton definitely lent themselves within the planet as well. The ground was the ceiling, and everything grew downward. In this “Giant Pocket” that Parson found himself in, it was dangerous to be careless. He clung to Wilson’s trunk as if there were no other option, because there truly wasn’t save for falling to your demise at the center of the Earth.

It would take some getting used to, but it was certainly more adventurous at the face-value than schoolwork ever could be.

“Alright.” Winston spoke, and gestured a branch downwards. “There you are.”

Parson sat confused, much like he always had been. The insinuations and assumptions were on behalf of Winston this time, only the Tree wasn’t quick enough to catch his mistakes.

They sat at the base of a wide forest that existed within the the space. There were many of them bunch together, stretched over a vast piece of the pocket. It almost crept up on Parson, because he never noticed approaching it. There were branches extending from these trees, which appeared to Parson as Redwoods, and they seemed to be inviting him to climb them. “What do you expect of me, Winston?”

“There are aged ones that grow near the limit. Speak to them and they will decide what to make of you.” Winston once again cast his lives downward, or upward, towards the core.

“What to ‘make’ of me? Down there?” The option didn’t sound appealing. Then again, Winston spoke as if it weren’t exactly an option.

“They have ask to know why we’re here, and it is only you who can tell them. I never intended to return.”

Parson sighed, and began what would be an arduous climb downwards, towards the limit of the First Great Pocket.

Chapter Six

Parson thought about many things during his climb downward. It was an inherit trait, he figured, while scaling these gargantuan Trees, as he’d never done much Tree-climbing before. It allowed his mind to wander very easily.

First he pondered what his Grandmother would say to him upon his return home, and how badly she would scorn and punish him this time. He wondered if his Parents would hear of it. But then, it was a gradual acceptance that he would probably never see any of those people ever again. The life he’d found was already so much more exciting that what he’d left behind that there were no longer any ties that could bind him to the above.

He was amongst the Trees now, living a life most aren’t meant to know about.

It wasn’t until after an hour or so of climbing-maybe more, as Parson wasn’t able to keep time missing both watch and sun-that his mind began to examine this expansive area he found himself in, which was rather peculiar given his odd surroundings. Apparently, the examination of his own personal quest was of greater importance, but that could be argued due to Parson’s was ability to relinquish his earthly ties with such ease.

How big is this place? Parson asked himself as he found himself closer and closer to a dirt floor, still a fatal fall, but now closer than the ceiling. It seemed to stretch farther than the horizons on both sides, gaping upwards until it is covered by the thick of the Treetops.

Faint whispers slowly brought Parson out of his trance, freezing in mid-transition from one Treebranch to the next. He turned his face towards the trees rustling, and came face-to-upside-down-face with one of the massive Redwoods. Its finer branches sagged towards the ground below as if he were hanging out to dry.

“Hello, Parson.”

Other winds shortly followed, forcing Parson’s head to spin.

“Greetings, Boy.” “Welcome, Parson, to the Great Pocket.” “The First Great Pocket.” “Right, the First Great Pocket. Welcome.”

The winds were all in their own distinct tones, ranging amongst various pitches. Parson found difficulty listening to them all at once, as it began to flow together rather violently.

“I’m sorry, but you know my name?” the boy asked.

“Of course we know your name. It has been whispered amongst the winds ever since you entered the Pocket.” “You’ve caused somewhat of a stir.” “The others won’t stop with the commotion!”

Parson found this odd, as he did not notice any commotion amongst the Trees during his passing through the Pocket. Most of them appeared to be as dull as Winston.

“But I did not hear of any such things. It’s been as quiet as nightfall!” He cried out.

“Well of course it has… to you. How could you expect to hear all of the winds at once? You’re merely a human child.”

A lot of the leaves rustled, as if a joke had just been made.

“You know what I am,” Parson figured, “But I still am clueless as to what manner of creature you folk are.”

The leaves rustled again, but this time they were unpleasantly.

“We are no manner of creature, Boy.” “We are the Earth.” “We are repair-persons.”

“We are here to heal what has been hurt. To restore what has been lost. We are as old as time and now we are called to these Pockets in order to fill the void. We once had names, but they have been forgotten throughout the many years that we’ve grown here. We once were classified, much like Oaks and Tulips and Rattlesnakes and Englishmen alike. We once were called Arbods… But that is the first time the word has been said in many centuries.”

Parson wanted to ask many questions of these strange and wise beings, but had to wait his turn. These Arbods had questions of their own.

“Do you know why you came here?” One of them asked.

“Well, I asked Winston to take me-”

“Winston?” Another wind interrupted him. “Who is Winston?”

“Oh, that’s the, um, Arbod who brought me here. I asked him to bring me after I nicked him with my ax.”

“And he just brought you here? After a mere request?” One of the Redwoods leaves rustled with excitement.

“Well, no, it took me some convincing. He’s rather stubborn, even for a Tree. It’s like he wouldn’t budge!” Parson’s attempt at humor was lost on the beings, who merely rustled amongst themselves for a moment. It baffled Parson for a moment, why they were so concerned with his discovery. He never planned to leave the place. “Listen, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to tell any body about this place or about you people. Your secret is safe with me.”

“No no no,” One Tree spoke, “It is not you who we are concerned for.” “It is your companion who brought you here.” Said another.

Chapter Seven

Parson was allowed to stay in the Pocket under the sole condition that he’d serve as a caretaker of sorts to his new friend, Winston. It was a role that Parson had gotten used to over the years, but this time it wouldn’t involve meaningless chores.

Parson took to his new duties with ease, as it mostly involved riding his branches during his day-to-day routines.

The aged Redwoods, as Parson saw them, arranged this partnership due to their worry of Winston, who left the Pocket less than a century ago in a self-imposed exile. They told Parson of his reasons; he was neither young nor aged, stuck somewhere in the middle. He’d been alive for more than just shy of a millennium, yet looked no greater than a Cherry Tree of few decades. There was no reason for him to stay, he figured. If he couldn’t reach the limit, he couldn’t contribute. Why stick around in a place that doesn’t need you?

Well, Parson never had the feeling himself so he couldn’t quite relate. Instead he opted to keep depressing thoughts like that out of his mind, lending his help to Winston whenever it was needed. He’d even fashioned his own nook in the cradle of one of Winston’s branch, creating something similar to a hammock.

Everyday, Parson would awake on the journey towards the underside of the lake. His eyes would flutter open amidst the parade of other Arbods much like Winston, all in their various shapes and sizes. While some of these other Arbods were gigantic in height, they still could not compare to those of the aged.

Shortly after, the group of Arbods would reach the underside-an area of fertile soil, enriched with water and sunlight, sitting just below a large fresh-water lake resting on the Earth’s surface. At first, the entire process confused Parson even more, but after a bit of time he began to catch on. The Arbods would find an open space in the dirt, enough to give them and their neighbors stretching room with their roots, careful not to disturb each others work.

Then the soil would be harvested, with the Arbods’ roots grinding, mixing, and mulching the soil so as to get the fresher nutrients resting at the water-body’s bed. This process would go on for hours, or however long the sun would stay out. They would exchange shifts with other Arbods, allowing everyone to get their equal time with such limited spots in the soil. It was an intricate system, one that’s effectiveness had Parson doubted, but he’d never say a word to them.

The Majority of Arbods were stuck in their ways. They needed to reach the limit in order to prevent any great disasters. The above-world was dependent on the success of this society, and their success depended on their growth. While there were many failed experiments of the past this method had proved tried and true. It was slow, and it was steady, but it worked.

It was the desire of all Arbods to hit the limit and fix themselves between the core and the surface. This was their duty and has always been, ever since these Great Pockets came about. The aged told Parson about before, how the planet’s blood flowed richly through these caverns. But, mysteriously, it was as if the life force had been drained entirely. There were remnants of its life-force, stained across the walls and floors and ceiling in little black pools, but nothing substantial.

When the void was left, something needed to fill it. The pressures of civilization advancing up above would soon weigh in. Soon, everything would collapse. The Arbods were charged with preventing such disasters from happening, and wherever a Great Pocket would appear… so would the Arbods.

Very few of the massive trees, even the aged, had yet to reach the limit. Those that did grow large enough became columns of support-a rod fixed between the center and the surface. There was no life beyond reaching the limit for the Arbods, but this is accepted if not eagerly anticipated.

Parson found no excitement in such a lifestyle, but supported the decisions of the race around him all the same. At least he could appreciate the nobility in their actions. But still, it was rather boring to him, and not much more exciting than a life of schoolwork and summer chores.

Winston, meanwhile, continued his fruitless efforts, despite knowing full well that he’d never reach the limit.

He couldn’t construe, for the life of him, why he’d decided to return so easily. There was no solace for him in the Pocket, finding little to no use for anything.

Months passed, and Parson and Winston spent their days together. They pretended to enjoy them, but the truth was, they didn’t care much either way.

Chapter Eight

It had been many weeks, Parson assumed, and figured that now would be as good a time as any to break the news to Winston. He shot up from his hammock with an excited look on his face, just before Winston was to begin his journey to the underside.

“Guess what, Winston?” He asked, laced with energy. “Today is my birthday!”

“Your birthday? What’s your birthday?”

“You don’t know what a birthday is?” Parson was particularly shocked. Never before had he come across someone ignorant of a birthday. Then again, his friend was also ignorant of a name. “Why, that’s just crazy. A birthday is a celebration of your birth! Your creation! It comes around once a year, and its the time where everyone gives you lots of gifts because they’re happy that you’re in their life, and it is there way of appreciating you!”

“Hm, that sounds nice.” Winston replied.

“So you didn’t get me anything?” Parson asked, a hint of disappointment on his tongue.

“How would I have known to? I only just discovered what a birthday is.”

“Well, you have to get me something, Winston. We’re friends! It wouldn’t be right to ignore tradition.”

“Well, what would you like?”

And so, Parson decided to take this opportunity to return to his Grandmother’s home. Sure, he somewhat enjoyed his time spent in the Pocket, but he very much missed the life he left behind and began to doubt whether leaving was the right choice all along.

With the permission of the aged, Parson and Winston traveled through the very tunnel they came through months ago. It was longer than Parson remembered the first time, perhaps due to the excitement that was reeling him this time. Before, it was a longing of the unknown. This time, it is much more familiar.

He planned to say good-bye to Winston once they got there. He planned to thank him for the adventure and experience provided, and that he’d never forget it. He never once thought about apologizing to the elders for reneging on his duties, but during his time spent with Winston he never once thought that his friend needed extra care.

However, when Parson returned home, he found that all had not been kept the way he left it. The cavern was exactly the same, as was the tree-stump sitting up above. Parson climbed through the hole to approach his Grandmother’s house.

He never expected it, though he should have, but as he peered through her dirtied windows and found the house barren, he was struck with a startling realization. His Grandmother had passed, as she was due to, and it happened in the short time he was away.

It was a painful aspect to consider and one he couldn’t ignore. If true, he’d punish himself for not being there in the time she needed him most. He had to find out if this were the case, so he coaxed Winston out of the hole and into the sunlight for the first time in his life.

The above world was a new and mysterious sight to Winston, but he had no time to respond to its wonder due to the emotional state of the young Parson. He sobbed as he stared into the window that was once his room, the mess of his clothes no longer covering the floor. Then he turned back to Winston and told him, “We have to go to the cemetery.”

Winston didn’t know what a cemetery was, and had he been told that’s where dead humans are buried he probably wouldn’t have gone. But Parson wasn’t concerned for the feelings of his friend at such a point in time. All he needed was the closure his Grandmother could provide.

They stuck to the fields and backroads that lined the countryside to get to the local plots, weary of what everyday people might say in response to the sight of a moving, breathing Tree. But they made their way largely undetected, finally reaching the cemetery just as the sun began its decent. Winston waited on the edge of the cemetery, his roots barely spilling over into the plots.

It didn’t take a thorough investigation of the headstones to find his Grandmother’s. It was almost as if Parson was instinctively drawn there, like he always knew that’s where she’d end up. Upon seeing her name etched in the granite, he immediately fell to his knees. “Loving Wife, Mother, and Grandmother,” was what the the epitaph read. He ran his tiny fingers over the inscription, tears relentlessly falling from his face.

He left her behind for little more of a reason than boredom, and now she was gone.

Suddenly, Parson was overwhelmed. The guilt that struck him was more painful than any fall a person could take, no matter how high up it may be.

“Winston, we must leave,” he turned around to face his friend, and was shocked to see that he had doubled in size.

“Parson, I think I’m growing.”

The movement was as subtle as the clouds on a clear day. As if God itself was turning up the dial on Winston’s growth rate, to make up for lost time. Parson stood shocked as the once tiny Cherry tree cast a shadow over him, towering high like a mighty Oak. His branches were more plentiful than ever, more inviting for Parson to climb.

What could have caused this?, Parson wondered to himself. Was it the doings of the sun? Maybe something richening the soil—

“Ah-ha,” Parson said aloud, wiping what was left of the tears from his eyes. It wasn’t longer than few moments, and the boy already understood exactly what just took place. His dead Grandmother was now an afterthought, replaced with the wealth of dead people inhabiting the cemetery. “Winston, I’ve found you a new harvest.” He said, but Winston paid no attention, for he was bothered by a restlessness.

A restlessness that did not reside in him. Until now.

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

will be finished soon. apologies for not putting up a finished product.

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