Tree Fingers (3 page)

Pacing, Graham said, “I could buy this bit of land from you. Just leave the tree, and we’ll work out the details.”

“Bull shit,” Cook chuckled. The two heavy set men in dirty tshirts who’d been working with the saws joined in the joke, pissing Alan off. They laughed harder and harder, until a loose branch fell unexpectedly, its pointed end lodging in the ground a foot in front of them.

“Wow,” Alan said, feigning surprise. “How about that?”

All three of the grime and sawdust encrusted men looked up into the branches, as if they might attack. Then, in unison, they took a few steps back, looking choreographed and comical. Alan smirked.

Nervously, Cook said, “It ain’t none of your business. It’s my tree.”

“Please,” Graham said, changing his tactic. “You don’t know how much that tree means to me.”

“Not as much as it’s gonna mean to me when one of them limbs falls on your roof and you sue my ass.”

“I’ll sign a waiver,” Graham offered.

“Go home,” Cook said and, taking his own advice, turned and walked toward his ranch-style dwelling.

Graham stood staring at the severed limbs littering Cook’s yard. Alan hurried over and put his arm around the other man, heedless of the comments made by the two lumberjacks. At their feet, a branch poking up from the leaves bore an uncanny resemblance to a human arm lying with the knuckles down and the fingers stretched out. Kneeling to touch it, Graham looked up at Alan. His eyes sparkled, reflecting the orange of the Halloween decorations scattered about the neighborhood.

“Would you help me do something, Alan?”

“Yeah, of course. Anything.”

“I have to keep at least a piece of it. Am I being silly? “No, Graham. It’s right that you should have it.”

They worked into the night, by the light of the moon, the pumpkins, and the lantern on the back porch. By the time they finished, the button-down shirts they’d worn to dinner were soaked with sweat, despite the chill of the night. Hand in hand, they backed away from what they’d constructed, admiring their effort and its result.

A scarecrow rose twelve feet into the air. Graham had covered one of the portrait heads he’d sculpted in art school with burlap. For eyes he’d attached two buttons: one from Alan’s shirt, small, black, and opalescent, and one from Luke’s sweater, which was round, wooden, and red. Smeared charcoal made the sockets look sunken. The mouth was made from black yarn, sewn in a string of Xs. They’d constructed the cross-shaped frame entirely from fragments of the walnut tree, carefully choosing branches that resembled skeletal hands. Then they’d draped the creature’s shoulders with an old black bed sheet that Alan had in the back of his car, and cut the edges into jagged fringe. A hood of the same material covered the burlap head, revealing only the weirdly proportioned, ghastly face.

Alan knew, even if his lover didn’t, how much magic their creation contained. All of the elements had been expertly chosen: bits of the tree Graham had imbued with such spirit, pieces of his current and dead lover, something he’d called into being with the skill of his hands. All the time they’d sawed, screwed, nailed and drilled, they’d been conjuring, weaving a spell. Graham had barely spoken while they worked, and now it seemed some of his demons had been exorcized, though he appeared exhausted.

“Wait until old man Cook wakes up and sees that,” he said, leaning against Alan.

“We could do more than startle him,” Alan suggested.

“There’s a spirit in that book I’m reading called Woldengeist, the Phantom of the Forest Shadows. He’s receptive to summoning, vengeful, and very protective of Nature. I bet—”

Graham turned to face him. “Just stop it, Alan. You know I don’t like it when you talk like that. I don’t believe any of that nonsense, any way.”

“It isn’t nonsense to me.”

“I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean to get cross with you. I’m just tired.”

“I know. Let’s go inside. I’ll build a fire.”

Graham fixed hot cider and cheese and crackers while Alan stacked the kindling. Soon they were cuddled on the sofa in front of the little blaze, drinking and snacking under a soft, blue blanket. The cozy scent of burning pine filled the room. Looking down at the food on his paper plate, Alan felt suddenly drowned in kindness. Upset as he’d been, Graham had taken the time to fix this fare, thought about Alan’s comfort, that he might be hungry. Looking back, Alan realized that Graham did those things all the time. Whenever he came to the house, he never waited long for a bite to eat or a glass of wine. When he spent the night, his clothes were washed by morning. How had he taken it for granted for so long?

“Graham,” he whispered. “I wish I could do more for you. Do better for you.”

Taking Alan in his arms, Graham said, “Don’t be silly. Look how you’ve helped me tonight. Look how you put up with all my foolishness.”

Since he could think of no verbal response, no adequate words to express his love, Alan set his food aside and pulled Graham’s face down into a kiss. As their tongues twined together, he unfastened the buttons of Graham’s white shirt. His hands slipped between the tight undershirt and Graham’s skin.

Almost automatically, Graham’s hands removed Alan’s belt and unbuttoned his trousers, bunching them down. They then slid up Alan’s leg, grazing his balls, and kneaded his ass cheek. Alan’s knees rose, fettered by his pants and impossible to spread, up to rest on Graham’s chest. He could feel the other man’s growing swell against his thigh.

Graham’s fingers traced the puckered circle of Alan’s ass as he kissed him urgently. Then, with a slurp, he removed his mouth, stood, and jerked Alan’s dress pants off over his shoes.

Alan splayed his legs, propping each heel on the edge of the couch. As Graham’s eyes devoured him, he traced the seam of his scrotum, heading lower. Then, stroking himself with one hand, he let his other fingertip slip inside himself.

“Alan!” Graham whispered.

“What? Why don’t you take your clothes off and come give me a hand?”

Graham stripped so quickly that his shirt still fluttered toward the floor as he dove on Alan, wrenching his legs up, squashing them between their chests. His cock ground against Alan’s opening, slicking it with pre-come.

“Gods, do it,” Alan pleaded.

“All right.” He seized Alan’s small waist and flipped him so that his elbows rested on the back of the couch, his knees on the cushions. Then he stood up and spread Alan’s cheeks, teasing his crack with the hard line of his erection. Before he could request it, Graham yanked Alan’s hips back, making their skin slap together.

“Graham, yes,” Alan murmured.

“No,” Graham said. “This time I want you to fuck me. But take off your shoes first. You look absurd.”

Stunned, Alan slid out of his wing-tips with the skulls over the heels. He balled his black socks and tossed them beside his pants. Then he stood and embraced Graham, relishing the contact of their skin on his legs.

“You’re sure you want this?” he asked.

“Positive,” Graham said. “Please, Alan. The time’s right. You’re right. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Graham. And I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” Graham said, unbuttoning Alan’s black shirt with the utmost tenderness and relish. It fell open, and Graham caressed Alan’s chest. “I want you.”

“Let’s go up to the bedroom,” Alan said.

They staggered up the steps kissing, groping each other, trying to cover every inch of each other’s anticipation-warmed skin with their eager fingers and mouths. Alan flung the old oak door open with the back of his elbow, not releasing Graham’s face from his hands. He wondered if he could light the hurricane lamps with magic, if his lover might not mind in his hyper-aroused state. Certainly he could call the little fire spirits to waltz along the wicks with a thought. In the end he decided not to chance ruining the ideal moment and steered Graham’s body to the edge of the four poster bed. After Graham had sprawled out, Alan found the matches in the nightstand drawer. Soon the room glowed softly with the light from the antique fixtures arranged around it.

Alan had always loved that about Graham, his appreciation for old, hand-crafted things. He loved his lean, compact frame and the way his light brown hair hung in front of his eyes, always looking long overdue for a trim. Tonight he looked positively enchanting, lying languidly across his patchwork quilt, his head propped on a pillow. The erect cock that Alan had always found perfect, neither too big nor small, reached up toward his navel.

On all fours, Alan perched above Graham’s body. He pinned his hair behind his ears so his view wouldn’t be obstructed. He’d waited months for this moment, and his cock filled in anticipation. But Graham looked so vulnerable, biting his lower lip. He’d lost so much.

“You’re sure?” Alan asked again.

In response, Graham tugged gently on Alan’s waist. Their bodies met. Breathing into Alan’s hair, warming his cheek and jaw, Graham said, “Yes.”

They kissed passionately but softly, tongues twisting together slowly. With one hand Alan brushed the dampening fringe from Graham’s forehead. With the other he reached between their bodies for Graham’s cock, swirling the fluids seeping from it around the head with his thumb. Graham opened his legs, and Alan sunk between them.

After a few more minutes of kissing and fondling, Alan knit his fingers with Graham’s, sat up, and guided the other man over onto his belly. His hands shifted so that his palms lay over Graham’s knuckles. He blew gently, cooling the back of Graham’s reddened neck. Graham shivered pleasantly.

Dipping his head down, Alan spoke into Graham’s ear. “How long has it been for you?”

“Since Luke.”

“Two years? Gods, Graham. You’re sure you want me to be the one?”

“Never been more sure. Alan, please.” He looked over his shoulder, certainty cementing his delicate features into hard lines.

No longer able to resist, Alan coaxed Graham’s hips up, nudging his legs wider by pressing against his inner thighs. He caressed Graham’s crevice, feeling like the recipient of a priceless gift.

“Lube?” he asked.

“Night table.”

Alan found the bottle and squeezed a generous amount into his hand, letting it warm before spreading it between Graham’s cheeks. He kissed up and down the long muscles of Graham’s back as his fingers delved inside. Already Graham’s breath became jagged, his body tense. He felt so snug against Alan’s fingers that Alan didn’t think there was any way Graham would be able to take his cock.

“Maybe we shouldn’t yet. I’ll just use my hand.”

“No, Alan. I want to.”

“If I hurt you—”

“You won’t.”

“Okay.” Rising up on his knees, Alan positioned himself and pressed tentatively. The head of his cock slid inside Graham’s wrinkled opening, and the other man grunted and clutched handfuls of blanket.

Not moving, allowing a moment for Graham to relax, Alan asked, “You’re all right?”

“Yes,” Graham hissed. “Alan—”

“Okay.” Slowly, a hair’s width at a time, Alan plunged deeper. Each movement elicited a groan from Graham, an expression of both bliss and delightful ache. As Alan began to draw himself in and out in shallow increments, the pain disappeared from Graham’s voice, and he moaned with utter delight.

The pleasure his lover expressed fired Alan’s fervor.

Graham felt so good, his body squeezing Alan like a vine choking a flower stalk. Alan could scarcely think. He crumpled toward Graham’s back, grasping his hand again, and fought to keep his thrusts gentle. Several times he caught himself growing over-enthusiastic, driving into Graham too hard and fast and had to ground himself, focus. He was the first lover Graham had taken since Luke’s death. Graham had chosen him, given himself to him. Alan wanted desperately to prove to Graham that his trust and love hadn’t been misplaced. So he willed himself to remain kind, in spite of the fury of lust Graham ignited in him.

“’S okay?” he panted, more to reassure himself.

“It feels so good, Alan. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Alan, sensing that he neared the limits of his endurance, reached beneath Graham. His lube-slicked hand grasped his cock. He loved that Graham was uncircumcised, his only lover ever to be so. Everything about Graham aroused him in ways no one else had ever done.

“I love you,” Alan blurted out, coming so hard his whole body shook. “Gods, I love you Graham.”

Warm wet exploded against Alan’s palm and squished between his fingers. “Oh my dear god, yes! Yes!” Graham yelled, his accent coming to the surface. Alan found the British sexy, often wished his lover hadn’t lost so much of his native cadence. “Oh god, I love you, too.”

They fell to the bed, and Alan pushed himself up on his hands. Their bodies separated, and they rolled to face each other.

Trembling, they held each other until Alan regained enough of his breath and sense to fetch a washcloth and a fresh blanket to replace the one they’d moistened. He wiped Graham clean and tucked the bedclothes around him. He listened as Graham’s breath slowed. After Graham fell asleep curled on his side, Alan waved his hand, dousing the flames of the lamps. He petted his lover’s fair hair and crept out of the bed and down the stairs.

Outside the damp, chill air stung Alan’s skin. The wet grass numbed his bare toes. Graham’s robe, scented lavender from the soap the other man preferred, hung open around his waifish, white form. Only the stars illuminated the yard now. The moon had dropped below the horizon and the people of the neighborhood had turned off their lighted ornaments.

Graham’s scarecrow looked like a black, inverted triangle against the crystalline sky. The tattered edges of its shroud flapped in the breeze. Leaves rustled, and now and then a walnut thumped against the porch roof, but otherwise all was silent.

Alan crouched down, his heels cold against his ass.

Just as the spellbook had instructed, he dug a bowl in the earth with his fingers. Around the perimeter he placed a piece of agate, a rusty straight pin, three pennies, and the skull of a squirrel. Within, he built a tiny teepee from pine twigs, thyme, sage, oak leaves, cat’s whiskers, and strands of his hair. All the while he chanted the Old Germanic words that meant “Come forth Woldengeist from the dark hollows of the trees. From the pockets of shadow among the gnarled roots. From the places in the forest never touched by sun. Come Wood Shade, hungry phantom. Accept my blood and heed my calling.” As he said the words, he echoed them in his mind, letting his consciousness and his call stretch out to the farthest, deepest patches of sylvan shadow. He envisioned primordial glens, trees as big as houses encrusted with shelf moss, lichen and vines. Then he lashed the pyre together with threads from one of Luke’s old shirts. Graham would never forgive him if he found out. But Graham wouldn’t find out. Alan didn’t perform his ritual to earn gratitude. He only wanted to give Graham the thing he wanted most, the way Graham had given him something precious an hour before.