It’s a beautiful summer’s day, so I go to the park with a book tucked under my arm. There’s a mature shade tree—a willow—standing near a bend in the creek. Its branches arch high overhead in a broad canopy and their ends swing low, almost sweeping the ground. I sit close to the trunk and press my back against the bark which is rough and etched with deep lines like the skin of an old man. The air is hot and still. Clouds hang motionless in the sky as if someone has pinned paper cutouts to blue Bristol board. I doze for a while but I can’t say for how long because, when I next open my eyes, the clouds haven’t changed. I could have dozed for a minute. I could have dozed for an hour. Nothing is moving.
I open my book and begin to read. It’s a nondescript book—a thriller with a dash of romance—or a romance with a dash of thriller. It makes no difference. I’m pleased with the book itself. Not the genre or the plot, but the physical book. I don’t usually care about the physical properties of a book but in this case I was intentional and bought a trade paperback printed on 100% post-consumer recycled acid-free paper using biodegradable vegetable-based inks. It means I can read my thriller-romance (or romance-thriller) with an easy conscience.
By the second chapter I have figured out that the main character has spun a web of lies so complicated his house of cards will inevitably fall. It’s an age-old morality tale re-packaged and re-sold. I like to reflect on the circularity of life. The nutrients of the soil feed the tree; the tree produces leaves; the leaves fall and become soil. So it goes. Nothing is moving—only turning in circles to produce the illusion of movement. Just like all new stories are really old. I smile to myself at the Zen nature of my thinking. I must make a point of sitting more often under this willow tree.
I detect what I believe is the twitch of a branch. Odd! I think. I don’t feel a breeze. Everything remains hot and still. Maybe it was a stray hair in the periphery of my vision. Or maybe my imagination. Maybe I’m projecting the motion I read onto the still landscape I inhabit.
I return to the book, sliding my fingertips across the sheen of the pages—100% post-consumer recycled acid-free paper printed with biodegradable vegetable-based inks. The main character pursues a woman who doesn’t care for him. She believes in causes and isn’t interested in any man who doesn’t share her concerns. But this man is disingenuous; he displays an interest in her causes, but his display is no different than the strutting of a peacock. She wants authenticity, not bright plumage. Sunlight spackles down on me through the minnow-shaped leaves and there’s something about its warmth that sets my mind adrift. It’s hard to tell the difference between an afternoon reverie and a full-fledged dream but I suspect my mind floats somewhere in between.
The taste of dirt starts me from my dozing. I’m wide awake now, face down and pinned to the ground. I struggle to get up but can’t move my limbs. Something has taken hold of my wrists and ankles, fastening them securely and stretching them outward from my body in opposing directions as if I’m being stretched on a medieval instrument of torture. I can’t see my assailant but he holds me firmly in place with what feels like a fat knee pressed to the small of the back. I try to yell out but as I open my mouth I feel a lash against my face and something hard across my mouth like a bit between the teeth. It’s a thick stick and it jams my tongue to the back of my mouth. It draws tighter and pulls my head back so my neck is almost at the snapping point. I can wriggle my head a little to one side and I see that my arm is held in place by a U-shaped willow branch. Even as I watch, the branch constricts like a snake and I begin to lose the feeling in my hands.
Then the lashings begin. Sharp strips of willow tear across the flesh of my back. I would scream out if I could but with the bit in my mouth the most I can manage is a terrified groan. I can’t see my back, but I can feel it. I can feel how my shirt has been torn to shreds. And I can feel the trickle of blood running off my back and down my sides and dripping onto the ground. The pain mounts. With each lash there is an instant of acute pain that is followed by a release, but just as I begin to think I might be able to bear the pain, another lash stings my back. The ground beneath me feels like it’s whirling. I think I might be sick. Salt stings my eyes and sweat runs across my lips. It’s not the sweat of a moist heat; it’s the chilly sweat of shock. Flies have begun to buzz around the open wounds and some are bold enough they settle on my shoulder blades.
I can’t say for certain how long the willow torture continues. It seems relentless. Every time I think there might be a break I hear the swish of a switch slicing through the air then the crack against my skin—a distinctive snap that reaches my ears even before I feel it. My head is swimming and I have only a tenuous hold on consciousness now. The sky is black and the whole earth seems to throb beneath me. I struggle against my restraints but it’s useless. I try to cry out but my tongue is caught in the back of my throat. One last sight fills my eyes as I slip below the threshold of consciousness: I see on the ground before me, and spattered by droplets of blood and sweat, the book I had been reading—100% post-consumer recycled acid-free paper printed with biodegradable vegetable-based inks.
