The Moon In the Tool Shed
by Andrew S. Fuller

"How will they choose?" the hermit asked.

The shape shifted in the corner, not answering.

"I used to talk alot. I used to get up in front of thousands of people and shout about how mad I was at the companies, and how stupid we are as a race. The crowds got bigger, and the people seemed to be listening, they were landing lawsuits on the big companies. But I didn’t
see any progress. We kept killing the world. It kept dying. So I moved. I moved out here. I’m sorry, I haven’t had company in nearly a decade." The shape did not turn to him, did not reply. Under the cowl, its head seemed to face the window. Did it watch the cobweb, the still insect
husks? Something outside? Was it blind? It continued with what it had begun at its arrival, its waiting.

The hermit gave his visitor a long look, no longer afraid. He has guessed before, but now he was sure. He did not really believe the black cloak was any kind of clothing.

"This used to be a forest glen." The hermit continued to pretend, with small talk as with any other guest. He nodded toward the window. "Just dust now. As far as I can see." He watched a rare wind move a shape across the land, thinking nothing in particular. He almost smiled. It
was, he decided, good to have a guest, no matter who. After a while, he reached to the kettle, steaming on the stove. His hand paused. "I’m sorry, do you take tea?" He expected no answer. The gray drink fell into his stained cup.

Not until the noise drew up outside his shack cabin did the hermit remember what a vehicle engine sounded like. The hermit stood, feeling his legs quiver. He took up his walking stick from its place in the corner and went to the door. Standing by warped boards of the entryway,
he listened for another visitor, the day’s second. The bright blades of sunlight cut through the cracks between the boards, unhindered. The motor raced once, then shut off. He held his breath and listened, ear to the door’s widest crack. There was the tight straining whine of a
spring. A door slammed. Stepping back, he heard feet shuffle through the dust.

He rubbed the stick in his palm, playing like the first visitor, waiting. No shadow came. He looked for his own, found it bent against the wall, then glanced at the one standing alone by the window, screaming lost black silence.

Seeing the shape again, falling and twisting into its bottomless body, made the hermit open his door, step out, and close it carefully behind him. He felt and bowed to the sun, angry and simple in the sky. Squinting, the hermit shielded his eyes. To miss the landscape, he bent
low, but his eyes caught the brown dryness, seared onto his retina the image of empty land, ongoing to the distant hills. The twin rows of the road, cracked and deep, cut a scar of dried mud through the scant grass and sand. The dust, thrown from the road, with no wind to curl it away, had already settled its clouds.

The truck was there, a few yards from the door. Its paint, once an official metallic silver, had faded to a dull gray, ignoring the sun, denying shine. Its tires, once freshly black and vulcanized, had worn, the traction smoothed. A headlight was broken. The license plate, though dusty, was distinguishable. Plain, few digits, a government vehicle. The hermit looked into the empty cab. Stepping around the house corner, he found the driver, still, looking up at the single tree. Something shaped like a bow, curved and menacing, leaned against his leg. The tree’s few branches reached away, bony, to the empty sky, with jagged
fingernail leaves curling. There was no telling at the leaf color, red, brown or green. What season walked the land, the hermit did not know. None of them knew. Like them, the seasons were dying.

The man stood and looked at the tree, so the hermit remained, watching him. The coveralls stretched over him, neck to ankles, wrinkles and creases absorbed at the joints by the silver material. A dark Rorschach sweat spread over the man’s back, centered at his spine. When he moved, lifting his arm, the hermit shouted. It was not the way the darkened crab moved on the man’s shoulder blade, it was what the man held, black, polished and new.

The hermit still shouted, running, as the man kneeled down to the tree’s thin trunk. As the hermit came and stood over the kneeling man, he saw the bow shaped tool lifted, and its teeth set against the dry bark, as close to the roots as possible.

"Why are you…? What are you…?" The hermit did not know what to ask. Obvious answers made for useless questions. The kneeling man seemed to agree, not answering, not looking up, only staring at his hands on the tool. The hermit tried saying "stop." Then he considered kicking the coveralled man, but saw the company pistol at his hip. Bullets were scarce, but the government would have them to supply. If the shot barked, sounded over the dead field, no one would hear. And, even calm about the idea of the bullet jumping through his brain, he was not sure he wanted that end, quick or slow. Then, the hermit thought of beating the man, remembering the stick he held. Stick, arm of the tree, fallen, offered, given, to be found when he had moved out to the house. But if the uniformed man did not go, follow the road, back to the city— they would send more. More trucks, more men, more tools. Carved out by loss,
filled with defeat, tired, the hermit looked up the branches, followed their stretching. The question came to him then. "Why this tree?" he asked. "Why the one here?"

"We need it," said the company man. He sounded quick and clean, exhaling the sterile toned breath of script and training.

"You don’t have to take this one," retorted the hermit.

"We need it."

The hermit looked past the house, then around, out over the broken, pitted field, the bent stalks of grain. "Why should they want…" he began, asking the tree. Then he looked at the company man, dust powdering only his boots, the dark stain on his vertebrae. And he felt
the uselessness of the question. And he knew the obviousness of the answer.

It seemed a pause of years before the company man responded. "It took a while to find," said the company man, releasing the saw, putting an elbow on his knee. "You’re lucky to have kept it so long."

"I don’t own it."

"Then we’ll take it."

The hermit continued to look on, at the cleanliness of the company man, seeing the crew hair cut (policy against frequent showers, no doubt), the pale hands, the sweat sliding down his shaved sideburns. Then the hermit looked at the company tool, its molded grip, the thin black paint still on the blade.

The company man must have taken the silence, the final glance at the blade, as approval, for he gripped the handle and began the tool’s cutting motion. The teeth skipped off the bark at first, but then chewed in and sank smooth in rhythm, bringing wood dust out with each back
motion. Silver streaks appeared on the black blade, the paint rubbing off. And the hermit knew the blade was unused.

The company man asked, "Could you help me out?" He rocked the handle, loosening the pinched blade. "I’ve never done this before."

"It’s the last one."

"What?" The company man wiped his brow.

"It’s the last one. You’ve cut down all the rest, or you wouldn’t come here."

The company man opened his mouth, poised his hands and jaw for an excuse, a lead from truth, then dropped his effort. "Yes, it’s the last one," he said blatantly.

"No," said the hermit.

"What?"

"I won’t help."

The hermit went and stood under the shade of the house. He watched through the afternoon. The company man unzipped the front of his coveralls, pulled the top fit down, and tied the sleeves around his waist. When the tree fell, the hermit saw one of the branches break
under the trunk’s weight. He imagined something break inside him, shatter and carry away. He had to imagine it because he felt nothing at all, not twinge or tear, but just looked on at the scene, the image. The company man paused too, hard and lifeless. With a new hatchet from the truck, he removed the branches. There was no wind to interrupt, lift leaves or dust. He was long and careful with the saw, cutting the trunk into neat log segments. Then he carried even-sized loads to the truck, and stacked them in rows in the flatbed.

The company man gathered a last handful of twigs, and disappeared around the house, the skin of his back already flashing red and burned. There was the closing and latching of the flat bed tailgate. He did not say goodbye, only slammed the driver’s door. The engine started, rattled as the truck backed around, and pulled away.

Night colored everything, not bringing stars. After his eyes adjusted, the hermit looked at the stump, pallid against the ground. Moving back to the front door, he saw the moon, a thin crescent, poised to till the dried flatness. "Could cut yourself on that." He stepped inside. The
polished walking stick fell from his hand, hit the step with a hollow knock, and settled in the dirt.

"He’s gone," said the hermit, and sat. The chair creaked. "He took it. I didn’t stop him. He would’ve brought more men, maybe a chain saw. And it was special. I didn’t even know. Knowing, I might’ve sat under it more nights." He waited a moment, not knowing what he thought. "No, probably not." The teapot had almost boiled its water away. He left it on the stove top, baking its own inside hot and dry. It no longer mattered. "You knew all of it, though, I’m sure. Didn’t you?" He talked to himself. "Of course. Why else would you… ? Yes."

He did not hear the shape move. Its cloak, its body did not rustle or rub. The floorboards were quiet. But he felt it coming towards him, like the approach of a stray dog, wild or lonely, and was not afraid. "Listen," he said, closing his eyes, "I know you didn’t come for me. Not
yet. I can feel it. And you’re still here, so it’s not for the tree." It stood next to him. He tried to keep talking, believe he was right. "So what for, then? What?"

He waited, as it had. But nothing touched him. Nothing struck or flooded or took him. He opened his eyes to see the shape, and it was gone. He looked for it, richer, deeper, in the corners and the shadows, but it had gone. The door was still closed, and it had not taken him.
Then he knew why. He listened a moment, for footsteps, for the tool shed door. No wind pressed the walls. There was the muteness of the dry land.

He ran, out, around, unlatched the tool shed door. With the glow from above he could see in the dark that it was still there; the worn handle, woven to the wall and supporting nails by cobwebs, and its blade arcing like a moon, flaked with rust. He sighed. Leaving the door wide, he went back around the house, not lifting his feet from the dust.

At the front step he looked down and remembered, seeing the long print in the fine dust. Turning, he felt lighter. That too would work, he supposed. Far down the twin lines of the road, he saw the figure moving, putting its long arm out, using the stick, unnecessary but smoothly,
continuing on toward the hills, beyond, to the city, all the cities, to return later, and finish.

He went back inside to wait, leaving the door open for any visitors.

© Andrew S. Fuller

Visit the authors web site: www.owlsoup.com

June 1999 HofP