The Giving Man
All he had left to give was his heart.
Every small town has its myths. That old building that everyone wishes would get demolished. The house where children dare each other to knock on the door. The only difference in Splintered Pines was that their myth was real, verifiable, and repeatable. Every man in town with a missing finger stood as proof. Every woman who had removed her nose stood as proof. An infant mortality rate of zero stood as proof.
Sequoia’s mother had bidden him to stay away from Douglas Woods, a sprawling collection of pines and ferns that the town wrapped around like a fortress. She feared the same addiction as her brother would consume him.
There he was, deep in the heart of the woods. Before him, a clearing of dark, black dirt. In the center, a stone lectern surrounded by three concentric circles of gigantic mushrooms.
The sun was high in the sky as Sequoia stepped gingerly over the mushrooms and stood before the lectern. He ran his hand across the rough granite. He had only one memory of his Uncle Tim. His first fishing trip. He pulled a small sunfish out of a brook. His uncle clapped his one hand against his thigh, an uneven grin stretched across his face. A few days later, Uncle Tim walked into Douglas Woods and was never seen again.
Raising his hand in a tight fist, Sequoia pounded the lectern three times. The black soil rose into the air like a mist, blotting out the sun. Sequoia stumbled back as the cold, smoky mist engulfed him. He pushed himself back to his feet as an overwhelming voice rattled his bones, “What do you want?”
He had heard the stories a thousand times, but none had prepared him for the experience. Sequoia said, “I’m Sequoia and…”
The voice screamed, “I didn’t ask your name, ignorant bag of meat, I asked what you want.”
In complete darkness, Sequoia’s head hung. “Ma…my wife,” he said. “I can’t give her children. Will you fix me?”
A mocking laugh rolled through the darkness before the thing spoke again. “Leave me the tip of your middle finger, just to the first knuckle, and you will be healed.”
The dark mist settled back into the earth. As the clearing came into focus, Sequoia saw a short pair of trimmers sitting on the lectern. He shook as he picked them up and placed his middle finger between the blades. Knuckles turned white as he pressed the handles. The pain shot up his arm, and he let out a blood-curdling scream.
The fingertip fell onto the lectern.
Life goes on. Sequoia’s wife became pregnant, but they lost the baby. As he stepped into that dark clearing, he limped on his still-healing foot. Standing at the lectern, he rubbed his missing right ear. With no hesitation left, he pounded three times upon the lectern. The darkness swallowed him into its belly, and the powerful voice filled his body, “What do you want?”
Sequoia couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. He thought about the lost child, for a moment, it was one with the withering crops. “Please, benefactor, remove the blight from my crops. They wither in the field, and no matter how much I water, the earth remains dry.”
The same mocking laugh rolled through the darkness. The being spoke again, “This is more than your previous requests. Do you understand this?”
Sequoia rubbed the hole where his ear had once been. “I do,” he said, swallowing sobs.
“Leave me your nose.” Each syllable sent shattering pain through his body. “That should be enough.”
The murky mist settled back into the dark earth. On the lectern sat a shimmering knife. The sun’s unrelenting rays reflected off it into his eyes. The dam broke, and the sobs burst forth. Sequoia fell to the ground, holding his nose. He pictured the various mutilated faces in town and had no desire to join them.
The tears were meaningless. Desire was meaningless. Sequoia knew what would come of his family without his sacrifices. He rose to his feet, rubbing the tears from his eyes.
It was a hard year. Every visit to the clearing brought resolution, but each new moon brought disaster. This was different, without crops they would starve. Sequoia took the knife in his hand. His face reflected from the polished blade. One last glimpse of his face, unmarred.
Standing in the forest clearing before him. Sequoia no longer told the days by the rising and falling sun. Nor did he tell the seasons by the crops he grew. Sequoia’s only indication of time was the scars on his body. He looked at the stump where his right hand had once been. His left hand had only a thumb and three fingers left. Where his nose once had stood scar tissue swirled around uncanny slits.
I hope I have enough left to give.
That was his last thought. Moving out of habit, Sequoia found himself pondering the lectern yet again. He breathed the dark mist deep into his lungs. It burned slightly, like ash mixed with ammonia, but he didn’t care.
This time, the laugh came before the first words. The pain-inducing voice spoke, “I recognize you, meat bag. You should feel greatly honored. Most of you look the same to me.”
Sequoia wasn’t sure how to respond. He stood in silent darkness, listening to his own pounding heart. It became clear that the being would not speak again until he did. Sequoia said, “I am honored.”
“What do you want?”
Sequoia closed his eyes. The neurologist’s vacant eye socket filled the space. Sequoia wondered if he would have to give his own eye today. “My wife… The doctor called it Splintered Pines Syndrome. A genetic disease that…”
“I know about what you call Splintered Pines Syndrome. Just because I recognize you doesn’t mean you can explain anything to me, meat bag.”
Sequoia mumbled a weak apology.
“No. You aren’t sorry, but you will be. This is a large request, and now you have disrespected me. Let’s see, I’d take an arm, but yours are already missing too much flesh. Your tongue.”
“My tongue?”
“About an inch should be enough.”
On the lectern sat the same pair of trimmers he had used many times before. Now it pushed back on Sequoia like the wrong end of a magnet. He could feel the veins pulse against his aching head. Body parts were easy to give up, but this was more than a body part; this was his voice.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath that clung to his dry throat. The withered remains of his child and the dying crops invaded his peace. His wife, pale in her bed, overlay it all. Sequoia found the trimmers in his hand, not remembering grabbing them.
He stuck out his pudgy tongue as far as it would go. The sharp blades scraped against it uncomfortably. He slipped the blades back a little further. Better to give too much than too little. Blood poured from the corners of his trembling lips.
Sequoia slumped in the wheelchair. His wife stood behind him, pushing him forward. His right arm was gone. A dark chamber stared from where his left eye once sat. Scars covered his body, giving the appearance of a burn victim. His wife stared into the distance, over his head, as if she were unaware that the load she pressed forward was human.
She painstakingly navigated the chair through the rings of mushrooms. Stopping before the lectern, she squatted below the handgrips. Pressing with her legs, she lifted the chair up, dumping Sequoia onto the dark ground. No dust stirred.
She whispered flatly, looking down upon her husband, “Save her.”
She turned with the chair and walked back to the edge of the forest, out of sight.
Reaching up with his remaining arm, he gripped the lectern as best he could with three fingers. Leaning his weight into the stone, he pressed with his leg and pulled with his arm until his body draped across the lectern like a pelt.
He raised his fist and tapped it against the lectern, hoping it was enough force. The dark mist swirled around him. And the voice ripped through his nerves one last time. “What do you want?”
“Mii Daher naads haling from Splinner Pie Syndom,” Sequoia slurred from his amputated tongue.
The being laughed. It laughed longer than the Sequoia had ever thought possible. Sequoia lay across the cold stone, limp and hopeless.
Finally, it spoke, “There is only one thing you have of value. I will take your heart.”
As the darkness gave way to the cloud-filtered sun, a bone saw sat beside Sequoia. He rolled to his side, angling his chest so that his heart would fall onto the lectern, and picked up the saw.
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