As far as I could tell, it was the oldest tree on this farm. Even if it wasn’t basically famous and attached to a legend, Iwould have to admit there was something about the way it rose toward the sky, quiet yet commanding in its presence. Its trunk was massive, the bark deeply furrowed, even gnarled in some spots. The branches were sprawling and would be intimidating in the way they commandeered space if not for the whimsical, dramatic way they reached outward.
In the summer, the crown was broad, mimicking a large umbrella that cast protective, dappled shade over the raised, knotted roots at its base. The countless hollows and knots provided shelter to wildlife as it watched the landscape change as centuries passed. What must it be like to be so timeless? To stand still when everything else around you changes?
The thought struck a nerve inside me, and for a lingering moment, I stared at the old oak with an affinity I hadn’t felt before.
But just like before, Toby commandeered my attention when he stopped before it, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat and gazing up at the majestic structure. Gusts of wind combed through his near-curly hair, making it look like a living thing bursting from his crown, but the rest of him seemed small compared to the powerful tree with the dense green clusters of leaves and berries. They looked bigger this year. Perhaps I was the philosophical one because I found myself wondering if it knew he was coming.
But then I remembered I didn’t believe in all this nonsense, and if the mistletoe clusters were larger than normal, it was good for me because it would be easier to shoot out of the tree.
Shaking off the sight he made and the almost melancholy way it made me feel, I reached into the cab for the shotgun.
“I could shoot it down with my eyes closed,” I assured the mayor as I walked past. “Better cover your ears. It’s time for the harvest.”
7
Toby
What the hellwas I thinking?
Waxing poetic about a tree and a tale of love and loss. It was as if I were the same kid from ten years ago, the one with a gullible heart and stars in his eyes.
But I wasn’t. I couldn’t be. Not when I spent the last decade avoiding Christmas in Winterbury and everything it entailed. Ten years of telling myself the story was just a gimmick. Ten years of trying to forget.
But the closer we got to the living legend, the more I felt its pull. Until everything I forced myself to forget came spilling out as though it had been there all along.
The mistletoe that grew here wasnotmagic. The oak tree itself was just bark and leaves.
Yet as I stood beneath its imposing structure, staring up into the twisted, barren branches, it seemed like so much more. As if the very oxygen it produced was laced with something that had the ability to rewire your brain. Or maybe your heart. Because even with the temperature dropping faster than the sun andthe promise of snow heavy in the atmosphere, there was also warmth. Not the kind that thawed the stinging of your fingertips or the frozen tip of your nose. But the kind of warmth you felt inside you, a whisper of a promise and the possibility of being part of something so much bigger than I could ever be alone.
I guess I had forgotten after all.
I’d forgotten the power of this oak and the place in which it grew.
How had I managed this when I was barely eighteen?
You didn’t. You ran. You ran and never came back.
“Wait,” Mayor Schroder hollered, thankfully breaking the spell holding me hostage.
I turned as Archer paused, boots planted and shotgun raised. The sight he made standing there with flannel molded to his upper body and dirt staining his jeans was a jolt to the nervous system. Archer had always been good-looking, but,oh, the years had been kind to him.
It was almost unfair to compare the boy I remembered to the man who stood in front of me now because they seemed so different.
Strange how both seemed to forever have me in a chokehold.
Long gone was the boisterous athlete with a ready-made smile. In its place was a man I could only describe as rugged. His broad frame was no longer carved from football and the gym but from years of outdoor labor. His once polished features were now slightly weathered from the sun, and the trimmed beard covering his jaw seemed more out of necessity than choice.
I might have once described him as pretentious, but now I only noted quiet confidence that rang with strength and capability to handle whatever came his way.
“How about you let Brett do the honors?” The mayor went on, gesturing to his son.
“No.” Archer’s reply was succinct and direct but not necessarily unkind.
“Well, why not?” Paul wanted to know.
Archer heaved a sigh and lowered the gun, twisting around to face us. “Has he ever shot a gun?”
“No,” Brett was quick to reply.
