The Tanner's Tree

The Tanner's Tree

Trevor Prescott

As Thomas Green stepped off the bus and into the brisk October air, he could smell the smoke. It was just past sundown and he could see a flickering orange glow about two blocks over toward the town center. Curious, Thomas pulled the strap of his bag up onto his shoulder and started jogging.

As he rounded Black’s Hardware, he stopped short. The scene was like something out of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Every citizen of Jacobsfield had crowded at the far end of Main Street. Some carried pitchforks, some carried shovels, and some carried torches.

Christ…what now? He started toward the scene, the angry shouts growing louder with every footfall.

Greg Klydesdale stood at the edge of the crowd, looking on from the sidewalk.

“Greg!” Thomas had to shout over the din of the townsfolk.

“Thomas! Are you back for good?”

“Shore leave,” Thomas corrected. “What’s going on?”

Greg nodded ahead. “Frank Peters. He’s been named by Tanner’s Tree.”

Thomas followed Greg’s line-of-sight to the front of the crowd. Frank Peters was tied to a telephone, red-faced and writhing. Several of his friends and family stood in a semi-circle around him, warding off the throbbing crowd.

“What’s the Tanner’s Tree?”

“What’s the—” Greg gave him a double take, and then paused. “Right, you’ve been out of the loop for a while. You know Frank’s neighbor, Llyod Merriweather?”

“I think I remember him.”

“Back when Jacobsfield was founded, there was a blacksmith shop where Lloyd’s house is now. The blacksmith made weapons, but he specialized in leather armor. He would tan hides and make bracers, chest plates—medieval stuff like that. Anyway, the king’s horse goes missing one day. The townsfolk figure the blacksmith stole it to make armor. So they march on over to the blacksmith and string him up from a tree, and leave him there until he starves to death. Hence, the Tanner’s Tree.”

Thomas frowned. “So where does that leave us now?”

“While you were away, we found a dead horse in Lloyd’s yard under the tree. Nobody had any idea where it came from. Rumors started swirling and long story short, now everyone believes the Tanner will rise from the dead and take revenge.” Greg shrugged. “Apparently, that day has come.” He gestured toward Lloyd Merriweather’s house.

Past the roaring bonfire at Frank Peters’ feet, Thomas saw it: the enormous tree, which had stood noble and erect for as long as he could remember, had become uprooted. It lay across the yard, leaving the fence in splinters and a gaping hole Frank Peters’ roof.

“Everyone’s saying it’s a sign,” Greg explained. “The Tanner’s Tree landed on Frank’s house. They take it as a bad omen.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, not everyone. As you can see, some people think it’s a bunch of superstitious nonsense. But they’re in the minority.”

“And you?”

Greg raised his hands in innocence. “I was a Journalism major. I only tells it like I sees it.”

Thomas nibbled his lip. This was anarchy. Is this what he’d joined up with the service to protect?

“Hold this,” he told Greg, setting his bag on the sidewalk. He turned and started pushing his way toward the front of the crowd. Greg called out after him, but Thomas barely heard him; hell, he could barely hear his own thoughts.

He reached the front and found himself face-to-face with a pitchfork being wielded by Frank’s son Michael.

Close enough. He turned on his heel and addressed the crowd.

“Hold on, everyone!” He cried, throwing his hands into the air.

A hush fell over the street.

“You’re acting like animals. You’re going to tell me that you’re going to burn this man alive over some superstitious nonsense?”

“You weren’t here!” Someone accused. It looked like Darren Black, the owner of the hardware store. “That tree is evil! There have been signs left and right! Frank’s been named—and we gotta kill ‘im before the Tanner comes to take revenge!”

Thomas opened his mouth, but the crowd pressed forward, sending him sprawling to the sidewalk. Shoes and boots started raining down upon him as the townsfolk launched their final assault on Frank Peters.

A woman’s scream echoed through the air like a gunshot.

Another silence ensued, this one heavier.

“Good God!” He heard someone cry.

“Linda—Linda!”

The crowd began to thin. Everyone turned around. Thomas pulled himself to his feet and followed the collective gaze.

A stranger strolled through the crowd. His face was thick with soot and he wore a filthy blacksmith’s apron. He made no effort to avoid anyone; he simply walked into people, never breaking stride. The people he touched broke out into spasms and collapsed to the ground. He paid them no attention.

Taking the hint, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, allowing the stranger passage. At least a dozen people lay sprawled in the street in his wake.

Without a word, he rounded the bonfire and came to a stop at Frank Peters’. Slack-jawed, Frank stood frozen in place.

The stranger paused for a moment, and then pulled a small knife from his pocket. Taking care to avoid touching Frank, he slipped the blade through the rope.

When the ropes lay one the sidewalk, he turned around and started back to where he came.

“Who do you think you are?” Darren Black demanded, stepping in front of the stranger. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, old man!”

The stranger reached out, put his palm on Darren Black’s chest, and brushed him aside. Darren stumbled and his face blanched. He bent double and broke out into a coughing fit, watching in horror as bloody specks appeared on the pavement before his eyes.

“All fear the Tanner’s Tree,” the stranger mumbled with a chuckle. His deep voice, even at such a low volume, seemed to boom up and down the street. “All fear the mighty Tanner’s Tree…”

He passed beneath a streetlight and was gone, leaving only his fading laughter behind.