A Deal with a Tree
What would you do for love?
The child in his arms was screaming in pain. Even through the thick cotton fabric of his white cap, he could feel the scorching sun. His car was parked down at the Banderitsa chalet, but he could ask someone for a lift to avoid walking all the way back. Christina was already five and quite heavy.
As he sized up the cars parked on the rugged hill of the Vihren chalet, an old man approached him. He was thin, hunched, and limping.
“What’s with your little one?” The old man nodded toward the girl writhing in his arms.
“She sprained her ankle badly,” Angel said. “Slipped on a rock on our way back from the lake. It might even be broken.”
“Is there swelling?”
“Yes, it’s quite big. Are you a doctor?” Angel gave him a hopeful look.
The old man smiled. “No, but I know how you can help her. Come, I have a car. I’ll give you a ride.”
The blue Ford followed the sharp curves of the narrow asphalt road. It was stuffy in the car; the mountain herbs stacked in leather bags on the seats gave off a strong, intoxicating aroma. Angel recognized bunches of white yarrow, chamomile, plantain, nettle, and Mursala tea. His gaze wandered out the window. To his right, the abyss stretched open, its green arms embracing thousands of meters of chilly mountain air.
“Daddy, it hurts! It hurts….”
“Hush, easy, baby! We’ll take you down to the doctor, and you’ll be fine! And your mother—what is she going to say when we get home? I don’t even want to think about that! She barely let me take you along as it is…”
“Here you go. You should get out now.”
The vehicle had stopped in the middle of the empty road. Angel looked around in surprise.
“Why here? We’re not there yet. My car is farther down the road at Banderitsa.”
The old man squinted, as if in pain. Angel noticed his grotesquely crooked, swollen fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. Again, he took in the man’s unnaturally hunched posture and the tense position of his legs. Oh, God, what’s wrong with him? What illness is he suffering from?
“The Baikushev pine is up there,” the old man explained. “Climb up the stairs. Fifty steps, give or take. I haven’t counted them exactly.”
“Why should I go up there?”
“Because this tree has special powers.” The old man lowered his voice, and the deformed fingers of his right hand darted toward his face, scratching his stubble. “It can cure your child.”
“The Baikushev pine? I’ve been there so many times. It’s just an old tree.”
“It has healing powers,” the old man insisted.
“I never heard anything like that before.”
“It’s never too late to learn some things. Come on, take the kid and get out.”
Angel sighed. The man didn’t seem quite right in the head. Well, that’s that. He’d have to walk the rest of the way.
“Okay, okay, we’re getting out.”
“Take her to the tree, and she’ll be cured. Trust me.”
“Fine then, but how exactly? Should I sit her by the tree, should she touch it, or what?”
The questions slipped from his lips—seemingly derisive, but undeniably searching for an answer. He’d do anything, even bite on the old man’s nonsense if it meant escaping the destructive volcano of female anger about to erupt upon him in a few hours at the hotel.
“Oh, no. It’s not enough just to sit her by the tree. There’s something else you’ll need to do—but you’re a father, you’ll know. Come on, off you go.”
There was no point in asking more questions. The man was already staring at the road, his head sinking into his shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell. Angel took Christina in his arms and got out of the vehicle. The car drove off down the road with a guttural roar.
Angel closed his eyes and let the mountain wind brush past his burning face. He’d apparently had too much sun, and his skin smarted. Christina’s incessant sobs and shrieks exacerbated his discomfort, like arrows digging one after the other into his irritated skin.
They crossed the road. After a strip of bushes, the stairs began, winding upward like a wooden bridge over a river of rocks, roots, and pine needles. He could see the tree from where he stood—the oldest pine tree in Bulgaria. Angel knew it was more than thirteen hundred years old. A Bosnian pine, it stood twenty-six meters tall and seven meters wide. Its massive roots twisted and dug into the soil like the tentacles of a monstrous octopus. Its branches towered over the top of the stairs, crooked and gnarled like the metal ribs of a giant umbrella.
“Daddy!” Christina cried. “Why did we get out of the car? Where are we going?”
“Hush, baby.” He stroked her sweaty hair. “We’ll take a walk up to the tree to see something, and then we’re leaving. Immediately. I promise.”
“But it really hurts! A lot!”
“Yes, I know. Just a second.”
He climbed the stairs quickly but cautiously; some of the boards were half-rotten, others wobbled, and there were dangerous gaps between them. The child was heavy and threw off his balance. He reached the top panting, stepped over the last board, and went around the tree. He set Christina down.
“Here, have some water.” He handed her the bottle, and she drank thirstily. “Wait here.”
Christina lay down listlessly on the carpet of pine needles. Angel leaned back against the tree and pressed his cheek against the rough bark. The scent was strong and dizzying.
What the hell am I doing here?
He spread his arms and embraced the trunk—as far as he could reach, of course, since it was enormous. He had seen five people linking hands around it and still failing to encircle its girth.
‘You’re a father. You’ll know.’
He closed his eyes. The smell of resin tickled his nostrils. The weight of the enormous tree bore down upon him; centuries of history passed in a flash before his eyes: Khan Asparuh, the Slavic tribes, the birth of Bulgaria, battles against the Byzantine and Ottoman empires, rebel groups hiding in the mountains, the thousands who had died here—on this very ground—whether in war or in silent, lonesome despair. How much blood these mountains had seen, how much pain, how much suffering.
The smoke of nineteenth-century cannons, the fumes of world war bombs, the smog of industrial pollution.
“I know every pain,” the tree suddenly whispered in his ear. “Every human sorrow has come to me. It has dug into my roots, merged with my trunk, woven itself into every needle on my branches. And you? Are you ready to take someone else’s pain?”
“Yes,” Angel whispered back, his eyes still closed. “I’m ready. I’ll take her suffering. Transfer it to me. You can do it, can’t you?”
“I can. I’m glad you knew what to ask for.”
The tree let go of him suddenly, as if pushing him back. Angel opened his eyes, blinked, and looked around in confusion. The sun had emerged again, and strong beams of light stretched toward Christina’s folded legs, weaving a translucent, magical cobweb around her. He took a deep breath to clear his head. Something had happened here—though he wasn’t sure what. He only knew it was time to leave.
“Hey, Chris? Are you sleeping, sweetheart? Come on, let me pick you up. We’re going to the car.”
The girl stirred, rubbing her eyes. She stretched and yawned.
“Oh, Daddy… yeah, I think I fell asleep. It’s so nice here.” She sat up, then glanced at her foot. Cautiously, she touched it. Her eyes widened.
“Hey! Hey, Daddy!”
“What?” He bent forward, alarmed.
“My foot! My foot! It doesn’t hurt! Look—I can touch it! It doesn’t hurt!”
A lorry seemed to slam into his chest. He sucked in a breath, gathering his strength, and crouched over his daughter. He had taken off her sock and sneaker earlier, and now he saw—the swelling was gone. Her bare foot looked perfectly normal, tanned from the seaside sun, without a single mark. Not even a scratch.
“But how…” He stammered, looking up at the tree.
The pine towered above them—immortal, silent, enigmatic. Like a sphinx. Its massive branches stretched over them like the neural network of an alien brain.
My God. Is this even possible?
Christina, oblivious to his turmoil, let out a joyful shriek. “You don’t have to carry me anymore! I can walk! I can walk!” She spun around the tree, then impulsively hugged its rough bark.
Angel gently pulled her away. “Okay… okay, baby. Let’s… l-let’s go.”
They took the shortcut down the rocky hill instead of following the longer, more dangerous road. Christina skipped ahead, light as air, chattering nonstop.
“It’s so nice! It’s so nice that I can walk!”
Angel followed in silence, watching her, making sure he was close enough if she slipped. They were nearly at the parking lot when it happened.
The last stretch of the path was steep, scattered with rickety wooden steps and a splintered railing. Christina rushed ahead. Angel, trying to keep up, wasn’t watching his step. His foot caught in a crevice. His ankle twisted violently. Something crunched inside.
He screamed.
At the last moment, he grabbed the railing, stopping himself from tumbling forward. The splinters tore into his palms, sending sharp pain shooting up his arms. He gasped, doubled over, his breath ragged.
“Daddy!”
Christina’s voice rang out. In seconds, she was back beside him, her face pale with fear.
“Daddy, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”
“I don’t know… I don’t know, Chris…” His voice was hoarse, his face damp with sweat. “I think I sprained my ankle… or broke it… judging by the pain, I’d bet on broken.”
“Should I call someone for help?” She looked even paler. “There are people down at the restaurant.”
“No… just find me a stick. A thick one. Something I can lean on.”
She scrambled to find one. With the makeshift crutch, he managed to hobble down to the parking lot. His ankle was definitely broken—he couldn’t put any weight on it at all.
Good thing the car’s an automatic. I won’t need my left foot to drive.
As they buckled in, Christina piped up, “Let’s go back to the tree! It cured me—it’ll cure you too!”
Angel gave her a tired, knowing look.
“No, baby.” His voice was quiet. “I don’t think it’ll do that for me.”
He was about to slide into the driver’s seat when the door of the car opposite theirs opened. Angel blinked. The old man. He hadn’t noticed it was his car—the same blue Ford that had taken them to the Baikushev Pine.
The old man said nothing. He simply stepped closer, watching them. Angel, leaning against his own door, watched him back. A hunched figure with swollen joints and an unnatural, crooked posture. Yet despite the obvious discomfort, the old man’s eyes shone. Only now did Angel see the strong light radiating from them.
“Do you… do you have arthritis?” Angel asked quietly.
“Yes.” The old man coughed. “Rheumatoid arthritis. Ten years now.”
“Who…?” Angel’s voice caught in his throat.
“…My wife,” the old man finished for him. “She had the same illness for years. Took all kinds of pills, but still, she was dying of pain. Day and night. She wasn’t good with pain. And I—I couldn’t bear watching her suffer.
“One summer, I came up here. Climbed to the tree. It gave me the answer. Told me what to do.”
“The tree told you,” Angel whispered, “that you could take her pain. That you could take her illness.”
“The tree helped me come up with that idea. Turned it into a wish. And then fulfilled it.”
“My God…”
Silence settled between them. Angel couldn’t look away from the old man’s glowing eyes. It was as if the vastness of the mountains—their endless love and care—had gathered in them, singing to him, softly and tenderly, like his mother once had, lulling him to sleep.
“Have you ever regretted it?” Angel whispered.
“No. Do you think you will?”
The old man nodded toward the back of Angel’s car. Christina was asleep in her seat, her face resting peacefully against the headrest. Her small fingers twitched happily in her lap, like the paws of a purring kitten. Sunlight played in her blond curls, giving her an almost angelic glow.
“No.” Angel reached out and clasped the old man’s hand. It was crooked, malformed—but warm. “No, I don’t think so.”
Back in the car, he started the engine and placed his hands on the wheel. A deep calm settled over him, dulling the pain to something distant, barely there. Before driving off, he glanced at his daughter one last time.
She was smiling in her sleep.
Hello, friends! I hope you enjoyed my story! If you subscribe, you’ll get one short story in your inbox every week. The next one will show you where a wish for change can take you.
Always yours,
Nev
love this one <3
Beautiful! And so is the tree......
Best Wishes from Australia - Dave :)