A Show of Hands
Serial Short Fiction - The Treehouse Part 3
Missed the beginning? Start here!
Previously, we found out our main character’s name and a surprise even she couldn’t have expected.
In Part 3 Oliver shows a few of his cards, and Hazel is left with a gaping question and growing curiosity.
*Everything in this story is fictional and not to be regarded as fact or inferred in any way.
P.S. Don’t forget your 🔦 because I published a fun article in The Source Weekly last Thursday about caves and you’ll definitely want to go spelunking after you read it 😉 Open it in a new tab so you can hop on over there to read it after you read Part 3 of The Treehouse below: Spelunking Safely: Caves Bring Science And Adventure Together
The Treehouse Part 3: A Show of Hands
The morning slipped by a little more easily than I would have guessed and by lunchtime we’d naturally headed back to the road, my camp spot, and had a sort-of picnic, if that’s what one would call an informal, unplanned meal with a stranger at your respective vehicles mostly chatting about a vague plan for the afternoon. Together.
Oliver had obliged my prying about his screeching, metal contraption with wheels that he’d hauled down the path by walking me to it, chainsaw in hand that he’d grabbed from his truck after tailgating with Rufus. He’d asked me what I think it does, presenting it like a present with his arms out wide and hands facing the thing, a bit Vanna White-esque but straight-faced, not giving anything away. “I’ve got no idea. That’s why I asked.” I’d replied, feigning slight annoyance, a tiny wink in my eye and smirk raising the right corner of my mouth, hoping to elicit an answer out of this man who prefers deflection over conversation.
In response, he’d picked up a large fallen branch, flipped a switch on the contraption’s side rearing it to life with a low rumble and fed the branch through what I then understood as its mouth. My first thought was wood chips, but when the branch exited the contraption’s backside intact but with a flattened topside, now looking like a fine piece of raw edged wood, I’d smiled tight-lipped but with the corners of my mouth pointing up, in amusement and satisfaction.
Maybe it’s that he prefers demonstration over explanation, I’d thought to myself quietly, holding back from letting my lips part into a toothy smile.
We’d spent the rest of that morning collecting felled trees and large fallen branches, making sure we were far enough from the creek, gathering them into a clearing off the path then he sawed through them, measuring each one so none was longer than six feet long, with a small pile he’d reserved for shorter bits only about two and three feet long.
By the time we’d made it back to camp, err our vehicles, stomachs growling, I’d asked about four times in a few different ways what he was doing with the wood. No answer. He’d either shrugged while working or looked at me and smirked. A few times he just pet Rufus and pretended not to hear me.
I’d already guessed that maybe he was building himself a cabin, a home. He does own this land, as he claims at least. His snarkiness earlier about guessing I was here for the treehouse had crossed that idea off as a possibility.
Once we’d eaten in a fair amount of silence, both of us too hungry to chat, I finally asked, “Where do you live?” Immediately realizing that probably sounded creepy and like an overstep to ask a stranger, I quickly added, “I mean, how far away? I didn’t see any signs of houses around here and you say you own the land. Why don’t you live here, like at the end of the dirt road in that field? Why haven’t you built a house or something there?” Realizing now that I’ve rambled a whole lot of personal questions with what probably sounded like awkward word-vomit, I looked away and pet Rufus who was lying on the ground by my feet.
Surprisingly, he complied. “Actually not too far, there’s a small dirt spur road up the way, it’s a little hidden by overgrowth from all the spring rains this year. I’ve got a small place Eddie helped me build shortly after I bought it. And a nice little tool shed and carport for the truck.”
Interesting. I’m intrigued. And confused.
“Eddie helped you build it? So he’s been here?” I asked, trying to disguise my skepticism.
“Yeah.” A beat. “He didn’t tell you that?”
“No, he said he’d never seen the place, but knew that it’s remote and probably pretty wild. Like with the trees and brush, not maintained. He made it sound like no one’s paid much attention to it, which is why he didn’t mind me coming here.” I explained, and continued, “So when I got here yesterday and noticed the shot up ‘no shooting’ sign, the old flagging tape and what I figure now are your footprints on the path, I’d assumed all that was from people who came out here to either find the treehouse or run a muck in the woods. You know, with no ‘private property’ signs and all.”
I stared now, right into his eyes, waiting for some clarity.
“Some people do come for the treehouse, and some kids, well I guess they were early 20’s, shot up my sign. I’d posted it after I found bullet holes in a tree. Luckily I caught ‘em and they haven’t been back since. That was years ago.” He offered.
“Why don’t you just put up a gate at the road or some private property signs?” I questioned, curiosity beaming from my eyes, leaning forward out of my camp chair, elbows on my knees hands clasped and suspended above my dirty shoes.
“Thought about it a few times, but then there’ll be stretches where no one really comes, or they don’t leave much of a trace, so I keep putting it off. It crossed my mind when I saw your tent this morning from the road.” He smirked.
“Fair.” I laughed, realizing I must believe him about owning the land. “But tell me this, why did Eddie, or the tribe I guess, agree to let you buy the land? It just seems…so out of character for them, being so anti-ownership and all. I know you’re his nephew, but it still doesn’t make sense to me. Are you considered a member of the Tribe, given what your mom did?” I asked, doing my best to remove any judgment from my tone.
He shifts a little on his tailgate. Getting comfortable so he can tell a story, I wonder, or just so uncomfortable that he can’t not fidget?
Then he tells me it's a long complicated story, but that in the end he just asked so convincingly for so long that Eddie convinced the tribe leaders. They gave him a notarized letter that he brought to the county, which then started a long process of red tape and taxes. But a few years later it was his. He persevered. But why? Why does this land matter so much to him?
So I asked. And he said he’d show me at dusk.
I kept to myself my surprise at his newfound divulgence. Don’t spook the cat, I knew. Then, my brain connected two dots and a new question occurred to me, albeit a bit late: Why did Eddie lie to me that he’d never been here before?
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