Emily Ruth Verona
WHERE THE DEAD DO GROW
The dead are seeded in the wych elm, germinating and ripening deep in the belly of the twisted tree. It is there you will find him—in the dark, where the dead do grow—your feet knee-deep in snowdrift. Whisper his name and the rustle of branches above will give way to the clacking cackle of chains. A talon on your shoulder—the sharp razor of a tongue wet against your ear. Breath so icy it burns and prickles. Dancing needles across your neck.
Do you seek the truth? He does not speak but the question steeps inside of you like a hushed, lush, sterile pressure between your ribs. He can show you, if you wish—he can reach into the elm and from the dead draw forth your fate. If you dare. And you do dare, don’t you? It is why you have come so far, miles and miles across bitter, frozen earth. Following the murmur of a rumor of folklore—of myth. Do desire to see if prosperity await you? Pain? Pleasure? Poverty? This prophet of the deep, deep dark wears many masks but only one which he will deign to share: a mask never to be his own. Your mask. Your future, whatever that might be. Tread lightly here, for destiny is not a face which can be rearranged. Distorted, perhaps. Hidden, surely. But your fate is your fate and once you know it there is not one inch of you which can escape it.
He will share with you a truth, this deity—this god—this demon—this keeper where the dead do grow, and you will take that truth with you; bound to the mask you have sought as surely as if it were stitched with thick, heavy twine across your numbed flesh.
You whisper his name and at first there is nothing. No sound. No sight. Just the blur of falling snow—the pulse of death from within the elm tree’s hollow, hallowed trunk. Then, slowly, the rattle of those chain. An echo you can’t quite place. Next, a face: not his nor yours as it is now but the paltry traits of a visage yet to fully form. Scarred and wrinkled and cracked like dry, split bark under a warm, wicked sun.
Is that mouth gnarled in a howl? Or is it the refusal to howl which evokes such garish gloom? Are the eyes closed because they do not wish to see or because they cannot bear what has already been witnessed? And those lines—those curvy, curious stretches of age across the brow…the cheeks…has time weathered them so—or has the process been hurried along, the culprit some incalculable circumstance?
Into this face you stare and stare as the snow falls and the mask warms to a sear. This is your future. This is your fate. You must wear it for the rest of your days. And if you should refuse what fate has in store? If you cower—pull away in frantic, feeble despair? Well, there is always the elm to be considered. A wych which must be fed.
It is how the tree remains strong—constant—knowing. Seeds must be planted if they are to germinate. And sprout. And ripen. You—you’d make a fine seed, wouldn’t you? A worthy offering the keeper might make in this deep, dark place covered in snow—on the very edge of nothingness: here, where the dead do grow.