Daikaijuzine

The first time the Chinese tallow spoke to Quinlin it said nothing of the shadows; that subject would be explored later, after they become better acquainted. Initially, the tree—speaking through the convoluted knot of bark created by the loss of a bough by lightning years before—simply inquired about his health, which was recently compromised by a serious head injury. He, uncertain of the verbal abilities of inanimate species but open to the concept, studied the loquacious fauna with interest. He couldn’t remember the tree speaking to him in all the years he owned the house, nor during any of the times he’d sat in the chair beneath the covered porch overlooking the back yard. Of course, he couldn’t remember much of anything at all. But now the tree—bright green in full spring foliage—moved a set of crusty gray lips in conversation, and what could he do but reply that he was doing fine and progressing nicely with the physical therapy recommended by his doctors.

Are you certain? the tree inquired, waving its branches as a man might shrug his shoulders.

I believe so, he said, smoothing his palms over the medical staples across his forehead. These were not the staples with which the surgeons closed his wounds after the accident—which he still didn’t remember—but the ones they’d used to close the incisions they’d made after his last surgery.

It’s just that in my studies of human perception I’ve noticed that normal sensory apparatuses are easily adulterated by significant physical disruptions.

Is that so? Quinlin said, surprised by the tree’s acumen. Exactly how many cases have you observed over the years?

Well, the tree said, my knowledge of such things comes chiefly from a large network of arboreal observers. My personal observations have been limited to yourself and your wife, though I’ve also studied the mental peregrinations of your house guests.

Quinlin nodded, then rose from his chair. He stepped across the grass to where the tree stood immobile in the sun. It was quite a beautiful tree, and always provided wonderful shade during the summer. He carefully approached the trunk, then reluctantly dropped his hand on the bark. Yes, it felt like a tree all right, solid and unmoving. But the talkative knot—which lay a few feet above his hand—began moving again, and, despite his lately addled perceptions, he was almost one hundred percent positive that trees weren’t supposed to speak.

Cal, you’re not a well man, the tree said. This is good in some ways, but very bad in others—

I’m sorry, but you said something a moment ago that I didn’t quite understand. You mentioned my wife, but I can assure you that I’ve never been married.

You have no memory of your wife? the tree asked. A beautiful brunette, quite shapely, and very dedicated to the garden? I must say, that poor garden has gone to waste since her passing.

Well, I do seem to have forgotten some things. The garden sounds vaguely familiar, but I have no memory of a wife. Are you certain you’re speaking to the right person?

I’ve been rooted to this spot for twenty-five years, Cal. I should know the occupants of the house I oversee.

Be that as it may, I have no recollection of a wife. But, to be fair, I have no recollection of a family, either, or much else for that matter. The doctors said this might be the case for a while.

I pray it’s not a permanent condition. There are severe repercussions for dwelling in unnatural perceptions.

Such as?

I hope you never find that out, my friend. Let’s hope the healing process moves you back into the perceptual state most beneficial for your kind.

This seemed a reasonable thing to hope for, though he still had no sense of why it should matter at all. The tallow, however, seemed like a friendly sort, and he received a warm, genuine feeling of comfort at its touch. But surely it was confusing him with someone else; he certainly would have remembered a wife. In the days since he left the hospital he’d been feeling unaccountably lonely. The only contact human contact he’d experienced was with his doctors, and a man who came to his door from time to time named Nick. Nick seemed just as concerned with his health as the tree, but he always stayed passed Quinlin’s desire for company—a strange paradox, to be certain.

I’m feeling a little dizzy, he said, I think I’ll sit down for a while.

A fabulous idea, the tree replied. It’s a lovely day for meditating on the nature of creation, don’t you think?

Quinlin said nothing. He retraced his steps to his chair and sat resignedly. Once he caught his breath he actually _was_ able to enjoy the day, and slept for quite a while in the good air.

That same evening Quinlin was standing before the large mirror on the wall behind the bureau in the bedroom when he noticed an odd anomaly. As he studied his face in the glass—still bruised, his once aquiline nose now slightly asymmetrical, his hair only now growing back over the areas the attendants had shaved prior to his surgery—the glass itself seemed to shift in his perception. He glanced briefly at the lamp on the bureau to see if the bulb was flickering, but the light was constant. When he once again observed his reflection he decided the anomaly must be the result of an unnatural sheen on the glass, as if it were made of quicksilver. He touched a finger to its surface, at once feeling the rigidity of the pane and observing a shimmering effect spreading away from his fingertip like ripples moving away from a fallen leaf.

This is very unusual, he thought, though once the rippling effect diminished the glass set again and he was left staring at his own damaged reflection.

He touched the glass again, and the glass rippled away from his finger.

He touched the glass a third time, but this time the glass glittered briefly before returning an image of himself again, though uninjured and with a full head of hair, speaking to someone he didn’t recognize, a woman, a beautiful brunette who was also quite shapely—had the mirror suddenly transmogrified into a television set? No, the furniture in the reflection was the same as the furniture in the bedroom. Only the figures were different, as if the mirror were replaying the events of another time.

Quinlin sat on the edge of the bed to watch the display.

The uninjured Quinlin and the brunette seemed to be having a lively discussion, though it didn’t appear to be of a friendly nature. The woman gestured rather sharply as she spoke, and he realized he’d have a much easier time interpreting their exchange if the mirror only provided sound. His own image responded with shrugging shoulders and a shaking head. Ordinarily he might have been disturbed by the animus of the vision, but the first thought that actually came to him was that once the bruising of his face healed and his hair regrew he would be quite a handsome fellow. This pleased him more than it probably should have, because the scene playing out in the mirror suddenly became unpleasant to watch. The woman and the uninjured Quinlin were now apparently screaming at one another, in close proximity and just barely avoiding physical violence.

He rose from the bed and touched the woman’s face, thinking idly that if he captured her attention she might forget the vitriol of the argument. This had the effect of freezing her image, and then making it fade altogether like dissolving fog.

He stepped away from the mirror, which once again reflected his own damaged features, and thought he should refrain from touching it, at least for the evening.

He turned off the lamp and went to sleep.

The next day Quinlin was visited by the man named Nick.

In fact, Nick seemed to possess a key to his front door, because he entered the house unceremoniously and deposited a bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. Quinlin, curious but not startled, continued the exercises provided by the doctors, visual tasks meant to strengthen his mental processes. He picked up the star-shaped block from the kitchen table and deposited it in the star-shaped hole in the testing kit. This seemed utterly simplistic and a waste of time, but he’d given his word that he would continue the therapy. He was about to settle the square-shaped block into the kit when the man, who by now had completed his task of storing away the groceries, stood next to him and touched his shoulder.

You’re making progress, he said, with your motor skills at least. Are you remembering anything more?

Quinlin held the piece in his fingers, then decided to set it aside. The esthetic flow of the exercise seemed compromised.

I believe I’ve been seeing some memories in my mirror, he said—though he wasn’t certain if what he’d seen the previous night truly qualified as ‘memories’. At least, I suspect they were memories.

In the _mirror_? Exactly what did you see in the mirror?

Myself, at first. And then myself and a woman. Maybe I really didn’t see it at all. It was a strange experience.

Nick nodded, his lips pressed tightly. Then he patted Quinlin on the shoulder.

All you can do is to keep trying, he said. It’s only a matter of time. That’s what the neurologist said, anyway. Though it does seem peculiar that you’re able to remember most other things, and your motor reflexes aren’t significantly affected. You’re able to cook for yourself, wash your own clothes and use all the appliances. It’s a shame you can’t recall any people.

Quinlin shrugged. He really wished the man would go away so he could finish his therapy.

I just don’t understand how you can forget absolutely everyone in your life, Nick said, and sighed. His eyes seemed rather sad, and he watched Quinlin expectantly, though Quinlin had no idea what he expected.

It’s nice of you to bring me groceries, he said, but you really don’t have to keep doing that.

Someone has to do it for you. I wish Kerri was still here. She’d take better care of you.

Who’s Kerri? Quinlin asked.

Nick’s expression darkened, and he seemed about to cry.

You still don’t remember her, he said. It’s sad. Maybe it’s the shock.

But who is she?

She is—she was your wife, Cal. Don’t you remember?

That’s odd, he said, because the tree told me the same thing. About having a wife, I mean. I imagine I’d remember something like that. Are you sure you’re both not mistaken?

The tree?

Yes, the Chinese tallow in the back yard. It’s quite a loquacious sort.

The _tree_ spoke to you?

It seems to know a lot about me, but I suspect it’s mistaken on some things. Actually, it may be speculating to some degree. How could you know what goes on in a house you’ve never entered? It’s pure supposition, if you asked me.

Nick only nodded.

It’s only a hallucination, he said. The neurologist said you might suffer them from time to time. The tree really didn’t speak to you.

No? Well, maybe so. That would explain its dubious observations.

Or maybe it’s some sort of mental trick, you know, an indirect pathway back to true memories.

That, Quinlin thought, would be news to the tree.

Listen, you really don’t need to keep coming around, he said, hoping to persuade the man to curtail his visitations. I’m perfectly fine. It’s an imposition on your time.

It’s no imposition, Nick said. I’m your brother, Cal, and I’m going to help you through this. I know I wasn’t much help to you before the accident, but that doesn’t matter now.

Quinlin only blinked at this latest revelation. Not only did he have a wife he couldn’t remember, but now he had a brother, too. At least, that’s what the man would have him believe. At the moment he could only accept these disclosures with a grain of salt and hope that his mind would shortly clarify matters.

When the man finally left, Quinlin wandered into the back yard and stood before the tree. He stared up at the waving branches, as much a salutation as a waving hand, and then studied the unmoving knarl. This day the tree seemed to have nothing to say. Perhaps Nick was correct; perhaps his conversation with the Chinese tallow had only been a hallucination.

But then the knot formed into pulpy lips again, and the tree gave him a cheery hello.

If you’re a hallucination, he said, then you’re a lengthy one.

Hallucination?

Yes. Nick—the man who claims to be my brother—said you must be some sort of mental aberration.

Your brother seems like a decent fellow, the tree said, from what I’ve seen of him. But I’m not a hallucination. Hallucinations are unreal perceptions. Your perception of me is very real, though very much out of the ordinary for your species. That’s why I worry about you, Cal.

The doctors say I’m healing nicely. What’s to worry?

You may be healing physically, but spiritually you’re in bad shape.

Spiritually?

Yes. I believe that’s why you’re unable to remember your past. A spiritual rift has caused you to dislocate your memories and replace them with something else.

Something else? Like what?

Altered perceptions, perhaps. I do know your ability to speak with me is unnatural for your kind. As I said before, this may portend dire consequences if you don’t resolve these issues internally.

What kind of consequences?

I’m not yet certain, but I do know the signs are rapidly descending around you.

Will you let me know about them when you find out?

Of course. I only hope that by that time it won’t be too late.

That night a strange sound woke him from a dreamless sleep.

He opened his eyes in the darkness and concentrated on the black field above his bed. The noise seemed to come from beyond the bedroom window, a slow, slushy sound that might have been a prolonged murmur from a repentant drunk; the words he thought he heard weren’t words at all, but an imitation of words whispered into the night as an obscene language. He couldn’t help feeling that something repugnant was speaking to him from beyond the window, and no matter how he tried to dismiss its unintelligible accusations he couldn’t go back to sleep.

He rose from the bed and walked to the patio door. In the pale moonlight he could see very little; the fence across the way, and of course the Chinese tallow. He opened the door, but didn’t step out onto the patio.

The night wind brushed his face, but he knew he wasn’t listening to the wind. The murmur increased in intensity once he’d opened the door, and he realized the sound was coming from the branches of the tree. Instinctively, he felt he shouldn’t turn on any lights. He felt a superstitious fear that something out in the yard was best left unilluminated. But the sound was ever-present, a slurring, garbled muttering that was clearly profane. He stood for a long time studying the branches of the tree, and then he realized he was seeing something new; within the shadows of the leaves, the natural shadows that were normally beautiful to see in moonlight, were other shadows, black patches that slithered along the boughs like two-dimensional snakes.

A shudder ran down his neck and through his shoulders as he watched the shadows of the shadows in the tree, as he listened to the awful voice of darkness. Abruptly he closed the door, locked it and stepped back into the living room. He told himself that it was only another hallucination. He told himself that what he’d seen and heard was completely phantasmal. But he was still afraid, and retreated to the bedroom.

The rest of the night he lay with a pillow over his ears trying to forget the dreadful sounds.

Quinlin’s first inclination the following morning was to consult the tree, but for some reason he avoided the yard. An irrational fear stayed his curiosity. Instead he opened the photograph album the man named Nick had left on the kitchen table and began leafing through it. Nick had told him that studying the pictures might serve to reintroduce him to his memories, a few of them at least. He also thought this might be a good way to get his mind off the troubling observations of the previous night.

But the moment he began studying the prints a strange phenomenon occurred—the images began moving across the pages like an old-fashioned newsreel, a second or two of action which repeated itself in a continuing loop. The first photograph—of an older couple with the words ‘Mom and Dad’ written beneath—offered the quaint depiction of two people sitting at a table before a beautiful white cake. Happy Anniversary! declared the writing on the frosting, and the candles flickered so brightly that he thought they might ignite the leaves of the album. The man pursed his lips as if preparing to exhale over the candles, and the woman sat back, her mouth formed into a wide smile that seemed ready to explode into laughter. This brief action repeated over and over again, and for a while it was gratifying to see the joy they expressed. But soon the motion became tedious, so he turned the pages to other pictures. A small white dog barked at him repeatedly; a pretty girl waved at him ceaselessly; two small boys rode their tricycles continuously over the same two feet of driveway. One of the boys, he thought, looked a lot like Nick.

But no matter how much the images flickered in his perception, none of them seemed to go beyond a very limited rendition of life, and none woke any appreciable memory in him. It was as if the images approached the borders of his recollections, threatening to burst into a deeper sense of history, before being rebuffed by some invisible barrier. The suggestiveness of the phenomenon did not escape him, and he thought it curious that something was preventing him from being able to recover his own sense of the past.

The repetitious motion of the images became too disturbing after a while to keep watching, so he closed the cover on the album and sighed. This new disturbance, combined with the events of the night, had significantly affected his peace of mind. He was curious to know if there was some connection between these phenomena, but he knew very few people with whom he might confer. He was confident the doctors would only declare him psychotic.

I saw you at the door last night, said the Chinese tallow. Its intonation was less than cordial.

I’m sorry about that, Quinlin said, though he really wasn’t certain why he was apologizing, though it seemed to be the decent thing to do. The bright daylight had evaporated his fear, though it was late into the afternoon before he ventured into the back yard again.

Then you saw the shadows.

Yes. Do you know what they were shadows of?

A good question, but not one I can answer with any certitude. When shadows emerge from nothingness, it’s difficult to know what cast them.

And the sounds?

Voices of shadows, of course. Shadows have their own language, but despite their close proximity I’m afraid I couldn’t really interpret their conversation. Though I believe they were speaking about you.

Quinlin shaded his eyes from the sunlight.

How do you know? he asked.

Call it a preternatural sense, the tree replied. Cal, I don’t like these shadows moving through my branches. They’re quite cold, and it’s too early in the season for me to be exposed to that kind of chill. The doves refuse to light within me anymore.

Why are you telling this to me?

Because, my friend, I suspect they belong to you.

Me?

Yes. You’re casting these shadows, Cal, they’re hanging over you like a pall. I really need you to resolve these issues within yourself.

Issues? What issues? I don’t even have a memory of my life beyond the last few weeks, how could I possibly resolve anything?

I think the matter of your memory and the shadows are intimately entwined. Please, study my branches for a moment.

Quinlin stepped back to gaze on the tree. He was surprised to notice that many of the leaves seemed to be spotted by some brown coloration, marks that he hadn’t noticed the last time they spoke. And some of the bark of the larger boughs seemed frayed, as if raked by a hard metal tool.

Are you saying the shadows caused this damage? he asked.

I’m afraid so. And if they return they’ll continue to hurt me.

What can I do?

I’m afraid you’ll have to remember, Cal.

And if I can’t?

You must.

A couple of days later Nick returned. Quinlin hadn’t noticed the man’s presence until he looked up from his chair and saw the familiar face. Dazzling images had been playing at the edges of his thoughts for the last few hours, memories perhaps, but he’d been trying his best to keep them at bay. They seemed to press firmly at the boundaries of his consciousness, and the effort to subdue them was mentally fatiguing, but he felt a fearful need to maintain his state of _tableau rasa_. Over the last two days his dread had grown exponentially, and the miserable cries of the Chinese tallow, which had begun two night ago and continued to grow in intensity, only deepened his anxiety.

Did you look through the photographs? Nick asked as he sat next to Quinlin. Did they stir any memories?

No, no, he said absently. Nothing came to mind.

Nick sighed and patted Quinlin on the shoulder.

The important thing is to keep trying, he said. You’ll remember things eventually.

Perhaps it’s a permanent condition, Quinlin said hopefully. There must be incidences of permanent memory loss in cases like mine. Perhaps I’ll never remember who I was, or anything about my life.

I know it’s depressing, but the doctors said that there wasn’t any reason why you shouldn’t recover your memory. Your injuries weren’t that severe.

But you don’t know for sure. Neither do they. How could they?

Being doctors, I think they probably have a pretty good idea about your chances. You’ll remember.

Quinlin stared into space a moment, an activity in which he’d been engaging with growing frequency. He really wished Nick would leave. He didn’t need an ersatz brother interfering with his peace of mind. Still, having another human being in the house muted his sense of foreboding.

Listen, Quinlin said without turning, I really don’t think it’s a good idea for me to remember. I really don’t.

Nick’s eyes widened. For God’s sake, why?

I think that if I remember, something bad will happen.

Like what?

I’m not sure, but I know it’ll be bad. Really, really bad.

Cal, you’re imagining things. Nothing bad is going to happen. How could it? You’re the same person you were before the accident. Or is it the accident itself?

What do you mean?

Listen, it’s perfectly understandable that you don’t want to relive a traumatic experience. And a car crash can be pretty traumatic, especially one that killed someone you loved. I understand that and so do the doctors. That’s why we’d all like you to begin counseling again as soon as possible.

I don’t need counseling.

I think you do. It helped you deal with your depression before the accident. But I guess you don’t remember that, either. It may be the only way you’re going to confront the pain of your loss.

No, Quinlin said, shaking his head slowly. It’s something more, something worse. You don’t understand.

Nothing bad is going to happen to you, Nick said. Once you begin remembering, your life will become infinitely better. Trust me.

Quinlin wanted to tell Nick about the Chinese tallow’s terrible screams, and the shadows sliding along its branches like fleshless black snakes, but he was afraid to. He was afraid to say anything about the shadows. He didn’t want to think about them, either; he didn’t want to think about anything at all.

He managed to isolate himself in the house for another two days, struggling to ignore the tallow’s anguished cries and fighting to keep his mind as vacant as possible. But the mental pressure he felt—as if he were deep underwater and desperate to breathe—reverberated through his body and settled painfully in his bones, so heavily that all his muscles ached and his head drummed with unrelenting pain.

After midnight of the third day, while lying sleeplessly in bed, the voices of the shadows bled through the walls and thundered in the room. He covered his ears with his hands, but the sounds penetrated his flesh and shook his body with tremendous concussions. He grew nauseated by the sensation until he couldn’t suffer it any longer. He threw off his blanket and stumbled through the darkened house, pulled open the sliding glass door and stood defiantly in the doorway.

Stop it! he shouted. I won’t remember, no matter what you do. You can’t make me remember!

The Chinese tallow’s branches whipped violently in the air, as if caught in a strong gale, but the air was still. From the doorway Quinlin could see its boughs laced with black accents; dark leaves littered the grass by its roots. It seemed to him as if a giant hand were shaking the tree viciously, but perhaps it was only the tree itself thrashing about to free its boughs of the deepening shadows. The shadows were denser now, and seemed to have mass and shape, though he prayed that was only an illusion.

Make them stop! the tree cried, flailing frantically. They belong to you, Cal! You know they do! Please, they’re hurting me!

They don’t belong to me, he said.

They do! You pushed them out of your mind, and they want to get back inside. You won’t let them, so they’re roosting in me until you let them back in. They’re cold, they’re too cold for me to hold onto. Please, Cal, you have to take them back, they’re killing me!

They’re not mine! he shouted, falling back from the doorway. Leave me alone! All of you, just leave me alone!

He reached out fearfully and slid the door shut, then stumbled through the darkness to the bedroom.

The tree’s cries echoed horribly in the dark so he turned on the lamp, hoping the light would quiet the sounds. But the cries continued, thundering through the house and rattling the windows. He sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his heads, sweat falling from his hair and face. He felt feverish, but he had no fever. He felt sick to his stomach, as if the monumental effort of keeping the world from his thoughts was devastating his body. He looked up and saw his pale reflection in the mirror. His eyes seemed lifeless, vacant.

And then his face faded from the glass and was replaced with a vision of moving landscape. A roadway; a highway. Yes, the mirror had become the windshield of a car, and the car was moving fast down a winding interstate. None of the landmarks seemed familiar, though the sun was bright and the sky cloudless; the tree’s pathetic weeping diminished, replaced by the droning rumble of an engine. He sat mesmerized by the scene, as if he was traveling down the road within his own bedroom, which seemed curious, though oddly pleasant. The enjoyable sensation evaporated when he heard the voices—two of them, male and female, speaking too quietly at first for him to discern the meaning of the words. But then the voices became clearer, and their conversation intelligible.

I wish I’d never married you, the woman’s voice said. I wish I’d never met you.

Is that why you’ve stayed with me for the last ten years? the man’s voice responded.

Don’t cross-examine me, we’re not in a courtroom.

Every word that comes out of my mouth is an insult to you. Do you know how tired of that I’m getting?

You never let me forget how tired of it you are. How tired of me you are. Everything I say is a personal attack to you.

Sure, I’m always making your life miserable. Do you know how miserable you’re making my life right now?

You deserve to feel miserable, you selfish son of a bitch.

You’ve never given me anything but misery. I’ve spent the last six months talking to a therapist, and what kind of support have you given me? None whatsoever. You couldn’t give a damn less how I feel.

I’m not interested in your problems. I’m sick of hearing about your problems, and I’m sick to death of hearing you complain about how depressed you are, how afraid of everything you are. I was crazy for staying with you. But I’m not going to suffer through it anymore.

What’s that supposed to mean?

What do you think? I should’ve divorced you years ago. I was stupid to think you’d change. You’ve only gotten worse, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste any more of my life on you.

Since the day we were married I haven’t done a damned thing to please you. You’re so damned critical of everything I do. Now you want to leave me after doing your damnedest to drive me insane?

God, how I hate you.

You can hate me all you want, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you leave with half of everything I’ve worked to get. I’ll be damned.

The courts will decide what’s mine to take, and there’s not a God damned thing you can do about it.

The mirror-car continued moving down the highway, and for a moment Quinlin thought the argument was over. But then the man’s voice resumed—

There’s one thing I can think of, he said.

And then the highway twisted into a violent collage of images, sunlight and asphalt, flashing metal, the world turning as if the mirror-car had suddenly spun toward the median and began a fierce roll. In that second, as Quinlin stood from the bed, the mirror’s glass exploded into a million glimmering fragments. The vision of the road disappeared as he shielded his eyes feebly from the flying glass; the lamp fell from the bureau and the light died into blackness.

He stood in darkness. The shadows of the shadows left their perches in the tree, crawled into the room and slithered over the faint silvery fragments. He had no way to keep them from his mind now; because now he remembered. The shadows groped along his legs, then slowly crawled across his body. They circled his head, a demonic halo, before melding into a deep black mask that tightly enveloped his face and seeped into his flesh like water into sand. The sounds from the mirror ceased; the tree’s screams had finally ended. He stood in silence with his memories. His psychic ejecta had rejoined him at last.

In the morning, Quinlin stood before the denuded Chinese tallow, studying the empty, broken branches and the dead leaves on the ground. Black spots dappled the bark like a pox. He wondered if it was dead, or if some life might yet remain deep inside where the shadows couldn’t intrude. But he knew the tree would never speak to him again, and so he wouldn’t really know until the first signs of decay began to expose the truth.

He sat in his chair on the patio all day staring at the tree, considering his past life and the life that remained. And when his brother Nick arrived that evening he could only tell him that his memory had returned after all, but that he couldn’t remember anything about the accident. It was a reasonable lie, but one he knew he could never hide within the shadows of his mind.