The Sangar Tree

It was a windless Wednesday in the summer—with the air so still that Ruth couldn’t help but want to move herself. She wandered as the wind would have, over the fences and through their little gaps in her little town and found herself in the arms of a tall tree. 

She peered out from beneath its shade, looking for the red roof of her home. If she squinted, she could catch a dot of red in the distance. She had moved quite a ways away. She wasn’t worried. She had told her mother she had gone to Marky’s house.  And with that boy, there was no end to trouble. Her mother expected her to be home by late evening at least, wearing scrapes and bruises and a smile so wide it would cover everything else up. 

Little did her mother know Marky moved away. Washed away by a sudden burst of rain. He didn’t even say goodbye. 

Ruth didn’t mind. If he never said goodbye, it was like he wasn’t really gone. She would see him next week or the week after or the week after that. And when she did, she’d tell him about this tree. 

He was always talking about plants, that sweet boy. He had a book about botany, she remembered he called it. He always made sure to pronounce each syllable with. Boh-tah-knee. And surely he would have loved this tree. He would have made it clear with that smile of his, chipped from biting branches and rocks. 

It was a massive dark thing, with bark as black as coal. It had a thick trunk which widened as you traveled upward, to the point where it looked like a massive thorn piercing the earth. Its branches forked around wildly like sudden strikes of lightning, with green leaves that frayed into burgundy at their tips. Large fruit grew near the top. Something like large snail shells it seemed. 

It was the type of tree that you would think you’d find somewhere deep in an ancient forest—at the heart of some untouched jungle. And yet here it was, standing tall and lonely in the shadow of a house that was just shy of being a castle. It stood, austere and ancient, with cracked brick which sprouted moss and flowers.
Its owners must be ghosts, thought Ruth. Or at the very least dead. And surely those sorts wouldn’t mind her climbing their old tree. She was no different from a squirrel, flitting and clinging to its branches.
As she clambered upward, she was surprised at how easy it was. When she was younger she would have slipped and cut herself on the rough bark, but already her hands were thick allowing her to climb swiftly and safely.
The wonders of a growing body, she thought.
But as she neared the top, the branches grew sparser and sparser, till only thin little spikes poked out of the trunk.
Experience told her to stop. Marky had fallen off from less than half this height and had broken his wrist. Here she was high enough to catch the winds that pushed the birds up in the sky. Any further, she thought, and she would reach the stars. 

And yet, somehow, she still wouldn’t reach that strange fruit. She leaned against the trunk, tasting the air, thin but sweet. She ran her fingers along the black bark, tracing the cracks with her fingernail till she felt something very strange. It was soft and long and not unfamiliar to her touch. And as she pulled it away, she found herself holding a handful of hair.
It was light brown, with slightly more curls than her own. But, indeed she was sure it was hair, scattering in strands in the wind.
She had seen in the books that trees could warts as big as a head, or fungus that smells like rotting flesh, but not human hair.
“Do you like my tree?” called out a voice. It belonged to a face, peeking out from a window in the house. It’s not the kind of face she expected to have come from such a place.

Where a wizened craggled face ought to have been was a tan wide eyed smile.
“It’s a very good tree,” said Ruth. “Although, it has hair growing out of it,” she said, pulling some more from a branch.
“It has a lot more fun things!” said the face, disappearing back into the blackness. 

It reappeared again, bursting through the backdoor, now connected to a body, dressed in denim overalls. She was older than Ruth, clearly. But not by much. Maybe four or five years from what Ruth could tell.
She took a few minutes to climb the black tree, until she was face to freckled face with Ruth on that height branch. 

“Hi, I’m Minn,” said the strange girl, their noses inches away from touching.
“I’m Ruth.”

“Hi, Ruth! Follow me!” Ruth watched in awe as she climbed upwards with great dexterity, even moving on the small fragile looking nubs on the bark.

“It won’t break?” called out Ruth.

“No.” To prove her point, she began hanging with one hand on a tiny little branch no larger than a finger. “It’s strong! Stronger than anything.” 

When Ruth reached the top, it felt like she had clambered into a massive bird’s nest. Here the branches clustered in thick woody tangles, which formed the floor where Minn lounged.
She tossed the snail-like fruit to Ruth. 

“Break it open.”
Ruth looked at the strange little fruit. Upon closer inspection, it was softer than she anticipated. It looked less like a snail up close, and more like the coiled snake she had picked up when she went to the zoo. She wondered if she could stretch it the same way.
She pulled on the coil, listening to it crack and unravel. The flesh looked softer on its belly. Ruth glanced to see Minn grinning with anticipation.
“Go on then. Take a bite” 

  She obliged.
Even at the ripe of nine, Ruth has sunken her teeth into  a great deal of things, both edible and inedible. She’s even proud to say she’s eaten horse meat, and she didn’t even spit up once.
But as she bit into the fruit, she encountered a taste and texture that was most unfamiliar to her and extremely unpleasant. It was soft but not in the way fruit was soft. The flesh was rubbery and sticky all at once, and so strangely warm. But even worse was its juice, which clung to her teeth and the flesh inside her mouth, clogging her throat and making it hard to swallow, not that she wanted to anyway. It tasted extremely rank, like old meat. with a distinct metallic flavor. It reminded her of when she lost her tooth–the blood spilling into her mouth
Even as she spat it out, it lingered, heavy and dark in her mouth.
She turned to find Minn laughing. Minn bit into the fruit with gusto, staining her teeth and mouth a deep crimson. She looked almost like a clown. 

“It’s an acquired taste.” she said. 

“How do you acquire it?” asked Ruth, still trying to scrub the taste out with her fingers.
“Necessity,” said Minn, wiping the red out of her grin.
“This wasn’t the best batch, honestly.”
“How does one get a good batch?”
She traced her fingers along the old wood, finding the trunk once again.
“It’s a special sort of tree,”  she said. “It’s called a San-gar tree in your language”
“I’ve never heard of it.” said Ruth.
“I doubt you would. It’s an old tree. Brought it from the old country. This one’s still relatively young. True San-gars grow till they’re grasping the sky.

“What’s it called in your language?” asked Ruth.
“It’s too hard to pronounce and too old to drag up. San-gar should be fine. Or we could call it by its other name—Mother’s Love” 

“Come.” she said, holding out her hand.
The black wasn’t as intense up at the peak, fading into the same burgundy as the leaves. Ruth took Minn’s hand, which grasped her quite roughly. It was the same way her grandfather would hold her, firm and unrelenting. She pulled her around as one does a doll.
“Stop that, it hurts.” said Ruth. Minn’s grip eased immediately.
“Forgive me.” she said. “It’s been a long while.”
With less force, she placed the young girl’s hands on to the trunk. It was softer than she had thought. Her hands squished against it, and found it was warm.
“Listen.” she said.
Ruth put her ear against it, and felt something like the gentle beat of a drum.It was a sensation Ruth knew well.  It pulsated warmly against her cheek, deep and maternal.
“The San-gar tree reaches deep into the heavens and the earth, eating the sunlight and drinking the iron that runs in veins across the earth. We had learned recently that the pulsing was just the energy expended from processing such a heavy metal. However in the old days we thought of it like a heartbeat. The way it wraps around us in its embrace, and protects us with its spears and nourishes us with its fruit—-its comfort could only be a Mother’s Love.”
Ruth felt it. Holding the tree tightly in her arms, she could have bathed in its warmth forever. However forever could only last till night.

She pried herself away, staring out into the yawning blackness. Her mother ought to have been looking her, she—

Ruth craned her neck to look for her house, but the lights were already out.

“Your mother must think you’re still at Marky’s,” said Minn.

“You’re right... wait—how do you know Marky?" asked Ruth.

“I know all the lovely children in this neighborhood, little Ruth.” said Minn. Surrounded by blackness, her skin shone like solid moonlight,  “I know all the good little

children.”

“You didn’t know me,” said Ruth.

“Of course, I do,” said Minn. “You’re the little girl Ruth. Who wanders off with the wind. Who lies to her mother. Who climbs trees and eats fruit and gets lost and

found all at once.”

Minn took Ruth’s hand once more. 

“And you’re going to help me.”

She balled Ruth’s hand into a fist.

“With any good mother, it’s important to pay back her love. We are gentle to her. We are kind.  We give her gifts and we give her presents.”

“What sort of present do you want me to give?” asked Ruth.  

“Strike it.”

“What?”

“Strike it.” 

“Won’t something like fertilizer or water be better?”

“Trust me she gets all she needs. What she deserves is." she swung her fist, "this.”

“You’re the one with the tree.” said Ruth. 

Ruth winded up and struck the trunk. It rippled under her strike slightly under her strike.

“Hit it again. A little harder this time.”

Ruth stepped back a little more, this time charging slightly towards the trunk. It shook like a water balloon under her fist. But still, nothing.

“Try that again,” said Minn. “This time, go as hard as you can.”
Ruth took a running start this time, rushing full force at the trunk. As she did, a thought appeared in her head. A page in the book. 

There’s a special plant called the Venus flytrap that eats insects that fall into its mouth. What makes it special is that it’s not an active hunter, it waits for the pesky little fly buzzing about to land on its flower scented face, which will close around the fly sealing it to its demise. All it had to do was hit its trigger.
Ruth stumbled backwards, trying to kick against the wood to stop herself. But it was too late, the momentum carried her right into the trunk. There was no thud this time. Instead, there was a loud cracking, not of breaking no, but of something opening wide. 

Ruth learned then that the tree grew much more than just hair.  There was skin and bone and teeth. Oh so many teeth.  Some were very old, yellowed and chipped and cracked. Others closer to the center were white and small. Something like baby teeth. A set of chipped teeth grinned at her.  Ruth smiled back.
"Goodbye." 

The tree swallowed her whole.

Minn sat atop the black Sangar, listening to the blustery wind blow by and carrying along with it, the moon and the world. It was the kind of wind that just made you want to stay, just to see if she could hold it back.  It was nights like this that she was reminded of the old country. It would stay dark like this for months, years even. 

Spotlights came on in the distance flickering ever closer like white fire burning down the town. Sirens wailed into the night,  screaming out for the lost.  They would not find her. And even if they did, they would never suspect. 

But she took out a phone and made a little call, and watched as the lights grew brighter, as they cut towards her. As she caught the light with her eyes, she remembered the red glow of torch light as a young girl as she taunted the mob from the top of the tree. A crowd of angry men all ready to strike the tree with their axes. 

Minn had to wipe a bit of drool off her chin.