The massive stone sat atop several
crushed aliens. More dead aliens tangled
in the thin branches of the willow, limp insect marionettes in the delicate
grip. The air hung heavy with the
coppery tang of blood.
Leo ran his fingertips over the
stone’s craggy surface. Hard,
implacable, it told him nothing. What it
represented he couldn’t imagine. He
dusted the grit from his hand.
He turned to the tree. It drew away from him, and its shuddering
fronds fled from his touch. Leo stared;
it was actually aware of him. He reached
toward it, palms up, the way one might offer a hand to a friendly but skittish
cat. The tree’s limbs drifted toward
him.
Trembling branches whispered against
his legs. He felt a hesitant touch on
his cheek.
Friend?
He shivered at the shy touch of the
mind that called to him. He caressed
tiny leaves with his fingertips.
"Friend," he whispered.
A breeze sighed through the willow's
branches. Who?
"A survivor. I live in a safe place, a hideaway inside an
old limestone mine. It‘s called the
Rock."
Safe?
"No aliens bother us here. We’re well hidden. It's just north of Pittsburgh in a town
called Boyers." He motioned to the
corpses hanging from the tree's limbs.
"What did you do to them?"
Who?
"The aliens."
The tree shuddered all over. The dead aliens jiggled an obscene dance,
their limbs jerking as if under the control of a puppeteer having a
seizure. Aliens? Where?
Leo realized
only he saw the horrible creatures. Many
of his visions were filled with symbols that demanded careful analysis. The willow was aware of him, but not the
components of his vision.
"Hush," he comforted the
tree. "It's all right. You have nothing to fear here."
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