The Horror and the Wild

V. Playing With Fire

November 20, Friday

Leo had driven Owen and himself to Boston Common, seeing as Owen possessed neither a car nor a driver's license. Owen could have walked, and would have, but Leo had insisted on providing a lift even though it meant going out of his way to do so. In truth, he lived rather close to Cillian, and had to drive past the park in order to pick Owen up and bring him to it.

"I should warn you," Owen said as they got out of the sleek black Chevy Impala that Owen had recently lost some appreciation for after the elegance of Cillian's motorcycle. "He's a lot to take in, at first. So just... brace yourself."

Leo looked at him with a curious expression. "How so?"

Owen shifted. "He's very... I don't know. Irish? Swears a lot. Eccentric personality. Reminds me of my grandparents, a little."

Leo nodded his understanding and walked with Owen into the park to look for Cillian.

It turned out that the man wasn't all that hard to find. The park was mostly empty that chilly winter evening, and Cillian was the only figure dressed in all black. He was surrounded by a writhing mass of equally dark birds. As Owen and Leo approached him, the large black birds gathered in the area fluttered away madly. Leo shot Owen a look askance and Owen finally registered that the birds had been a murder of ravens— all of them circled around Cillian. Cillian did not stand up, or even seem to notice their approach.

"Hey," Owen said, his voice cutting the still November air like a knife.

Cillian startled, almost as if from a trance, and nearly dropped the half-finished cigarette from his fingers. "Jesus Fuck."

"What?" Owen asked, a little defensively.

He hadn't meant to surprise Cillian, and taking Jesus' name in vain was probably adding to Leo's already very bad impression of the witch.

The witch shifted on the ground to reveal a series of deeply crimson mushrooms protruding up the side of the tree like thick tongues. They formed a spiral staircase around the trunk, disappearing from view from where Owen stood like a tantalising invitation to a grotesque and carnivorous fairy ball.

"Sorry," Cillian said, taking a drag off the cigarette like it would calm his nerves. "I was lost in thought."

"About mushrooms?" Owen pressed.

"Naw. Not that," Cillian said distantly, turning his focus back to the tree. "Well, sort of. The tree is dying."

He stepped around the tree without waiting for a response, Owen and Leo in tow, to follow the line of mushrooms to the other side of the trunk where it was split open, cleaved painfully asunder to reveal its splintered guts. If there was ever any question about whether or not a tree was alive, this clear sign of decay promised the answer.

"Oh," Owen said softly, coming up beside Cillian to look at the wound.

He placed a soft hand on Cillian's shoulder without really thinking about what he was doing. He had at least a vague idea of how much a dying plant meant to Cillian— especially something as old and graceful as the weeping willow whose canopy they were sheltered under.