The Guardian (Continued)
by Christopher Barzak
Hester's growth became more problematic as each month passed. At eleven feet tall, she was quickly becoming visible to the outside world again. My father's fence would keep her from prying eyes and cameras for only a few more weeks. Also, we had no clothes that Hester could fit into, and autumn was chilling us into a sudden December. My mother went to the Super–Mart and ordered yards and yards of a stretchy orange fabric, then sewed it into a shapeless dress for Hester. "You'll grow into it, honey," she said, and ran her fingers through my sister's yellow–brown hair. Kernels of wheat clung to Hester's shoulders. Now that the sun grew weaker, Hester's hair fell out in shocks of dried brown wheat.
"It's a little flimsy," Hester told my mother. She lifted the hem of the dress and said, "The wind will cut right through."
"A coat then," my mother said, and rushed back into her sewing room.
Several days later she emerged with a white cape made from bed sheets and lined with flannel. "I'm sorry it's not a coat," said my mother. "I didn't have enough material."
Hester tied the cape around her neck. She looked dashing, like a superhero. She thanked my mother and didn't complain about her makeshift clothes, nor that she had to go barefoot. She knew her changes were costing our parents a small fortune.
Hester spent the winter inside the house, sleeping through most of it, curled up in the dining room. She seemed to be hibernating, waiting. Her breath came sparsely, but it kept on coming. Her geese flew south when the cold months arrived, and I wondered if they would return when it grew warmer, or if they would find other idols to worship come next summer.
Sometimes my parents and I would be in the living room, watching TV, snow falling gently against the picture window, and Hester would suddenly utter something incomprehensible from the dining room. I once asked her questions while she slept, whispering into her ear, "What's happening now?" to which Hester replied, "There are two creatures here with me. They sit in my tree and throw down apples for me to eat. I tell them to save the apples, I'm not hungry, but they keep throwing them anyway."
"What do they look like?" I asked.
"I don't know," said Hester. "They're in my tree. The tree growing out of my head. They're above me. I can't see them."
"Tell them I see them," I whispered, even though I saw nothing in the tree growing out of Hester's head. It lay across the dining room floor, brown and withered, only the trunk still looking strong and alive.
Hester was silent for a moment. Then she finally spoke again. "They say you are lying. They say to tell you to stop meddling in their affairs. You are not the guardian of the egg! Be patient, they say. Some day you, too, may be important."
* * * * *
When winter died, and spring came to melt the snow piled in our yards and tree limbs, Hester finally awakened. My mother was cooking breakfast for my father before he left for work. She scraped eggs around in a frying pan and I stood beside her, spooning wheat flakes into my mouth. The eggs sizzled and foamed in the frying pan. My mother was telling me about a dream she'd had the night before.
"There were all these people in it," she said. "They all looked familiar and strange at the same time. You were in it, and so was Dad, and Mr. Jackson the school janitor — he was there too. And Ellen Darby, next door, she was trying to give me a pitchfork. We were in a forest, but our clothes were weird. Rustic. We all looked like farmers and farmers' wives, bonnets and linen dresses. I kept shouting for you and your father to run before we had to start farming, but you wouldn't listen. You already had a hoe in your hands."
Before I could laugh at my mother, a groan came from the dining room. My mother turned the heat off the eggs and we ran to the next room to find Hester pushing herself up from the floor. She was having difficulties. Her weeping willow was wedged in one corner of the dining room, and she couldn't back up far enough to dislodge it. "Help," she sobbed when we entered the room. "I'm stuck!"
My father decided to take extreme measures. He went to the garage and came back with the chainsaw. Hester screamed when he pulled its cord and the chainsaw began buzzing. "I won't hurt you!" he promised. Quickly, efficiently, he slipped the saw through several branches, and they fell to the floor in a pile of dust.
Hester opened her eyes after he shut the saw off. "Is it over?" she asked, and my mother patted Hester's rump and told her everything was okay. We took the patio doors off their sliding tracks, and Hester squeezed out into the sunshine. She took a deep breath, and the wheat framing her face lifted towards the warmth. "Finally," Hester whispered, still kneeling on the back deck in the puddles of newly melted snow. "It is time," she said. Whether she spoke to us or to some unseen audience, I couldn't tell. But soon a dark V–shape appeared in the sky, distant but coming closer, and within moments Hester's geese landed in our backyard, milling about, nibbling her ears, her fingers, as she stroked them.
* * * * *
It wasn't much longer before the entire town was bursting with spring again, and the rain was falling, falling, bringing up beds of forgotten flowers. The trees budded, unfurling leaves like banners in only a few weeks. I saw a deer, a buck, one day on my way home from school, loping through the park, which was nearly unrecognizable anymore. The park had grown an unruly amount of trees around its perimeter, like the wall of thorns in the Sleeping Beauty story, and no one dared enter its darkness any longer. Children told stories about witches living in the grove at its center. Before the park became a forest, our witch stories were always set in the house of some old lady nobody liked. It was a strange phenomenon to see a story leave the comforts of our houses, our streets and cul–de–sacs, to take up residence in the new forest.
Hester was busy. She paced the backyard, chewing her fingernails, a worried look always surfacing on her face. Her geese flew in and out of the yard on what seemed to be missions. One would leave and another would land and waddle up to Hester to report its findings. Hester would kneel down and press her ear to the goose's bill in order to hear its secret messages. New saplings rose from the wet ground all across town. They grew thick and strong, branching and rebranching over the course of a few weeks. Bushes and brambles sprang up between them. Ellen Darby found a large thicket of blueberry bushes in her backyard. She set a sign out by her driveway that said 'Fresh Blueberries, Pick Your Own!'
My mother told me one morning, "Don't go to school, Stephen."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because Hester is in trouble. I drove past the school this morning on my way to the Super-Mart. There were a lot of people there already. They were in the parking lot with picket signs. They were shouting horrible things about Hester. They say the property value is declining, that it's because of her. I don't want you near that crowd, understand me?"
I nodded and she patted the back of my head.
My father stayed home from work that day, too. All of us gathered in the backyard. We grilled steaks and skewers of vegetables. I chased the geese around the birdbath, splashing them with water. It was good–natured fun, and they loved it. Hester could see this, so she didn't chastise. She leaned against the fence with her knees tucked up to her chest. She sighed a lot, and ate a lot, and seemed anxious. So did my parents, but they did their best to hide their anxieties. They were both good at doing that, and as their child, I appreciated their tact and skill at covering up their own problems. I had my own problems, and anyway, children shouldn't have to worry about their parents. It's supposed to be the other way around.
Towards evening, when the sky purpled and the wind started to buck, Hester told us she was leaving. Somehow we'd all been prepared for this and weren't surprised by her decision. My mother resisted only once with an, "Oh, honey, don't talk like that." But Hester shook her head. She was having none of that. My mother lowered her face and said no more. She just nodded.
"I won't be going far," Hester told us. "Just to the old park, the new forest. I'll be safe there. You can come visit me sometimes. Later, though, after everything has settled."
This cheered my parents a bit. They went to Hester and hugged her arms, her legs, tried to fit their arms around her neck. They cried a little, then retreated to the house.
I was about to say my goodbyes, too, but Hester spoke before me.
"Stephen," she said, "I need you to come with me. You'll have to keep watch for a few days. If anyone tries to find me in there, you'll have to stop them, or else everything will be ruined."
"This is my job, isn't it?" I asked.
"Yes," said Hester. "You are the guardian of the guardian of the egg. Please don't let me down."
I nodded gravely. I would protect her under any circumstances. In a matter of minutes, I collected my whittling knife, rope from the basement, and my BB gun. I felt like an action hero gearing up for battle. Mel Gibson, Arnold Schwarzenegger — why didn't the director of "Wild Thing" approach one of them to play my role?
