Icon #13 Sad

#13

Sarah thought the figure dangling over the bonfire looked sad. She knew it was a dummy, decked out in a used football uniform died to match the colors of the San Valencez Dragons, the hated rivals of Lavender High School. Still, the way it rocked in the breeze as the sun dipped beyond the horizon tugged at her gut in some odd, incomprehensible way, and she wished it wasn’t there.

They called it “The hangin’ Tree” – had always called it that, as far as anyone alive in Lavender knew. The story was that it had been used in the early days of the old west as a final gateway to hell for horse thieves and murderers. Sarah didn’t know about horse thieves, but she wished the pep club had chosen another spot for the bonfire. It was uncomfortably close to the old tree, and the pile of wood, broken and stolen planks, fence rails, and other material piled beneath the branch reached a little too high for comfort.

Cars, pickup trucks, and one of the school’s activity busses had parked a safe distance away in a nearby field. It was strange, but nothing much grew near The Hangin’ Tree — not even grass. It stood in the center of a circle of dark soil, and that was one reason the school had given the okay to use that location for the bonfire. They hadn’t okayed the effigy of the football player, or the close proximity to trunk and branches, but now that it was set into motion, no one in authority seemed inclined to demand that it be moved, or halted.

Sarah hung back and watched, a vague sense of unease ruining what should have been a pleasant evening. She’d come alone. Her boyfriend, Alex, had wanted to join her, but this was a “working” night for her. She had her steno notebook in hand, and a digital camera. It was her job to record the goings on for the school paper, and she took this responsibility very seriously. She wanted to be a journalist, maybe a novelist one day. Alex wasn’t a football fan, and had only been hoping to fool around, so she didn’t feel too badly about telling him to stay home. She’d see him later on, and all would be well.

She pulled out the camera and absently snapped a shot of the dangling, helmeted prop and drew back as other students moved in closer. The cheerleaders were up front, of course, as well as the pom pom squad – “Lavender & Lace”. Sarah had never really gotten into the whole team spirit thing, though she did like to see the camaraderie it invoked in her classmates.

Soon the fire was lit, and as flames licked their way up the side of the bonfire, bringing it to life, Coach Ben Keene took the podium and began his traditional harangue of the student body. Sarah knew he’d go on until spit actually flew from his lips and his hair was matted with sweat. She could even — with a little paraphrasing – record the speech while tuning him out – that’s how traditions work. So, instead of giving the coach her full attention, Sarah turned back to stare at the effigy, now dancing in lazy circles, caught in the heated updraft from the fire.

Then she saw it. As the dangling socks that made up the thing’s feet were touched by the groping flames talons below, there was a “jerk” – like something had kicked the dummy in the back. The flames rose, and it happened again. Sarah stared, and it happened again, more violently this time. A few others in the crowd had noted it, but Coach Keene was at full roar, and all other voices paled before him. As Sarah stared in horror, the effigy turned its head and glared at her. The eyes were red and alive with pain. The mouth opened in a silent scream, and the dummy began to dance.

Sarah brought the camera up without thought and snapped picture after picture. She had the camera poised when the dummy gave a final twist and kick, and snapped free of the rope binding it to the branch. It tumbled through the air, sending sparks dancing, and as the crowd screamed, diving back out of its path, it struck Coach Keene directly in the back, driving him through his podium. His clothing caught fire, and people rushed forward to drag him free.

Behind him the fire burned merrily. Though the flames grew taller, the branch where that effigy had hung seemed untouched. They rolled the coach over and over on the ground until the flames died. In the distance, Sarah heard sirens and knew someone had phoned for help. She stepped forward as if in a dream. When she grew near enough, she snapped a quick photo of Coach Keene, then turned and fled.
The picture never ran in the paper. It clearly showed a red, swollen burn that circled the coach’s neck. All the hair had burned from his head and face, and he looked like a hanged corpse…though he lived to tell the tale. The tree did not burn down. Despite heavy scorch marks, it survived, dangling that one branch out as if beckoning for a rope.

In the digital photos, dark, shadowed figures stood beneath the tree, in the center of the flames. There were horses, and Sarah was sure she could make out a rifle here, and a tall, brimmed hat there. These she never published. Some legends are best left dying, and someday, she knew, that tree would fall…someday.