In the air of the atmosphere, sounds have a universal vehicle, capable of conveying them without break from the most variously constituted sources to the recesses of the ear. (John William Strutt, 3rd Baron Rayleigh)
…the child
For whom the candle is a star, and the gilded angel
Spreading its wings at the summit of the tree
Is not only a decoration, but an angel,
The child wonders at the Christmas Tree… (T. S. Eliot)
The man greets them cheerfully as they walk towards the barn. Welcome, welcome. You here to cut your own. Emil Nyman smiles and nods and raises the saw he holds in his right hand. With his left hand he squeezes the hand of his daughter, Anna, and whispers that she should say hello. Anna calls out hello and waves with her free hand. Anna is four and loves Christmas. For her the tree signifies the beginning of that most wonderful time of the year. Once the tree is in the house, the lights on it, even before the ornaments are added, she knows for certain that Christmas will come and soon. Christmas would not be Christmas without the tree. So the tree means Christmas.
Emil walks quickly to close the distance between himself and the man and when he is near enough he whispers clearly and forcefully. Yes, we’re here to cut our own tree. The man seems surprised but recovers quickly and smiles at them. Emil taps his throat and shrugs. Some injuries just don’t heal right, he whispers. Sorry, the man says. That’s terrible. What kind of tree are you looking to cut? A seven-foot Fraser would be great. Well, if you’re up for a bit of a trek, you’re in luck. The eastern field has plenty of Fraser left, but the road got washed out by that storm last weekend and you’ll have to walk across the other fields. Emil nods. Perfect. Thanks very much.
The man hands him a map, makes a circle on the eastern field and draws a line from the barn where they stand to the circle. There you go. It’s pretty straightforward. But you should get going. That wintry mix is coming our way and they say it’ll be really getting going by three. But you should be done by then. It’s about half an hour walk down there if you keep trucking. Emil nods again. He squeezes Anna’s hand twice. Ready? Ready to hike? I’m ready. Good luck, the man says. Oh, and one last thing. If you find one, just bring it to the shed there at the bottom of the hill and I’ll meet you down there with the truck and bring you up and we can bale it here and get you set. It’s enough of a haul as it is. He laughs, claps Emil on the back, offers him his hand. Emil tucks the saw under his arm and takes the man’s hand. Thanks, he says again.
He squeezes Anna’s hand once again and together they set off down the hill and toward the eastern field. The ground is muddy and slick on the hill but the dirt yields to thick yellow thatches of grass when they reach the first field of trees. The trees, close-bunched together, run small: most are the same height as Emil and only a few are over six feet. Other families in the field, content with a short tree if it means a shorter walk, make their way among the trees. Fathers call out to children to tell mothers to come and see this one. Mothers reply that fathers would do better to come to this one. The children, mostly in pairs, but some in sets of three and four, dash from tree to tree.
Emil watches Anna watch them, wide-eyed, curious, intrigued by the dynamics between boy and girl, between brother and sister. He squeezes her hand and bends down to her ear. Would you like to pick one of these, Anna? No, she whispers back. Let’s get the big one. Like last year. Remember last year? Yes, he answers. I remember last year. That was a good tree. It was a good big tree, Anna says. We found pinecones in the branches. Three pinecones: one for you and one for me and one for mama. And we decorated them and brought them to church and lit the candles and we said merry Christmas. She shouts the merry Christmas and throws her arms up and her smile puts the dull gray light of the sun through the clouds to shame and Emil stands up and sees a man and woman watching Anna with smiles on their faces and the man waves to them and answers her merry Christmas with his own. Yes, merry Christmas, Emil whispers to them and smiles and waves in return.
Whisper and smile. Without the smile there is always confusion; even with the smile there is still sometimes confusion. Emil remembers reading that God does not speak in wind or tremors or fire but in a whisper. God whispers and his listener is assured. Emil whispers but his listeners are unsure. What he would not give to speak with the power of wind and fire, to call out loud and proud to Anna at the park or at dance, to summon her with force when she strays, to sing songs with her and have the sound of his voice resonate with the symphony that swells and surges in his heart.
When they reach the old railroad tracks which separate one field of trees from the next, Emil leans down and whispers to Anna that he is going to pick her up and carry her now, on his shoulders, so they can move faster. It might start snowing soon and they should get to the eastern field and find that tree. He drops the saw to the ground and swings Anna up onto his shoulders and holds her with his left arm while he reaches back for the saw and loops it to his wrist with the twine loop that hangs from its handle. Here we go. Off to find our tree.
They are the only ones in the next field. At least they can hear no one else. Anna sings to herself from her perch on her father’s shoulders. She covers a range of the Christmas standards and then mingles repetitions of their lyrics with the humming of their tunes and the voiceless utterance of sleigh bells. We’re getting a big tree, right? Yes, a big tree. Bigger than me. Yes, bigger than you. How big am I. You are three feet tall and a little bit. And that’s big, right. Big enough. And how big are you. I’m five feet tall and a little bit more. Is a little bit more more big than a little bit. Yes, by a little bit. And we’re here. Here’s the eastern field. Emil swings Anna down and un-loops the saw from his wrist and puts it on the ground. Anna’s hat hangs around her neck so Emil unties it and places it back on her head and ties the strings again and zips her coat up to her neck. There you go, he whispers.
They move through the eastern field. The man at the barn was right. For a seven-foot Fraser, this field is the place to go. So many trees and Anna darts from one to the next, pulling the branches to the side to see if any pinecones nestle in the tree’s recesses, throwing herself to the ground and sliding under the lowest branches and peering up to see how much the light makes its way through the branches, standing on tip-toe beside the tree and then leaping as high as she could into the air, reaching for the crown.
When she is lying beneath the tree, Emil squats down on his knees and whispers through the needles, asking if this is the one. No, not this one, she says. No pinecones and the leaves are brown and crunchy. Christmas tree leaves are called needles. Okay, the needles are brown and crunchy. The grass has stuck to her coat and there are pine needles in her hair and her cheeks are red and white like cranberries on snow. She leans against him for a moment and then she is off and away to the next tree, checking for cones, for dryness, for proper height, for that one-of-a-kind smell of Christmas just around the corner.
Emil takes off his gloves and hat, runs a hand through his hair and feels the static crackle between his fingers, pulls the bottle from his belt and drinks the water and calls for Anna to take a break and drink some water. He sits down and closes his eyes and feels the crisp air and the earnest approach of winter. Then he hears her. It’s snowing. It’s snowing, she calls. Look, look, look. He opens his eyes to see the snowflakes floating and falling, lightly at first and then with swiftly increasing size and speed. He stands but he can’t see her and instinctively he calls her name but his whisper is swept away by the wind. He starts in the direction of her call and counts the trees as he goes. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen. Where is she. Anna, where are you.
Suddenly the air is cold and clenching in his throat. A chill that is more than the wind grips his bones and he realizes they have looked too long. The snow is falling more and more quickly and the wind is blowing more and more forcefully and as they fall and blow they begin a game, a careless almost cruel game of how much confusion can they cause. Emil stands by the trees and hears his breath scream in his ears and his whisper of her name stream silently into the encroaching winter. Where is she. He calls her name over and over again and his whisper is off into the air but the air can only take it so far and not far enough. I should stay still. I should wait for her. She must be looking for me and if I keep moving and looking for her we could never meet. Is she afraid. I am so afraid. I will wait and count to sixty and if I don’t see or hear her then I will move.
The count is at twenty when the fear overcomes him. He starts to run through the trees and he runs as he has never run before. Fear roils his stomach and surges up to his heart and brings his heart up into his throat and his every breath is a shout of terror let loose into a dark and unyielding night. Suddenly through the terror he hears it. Anna’s voice. Where are you. She is crying. Where are you. His heart leaps and her voice goes to his head like wine and he is flying towards the sound. The snow fills his eyes as he runs but her voice is in his ears and when he wipes his face he sees her: by the tree, by the Christmas tree, her back is to him, her crying is to him. He slides down to his knees next to her and pulls her to himself. I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m here. The crying eventually slows and then stops. I was so scared. I was scared, too. Did you forget me. No, I didn’t forget you. I couldn’t ever forget you, he whispers.
He takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. I want to show you something, he says. Anna, look. I found our tree. He points to the tree, the tree she stood by when she was lost to him, the tree that kept her still and findable. This is our tree. This is our Christmas tree. Anna wipes her eyes and her nose with the back of her sleeve and kneels next to the tree. I checked it for pinecones and it has many. I think seven, probably. Then I called for you and you didn’t hear me. I heard you. I just couldn’t find you at first. Okay. This is our tree. Yes, let’s cut it down and go home.
Now he realizes the saw is not on his wrist or in his hand. It is somewhere on the snowy ground in this field. I dropped the saw. I better go find it. We can’t cut the tree down without the saw. I’m going to come with you, she says. Emil takes her hand in his. Yes, you are. We’ll go together, but first I need to mark the tree so we know how to find it. He takes off his hat and reaches up to the tree’s crown and perches the hat there. They walk through the trees and the snow and after a while they find the saw and follow their footprints back to the tree, still proudly wearing its hat.
Saw in hand, it is his turn to burrow beneath the branches of the tree. Back and forth moves the saw and the tree begins to lean and then with one sudden movement it falls as his saw cuts through the final fragments of the trunk. Now we have to go quickly, he says, before more snow comes and before you know it will be so dark. Before I know it. Yes.
Pulling the tree together, they move less than quickly but more than slowly and in time are at the bottom of the hill. Above them the barn lights are gleaming and tumbling down the wind comes the sound of cars starting and families shouting and a dog barking. There’s the barn, Emil whispers, his relief strong but his voice light. Let’s go get the man with the truck. He has taken a dozen steps when he notices that Anna is not with him. He turns to see her running from the tree to him and her arms are full of pinecones. For us, she says. For Christmas.
Credit: Hasegawa Touhaku, Pine Trees (Azuchi-Momoyama period, 16th century), via Wikimedia Commons.