Trembling With Fear 08/14/2022

Twig and Bone, by Matthew Crowder

How to respond to the question of religion? Believing before seeing? Before I caught sight of my saviour, I had no church. I always knew that my life was a bit too quiet, that something was waiting to fill that space, that the air I breathed was all in anticipation of His arrival. 

It was a stillness like no other, just outside my window, just beyond the limits of our farm. Everyone who visited felt it. Aunts and uncles, cousins and the old folks, they all said the same thing. That the treeline gives them the creeps, the heebie-jeebies, that at any moment they were liable to notice something not quite right about it, maybe something staring back at them or emerging into the ploughed fields. It was a wild and overgrown wood, dense and impenetrable; I could never get very far during my expeditions as a kid. It would always spit me back out. I was timid and tired easily, so it didn’t bother me too much. I didn’t have the curiosity that I imagine most kids have at that age. Coming back to the house covered in scratches and bruises didn’t sit too well with Father, so he banned me from going near it. He called it a frontier – dangerous and uncultivated, savage and rough. It wasn’t part of our farm and so wasn’t his problem, and I wasn’t to go near it. 

A great yew was meant to rest at the centre of the wood; father said he saw it only once, and that was enough to know it was evil. Many who came before believed yew trees grew in Hell, he said, and he wasn’t one to disagree with them. 

Some nights, I would wake from a fitful sleep, and I would see the shadows of that treeline dancing and swaying in my room. I was usually too scared to go to my window to look at it, but if I did work up the courage, I would be guaranteed to see my mother out there, standing facing the wood. The first time I saw her there I started crying, feeling that she was in danger, but as soon as my eyes locked onto her, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t go to her, couldn’t call for my father. The scene held me firm. When I got over the shock, I learned to watch her. Most of the time, she would stand limp, head looking up at the overbearing trees, arms hanging loose at her sides, seemingly in a trance. Every now and then, she would raise her arms, outstretched and rigid, and she would sway and dance like the trees. Her feet would never move – she was rooted, just like the forms she was imitating. I knew not to ask her about it. Besides, I could never connect the woman I saw at night to the mother who would have my breakfast ready in the morning. 

I know now that she was at church. She was singing her hymns and absorbing sermons. I also know that He could always see me watching. He was assessing me, deeming my worth, my chances of salvation. 

One night, rather than being restless, I awoke from a deep and calm sleep to the movements of the shadows. Already unusual, it was made stranger by the voice that had whispered in my ear. It had told me to stay in bed, and, echoing my father, to stay away from the wood.  

The window was open, even though I remembered shutting it before falling asleep. Through it, the wind was carrying the humming sound of my mother. The calm humming suddenly turned into a panicked squeal; this forced me to the window to see what was happening. As soon as I got there the sound stopped and my hearing became oddly muffled, as though someone had crept up behind me and clapped their hands over my ears. 

I couldn’t see my mother, and the wind had died. None of the slender trees were stirring, instead they were holding their breath; watching and waiting for me to appear at the window. Before my eyes, the treeline bowed down to reveal Him. He was beautiful, but at first, I recoiled, and He quickly darted back into darkness, wary of me. As I leaned out of the window to look at Him, I felt hands on my waist. I turned to see the elongated torso of Mother. She had grown in stature, so that her head was covered in the darkness high up in my room, the same darkness that covered Him. Her voice still came down to me clearly; she said to show no fear, show no fear and He will come. Show Him a mother’s love. 

With her strong hands still on my waist, she lifted me from my feet and held me out of the window. As she began her humming again, I could see His bright eyes winking from His hiding place. Encouraged by what I saw in them, I started to hum in time with Mother. I swayed in the air with stiff arms, playing out the dance I had seen her do many times. Her arms extended, pushing me closer to the treeline. I could smell smoke and pine; I could sense untilled earth and untapped currents. 

He approached, brushing past cowed trees, unfurling His true form. He was unblinking. He stooped down to gather me up; at first the rough bark was painful, but in time I succumbed. I let the lichen and the moss grow, and the sprouting and the creaking became natural. I was rooted. 

*

Now I am always at church, always in prayer. I stand in this line, and I sing and I dance. Mother tries to join us every night, but I think Father stops her when he can. He is fearful. Ever since I was saved, he occasionally walks down here, down to the extremities of his farm, the spaces that he was always at pains to ward me away from. He will stand and gaze with wet eyes at each one of us, sometimes looking directly at me for great lengths of time. I sway for him, but despite how he watches, he cannot recognise me. He falls to his knees and sobs; he is still afraid of us. 

When I see him cry, I feel something, something I haven’t felt since the night I was saved, where a voice had told me to stay in bed. I think it was the farm speaking, or at least what it represents – which is an affront to us. 

But time will pass, and I won’t worry about that anymore. I am grateful; He has communed with Mother, and soon Father’s blood will seep into the soil, feeding us, and fuelling our colonisation. I will lift Mother how she once lifted me, lift her towards the stars, above that darkness; He has shown us how, He has shown us the way…