Betty: A novel by Tiffany McDaniel

Author:Tiffany McDaniel
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2020-08-18T00:00:00+00:00

Suddenly, a hand gripped my shoulder. My whole body locked up. My first thought was that Leland had come back, followed me, and was now going to bury me, side by side, with the rain.

I slowly turned, shielding my eyes from a bright light.

“Sorry,” Dad said.

He was wearing his old miner’s hat. He turned the light so it would shine on the willow’s trunk.

“What do you see, Little Indian, when you look at that ol’ willa tree?”

“Bark and rain,” I said, staring at the illuminated trunk.

“Don’t you see the diamonds?” he asked.

“There are no diamonds, Dad.”

“Look again. Don’t you see that sparkle? Don’t you see that shine?”

I watched the rain fall into the grooves and against the ridges of the bark. I saw how it reflected the light from Dad’s hat.

“The world was very wet once,” he said. “It rained day and night without end. Puddles turned into lakes. Lakes turned into rivers. Rivers became oceans. Oceans became a flood. The rain was the tears of a woman who would not stop cryin’ over her dead children. Her tears poured from her until all the land was swallowed up. The only way to get around was by boats, but at night it was hard to see. This was a time before flashlights and lanterns. When torches could only light so far ahead. Boats wrecked. People drowned.

“The men blamed the trees. Said they were witches, purposely chokin’ the glow from the moon with their net of branches. So the men, in their rage, began to heavy their hands with axes and saws, and the water splashed as the great mahoganies and hickories, pines and sycamores all fell. Anything with bark or branches was sent to the grave. The men said they were doin’ it to make the waterways safer at night, but it was carnage. Old trees, young trees, they were cut down and left to rot in the water as if their lives didn’t matter. The trees understood when man cut them down to use their timber to build homes out of or to turn their heartwood into paper for storytellers and poets to lay their pens upon. In doing so, the trees had given their life for a purpose. There was no purpose now, except to get them out of the way. So in order to protect themselves, the trees decided to wake their guardians. Every tree has one. A spirit inside it, hidden away, until it’s needed.”

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