Ah, Christmas...
When "Shanga-ree" passed my pen and became a Tale complete, I was left excited by what possibilities were hinted in the finale, the tiny little line at the end that hinted of things beyond, namely the flurry of pistol shots heard in the distance. What this inspired, revealed to me was that Christmas Eve, 1871, was a pretty hard night in the town of Baird's Holler. I knew that beyond the tragedy in the Tale just finished, there were five others who lost their life that night. Mind you, this was inspired by the real life incident on which "Shanga-ree" was based and thus, to mirror that history, I knew that a total of six perished before dawn. I just had absolutely no idea who though.
"The Woman in the Tree" (3,916 words) is a story which burst forth full from my aching brow. The manner of its construction was different than any attempted before, an epistolary piece quite different than the small folio found belonging to Caleb Walsh. Here was a letter, from one Sultan to another, dated May, 1898. Within that letter, Charles Chesterfield is writing to William Nesmith in response to requests for memories tied to that town they had long ago ruled. The reason for this being that the latter had taken it upon himself to catalog those incidents which were beyond the realm of possibilities known those fortunate enough to never set foot in that damned valley could know. See, Nesmith had a plan, one which I shall someday find in its entirety but which now remains naught but a hint only mentioned in the intro to "The Journal of Caleb Walsh". It is a book, one with only a very small published footprint which has all but been forgotten. Indeed, I know that the copy once held at the Sharlot Hall Museum in Prescott is no longer in the care of that institution but was borrowed permanently sometime in the 1960s by one Willard Reams. Seriously, that guy was an asshole. I am also aware that there is one copy in the collection of a private university on the East Coast, but as I'm an Arizona boy, I've never gone there to check it out myself. Someday I'll get a copy of "Ruminations on a Wicked Life" in my hands, but I know not when that will be.
Suffice it to say, Chesterfield, who had moved up toward the Winslow Station in the north-eastern region of Arizona (and yes, you can hum that Eagles song if you want... it is allowed), did his best to not remember those days of yore. Hell, he moved away to be so free, and but for the cottonwoods dotting his property one day reminding him as an injustice of ravens settled in its branches, he would not have remembered this incident at all. That he did was to his detriment and his loss of sleep, as well, with consultation with his wife, a decision to remove said trees for the memories inspired by them in both.
Christmas Morning, 1871, began with a somber note. I now knew that one of the Sultans, one Buchanan "Buck" Jackson, failed to make it from the tunnels on the B-line within the mine the evening before. His sacrifice, for that is how his companions saw it, saved the lives of over a dozen others in that august body and while I did not yet know the details, I knew that those who made it out that evening were extremely grateful to be alive, so much so that they bequeathed his widow with a mansion built to her specifications along with his share, in perpetuity, of the profits of the mine. This simple truth, known only in such vague terms, has gone on to inspire an absolute host of Tales and the Widow's House has become extremely important in the history of this valley.
This day though, there was mourning and as the congregations of the Baptist and Methodist churches gathered before sermons, those two churches facing each other in opposition, there was a bit of a discovery made by one young boy whose impulsive nature caused him to look up in the branches of the tall cottonwood that loomed over the almost constructed Baptist church. As both churches were yet under construction and with the ministers in competition to claim their first use, both congregations had already been meeting in those halls since they could first fill them with pews. That none of the adults looked up was just indicative of the narrow focus they had in their morning discussions about the loss of Mr. Jackson and the revelations of the tragedies known from the night before.
What was up there? A ragged coat spread out in the highest of branches with hints of a yellow dress visible along with limbs visible extending out. Chesterfield's letter focuses on this discovery and of the ravens that held court up high in those bare branches. It details the attempts the week over to recover this body and the gatherings which would appear each day to witness the attempts at bringing this woman whom none recognized by her clothes down for inspection and burial. The mystery which dominated the conversations that week were of how this woman came to be up so high, one which none had an answer for.
Now, please attend, for her identity was never known and when three Sultans of infamous drink finally succeeded in severing that branch beyond reach, there was not but bones remaining. The ravens in that tree were fat though, a horror those watching did their best to discourage through the use of fouling guns. There were an awful lot of dead ravens left littering that muddy churchyard, ones that the residents of Baird's Holler were confounded on how to dispose of as every attempt to clear up the feathered corpses was, like all attempts to scale that tree, interrupted by those birds nesting up high. Not even the dogs local to this town were successful, each being driven away with empty jaws.
This is pretty much the Tale, a memory recalled of a curious event forgotten in the tragedies of that sacred day now past. The only further comment to make here is the addition of one Sultan who had only been mentioned once to this point and that way back in "I'll Always be With You, Boys", one Samuel Arn whose disappearance in the mine at some point was all I knew about him. Sam was one of those beneath that tree each day making bets on when the woman held up there would be brought down and his dog is mentioned as one who chased after those dead birds only to be scared off by those yet alive.
This is important as it will, in December of this year, spawn another tale titled "What it Feels Like to be Hunted". "The Woman in the Tree" will be the third story accepted for publication and for some good while, this publisher hosted an excellent site that allowed me to send readers for a taste of these Tales. "What it Feels Like to be Hunted" was accepted later that year (my 7th acceptance) by that same press. Unfortunately, in June of 2020, this press folded and while there were paper copies produced, the only remaining copies not destroyed in the dissolution of that press of the two books which these two Tales occupy are those in the hands of the contributors. I admit this has upset me some as the shuttering of this press was unnecessary and while I have fully the rights restored, they can now only be published again as "reprints" or, as I now hope, in collections unique to these Tales. Being that these two Tales fall thematically in those set around that horrid Christmas Eve, and being that to date there are now 7 Tales which fall under this banner, I know that this will eventually come to pass. I have more on this night to write, at least three more Tales I know of minimum, but no such collection shall be forthcoming soon because there are some under this theme which are currently under contract, stories such as "Shanga-ree".
There is but one other thing to mention here and that is in relation to that wonderful woman who set my mind spinning the day I took her to see the Walker Kiln. As these Tales are obsessive to me, they would appear as I spoke, the elements flowing forth in my constant chatter on the subject. I must attribute to her the assistance she gave in the inspiration of that injustice and what horror they represented.
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