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Description

          Callum is an unmarried man who hates every aspect of his miserable existence. If he could gain the attention of Fate, he would beg for a different set of genes, for even his body infuriates him. If you were imprisoned in it you might understand why he feels this way; he is heavyset, bald, thick-necked and short-legged, with protuberant lips and small hooded eyes. He is fifty-three, and has never had sex, for women do all they can to avoid him. Even in his long-gone youth, when he tried to pick up prostitutes, his cravings were not satisfied; none of the ladies of the night were game to submit to his grasping advances. As a result, he has come to hate women, though he is strongly attracted to teenage girls, so long as they are fair and slim. Young girls, however, are terrified of him; when he catches the bus that takes them to school, none of them sit next to him, even if they have to stand. Now and then, though, one of them might brush against him, if only by accident. When this happens Callum breaks into a sweat and his respiration visibly quickens. After forty years of involuntary celibacy his sexual frustration is all too apparent.

            Callum has no friends at all and his family disowned him a long time ago. He cannot keep a dog or cat, for animals can sense his rage, and run away at the earliest chance. Those few he can own – such as hamsters or goldfish – die when he forgets to feed them or crushes them beneath his boots. Callum is a very angry man who serves no useful purpose besides giving small children an ogre to flee.

            Callum has scores of enemies. He hates the supermarket girls, for they never look him in the eye. He hates the cashier at the local gas station, who sniggers when he buys his magazines and always tells him to “have fun.” He hates the young couple in the flat above his, for at night he can hear them making love, which denies him his one retreat from life, that of deep and dreamless sleep. He hates waking up, alone in bed, to find that he is breathing still. He even hates whatever god condemned him to such misery. But most of all, he hates the Tree People.

            As you have probably guessed by now, Callum suffers from hypertension. His doctor has told him to exercise more and cut down on red meat and dairy foods. Callum cannot ride a bike owing to his hemorrhoids, and nor can he jog as his joints are too sore. He cannot even opt to swim; young girls often go to the public baths and they have an unwelcome effect on him. So Callum goes for walks instead, brisk walks, as his doctor ordered, huffing and puffing in his rumpled blue mackintosh, which he always wears when he goes outside. He takes a heavy wooden stick, ostensibly to lean upon, but actually to swing at dogs and children should they get too close. He usually goes on his walks at dusk, when the sun sinks and the air grows cold, but he still works up a considerable sweat.

            Callum no longer walks the streets, for the older children persecute him, calling him the most dreadful names. Gangs of young suburban toughs come out to roam as darkness falls, and Callum is afraid of them: the hard-drinking boys with their bottles and boots, the hollow-eyed girls with their needles and knives. Their filthy language always appalls him, even if he is an old pervert, but he knows the worst is yet to come. One day he is going to be bashed, or stabbed, or doused in fuel and set alight. This is why he always heads for the relative peace of the national park. You might hope he could find solace there, among the lush ferns and whispering gums – but the Tree People have other ideas.

            As Callum stumps along the track, puffing and leaning on his stick, the Tree People sit in the branches above and gibber and shriek as he passes by. Callum hates them vehemently, hates them with a hatred that will never be excised, with a hatred so strong it can nearly be seen, for it cloaks him like a pulsing aura, and lingers, brooding, in the bush even after he has gone.

            The Tree People are extremely small, but they are fast, and as cunning as cats. They have large round eyes and long-fingered hands, which make them look like shaven tarsiers. Callum views them as a race of degenerates, creatures little better than monkeys, devoid of any real language or culture. He is human, if by birth alone, so marginalised has he become; but he clings to this fact because it makes him feel superior to them. The Tree People, however, giggle at him, and leap and swing from bough to bough, uttering their eerie cries as the daylight fades and the shadows advance. Darkness is creeping forward like a curse, reclaiming the earth from the source of all life. Callum can barely see his tormentors, but the Tree People, with their tarsier eyes, can clearly trace his every move.

            Callum despises the Tree People because he cannot communicate with them. If he is convinced of his superiority, they seem just as sure of theirs. He stumps on, coughing and wheezing now, swiping at them with his stick, though they always stay just out of reach. For a moment he is tempted to hurl it at them, but he knows he will miss, for the Tree People are too small and swift. Before he could retrieve his weapon, they would snatch it up and bear it away.

            Callum, however, can enter their territory, while they could never enter his. So far as he knows, no-one else has seen or heard of the Tree People. They feature in no native myth, but nor do they seem to have come from abroad with his genocidal ancestors. He knows other people use this track and wishes the Tree People would taunt them as well. If they were proven to exist, and similar species were discovered in Europe, it could help to explain the old folk tales of dryads, changelings, elves and sprites. Callum has tried to catch them on film, but they never show up in his photographs, which makes him hate them even more. It seems the creatures only exist to make his life more miserable.

            Callum doubles back for home, muttering oaths beneath his breath. He loathes the Tree People so much he wishes he could kill them all. But they in no way fear his wrath; they mock him as he blunders on, with their shrill calls and enormous eyes, which glow faintly now the sun has set. Callum shakes his fist at them in a final gesture of defiance. He stumbles out of the national park and tramps off into the gathering night.

Description

          Callum is an unmarried man who hates every aspect of his miserable existence. If he could gain the attention of Fate, he would beg for a different set of genes, for even his body infuriates him. If you were imprisoned in it you might understand why he feels this way; he is heavyset, bald, thick-necked and short-legged, with protuberant lips and small hooded eyes. He is fifty-three, and has never had sex, for women do all they can to avoid him. Even in his long-gone youth, when he tried to pick up prostitutes, his cravings were not satisfied; none of the ladies of the night were game to submit to his grasping advances. As a result, he has come to hate women, though he is strongly attracted to teenage girls, so long as they are fair and slim. Young girls, however, are terrified of him; when he catches the bus that takes them to school, none of them sit next to him, even if they have to stand. Now and then, though, one of them might brush against him, if only by accident. When this happens Callum breaks into a sweat and his respiration visibly quickens. After forty years of involuntary celibacy his sexual frustration is all too apparent.

            Callum has no friends at all and his family disowned him a long time ago. He cannot keep a dog or cat, for animals can sense his rage, and run away at the earliest chance. Those few he can own – such as hamsters or goldfish – die when he forgets to feed them or crushes them beneath his boots. Callum is a very angry man who serves no useful purpose besides giving small children an ogre to flee.

            Callum has scores of enemies. He hates the supermarket girls, for they never look him in the eye. He hates the cashier at the local gas station, who sniggers when he buys his magazines and always tells him to “have fun.” He hates the young couple in the flat above his, for at night he can hear them making love, which denies him his one retreat from life, that of deep and dreamless sleep. He hates waking up, alone in bed, to find that he is breathing still. He even hates whatever god condemned him to such misery. But most of all, he hates the Tree People.

            As you have probably guessed by now, Callum suffers from hypertension. His doctor has told him to exercise more and cut down on red meat and dairy foods. Callum cannot ride a bike owing to his hemorrhoids, and nor can he jog as his joints are too sore. He cannot even opt to swim; young girls often go to the public baths and they have an unwelcome effect on him. So Callum goes for walks instead, brisk walks, as his doctor ordered, huffing and puffing in his rumpled blue mackintosh, which he always wears when he goes outside. He takes a heavy wooden stick, ostensibly to lean upon, but actually to swing at dogs and children should they get too close. He usually goes on his walks at dusk, when the sun sinks and the air grows cold, but he still works up a considerable sweat.

            Callum no longer walks the streets, for the older children persecute him, calling him the most dreadful names. Gangs of young suburban toughs come out to roam as darkness falls, and Callum is afraid of them: the hard-drinking boys with their bottles and boots, the hollow-eyed girls with their needles and knives. Their filthy language always appalls him, even if he is an old pervert, but he knows the worst is yet to come. One day he is going to be bashed, or stabbed, or doused in fuel and set alight. This is why he always heads for the relative peace of the national park. You might hope he could find solace there, among the lush ferns and whispering gums – but the Tree People have other ideas.

            As Callum stumps along the track, puffing and leaning on his stick, the Tree People sit in the branches above and gibber and shriek as he passes by. Callum hates them vehemently, hates them with a hatred that will never be excised, with a hatred so strong it can nearly be seen, for it cloaks him like a pulsing aura, and lingers, brooding, in the bush even after he has gone.

            The Tree People are extremely small, but they are fast, and as cunning as cats. They have large round eyes and long-fingered hands, which make them look like shaven tarsiers. Callum views them as a race of degenerates, creatures little better than monkeys, devoid of any real language or culture. He is human, if by birth alone, so marginalised has he become; but he clings to this fact because it makes him feel superior to them. The Tree People, however, giggle at him, and leap and swing from bough to bough, uttering their eerie cries as the daylight fades and the shadows advance. Darkness is creeping forward like a curse, reclaiming the earth from the source of all life. Callum can barely see his tormentors, but the Tree People, with their tarsier eyes, can clearly trace his every move.

            Callum despises the Tree People because he cannot communicate with them. If he is convinced of his superiority, they seem just as sure of theirs. He stumps on, coughing and wheezing now, swiping at them with his stick, though they always stay just out of reach. For a moment he is tempted to hurl it at them, but he knows he will miss, for the Tree People are too small and swift. Before he could retrieve his weapon, they would snatch it up and bear it away.

            Callum, however, can enter their territory, while they could never enter his. So far as he knows, no-one else has seen or heard of the Tree People. They feature in no native myth, but nor do they seem to have come from abroad with his genocidal ancestors. He knows other people use this track and wishes the Tree People would taunt them as well. If they were proven to exist, and similar species were discovered in Europe, it could help to explain the old folk tales of dryads, changelings, elves and sprites. Callum has tried to catch them on film, but they never show up in his photographs, which makes him hate them even more. It seems the creatures only exist to make his life more miserable.

            Callum doubles back for home, muttering oaths beneath his breath. He loathes the Tree People so much he wishes he could kill them all. But they in no way fear his wrath; they mock him as he blunders on, with their shrill calls and enormous eyes, which glow faintly now the sun has set. Callum shakes his fist at them in a final gesture of defiance. He stumbles out of the national park and tramps off into the gathering night.