The Old Sycamore Tree at Victory Square
“Diog! Diog!” The voice as from a great distance and in some turmoil or at least dismay roused Diog from an unusually satisfying slumber. So as not to waken his beloved he shifted off the bed and slipped into the kitchen where dawn colours were glowing on the white granite countertops.
“Diog!”
“What? Who is this?”
“Come now to Victory Square. I have little time… little time.” And as an afterthought but urgently: “Bring Lyla!”
Whoever belonged to the disembodied voice from seemingly afar he knew about Diog and his secret lamp, Lyla. Peering out the kitchen window below the decorative red and green stained glass bar he noted the spring wind, the leaves rustling madly and opted to bring his green cloak, both for himself and the keeping of Lyla.
Arriving at Victory Square he approached the magic tree which had called him.
“You have come. Now climb in before you are noticed. It is time.”
Awkwardly at first and then as though with the aid of the ancient tree himself Doig with Lyla swinging in tow made their way the first joint in the old maple. He threw the cloak about his body and its green velvet melded with the leaves, all verdant and dazzling silver undersides.
“Greetings Diog. Those buildings there you see, the Dominion and the old Sun Tower building, aren’t they hummers though eh? They are like hallmarks of a different era, when the artists who designed them were inspired by the victory of moral life which cried out for beauty as a rejoicing.”
“Yes, so it seems,” agreed Diog.
“I have heard and seen so much. My little messengers, the Grundlers you call squirrels, and the many varieties of winged wonders, the most gossipy of them all, those Werdlings you call goldfinches. The hummingbird is an annoyance but quite telling. Now I have been storing their stories and have captured in my joints some images that recall these tales and conversations my little messengers have witnessed. Peer into that very joint there Diog and see and hear.”
Diog knew the old sycamore had his ways and didn’t doubt the veracity of his words and so did look into the old tree’s joint. And looked harder.
“I don’t suppose much rejoicing will be erected in the architecture thereabouts.”
“No I suppose not,” lamented Diog.“Now arise and alight upon another joint of mine up a climb there.”
Once again Diog had to plant his face into the joint to see the images and make out the muddled voices. Not unlike getting a snootful of armpit but in the sycamore’s case it was aromatic and damp in a pleasant way. This time he was aware of men huddling, making complicated arrangements, colluding and swapping papers. Their language was secret and ugly for its cadence and twisted syllables. The atonal hemming and hawing went on relentlessly and it came to pass toward one end only – the amassing of somebody else’s money. Then he realized to whom he was listening. They were wigged lawyers and pencil-chewing bureaucrats gleefully baking cockroach cakes and playing games on bedbug infested tables. In their childish glory, all; their pale, gaunt faces precursing their death masks. Ready to serve. “Take a breather, Diog. Here have some syrup.”
And Diog beheld a slender branch begin to leak its golden draught. And thereof he drank.
“Diog, I have witnessed much and heard stories and conversations over the decades. You would have enjoyed Rudyard and Oscar as they sat there on the grass at my base. Hilariously drunk and full of mirth, Rudyard bragging about the little properties he bought up in Mount Pleasant and Oscar on about that picture of Dorian Gray, a story Rudyard could seriously not get his inebriated head around. Rudyard had his Sabu and his elephants and Oscar had his silken jacket puffs, cigarette holders and between the two of them they could drink the hobos dry. There was a great mutual respect and even love in their conversations and ones I’ll always recall with a true contenting.
No TV in those days. One solid newspaper per city, none of these free nonsense dailies regurgitating everything twice and blowing all over every acre of greenery left. What unearthly waste of my fellow trees.
“Alright now Diog. Another joint if you please.”
While reluctant, Diog acquiesced to the old Sycamore wondering what might be in store. Aside from a brief glimmer during the Rudyard and Oscar telling, the light of Lyla’s lamp remained dormant.
This time he saw uniforms and heard the roar of motorcycles. He smelled sweat. And urine-soaked alleyways. And cheap wine. And blood. He heard chortling again, but gruff and ghastly. And suddenly a vicious dog salivating and wild-eyed leapt right into the face of Diog almost knocking him from his perch there in the joint of the maple. He held on to a firm branch swinging. Then he pulled up and returned to peer in again. This time he could make out the armory carried by the men: truncheons, taser guns and bullet-loaded guns, helmets, gloves and leathery interiors of dark, push-bar cars showcasing shotguns. And in concert with them were old and bedraggled, bearded, beer-bellied gangsters wearing their colours cavorting with their painted women. Then two of them started rubbing noses together. And Diog could hear them, “My mind to your mind,” accompanied by their frightened cackle. Soon though, this weird parlay was drowned out by the eerie echoes of zombiefied addicts on their Pride Parade playing little boy drums marching solemnly to the monotonal refrain, “Rock, powder, down…” And down they marched. Down into an abyss of anxiety-driven horrors. Then, to the shallow steps of a jib dancer, one frolicsome zombie handing out candy-flavoured rocks was rushing his one-liner: “Some baddie touched my dinky when I was ten, when I was ten, so I get to be a brat, a brat all my life, all my life or better yet, better yet a dopey dick, a dopey dick, a dopey dick. Yay.”
Then one of the bearded gangsters got in the push-bar car and started the engine and one of the helmeted guys with a shield got on the Harley and roared it into action. This was confusing. Diog gave his head a shake and taking a moment envisioned all these players in their bumper cars at the carnival giddy with delight, unabashedly indulging their juvenile dreams riding shotgun and juggling their blood-spattered truncheons. And something was missing in this joint. This joint seemed more like a shallow grave to Diog. Even the dog looked sick. And the grave was missing a corpse. And of this one he had had enough.
“Yes,” said Syc the old maple, as if reading Diog’s thoughts, “There is something missing there. You see, Diog, how I live according to the law of nature. This is my ground and upon it I have grown, oh since the 1890’s now, and my leaves very tender every one blow and toss in the many winds and are put upon by the many forms of rain and throughout all we have that law of nature bestowing upon us more life, more thrills in the sun and billowing about under the marching clouds and in all of this there is a respect. A great respect for nature as she respects me and all of my creatures, even my limbs and leaves, roots and canopies. But man has lost something. He needs not only to live by the Law of Nature but to live by a Law of Men. And this Law needs to be enforced, enforced to preserve the freedoms of man and his mobility as I have mobility but differently so.” (His branches lifted and bent to a brisk wind.) “What was missing in what you were witnessing was the Enforcement of that Law of Man. And now freedom is appearing more like costumed funnymen purveying chaos. And there is no rejoicing in Chaos.
“The litter of the addicted is a perpetual visual blight all about my skirts. They use their holy gift of speech to whine and curse and bemoan their fates. Even the natives are littering. The wisdom of the aboriginals who never did believe in entitlement to private property has been betrayed. Now, rather than acknowledgment of the Sun Chief as giver and holder of all titles they hire mouthpieces to smudge over their new version of entitlement. All I see around my park here are empty bottles and once proud men who have demeaned themselves into dereliction. Well I suppose they feel entitled to that too. And the sloth I witness. People young and old will sit idly all day here and let the litter grow like weeds all around them, not lifting a finger. At least you can upchuck.
“See all those luxury cars that drive by here? Oodles of money to go the same speed as that jalopy there, jerking back and forth in the same stream of traffic. They revel loudly in their wealth every chance they get. But what do I hear of them at the witching hour? Weeping. A lamenting of their loneliness. Even the sister moon has taken note.”
“Syc, what will you have of me?”
“Another joint, Diog. Onward and upward.”
“Oh dear.”
“Not to worry. The worst is behind you. Or pretty much.”
Diog climbed higher. The view was enlarged now to include an impressive vista of buildings, windows populated by solemn workers and other trees backgrounded by layers of ancient mountains; flocks of birds and streams of cars and coughing buses; clouds scudding across the pale blue and the occasional plane and sounds of subways and trains.
This time he witnessed the simple goings on of ordinary looking people doing their day to day chores with little élan but stalwart and plodding. Upon deeper scrutiny he picked out the occasional slippery maneuver, gladhander and double dealer among even these ordinary folk. And the little knowing glances, the gossip and hurtful exaggerations, the passing of paper and the arousal of greed were becoming more common until this malaise was becoming the ordinary, the expected. And their brows became stitched with the workmanship of the long suffering. No reddish flash of the fierceness of the righteous. The scenario was becoming nauseating for its mundane routine, lack of originality and loss of personality. What somebody had used whose special vacuum to suck out all that human spirit? At least the mountains remained impervious.
“There’s something to be said for being impenetrable, eh Diog?”
“Reading my mind again, Syc.”
“Just one more joint and you’ll be done. Now two important points. This next one is dangerous in that it is very tempting. It might be described as a life event of sorts. And now the other point is: Syc is not my name and you of all people should know how religiously important a name is. My name is my history. The embodiment of my spirit. I have become as it were the manifestation of my name. But later. For now, rise to the top joint.”
The first thing he noticed was the scent. Very alluring. This joint was truly seductive. It had an airiness, vapours of hopefulness seemed to rise as though from a pristine pond at daybreak. A smartness about it as though a man attired beautifully were hosting you with utmost concern for your comfort. And the hole from which all this was emanating was vast. Young faces appeared, all willing to serve you. All appealing to your enjoyment of attention. Songs and ditties arose from the joint, all playful and promising and Diog, after being so ruthlessly bandied about by the previous joints was finding this one quite to his liking.
He peered deeper and therein he saw a billowy swirl and smelled cigar smoke. This wealth smelt just fine. It was his wealth he detected and he liked it and he liked the bringer of it. He got in closer. Ah, the women. The prestige. The swanky car. The luxuries, all of which he could manage humbly he was sure. He was truly deserved. All this he felt belonged to him. Just that paper to sign, that one profferred by that handsome mature fellow whose gait was one of success and windy confidence. Even the man’s face was pulchritudinous and engaging, so reassuring; and he was – what was he doing? – he was… puckering? He was puckering! Puckering! Diog flew back so hard he bumped his head on the limb above him and now was swooning. Dazed he vaguely heard Syc’s old voice, “Hold on there, Diog. Hang on. Can’t fall from there!”
“Whew. Ouch. That’s an owie. Dang! Who was that man? I recognized him from somewhere just in time. Devious. Yes, he was devious. And cunning. Oh my. Very cunning. And God he was wearing lipstick! He was preparing the kiss of death. No. It was more than that. It was the kiss of the death debt. God it was my bank manager!”
“Now take it easy, Diog. You’ve managed now to get through all the stages of my joint rot. And you’re going to be fine. Just take a deep breath. And try to relax. Enjoy the view.” The wind picked up and the whole tree rustled about and Grundles scurried down the limbs. Birds took flight and even the insects seemed to be on the bailout. And there came the rumble. A mighty unearthly deep and strange rumble.
“What’s going on Syc? What’s happening?”
“Diog! I told you that’s not my name. My name is…” and then the old tree gave out a horrendously loud cracking sound.
“Diog! Get down now! Get down!”
And Diog obliged and gymnastically swung limb to limb bearing toward the earth while the old maple began its toppling. Right there on Cambie by Pender it crashed and Diog in all the cacophony thought he heard the tree utter one more word. Just two syllables. But he couldn’t make them out. Even though they sounded similar to that of a lumberjack calling. Diog was more intent on surviving this collapse uninjured. It was a calamity to be sure. Old Syc, or whatever his name was, had truly met his demise right there on the street atop two vehicles.
While everyone there at Victory Square were agog with the aftermath and busy trying to unpuzzle what had just transpired, Diog made his way home cloaked. There his wife was dutifully chopping the garden’s delights for a dinner salad to be served with that lamb roasting. And thence Lyla lit up nicely and the day unfolded with a loveliness. Just before the setting of the sun, Diog spied a Grundler on his window sill nipping at a nut.
He divined that the Grundler was there to communicate something of import to him so quietly and without disturbing the wife at her porch chair, reading, he ambled over and lent his ear.
“Did you hear the old maple on its way down. What he said?”
“No. I was too distracted. All that thrashing and such.”
“He was naming himself I believe.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I heard clearly two syllables.”
“Yes! Come to think of it, so did I but I couldn’t make them out.”
“I could but it was as though he hadn’t finished by the time he hit the street.”
“What were the syllables?”
“Well he said, in a holler like a lumberjack, ‘Van Koo…’ and that was it.”
“Ah. Yes.” And despite all he had seen that day, Diog chuckled. He laughed wistfully remembering the old Sycamore with affection and gratitude.
“Alright now Diog. Another joint if you please.”
While reluctant, Diog acquiesced to the old Sycamore wondering what might be in store. Aside from a brief glimmer during the Rudyard and Oscar telling, the light of Lyla’s lamp remained dormant.
This time he saw uniforms and heard the roar of motorcycles. He smelled sweat. And urine-soaked alleyways. And cheap wine. And blood. He heard chortling again, but gruff and ghastly. And suddenly a vicious dog salivating and wild-eyed leapt right into the face of Diog almost knocking him from his perch there in the joint of the maple. He held on to a firm branch swinging. Then he pulled up and returned to peer in again. This time he could make out the armory carried by the men: truncheons, taser guns and bullet-loaded guns, helmets, gloves and leathery interiors of dark, push-bar cars showcasing shotguns. And in concert with them were old and bedraggled, bearded, beer-bellied gangsters wearing their colours cavorting with their painted women. Then two of them started rubbing noses together. And Diog could hear them, “My mind to your mind,” accompanied by their frightened cackle. Soon though, this weird parlay was drowned out by the eerie echoes of zombiefied addicts on their Pride Parade playing little boy drums marching solemnly to the monotonal refrain, “Rock, powder, down…” And down they marched. Down into an abyss of anxiety-driven horrors. Then, to the shallow steps of a jib dancer, one frolicsome zombie handing out candy-flavoured rocks was rushing his one-liner: “Some baddie touched my dinky when I was ten, when I was ten, so I get to be a brat, a brat all my life, all my life or better yet, better yet a dopey dick, a dopey dick, a dopey dick. Yay.”
Then one of the bearded gangsters got in the push-bar car and started the engine and one of the helmeted guys with a shield got on the Harley and roared it into action. This was confusing. Diog gave his head a shake and taking a moment envisioned all these players in their bumper cars at the carnival giddy with delight, unabashedly indulging their juvenile dreams riding shotgun and juggling their blood-spattered truncheons. And something was missing in this joint. This joint seemed more like a shallow grave to Diog. Even the dog looked sick. And the grave was missing a corpse. And of this one he had had enough.
“Yes,” said Syc the old maple, as if reading Diog’s thoughts, “There is something missing there. You see, Diog, how I live according to the law of nature. This is my ground and upon it I have grown, oh since the 1890’s now, and my leaves very tender every one blow and toss in the many winds and are put upon by the many forms of rain and throughout all we have that law of nature bestowing upon us more life, more thrills in the sun and billowing about under the marching clouds and in all of this there is a respect. A great respect for nature as she respects me and all of my creatures, even my limbs and leaves, roots and canopies. But man has lost something. He needs not only to live by the Law of Nature but to live by a Law of Men. And this Law needs to be enforced, enforced to preserve the freedoms of man and his mobility as I have mobility but differently so.” (His branches lifted and bent to a brisk wind.) “What was missing in what you were witnessing was the Enforcement of that Law of Man. And now freedom is appearing more like costumed funnymen purveying chaos. And there is no rejoicing in Chaos.
“The litter of the addicted is a perpetual visual blight all about my skirts. They use their holy gift of speech to whine and curse and bemoan their fates. Even the natives are littering. The wisdom of the aboriginals who never did believe in entitlement to private property has been betrayed. Now, rather than acknowledgment of the Sun Chief as giver and holder of all titles they hire mouthpieces to smudge over their new version of entitlement. All I see around my park here are empty bottles and once proud men who have demeaned themselves into dereliction. Well I suppose they feel entitled to that too. And the sloth I witness. People young and old will sit idly all day here and let the litter grow like weeds all around them, not lifting a finger. At least you can upchuck.
“See all those luxury cars that drive by here? Oodles of money to go the same speed as that jalopy there, jerking back and forth in the same stream of traffic. They revel loudly in their wealth every chance they get. But what do I hear of them at the witching hour? Weeping. A lamenting of their loneliness. Even the sister moon has taken note.”
“Syc, what will you have of me?”
“Another joint, Diog. Onward and upward.”
“Oh dear.”
“Not to worry. The worst is behind you. Or pretty much.”
Diog climbed higher. The view was enlarged now to include an impressive vista of buildings, windows populated by solemn workers and other trees backgrounded by layers of ancient mountains; flocks of birds and streams of cars and coughing buses; clouds scudding across the pale blue and the occasional plane and sounds of subways and trains.
This time he witnessed the simple goings on of ordinary looking people doing their day to day chores with little élan but stalwart and plodding. Upon deeper scrutiny he picked out the occasional slippery maneuver, gladhander and double dealer among even these ordinary folk. And the little knowing glances, the gossip and hurtful exaggerations, the passing of paper and the arousal of greed were becoming more common until this malaise was becoming the ordinary, the expected. And their brows became stitched with the workmanship of the long suffering. No reddish flash of the fierceness of the righteous. The scenario was becoming nauseating for its mundane routine, lack of originality and loss of personality. What somebody had used whose special vacuum to suck out all that human spirit? At least the mountains remained impervious.
“There’s something to be said for being impenetrable, eh Diog?”
“Reading my mind again, Syc.”
“Just one more joint and you’ll be done. Now two important points. This next one is dangerous in that it is very tempting. It might be described as a life event of sorts. And now the other point is: Syc is not my name and you of all people should know how religiously important a name is. My name is my history. The embodiment of my spirit. I have become as it were the manifestation of my name. But later. For now, rise to the top joint.”
The first thing he noticed was the scent. Very alluring. This joint was truly seductive. It had an airiness, vapours of hopefulness seemed to rise as though from a pristine pond at daybreak. A smartness about it as though a man attired beautifully were hosting you with utmost concern for your comfort. And the hole from which all this was emanating was vast. Young faces appeared, all willing to serve you. All appealing to your enjoyment of attention. Songs and ditties arose from the joint, all playful and promising and Diog, after being so ruthlessly bandied about by the previous joints was finding this one quite to his liking.
“Whew. Ouch. That’s an owie. Dang! Who was that man? I recognized him from somewhere just in time. Devious. Yes, he was devious. And cunning. Oh my. Very cunning. And God he was wearing lipstick! He was preparing the kiss of death. No. It was more than that. It was the kiss of the death debt. God it was my bank manager!”
“Now take it easy, Diog. You’ve managed now to get through all the stages of my joint rot. And you’re going to be fine. Just take a deep breath. And try to relax. Enjoy the view.” The wind picked up and the whole tree rustled about and Grundles scurried down the limbs. Birds took flight and even the insects seemed to be on the bailout. And there came the rumble. A mighty unearthly deep and strange rumble.
“What’s going on Syc? What’s happening?”
“Diog! I told you that’s not my name. My name is…” and then the old tree gave out a horrendously loud cracking sound.
“Diog! Get down now! Get down!”
And Diog obliged and gymnastically swung limb to limb bearing toward the earth while the old maple began its toppling. Right there on Cambie by Pender it crashed and Diog in all the cacophony thought he heard the tree utter one more word. Just two syllables. But he couldn’t make them out. Even though they sounded similar to that of a lumberjack calling. Diog was more intent on surviving this collapse uninjured. It was a calamity to be sure. Old Syc, or whatever his name was, had truly met his demise right there on the street atop two vehicles.
While everyone there at Victory Square were agog with the aftermath and busy trying to unpuzzle what had just transpired, Diog made his way home cloaked. There his wife was dutifully chopping the garden’s delights for a dinner salad to be served with that lamb roasting. And thence Lyla lit up nicely and the day unfolded with a loveliness. Just before the setting of the sun, Diog spied a Grundler on his window sill nipping at a nut.
“Did you hear the old maple on its way down. What he said?”
“No. I was too distracted. All that thrashing and such.”
“He was naming himself I believe.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I heard clearly two syllables.”
“Yes! Come to think of it, so did I but I couldn’t make them out.”
“I could but it was as though he hadn’t finished by the time he hit the street.”
“What were the syllables?”
“Well he said, in a holler like a lumberjack, ‘Van Koo…’ and that was it.”
“Ah. Yes.” And despite all he had seen that day, Diog chuckled. He laughed wistfully remembering the old Sycamore with affection and gratitude.
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