Bernard was a happy baby; no matter the weather outside or the mood of the house, he would look out from happy, if not docile, eyes. Pappa used to say that without Bernard’s cheerful disposition, our house would likely be swallowed up by our collective worry. He wasn’t wrong; many nights—even before Bernard died—I’d stare out the window at Abigale’s Promise, a catatonic watcher looming over our town from atop the south hump of Camel’s Back, and I’d imagine beasts skulking around its trunk, waiting for me to shut my eyes, to devour me while I slept. These days, I sleep with my back to the window, and even then, I sleep uneasily.
In the center of the tree is an iron door which opens to a hollow just large enough to place a baby inside. I’d never thought much about the size of the hole in Abigale’s Promise until the day Pappa put Bernard inside. Before then, I’d only seen offerings of grain, fruits, and vegetables on Prayer Day.
Two years ago, on Winter Prayer Day, I placed my hand on Abigale’s Promise and prayed for Mamma’s happiness. Three weeks later, she became pregnant with Bernard.
It was during this period of my life, when Bernard’s smile lit up our house, I began to realize how bleak the world is, and how every happy moment would one day be tainted by tragedy; how each ripe fruit would one day rot. I began to mourn our happy life even before Bernard got sick. I’m unsure what caused this dread, but the following years only reinforced my feelings of foreboding.
When Bernard died, Pastor Sharp brought coffee and donuts, filling our house with pleasant smells that would, from that day forward, forever be associated with intense sadness. The deacons sat in the den smoking their pipes, and I weaved in and out of gentle words and soft eyes, trying to get close enough to hear what the pastor was saying to Mamma and Pappa.
“I’ve prayed on it,” Pastor Sharp said, “and God has answered me. You’re to take Bernard’s body to Abigale’s Promise and place him inside.”
Mamma shook her head. “No, please, no. I can’t—”
“I know it’s difficult, but we must trust in Him.” The pastor held Mamma’s cheek and wiped a trailing tear away with his thumb. “Wrap Bernard in cheesecloth, place him in the tree, and soon your boy will be home. Soon, Bernard’s happy eyes will be filled with the light of the Lord once again.”
I followed my parents from the house and up the trail to Abigale’s Promise, then hid behind a rock, warming my hands on the sun-baked stone.
A crow hopped from branch to branch above Pappa as he pulled open the small iron door, the rusty hinges squeaking as it swung open. The crow above them cawed its displeasure at the noise and flew away.
Mamma shook her head, crying. She was holding Bernard’s tiny frame away from Pappa. I could see Bernard’s delicate features through the cheesecloth: his cherub nose, his angelic lashes.
Pappa took Bernard from Mamma by force, shouting, “My boy! Oh, my poor boy! I’m sorry! Please forgive me!” as he placed my brother’s body inside the tree.
Mamma fell to her knees, screaming for mercy; I bit my lip.
Pappa shut the door; Mamma wailed! Then Pappa fell to his knees, embracing her, stroking her hair and pleading with her to be well.
As they sobbed, I held my mouth shut with both of my hands.
Shortly after Pappa had placed him within the hollow, Pastor Sharp came up the hill. His brown suit blended with the surrounding hills, and he wore a crown of dried wildflowers atop his head. Behind him the deacons held their bibles in their hands, and sang hymns. When they reached the top of the hill, they stopped singing, finishing the verse as a hum.
Mamma and Pappa stood up, wiping the tears from their cheeks with their sleeves.
Pastor Sharp walked past them without acknowledging their grief, placed a hand on the iron door, and closed his eyes. Birds chirped.
The pastor began singing the harvest song; I’d only heard him sing it for the fruits and grain, but now he was singing it for Bernard. It was a pretty song, comforting. Bernard would have liked it, I think. It was in the old language, so I couldn’t understand it, not completely. But it was a song about the seasons; I remembered that much from school.
When Pastor Sharp had finished singing, he turned to Mamma and Pappa, embraced them, and said, “Your boy will be back in nine months.”
Mamma gasped; Pappa’s lip quivered.
The pastor crouched to pluck an undamaged acorn from the ground, placed it into Mamma’s trembling hand, and said, “Put this beneath your pillow, and read Genesis 1:28 each night before bed.” Then, the pastor turned to Pappa. “Sing to the womb nightly. Sing with all of your heart and soul, brother. Sing to Jesus, and sing to Frey.”
“God is good,” my parents replied.
“God is good,” I whispered.
The pastor motioned for everyone to walk back down the hill. Mamma reached out to the iron door—to her boy—but Pappa pulled her down the trail.
As they went, Pastor Sharp said, “You are not to open the hatch for nine months. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” they replied.
“Yes,” I said to myself from behind the rock.
That night, I dreamed of my brother Bernard, bizarre dreams filled with family and friends whose faces were unfamiliar and an orchard with babies growing from trees like fruit. On one such tree, I saw Bernard. He looked at me with those big brown eyes of his and smiled. “Bernard,” I said, “silly boy, why are you hanging from the tree like one of Mamma’s persimmons?” But when Bernard opened his mouth to reply, a fly crawled out from between his lips and flew down my throat, choking me until I woke up clutching my neck.
Each sleep held a new terror, but it wasn’t as bad as the waking moments, those moments filled with grief. Mamma and Pappa were husks of their former selves, and I was forced to become both caretaker and cook of the house. Not that anyone ate, not more than enough to survive, and certainly not with any desire or pleasure. Bread was eaten without butter, potatoes without salt.
Mamma only left her room for the essentials, and only when nobody was around. We thought she might stay in her room the whole nine months, but one early morning, before the sun came up, I saw her walking up the trail toward the tree, her rucksack slung over her shoulder. I waited for her to come back down, watching the trail leading up to Abigail’s Promise, but soon my eyes grew heavy and I fell back into my restless sleep.
Later that morning I found Mamma sitting on the porch in the early morning sun, drinking coffee, stroking Bernard’s stuffed rabbit. Her hands looked as if she’d been gardening. After that, she often sat outside on the stoop, looking up at Camel’s Back.
Life went on. There were no smiles, but life went on.
When I was at school, while the other boys played ball or chased girls, I’d climb to the schoolhouse roof and look up at Abigale’s Promise. I thought only of Bernard’s body, rotting behind that iron door. More than anything, I wanted to pull it open, and to look inside, but I resisted. But did I resist out of respect for my parents? For Pastor Sharp? God? No—I resisted because, as much as I wanted to see Bernard’s body, to mourn my baby brother’s life, I was also afraid he might not be within that tree.
Then, three weeks later, I woke up to the sound of Mamma singing a lullaby in the kitchen. I ran into the room, half expecting to see my brother cooing in his highchair.
“There’s our boy,” Pappa said to me. “Your mamma is making a special breakfast for us this morning.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Bernard is coming home!”
Mamma turned around, nodding in confirmation. She leaned her back against the kitchen sink, rubbing her belly. She was smiling, but the pancakes stacked on the plate beside the stove were burnt.
“God is good,” she said. “God granted us a mercy.”
I embraced her, but when I opened my eyes and looked out the kitchen window, Camel’s Back was covered in a blanket of fog, and I thought, Bernard’s cheesecloth won’t protect him from this damp.
As Mamma’s belly grew, so did my desire to open the iron door, to look inside the hollow. I tried to keep myself busy, cleaning, praying—I’d even taken up knitting, though Pappa called it women’s work. Nothing helped. I imagined what it would be like to be trapped in darkness for nine months and to hear wild animals sniffing at the seams of that iron door.
I had good intentions: I wanted to make sure the door was still closed and that nobody had disturbed my brother’s body. And I’d knitted a scarf to tie around Abigale’s Promise to keep Bernard warm. As I walked up the south hump of Camel’s Back, I thought I heard a baby crying, so I ran the rest of the way, but when I got to the top of the hill there was only silence.
I walked up to the Prayer Tree and stood before the iron door. Above me, a crow hopped from branch to branch, cawing.
“Have you been protecting my brother?” I asked the crow.
Caw! Caw!
“Well, thank you…if that was a yes.”
There was a piece of the cheesecloth sticking out from the seam. My mind went back to that day Pappa placed Bernard in the tree. I covered my mouth.
“Stay with me, crow, please.”
Caw!
Slowly I pulled open the iron door, and when it was agape, a thousand fruit flies blew out of the hollow and into my face as if the tree had been holding its breath.
I stepped back in shock, shielding my face. The smell was overpowering. I pinched my nose and stepped forward.
Inside, the cheesecloth was brown and filled with wet flesh. I slammed the iron door shut and backed away, but the crow called to me, frantically jumping from branch to branch.
Caw! Caw! Caw!
“It’s him,” I said.
Caw!
A yellow liquid was dripping from the bottom seam of the iron door.
“It’s him,” I said again. “It’s him and he’s dead.”
Caw! Caw!
I stepped forward, pulled open the iron door, and peeled back the hem of the cheesecloth: it wasn’t my brother’s decaying body—it wasn’t a body at all. It was a pile of decomposing persimmons.
As the congregation departed from the church that Sunday after worship, I stayed behind to speak with Pastor Sharp.
“Pastor?” I said.
“Yes?” The pastor smiled and approached. “Everything alright?”
I nodded. “Everything’s fine…it’s just…well, I have a confession.”
“You don’t have to tell me. Pray directly to your Lord and Savior, boy. He—”
“I was there when Pappa put Bernard in the tree I was…I was hiding.”
The pastor cocked a brow, then put a hand on my shoulder. “That must have been difficult for you to see. But tell me, and this is important: did you open the door?”
I looked into Pastor Sharp’s eyes, searching for my answer. “No,” I said. “I heard you say not to.”
“Good,” he said. “Good boy—smart boy.”
“Pastor, what would happen if someone were to open it?” I was looking out the vestibule doors at Mamma, who was outside on the church lawn, smiling and holding her belly, chatting with the pastor’s wife.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious.”
The pastor patted my back, and opened the door to leave the church. “Bernard wouldn’t come home. We wouldn’t want that, right?”
“No sir, we wouldn’t.”
On the day Bernard reentered our world, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, looking out the window at Abigale’s Promise, when a small but healthy cry came from Mamma and Pappa’s room, immediately followed by sounds of joy and laughter. After a while, Pappa came in and asked me if I wanted to see my baby brother.
As I walked down the narrow hall to my parents’ room, I ran my hand over a sprig of singed rosemary Mamma had hung from the wall, smelled my fingers, and said a silent prayer.
When I entered the room, Pastor Sharp shook my hand. “You probably missed your baby bother. I’m happy to see you two reunited.” He ushered me toward the bassinet.
Mamma wasn’t smiling, and she looked weary.
“Is he okay?” I asked, looking from the nurse to Pappa.
“He’s perfectly healthy,” said the nurse, leaving the room to fetch clean towels.
“He’s your brother!” Pappa said. “There’s no doubt about it! He even has the freckle right below his left eye. Mamma is…Mamma is a little tired.”
I stepped up to the bassinet and peered over the top and there was Bernard, smiling back at me with those happy brown eyes. It was him. I reached my hand in the bassinet, and he took hold of my finger, wrapping his little hand around it. A tear fell from my cheek onto his forehead.
“Bring him to your mamma,” said Pappa. “Go on, big brother.”
I lifted Bernard from his bassinet; he was heavier than I’d expected. When I handed him to Mamma, she held him loosely.
“It’s him, Mamma,” said Pappa. “It’s our boy.”
Despite Mamma’s lethargy, I felt like I might explode from joy; Bernard was home! And he was healthy! I leaned against the bassinet and laughed at the funny noises he was making as Mamma moved him from her lap to her breast.
Then, I felt something tickling my back.
I turned around, and the blood drained from my face. Within the bassinet, scarabs swarmed over Bernard’s stuffed rabbit. Outside, a crow cawed.
Persimmons was edited by
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This story clings to me like the scent of wet earth... sweet, unsettling, and lingering. I’m not sure what came back in Bernard’s place, but it wasn’t just a child. It was grief, dressed in hope’s clothing.
This was really good! I love your writing style! And for some reason I really love the title. So mysterious and fitting. Subscribed! Keep writing, fellow horror writer!