Inner Bark

Abigail opened the book on the marked page, then lifted her eyes towards the forest. Only a small piece remained. Proud branches had reached for the sky here once. The smell of resin and pine would invade the nostrils until the senses were overwhelmed—so strong it could be tasted on the tongue.

Now, most of the evergreens were dead.

Ghostly grey branches, stripped of needles, reached upward toward a grey sky, frozen in place like fossilized smoke. A few still clung to green, holding on to a world that had once been—a happier place, where color still belonged. Now that green stood out, wrong and exposed, against the mass of ash-grey death.

“So, children, listen up.” The command creaked out of her, as worn as the heavy, yellowed book in her free hand.

The voice croaked and squeaked, as if every sound might be her last. It belonged to a woman leaning heavily on a cane nearly half her height. Her hair was thin and grey, the scalp beneath clearly visible.

“Children, now listen up. Do not make me call the guard.”

She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. The remark alone was enough.

The five children stopped playing and gathered around her.

“This is a pine tree.” She showed the children the drawing in the book, then tapped her cane against the trunk beside her. “Look—this one still has green needles, so it is not dead yet.”

She tapped the cane on the ground, leaned over it, and then whispered, conspiratorial and grave:

“Do not eat the dead trees.”

One child—a boy—raised his hand.

“Yes?” the old woman croaked, her expression softening as she allowed him to speak.

“Eat trees?” The boy looked genuinely puzzled.

The old woman’s upper lip lifted into a smile. “But you ate it yesterday, little Ian.”

She laughed. The boy shook his head.

“Come here.”

She beckoned him closer and had him pull a piece of bark from the tree. He did so obediently and handed it to her. She raised it for the others to see and peeled fibrous strands from the inside.

“The inner bark,” she said. “That’s what we eat.”

She let the fibers dangle between her fingers. “We eat it with the beans. Otherwise—” She paused, letting the silence do the work. “—we get sick.”

She looked around the group. They all nodded.

“Now,” she said, straightening with effort, “get me some inner bark.”

She shooed the children toward another green tree.

***

“Teach! Teach!”

A little girl came running, crying. “There’s a beast in the bushes!” She pointed toward a tangle of dead shrubbery.

“If only we were so lucky,” the old woman muttered, already moving toward her.

The bushes rustled.

The children let out a collective moan and huddled together. The teacher’s eyes widened; her mouth fell slightly open. The thought of meat made her mouth water.

She approached slowly, cane lifted just enough to strike whatever emerged.

“Oh.”

She stopped.

The children were utterly silent now. She nodded—this, too, was a lesson they had learned well.

“Come out,” the teacher ordered, as loudly as she could manage. “No one is going to hurt you.”

Gasps. Small cries.

A little boy emerged from the bushes. His eyes were red and watery; tear-streaks cut through the grime on his cheeks.

“Come, come,” the old woman said gently.

She pulled a small handkerchief from her pocket and, with one practiced motion, cleaned his face.

“Teach?” A little girl raised her hand as high as she could.

“Yes, Amanda?”

The teacher dusted mud and debris from the boy’s clothes with her cane—surprisingly gentle.

“We should not bring strangers into the beanery,” Amanda said proudly, reciting remembered wisdom. Her eyes locked with the teacher’s, smiling.

“Yes,” the teacher said. “That is correct.”

She paused.

“I think we can make an exception for little boys.”

She tapped her cane on the ground in soft applause.

“Well remembered, Amanda.”

***

Together they walked out of the grey forest. The boy held the teacher’s hand firmly—almost too firmly.

“If you squeeze any harder, young one,” the teacher whispered, “you’ll pull it off altogether.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. His grip softened immediately.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not looking up.

The teacher looked down at him.

Clear blue eyes.

A thin face, mapped with scars, half-healed wounds, and dirt the handkerchief had not managed to erase.

She stopped walking.

She sighed.

The past broke into the present, a paragraph from a chapter she hated.

When the madness struck, her daughter had died almost immediately. That left her with her grandson. A boy his age. With his blue eyes. Even the clothes—blue shirt, dark trousers. Exactly what he had worn that day.

The teacher inhaled sharply.

The stares of the children pulled her out of it. For a second, she was lost between worlds.

“It’s okay to cry,” Amanda said softly, repeating one of the teacher’s own lessons.

The teacher nodded, then smiled at her.

“Hurry up, children,” she said. “The beanery is closing.”

***

It rose from the landscape like a doomed fortress.

Thick concrete walls.

Black towers at every corner.

Figures patrolled the ramparts, rifles always kept just above the wall.

The boy shivered.

“Nobody is going to turn you away,” the teacher said.

She needed to hear it as much as he did.

They stopped at the gate.

Painted in large green letters above it were the words:

WELCOME TO THE BEANERY

YOUR SOURCE OF CANNED BEANS

She knocked on the metal with her cane.

“Abigail,” a voice called from the other side. “And the five students. You get your bark?”

The children lifted their baskets, proudly displaying the pale fibers inside. The guard clapped his hands once in approval and opened the gate.

As Abigail stepped through, the man raised a hand to stop her.

“And who’s this, then?”

His mouth was a thin line. His eyes moved slowly over the boy, measuring.

Abigail followed his gaze. Then she brought her cane down hard across his hand.

“The boy is under my protection,” she said. “If you disagree, throw me out too.”

She did not wait for a reply.

Dragging the boy along, she walked deeper into the compound.

“Abigail!” the man called after her, rubbing his reddening fingers. “Rules are for everyone. You teach them that.”

She did not turn around.

“Quite sure she heard that,” he muttered to another guard.

The other man shrugged.

“Just a boy.”

***

Inside the Beanery—what had once been the factory cantina—long tables filled the hall. Around a hundred people sat there: all ages, all genders, all races.

Racism, it seemed, did not suit survival.

Abigail entered with Tom, the boy from the forest. He did not let go of her hand. His eyes flicked from side to side, quick and nervous.

Someone nearby laughed—a booming, rolling sound.

Tom froze. His eyes widened, his body tensing as if ready to bolt.

Abigail tightened her grip. “No one is going to hurt you,” she said quietly. “Now let’s eat.”

Tom was sweating. Thick beads ran down his brow, darkening the blue of his shirt in uneven patches. Still, he walked with her. He said nothing. He only followed.

It had taken Abigail ten attempts to get his name from him. Tom. Each time she repeated it, the echo of her grandson’s voice stirred in her chest.

Behind the serving counter stood a woman who had once been fat. Now she was mostly skin and something else—something sharper beneath it.

“Ah,” the woman said, spotting them. “The new little one.”

She smiled at Abigail. “Good you brought him, Abi. Children brighten the days.”

Abigail nodded and slid her plate forward.

“Beans with bark,” the woman announced cheerfully.

As she filled the bowl, she leaned forward and whispered to Tom, “The first meal—they’re actually good.” She winked and added an extra spoonful.

Tom looked at her. He did not smile back.

“Thank you,” he said, barely audible.

Abigail squeezed his shoulder gently.

They sat near Ian. Abigail thought they were about the same age. Perhaps they could be friends. Ian needed one—he was the only boy his age in the Beanery.

Tom ate in silence.

Ian, meanwhile, proudly displayed his treasures: a wooden horse, a dragon, and a few other figures his father had carved for him. Tom looked at them, nodded once.

“Why is he so quiet, Mommy?” Ian complained.

“Give him time,” his mother said, ruffling Ian’s hair. “Soon you’ll be friends.”

Ian considered this, then carefully placed the wooden horse into Tom’s hands—for safekeeping.

Tom did not take it.

Not until Abigail put it in his hands.

***

After Abigail took the boy to the showers and cleaned him thoroughly, she asked where he had come from and how he had ended up in the forest.

He answered in fragments. Yes. No. A shake of the head.

When her questions lingered too long or cut too sharply, he began to cry.

His face was scarred and marked. Old wounds layered over newer ones. His back, stomach, and legs bore far less. His hands were untouched.

Abigail noticed.

She did not comment.

She dressed Tom in clean clothes—fresh, simple garments they had in abundance.

Children’s clothes.

The reason for that abundance was not a pleasant one.

Tom stood stiffly once dressed, tugging at the fabric.

“What’s the matter?” Abigail asked, keeping her voice light. “Don’t they fit?”

“My dad will be angry,” Tom said. His voice trembled. “Very angry.”

Abigail knelt, the movement slow and painful. She wrapped her arms around him.

“He cannot touch you anymore,” she said softly, wiping away his tears. “He can never hurt you again.”

Tom nodded, though his body still shook.

His bed was simple: crates pushed together, filled with folded clothing to serve as a mattress.

The boy began to cry again.

“I don’t want to sleep here,” he sobbed. “Dad will be angry.”

Abigail nodded once.

“He did a number on you,” she said, her voice sharp despite herself.

She lifted her cane slightly. “If he comes, I will knock him down.”

She struck the floor once with the cane.

“He’s really strong,” Tom said through tears and shuddering breaths.

Abigail beckoned him closer.

“Come and see.”

She led him to the gate.

“Look,” she said, pointing her cane at the heavy bolt sealing the door. “No one comes in.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder. The gentle pressure steadied him.

As they walked back, Tom kept glancing toward the gate.

“You still scared?” Abigail asked.

He shook his head.

She saw the faintest hint of a smile.

“You think you can sleep now?” she asked.

The boy nodded.

***

“What is it, Tom?”

It had to be deep into the night. Abigail always slept lightly—ever since that day.

Tom was standing beside his bunk. The bed was simple: crates stacked together, a mattress made of folded clothes. He did not look at her.

“Do you need to pee?” Abigail was already sitting upright.

Tom shook his head. His eyes stayed fixed on his shoes.

“It’s all right, Tom,” she said gently. “We all get scared sometimes.”

She reached into the darkness, searching for her cane.

“I’ll walk with you.”

“No.”

The word was strong. Steady. It made Abigail look up sharply.

Tom was holding her cane.

“Tom?” She extended her arm toward him. “May I have my cane back?”

Pain exploded up her arm.

She cried out as the cane struck her forearm, the impact sharp and precise. The air left her lungs in a thin gasp.

“Tom?” she managed.

He lifted the cane again, close to his face now, both hands wrapped around it.

“Daddy is coming,” Tom said.

Sounds came from outside.

Abigail felt the floor beneath her cheek—cold stone. Slowly, a puddle spread under her head.

“An attack,” she murmured.

Her eyes drifted shut again. Sleepiness washed over her, heavy and irresistible. A sigh escaped her old, wrinkled mouth.

She thought of Tom.

His strange calm. His peculiar certainty. She had wanted it to be abuse. Needed it to be abuse. Something known. Something human.

Now, in this final clarity, she wondered if it had been something else entirely.

“Someone opened the gate!” a voice shouted.

Oh, Tom.

Her thoughts slowed, each one heavier than the last. Her heart worked furiously, stubbornly, as if effort alone might change the outcome.

“I forgive you,” she whispered.

Then even that thought let go.