Kaleidoscope

By Hank “Stale Crouton” Kirton

Robust barrel-chested  Kchelogaveg yanked at a young white pine, testing the anchored clench of its root system. It would not budge. Out of frustration, or a performative outburst of masculine dominance, he pulled once more, using both hands (and a punctuating grunt). 

It rocked slightly. 

It was a straight, stately little tree. Everyone knew Kchelogaveg had his heart set on something with age. A tree with years under its bark. Something rough and ragged and sad. Like home. But his family insisted on a young tree. It was a matter of tradition. Kchelogaveg only followed their traditions out of familial obligation. He had been raised in a family without them.

Eventually, the twins came back.

Kchelogaveg grabbed the tree, bending it like a taut bow with all his weight. The salesman watched with hidden fingers. Kchelogaveg released the tree and it whipped upright again. He issued an exasperated gust of breath, meant as a complaint for the salesman.

He had a newly-whetted hatchet and he swung it at the base of the tree. It bounced off like Amazonian rubber but it also cut shallow incisions and after twenty-seven swings of the ax the tree had become a decoration.

The salesman applauded, clapping out muffled thumps through his big woolen mittens.

Kchelogaveg said to the twins, “These branches are far too frail to hold the pig-iron ornaments. I hope you’re happy.”

Katchka said, “We were hunting for mushrooms, Papa! Look!” She was cupping a small pile of mushrooms with both hands. The mushrooms were black with red veins and coated with a layer of scum. “Aren’t they pretty?”

He glanced down at the mushrooms his daughter held and informed her, “Those are Black Curtain mushrooms. They are not edible and will make you sick. Throw them away.”

“But can’t we keep them if we don’t eat them?” asked her sister, Kittania. 

“No my dear. In fact, make sure you don’t touch your lips until you wash your hands.”

“Your father is right, girls,” said the salesman. “Best to be careful.”

Kchelogaveg threw him a stern look. “Keep silent. This is not any of your affair.” 

The salesman withered like an autumn blackberry.

He turned back to the girls. “Leave the mushrooms on the forest floor and drag your tree back to the wagon,” he told them.

“Yes Papa,” said Katchka. The sisters dropped their mushrooms and lifted the felled evergreen. They began to drag it back down the path. 

Kchelogaveg faced the salesman, who was grinning all over himself. “What do I owe you?” he asked, pulling his billfold out of the pocket of his threadbare peacoat. 

The salesman couldn’t hide his excitement. He was already gloating to himself, Kchelogaveg was certain. He removed his big mittens and tucked them under his arm, ready to do business with his greedy, well-manicured hands.

“Er, ummm…” as if calculating the cost. “Fifteen duncets is a miffling price, I think. That’s below the market value. I added a discount since you and your daughters did most of the work,” he finally declared. 

“We did ALL the work. I’ll give you five.”

“Five? Sir, you insult me!”

“People shouldn’t have to pay for trees. The earth gives them freely to everyone. Your business is quite unscrupulous, taking advantage of an uncertain time. I will not haggle on this price. If you refuse, my girls will return the tree to you.”

The salesman’s face ruddied with consternation. “Return it? Once separated from its roots, it’s of little value!”

“And thus my counterbid is more than fair,” Kchelogaveg said. He plucked a thin fretted bill from his wallet and offered it to the salesman.

The salesman frowned at the extended pelf and puffed himself tall.  “It’s outrageous! Offering me a third of its worth after you’ve decimated the very commodity you’re trying to buy! I shall report your thieving scheme to the constable! You’ll spend the arriving day of holy observation locked in the stocks with the other thieves and malcontents!”

Kchelogaveg just stood and watched with calm dispassion as the salesman carried on with his harried diatribe. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and clamped it between his teeth, lighting it with a blue-tipped match struck against a nearby granite obelisk. 

Kchelogaveg’s stoic nonchalance had ignited a blazing rage in the salesman who tried to will himself into a larger, more threatening figure.

Kchelogaveg was six foot six. Even with all the salesman’s strain and puffed-up posture, he was still a mere ground squirrel to Kchelogaveg’s grizzly bear. 

“I grow weary of your emotional tantrums,” said Kchelogaveg. “Five duncets is my final offer. It is the price of the tree my daughters have already carried away. Our tree. If you choose to pester the constable over this matter, you shall meet with grave consequences soon after.”

 “Are you threatening me, sir?” 

“No more than you’ve threatened me with a constable’s charge. I am merely giving you advance warning. If you provoke me, I will strike back with the righteous ferocity your personal challenge invites.” He drew on his pipe and puffed out a cloud. The tobacco was sweet and earthy, like a fresh grave in the rain.  “It seems we’re arguing over an insignificant transaction. My only commitment to you is to hand you an impartial payment based on a fair assessment of worth.” He pushed the bill at him again but the salesman still refused to accept it.

“Fair assessment?  Five duncets for such a pretty and pristine tree is nothing more than a rock-bottom taunt. The way you engage in commerce is just an attempt to outrage me. And it’s working!” 

Kchelogaveg puffed his pipe with calm ease, sending small smoke signals rising above his head in gossamer wisps of enlaced fog. “I apologize if my way of conducting business is causing you distress. That was never my intent. All I wanted was a small tree for my family to set aflame on the sacred day.” 

The salesman looked at him with defeat dawning in his eyes. Kchelogaveg noticed a drop in his posture. He was certain he had gained the upper hand in the negotiation. 

Once again, he proffered the pelf. The salesman’s face had drained of color and he finally reached out and accepted the tender. In a final show of aggravated disdain, the salesman crumpled the bill in his fist and jammed it into his front pocket. 

Kchelogaveg knocked the spent ashes from his pipe against the rough-hewn obelisk and tucked it back in his pocket. “Congratulations, good sir! You drive a hard bargain.  I thank you and my family thanks you. You have increased our joy on this dim mingling day. Please accept my warmest gratitude and appreciation.”

The salesman spat at Kchelogaveg’s boots. “THAT for your gratitude! You are a con artist. Nothing more than a whiffling plebeian. I curse your guts and pollute your bloodstream. I cast sickness upon you! I break your lively homeostasis with the rancid rigor of my burning contempt!” 

And that was when Kchelogaveg’s temper slashed into him like a lacerating blade and he drove his fist into the salesman’s throat just as Katchka and Kittania returned to the black-market part of the forest. They stood stock-still, shocked, as the salesman tried (and failed) to gasp a breath through his closed throat and he crumpled to the ground. The twins gazed at his soft white hands as they scrabbled and grabbed at the leaves and dirt, as if he were in danger of being hurled off the earth in a massive gravitational betrayal. 

Kchelogaveg turned to his daughters. “He’ll be alright. I just knocked the air from his chest. Let’s go home,” he said and then started back down the path. 

Katchka and Kittania looked at each other. They were thinking the same thing and smiled at their telepathic revelation. 

Katchka bent down and picked up one of the dropped Black Curtain mushrooms. The salesman was still struggling to breathe, writhing in the leaves as Katchka mashed the mushroom into his mouth. Kittania giggled and did the same.

And then they ran to catch up with their father, feeling renewed and boundless excitement for the arriving holiday.