The tree looked Wizard of Oz-ish -- roots radiating, roots rippling in the dirt, roots like layered octopi; branches that spread in a circumference of endless arms yearning, trying to defy the roots' stronghold, reaching for air. The effect was liturgical.
It wasn't the tree the men wanted. It was its representation -- its un-stolid, stuck-but-screaming reach for more, its unbridled attempt to get as far away from home as possible -- that made it the gathering place it was, an ally to the nocturnal denizens of the Fens with their dicks out, jerking, kissing, licking, looking -- looking from the perimeter of the crowd for someone safe, detesting the safety of the outskirts, repulsed by the mediocrity of the middle, detesting the ferocity of the center, the soul stripped in defiance, roots that can't be outrun. The tree was the most alive.
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