Treeman
by
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Ashhands! I whine, peering intently down the street from the rim of my dust hole. Do not go into the City! But she is not in the street, though the sun is low in the sky: the street is empty except for the donkey, loaded high with brush, following the slow whitebeard along our street. A burst of giggling! I turn my head toward the field: the children who have been digging in its dirt and sand are chasing each other towards the houses at the far side of the field! A fly drones near, then circles my head. Snap! It buzzes between my clenched teeth: the first fly that I have caught in many days, but not for want of trying! I chomp it earnestly, then work it back along the edge of my tongue, and swallow. Watch out, flies! I snort, cocking my head this way and that, but soon I lower my head to stretch carefully and contentedly. The day is too hot for hunting, even while reclining on my side. Through an eyelid's hazy squint the broken corner of the stone doorstep looms against a torn patch of sky, high as the hill of steps ascending to the House of Fragrance. The drone of the village is broken by the children's shrill squeals, the call of a bird, the distant bleat of a lamb: old, familiar sounds that I quickly ignore to hear other, older sounds--Treeman! I whine, feeling the creep of my nape. Can you hear the roaring?
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About the Book
Writing "Treeman" posed unusual challenges. How do you stay close to Mark, the oldest Gospel, without the dialogue most fiction relies upon? Dogs don't talk, after all.
How do you stay true to canine senses and behavior, like red-green color-blindness and perpetual interest in food, through these shattering events? How would this scarred, abused mongrel react to the miracles, the snap of torches, the roar of crowds? What would he make of the one on whom it all hinged: Treeman?
The dying dog's blunt viewpoint demands we rethink stories many of us have heard since childhood. But "Treeman" is also about aging without whining or backbiting, a supreme witness to a life lived longing to trust and to be trusted.
About the Author
Coming from a family of artists, writers, and engineers, and retired from a career in technical writing, data analysis, and data processing, Dave Soderberg resides in rural Idaho where he writes, sculpts figurative bronze, and delights in grandchildren.
Raised in Asia and the Orient, he was shocked at the state of stray dogs there and in the Holy Land. Dogs in Jesus' era must have had it even worse. Mad with hunger, they would have marauded in dangerous packs over the Galilean countryside killing sheep and snatching fish from exhausted fishermen like Peter.
"Treeman" grew from this vision of the desperate days of the Highest of the High, when even small children threw stones at these lowliest of the low.