The Thing in the Trees

by M. M. Moamrath

Introduction to “The Thing in the Trees”

There is considerable confusion as to what Moamrath originally intended this work to be. A few unfinished limericks seem to indicate that the tale might have been conceived as a cycle, but none of Moamrath’s notes and letters verify this. The two lines which bear the most resemblance to the finished work are as follows:

He was too perfect to ever bungle, And thus became the Lord of the Jungel [sic].

Many scholars consider “The Thing in the Trees” to be one of Moamrath’s most atypical works, being for the most part a straight adventure. This may account for Moamrath’s difficulty in marketing it. Over 50 rejections were accumulated in “Thing”’s file. Billy Calhoun, editor of Okay Adventures magazine, was uncharacteristically blunt. The editor’s note merely read “NO” in red letters several inches high. The tale finally sold to Jejune Jungle Adventures, and appeared in the Summer ’36 issue.

When asked about the factual fiasco of using a certain ocean liner, Moamrath said it was the only ship’s name he could remember and he “wanted to be authentic.” A sequel to the story, set in Boston, was hinted at. It is doubtful it was ever begun.

— Walton Simons

The Thing in the Trees

We put to shore on a deserted beach in a nameless country on the coast of Africa. If the country had a name I didn’t know it and neither did the guides, who likely would not have told me anyway the way I mercilessly bullied and beat them.

The tangled undergrowth made every step forward a struggle of man against nature. Only a tiny portion of the blue sky could be seen through the clotted jungle roof. The sun hung overhead as if suspended by an invisible, fireproofed thread. I swore at the sweltering heat and kicked the porter ahead of me. This was worse than anything I’d seen on Cape Cod.

Money speaks, especially in Massachusetts. The family that hired me had the peculiar idea that several of their own had been shipwrecked in this vicinity nearly two decades before. Through roundabout ways the family heard that I had a map of Africa and would do anything for money. After furnishing me with funds, clothing, and a rosary blessed by the Archbishop, they sent me on my way. “At least we’ll have the appearance of making an attempt to find them,” the grizzled old matriarch had said, tearfully wishing me good luck.

Thoughts of leaving home and the sickening ocean voyage which had followed were now left far behind. Simply surviving to see the sun yanked up by its thread the next morning was the extent of my ambition. My tins of food were dwindling rapidly. It looked as if I would surely die in the midst of this green desolation.

I looked up above me into the trees. There was a creature there which could not be described by mere words. It had five arms and half as many legs, so I judged it to be a male. It had heavy leathery wing-things and quadruple eyes extending hideously from either nostril. It passed a hand across its throat in an unmistakable gesture and flew away, laughing shrilly.

Running from that apparition, we stepped suddenly into a clearing and were so startled we stopped in each other’s tracks. On the far side of the clearing was what could only be described as a magnificent treehouse. It was several stories high and somehow stained white. There were window boxes of vicious green plants and bright red shutters on the windows. The porters bolted and ran away, thoughtlessly taking all the supplies with them. I pursued them, cursing, but was cut off in mid-epithet by the recoil of a particularly large and pliant branch.

When my brain cleared sufficiently, I staggered back to the clearing and up to the treehouse. I wiped my filthy shoes on the welcome mat in front of the door and boldly strode in. In spite of the circumstances I felt manly and unconquerable. If I were going to expire, it would be with my glands in an uproar. The entranceway was empty and my animal instincts quickly deflated. The house looked distinctly Victorian, except for the tree in the center, which nonetheless gave it a special kind of appeal. I spun to my left and into what appeared to be the library. There were only three books on the mainly empty shelves. On close inspection I discovered them to be a beginning and intermediate primer, and a book of etiquette (or so I judged it to be, since it was clearly utter nonsense).

I heard a noise from upstairs and jumped almost out of my khaki. In fact, I partly jumped out, and had to readjust myself before bolting in total panic from the treehouse. Where was my courage now that I needed it?

I saw rather than sensed the dark shapes moving alongside me in the underbrush. They were making noises that even I, for any amount of money, would refuse to make.

A huge man swung down from the trees above and blocked my path. He was wearing a formal suit made from leaves and tree bark. Like me, he was white, but was insultingly more handsome. He smiled and extended his hand.

“Would you like to stay for tea?” he asked, in a primitive but cordial manner.

* * *

The giant table was made of roughly chopped-up tropical trees. The chairs were made of the same material, only smaller and shaped like chairs, and set up at nearly equal intervals around the table. There were two dozen places to sit. Above us squatted a giant plateau, whose topness was obscured in jungle mist. My host pointed to a chair. I sat down where indicated. There was a crudely made cup and saucer in front of me.

“Who are you?” I finally asked, not knowing what to expect as a surprise.

The jungel [sic] man seated himself carefully at the head of the table. “Your host, Tarzoom.” He picked up a shell-like apparatus and let it waggle in his fingers, letting out a tinkling sound.

The giant shapes moved out of the trees and into the clearing, purposefully and hungrily. The apes were clad in the same jungle-material Victorian clothes as my host, except that some were dresses. Not being from Missouri, I assumed these were the females without the need of a closer-up look. The apes clambered up to the table muttering and took their places. One reached quickly for a steaming teapot.

The jungel [sic] man growled, his nose blazing red. Only much later would I find out that he’d once been bitten on the beezer while in a life-and-death struggle with one of his subjects, trying to get them to pour from the left. “Bundolo,” he said, teeth clenched. The cowed ape jerked its hand back. “Manners,” he continued, thankfully in English. “We have a guest.” He turned to me. “Please introduce yourself.”

“Rider Burrowes,” I said, “adventurer and first-person narrator.”

My host frowned, clearly familiar with self-reflexive humor and unimpressed in the extreme. “Allow me to introduce the others seated at the table. Only my left is Edward I, to his left is Edward II, to his left is Elizabeth, to her left is James II . . .” he continued on around the table. Every ape and ape-ess responded to their name with a polite nod and happy puddle of drool on the tabletop. Henry VIII was the last, and seated next to me. He was constantly scratching his hairy ape privates and eyeing the females. “Victoria, you may pour.”

A particularly dainty ape-ess stood, picked up the teapot, and moved to the jungel [sic] king’s left.

“Our guest first,” he said through gritted teeth.

She lowered her brown eyes and moved quickly to my left, filling my cup with a liquid which, though brown and seething hot, smelled too much like the animal serving it. I was grateful that I would not be required to drink the stuff until everyone was served. Regrettably this was only moments later and my host raised his cup to his pursed lips. The apes did the same, blowing into their cups and filling the air with the foul stench of their breath. Tarzoom gave me an imperious look. I raised the cup to my lips and took a sip. The liquid was hard on my lips, but murderous on my mouth and throat. I did my Massachusetts best not to spit it up, using the traditional manner of curving one’s tongue inward to resemble Cape Cod.

A huge, dark shadow passed over the table. I craned my neck and looked up. A stupendous form was circling above. It was a 30-foot long reptile with a spiked tail, which seemed to be holding itself in the air by flapping the plates on its back. There was a crudely-fashioned napkin about its neck, nonetheless impressive for a creature with no opposable thumbs.

I was caught up for a moment in the wonder of the sight, then remembered my physics. “That’s aerodynamically impossible,” I quipped with certainty.

The monster began wobbling in its path above us. Panic filled its tiny, dark eyes and spread quickly to both its useless brains. It spiraled down from the sky.

“Weuunk,” it said, pitifully, and plowed headfirst into the jungle floor. The earth shook, thundered, and rattled. Dust spurted into my disbelieving eyes. By the time I had wiped my orbs clear, Tarzoom was standing next to the giant reptile. Its head was lowered in saurian shame and it pawed the earth with one of its big forefoot.

“Kreegah,” my host said. He tore the napkin from the monster’s neck and flung in mercilessly into the moist, scale-lidded eyes. The saurian rolled over, splaying plates in every direction, and wagged its tail. The man turned away and walked with steps the same size back to the table. He refilled my cup.

“This will put some colour into your cheeks,” he said.

“No need to talk that way,” I replied, downing more of the vile liquid. “You’re not British, you’re American.”

He snarled. “American? Not royalty?”

I twitched laboriously. “If you are who I think you are, then you’re very rich. That’s better than royalty in America.”

“I remain unconvinced.” His nose was beginning to get rosey.

“Come to America with me and I’ll show you.” I smiled broadly, showing almost all my teeth.

“Perhaps,” he said. “First we have a jolly time here.”

“Right, sir.” My heart sank almost all the way to my bladder. I knew what a Brit’s idea of a good time was.

* * *

I was beginning to feel distinctly strange, like my head was wrapped in cotton with two silly eyeholes to look out of. And my body was crawling with nameless ants. It seemed to be getting dark. The sun hadn’t been visible for hours. There was a huge fire raging, flames pointy-pointing into the darkness. The jungel [sic] king and the apes were waltzing feverishly around the blaze. I wished there was more cotton around my head.

My host broke away from his reluctant partner and walked over to me. “Good tea, jolly good time.”

“By Saint Sebastian the pincushioned, what was in it?” My own voice sounded strange inside my mouth.

“Roots.” Tarzoom put his hand firmly on my shoulder, I think. “Very special roots.” He walked back over to the circle of dancers and cut in on Henry VIII.

The ape noises, which I had assumed to be gibberish or Italian, began to make more sense to me. A litany of rules was being chanted.

“Not to go on all fours, that is the law.”

“Not to scratch the bark of trees, except to make new garments, that is the law.”

“Always to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you very much’, that is the law.”

And on and on it went. Hundreds of silly imperatives, callously loosed on these apes by a single etiquette book. I began to cry at the thought, and so removed the cotton from my head and dabbed the tears away.

Victoria, seeing that I was upset, wandered over and sat daintily down next to me, stirring up a cloud of dust. She ran her dark, stubby fingers over my khaki. After a few moments I could tell she was stirring something in me that was better left alone, but her groping digits refused to go away.

“Not to visit man’s flesh with your teeth, that is the law,” I said.

She rolled her eyes in ecstasy. My brain began to spin in its cranium, and the last thing I saw as the she-ape descended on me, was the she-ape, descending on me.

* * *

Somehow I managed to persuade my host to return with me to America. There were many adventures between Africa and London, or so I have been told. Regrettably, I became hotly fevered and remember nothing of this. However I now have a tattoo under my khaki with the word “Mother” in the center, so I have little cause to doubt this.

My companion was a cause celebrity in London. Men pretended to like him, but secretly hated him. Women pretended not to be affected by his rippling physique, but secretly longed for his touch. How different from America, where everyone obviously hates everyone.

By April 1912, I was ready for the voyage to New York. We would have sailed to Boston, but the ship was not going there. The liner was magnificent. Tarzoom had reddened his nose in imperious anger in front of a pair of old ladies, intimidating them out of their passage.

“Titanic,” he said. “A lucky name for a ship.”

I nodded. Some things were too obvious for even me to quibble with. We waltzed up the gangplank, drawing many stares, and headed for our cabin.

* * *

Our first meal on board was at a restaurant not unlike a French sidewalk café without the sidewalk. The jungel [sic] king told me the story of how he had been raised by apes after his family had been killed by raccoons, which carefully washed and ate them up. He had learned to read and write from the two primers and was able after much grunting to understand the book on etiquette. He was determined to make the jungle over into a civilized and polite place. Manners were his religion and every day was Sunday.

As we stared out onto the magnificent blue waviness of the ocean, a hideous head lifted out of the water. It had a head not unlike an upside-down shark, except that it had eyes that twirled like spinning pinwheels and lips that made one long for mere liver.

“Go back,” the creature yelled. “You’ll be sorry.” Then it splooshed back into the flat, green brine.

At this point the waiter walked over, his Frog’s nose cutting the air like a shark’s fin through warm butter. “Messieurs?” he said.

“What language is that?” the ape man asked.

“French,” I replied, putting my finger down my throat.

Tarzoom stood and smashed his fist into the overbred waiter’s nose, sending it spinning from his head. He grunted with pride and sat back down as the Frog tried vainly to staunch the flow of sticky redness while retrieving his proboscis.

I smiled.

“We’ll eat here every meal,” he said. “Or until they run out of waiters.”

* * *

The Titanic docked in New York Harbor several hours ahead of schedule. We caught the first available train to Boston. Along the way I taught Tarzoom the “clackety-clack” game, wherein each of the participants say clackety-clack along with the train wheels until someone gives up. The game ended in a draw. I had forgotten that so many of my countrymen carried firearms to ensure a lack of fun on such journeys.

The old matriarch and her group of people around her met us at the train station. She embraced the jungel [sic] king as one of her own with her flabby, brittle arms and said, “Not one of us. But maybe we’ll adopt.”

“But my considerable effort,” I protested, showing the empty pockets in my khaki.

“This is America. We’re only interested in results.” She led the ape man away. He cast one bewildered look back at me. I had to think we would meet again.

My life went considerably downhill after that. I was haunted at night by dreams of ape-ess flesh, and the velvety coarseness of ape hair.

Luckily, there is medicine for such dreams. I take plenty of it, I think.