The Halloween Tree. Ray Bradbury
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sift from Tom’s mouth:
“Halloween Tree …”
All the boys whispered it:
“Halloween … Tree …”
And then there was silence.
And during the silence the last of the triples and quadruples of All Hallows’ Tree candles were lit in titanic constellations woven up through the black branches and peeking down through the twigs and crisp leaves.
And the Tree had now become one vast substantial Smile.
The last of the pumpkins now were lit. The air around the Tree was Indian-summer-breathing warm. The Tree exhaled sooty smoke and raw-pumpkin smell upon them.
“Gosh,” said Tom Skelton.
“Hey, what kind of place is this?” asked Henry-Hank, the Witch. “I mean, first the house, that man and no treats only tricks, and now—? I never saw a tree like this in my life. Like a Christmas tree only bigger and all those candles and pumpkins. What’s it mean? What’s it celebrate?”
“Celebrate!” a vast voice whispered somewhere, perhaps in a chimney soot bellows, or perhaps all the windows of the house opened like mouths at the same moment behind them, sliding up, sliding down, announcing the word “Celebrate!” with breathings-out of darkness. “Yes,” said the gigantic whisper, which trembled the candles in the pumpkins. “… celebration …”
The boys leaped around.
But the house was still. The windows were closed and brimmed with pools of moonlight.
“Last one in’s an Old Maid!” cried Tom, suddenly.
And a bon of leaves lay waiting like old fires, old gold.
And the boys ran and dived at the huge lovely pile of autumn treasure.
And in the moment of diving, about to vanish beneath the leaves in crisp swarms, yelling, shouting, shoving, falling, there was an immense gulp of breath, a seizing in of air. The boys yelped, pulled back as if an invisible whip had struck them.
For coming up out of the pile of leaves was a bony white hand, all by itself.
And following it, all smiles, hidden one moment but now revealed as it slid upward, was a white skull.
And what had been a delicious pool of oak and elm and poplar leaves to thrash and sink and hide in, now became the last place on all this world the boys wanted to be. For the white bony hand was flying on the air. And the white skull rose to hover before them.
And the boys fell back, colliding, sneezing out their air in panics, until in one wild mass they fell flat upon the earth and writhed and tore at the grass to fight free, scramble, try to run.
“Help!” they cried.
“Oh, yes, help,” said the Skull.
Then peal after peal of laughter froze them further as the hand upon the air, the bony skeleton hand, reached up, took hold of the white skull face and—peeled it down and off!
The boys blinked once behind their masks. Their jaws dropped, though none could see them dropping.
The huge man in dark clothes soared up out of the leaves, taller and yet taller. He grew like a tree. He put out branches that were hands. He stood framed against the Halloween Tree itself, his outstretched arms and long white bony fingers festooned with orange globes of fire and burning smiles. His eyes were pressed tight as he roared his laughter. His mouth gaped wide to let an autumn wind rush out.
“Not treat, boys, no, not Treat! Trick, boys, Trick! Trick!”
They lay there waiting for the earthquake to come. And it came. The tall man’s laughter took hold of the ground and gave it a shake. This tremor, passed through their bones, came out their mouths. And it came out in the form of still more laughter!
They sat up amid the ruins of the thrashed-about leaf pile, surprised. They put their hands to their masks to feel the hot air leaping out in small gusts of echoing mirth.
Then they looked up at the man as if to verify their surprise.
“Yes, boys, that, that was a Trick! You’d forgotten? No, you never knew!”
And he leaned against the Tree, finishing out his fits of happiness, shaking the trunk, making the thousand pumpkins shiver and the fires inside to smoke and dance.
Warmed by their laughter, the boys got up to feel their bones and see if anything was broken. Nothing was. They stood in a small mob under the Halloween Tree, waiting, for they knew this was only the beginning of something new and special and grand and fine.
“Well,” said Tom Skelton.
“Well, Tom,” said the man.
“Tom?” cried everyone else. “Is that you?”
Tom, in the Skeleton mask, stiffened.
“Or is it Bob or Fred, no, no, that must be Ralph,” said the man, quickly.
“All of those!” sighed Tom, clapping his mask hard in place, relieved.
“Yeah, all!” said everyone.
The man nodded, smiling. “Well now! Now you know something about Halloween you never knew before. How did you like my Trick?”
“Trick, yes, trick.” The boys were catching fire with the idea. It made all the good glue go out of their joints and put a little dust of sin in their blood. They felt it stir around until it pumped on up to light their eyes and stretch their lips to show their happy-dog teeth. “Yeah, sure.”
“Is this what you used to do on Halloween?” asked the Witch boy.
“This, and more. But, let me introduce myself! Moundshroud is the name. Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud. Does that have a ring, boys? Does it sound for you?”
It sounds, the boys thought, oh, oh, it sounds …!
Moundshroud.
“A fine name,” said Mr. Moundshroud, giving it a full sepulchral night-church sound. “And a fine night. And all the deep dark wild long history of Halloween waiting to swallow us whole!”
“Swallow us?”
“Yes!” cried Moundshroud. “Lads, look at yourselves. Why are you, boy, wearing that Skull face? And you, boy, carrying a scythe, and you, lad, made up like a Witch? And you, you, you!” He thrust his bony finger at each mask. “You don’t know, do you? You just put on those faces and old mothball clothes and jump out, but you don’t really know, do you?”
“Well,” said Tom, a mouse behind his skull-white muslin. “Er—no.”
“Yeah,” said the Devil boy. “Come to think of it, “Why am I wearing this?” He fingered his red cloak and sharp rubber horns and lovely pitchfork.
“And me, this,” said the Ghost, trailing its long white graveyard sheets.
And all the boys were given to wonder, and touched their own costumes and refit their own masks.
“Then wouldn’t it be fun for you to find out?” asked Mr. Moundshroud. “I’ll tell you! No, I’ll show you! If only there was time—”
“It’s only six thirty. Halloween hasn’t even begun!” said Tom-in-his-cold-bones.
“True!” said Mr. Moundshroud. “All right, lads—come along!”
He strode. They ran.
At the edge of the deep dark night ravine he pointed over the rim of the hills and the earth, away from the light of the moon, under the dim light of strange stars. The wind fluttered his black cloak and the hood that half shadowed and now half revealed his almost fleshless face.
“There, do you see it, lads?”
“What?”