Tree of Beautiful Dreams

"You know what, Big?

" "What, Little?

The world has strangely arranged itself in such a way that the greatest opposites have always been drawn to each other. And once they've clung to each other—like plus and minus—they've stayed that way forever. Thin to fat, tall to short. And then lifelong friendships or inseparable bonds have come from this.

Little and Big had known each other from the cradle—when the former was still a few months older. They learned to walk together—and then, step by step, they've followed each other for forty years. And not only did they complement each other perfectly. Only as a duo did each of them become more themselves than when considered separately. Little—thin, bony, and of such meager height that clothes hung off him like a wire hanger—seemed even smaller next to Big. Big, on the other hand, was huge and square, and barely fit into anything—not into clothes, not through pub doors. And if you glanced from one to the other, you'd get goosebumps. And they were inseparable, both at work and over beer. A talkative, perpetually enthusiastic dwarf with a quivering gaze, and a grumpy, melancholic giant with blond, almost white hair. And only their work clothes were the same—gray-navy trousers and white shirts. And both drank the same amount of beer from huge mugs.

That's how the world had strangely arranged itself. Centuries ago.

And now it was ending. Dying. Crumbling under the scorching sun. Orange sand covered every inch of land, seeping in wherever it could. It seeped into his eyes, and by evening, kilograms spilled from his shoes and the nooks and crannies of his clothing. At night, he raged across the vast desert. In this dry, stifling world, it was easier to squeeze three buckets of oil from the ground than a drop of water. Under the red sun, chrome metropolises flourished and grew, fueled by electricity and gasoline. Small, isolated towns in the wasteland shrank, withered, and crumbled one after another. Dry grass wasn't enough for everyone—and that was all the wild land had to offer.

Little and Big each sat in the back of their own old, creaking van—parked neatly side by side. They stared into the blue distance, where the clear, cloudless blue sky met the barren, orange earth, covered only with tufts of almost black grass and dry bushes.

Dusk was falling.

"I had a strange dream...

" "What dream, Little?"

Even among themselves, these two used almost exclusively their nicknames. If it weren't for their documents, they probably would have forgotten their own names. Red Green and Vic Armstrong. Big and Little.

Adjusting his baseball cap, he cleared his throat and began to ramble on.

- A beautiful place... Better than this...

- Little one, it's not difficult to find one like this - said Big one slowly, in a melancholic, deep voice.

"I don't know..." the skinny man shook his head. "I'm fine here. But... But it was better there. Much better.

" "A city?" The giant looked at his friend questioningly.

"No, not a city. It was further, further. Probably on the other side of the world.

" "There's no such thing as the end of the world," Red said sourly. But he probably didn't believe it himself. Sometimes he even thought that a four-hour ride would be enough to reach the edge of the earth, and standing on the edge of a precipice, watch the orange sand cascade down into nothingness, into black space.

"A tree," the Little One continued. His eyes glistened. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek. Or maybe a tear. "The Tree of Beautiful Dreams...

" "What?

" "The Tree of Beautiful Dreams. That's what it was called. A huge tree in the middle of a huge meadow. And that meadow in the middle of the desert," he listed. Short and simple. He named images and sensations. "And that tree... It had blue leaves. And that air!" There's nothing like that here, even at night.

"Oh, yes," Big replied, clearly not particularly moved by his friend's story. Besides, few things in this world could have stirred such emotions in him. He didn't waste energy on either joy or anger. He didn't use either exclamations or curses. And even if he were seething inside—which seemed unlikely anyway—nothing would show on the outside. Perhaps he would grimace a little or ruffle his brows. His small, thin mouth—a bit like a razor cut across his face—hardly smiled at all. Or perhaps the fact that he wasn't grimacing was a smile. He looked out with small eyes from under thick, fair eyebrows—and it seemed to him that it didn't matter.

"I'll go there!" Vic almost shouted. In that short sentence, Little One contained his entire personality. He had always, with unwavering enthusiasm, attempted great things. Unattainable things. Unrealistic things. There was still a child inside him—eternally playful, full of energy, charmingly frivolous, and detached from reality. In fact, Little One even looked like a thirteen-year-old—only a bit more wrinkled.

Red didn't even speak. He looked at his friend with perhaps the most expressive grimace he could muster. From under thick, fair eyebrows, he stared at him, stunned, with bulging gray eyes. He wrinkled his nose. He lifted his left nostril, opening his mouth slightly. Staring at his friend as if he were crazy, he looked a bit strange himself.

Then he looked away toward the setting sun. In a few seconds, his expression returned to its normal expression—no expression.

After a few minutes of silence, the friends each got into their cars and headed home.

***

"Has anyone seen Little One?"

It was strange that Vic and Red hadn't arrived at work within a few seconds of each other. Besides, Big Boy usually arrived second – at the end of the road, Armstrong would floor the accelerator and, with a wild grin, cover the last few dozen meters a little faster. He'd brake hard, leaving deep tracks behind him, and without getting out of the car, he'd wait for Green to roll into the spot next to him. Then he'd greet him with a firm handshake.

But that day, there was no Little Boy, no van, no deep skid marks.

His absence went almost unnoticed. A whole army of caramel-tanned men in sweaty white shirts and navy blue trousers worked the sheep farm. They came from everywhere within a fifty-mile radius, from small settlements scattered across the wasteland. People gathered and built houses wherever there was even a puddle of water that a few people could draw from, even for a few days. And there they stayed. And it seemed every able-bodied peasant worked at the Farm. It also housed, every last one, every sheep in the world—unless some were hidden underground. They were gathered from every corner of the vast, orange plains and crammed into a vast complex—larger than all these settlements combined. And every morning, a whole battalion of workers converged on one spot to tend this horde, so vast that a single head weighed more sheep than a sheep could eat in a year. At dawn, they had to be driven out to pasture, then watched all day to make sure none of them wandered off—because if one went astray, all the rest would blindly follow. At dusk, they were herded back, counted, and locked in a huge pen.

That was how life went from day to day in the middle of nowhere.

For Red Green, however, that day—and the days that followed—weren't the same. Something had changed. He'd lost something.

"Hey, Big, where did you lose Little?

" "He said something about a tree... the Tree of Beautiful Dreams, or something..."

Toby O'Knot grimaced.

"What's that?

" "A tree like that," Red replied matter-of-factly.

"So what about that tree?

" "He said he'd go there.

" "Where is it?

" "I don't know.

When he returned to town that evening, he found Vic neither at home nor at the diner. He'd either vanished or driven away. If he'd left any traces, the desert had erased them by nightfall. Even if he'd gone to his tree, Red wouldn't have known which way to go to find him.

The next day, seeing an empty parking space to the right of his own, Big looked sad. But he wasn't surprised.

***

A few weeks later, someone pulled into the empty space. Red had no illusions that the van parked next to his wasn't Vic's. There wasn't a short, deep skid mark left behind the tires. Someone new. The big guy didn't protest, didn't shoo him away. He didn't make friends with the guy whose car it belonged to. The guy—Joe Avridge—just didn't fit him. He wasn't small. Or talkative, or impulsive, or energetic like a sheep fed up with an electric shock. He was certainly something, but Red didn't see anything special about him—and he wasn't trying very hard anyway.

It took Green a while to realize he missed Armstrong. That perpetually smiling, hyperactive little guy, bursting with good humor and incomprehensible enthusiasm. His buddy since time immemorial. Sometimes it irritated him when the skinny guy would chat him up in the evenings, making plans and stories, bringing him new revelations. And now he smiled at those memories. He recalled with amusement how teenage Vic, having discovered the razor, would trim his supposed stubble every day; how he flaunted his smooth face, scarred by wounds caused by fifteen-year-old Little Man's persistent attempt to shave off something that hadn't appeared until several years later. Or how, at thirty, he'd grown a mustache. He'd grown a real mustache—one that took up half his face, obscuring his mouth and chin. He looked comical. Or simply—bad. And that's what Red had told him one day. And the next day, Vic had come back without a mustache—smooth and trimmed under his nose. Big Man always tempered his overly lively friend. He tempered his enthusiasm with his boredom. Sometimes he didn't even feign interest when Little Man told him something with a flushed face. Only now did Green realize that he was considered a friend only by virtue of his existence—because he didn't put much effort into the role, and sometimes he was practically begging to be rejected. And now... He missed Little Man. Though he didn't show it outwardly—like everything else, for that matter—he had to admit to himself that he felt a painful emptiness. And he missed not only his scrawny friend. He also missed what they had created together. A tandem. A hilarious duo. Big and Little. And now Red was alone. And somehow smaller. True, he hadn't shrunk—he remained the same large, angular, muscular giant with a square jaw. He was still big. But not Big.

"What are you thinking about, Red?" Joe Avridge asked

.

Redrick stood and watched. He didn't think, didn't ask questions. He simply absorbed: the sights, sounds, and smells. He didn't analyze. He admired. Blue and white. Sky and clouds. Green. Grass. Coolness. Air. A light breeze raised the hairs on his forearms. The big man breathed slowly and deeply. He filled his lungs with a mixture of unbridled joy and peace—and from there, it spread throughout his body, sending pleasant shivers through him. He felt soft and weightless. If he tried to move, he might fall flat on his face, or float into the sky like a balloon. But he didn't move. He stood with his legs slightly apart; he had no intention of going anywhere. He only looked around, even turning his head slightly. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose; his nostrils flared rhythmically, greedily gulping down the cool air. Nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide. And something else. Something barely perceptible—warm and sweet. Something that muffled his thoughts and sharpened his senses. Subtly intoxicating, but not suffocating. Relaxing, lazing—but not immobilizing. He could easily shake it off and leave—if he wanted to. But why?

The wind danced through the lush grass, tussling and tossing the green tufts back and forth. It shook the crown of the great tree. It wrapped around Red, combed his almost gray hair, and filled him with a wondrous bliss. Green looked gratefully at the rustling tree, its leaves being stripped by the wind. Huge, majestic. Proud, and a little menacing. And incredibly beautiful. Unusual and wonderful in its unusality. A tree is a tree—roots, trunk, and branches. But not every tree can boast such an extraordinary crown.

The wind snatched a single leaf again. A leaf like every other on this tree.

Blue.

A restless thought pierced Big's mind like an arrow. He opened his eyes wide.

"Where am I?" he asked.

At that same moment, a powerful wind rose—a metonymy of anger. As if this question—or any questions at all—were out of place. The movement of the great masses of air made Redrick retreat, away from the tree. But he wasn't pushed away. He clearly felt as if something behind him was sucking him in. Against his will, he took further steps backward—just to avoid falling. The pull intensified until it finally lifted him from the ground and carried him away easily, like a scrap of paper. Further and further from the tree. Across a vast desert. For a split second, a chrome city—full of right angles—flashed before his eyes. Then the desert again. Faster and faster. He slammed his back against the door of his room, and since it was closed, he passed through it and was thrown onto the bed with great force.

Opening his eyes, he heard:

"The Tree of Beautiful Dreams."

He was surprised.

"What?"

He was no less surprised to find himself saying those three words. He also remembered that it wasn't the first time he'd heard that peculiar name. This was what Little One had been talking about. And then he disappeared. While Big One hadn't forgotten his scrawny friend, he'd thought of him only occasionally for some time now, and rather without sadness, completely resigned to his passing. He was a decent man, a good friend, and a hard-working man. Warm, but a bit dry. He thought, pondered, rather than remembered. And then suddenly, this dream! Did it mean he missed him—more than he'd expected? Redrick shook his head and muttered—as he always did when he encountered something troublesome or irritating.

He drove to work with a sour expression. And he hadn't felt well all day. In the morning, around eight o'clock, he was simply grumpy and gloomy—nothing new. However, as the sun rose higher, it became increasingly difficult for him to breathe. He was panting, coughing, and at times he was truly choking. He was swaying. Sometimes he stopped and covered his eyes with his hand.

"What's going on, Red?

" "Nothing, Joe..." My vision just went black. But it was over.

He'd lied to Avridge and to himself. He was seething inside his body. He only felt a little better after dark.

***

"Has anyone seen Red?

" ***

The big man had been tearing through the wasteland since the early morning hours. He'd had the same dream again. And when he woke up, he felt even worse than the day before. And he was haunted by the conviction that the next day would be no better. He wanted to escape somewhere where he could finally find peace. And then he remembered something. He was genuinely surprised, however, when the thought of finding the place from his dream crossed his mind. Of all the people he knew, he himself was the least inclined to madness. Hell, you'd have to administer adrenaline injections for a week to make him smile. And then suddenly—such an idea. At first, he just waved his hand—perhaps he hadn't woken up yet. But when, after his coffee—black, thick as mud—he thought again about maybe driving, he almost got scared—which, in his case, wasn't exactly a good look anyway.

An hour later, at five in the morning, he sat behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition.

He drove off slowly. The engine rumbled low, idling, causing Red's car to shudder slightly. Without waking anyone, without raising even a cloud of orange dust, he passed one shack after another. Finally, he left town. When he had gone a considerable distance, he accelerated. He grabbed the gear shift to a higher gear.

And in that moment, he woke up.

He didn't stop. He shifted gears and accelerated, as he'd planned. But what struck him was that not for a moment, from leaving the house until this moment, had he considered his destination. Indeed, he'd skillfully executed every move that had led him here, a kilometer from the settlement. He'd prepared himself for the long journey very well. He'd packed a bag of crackers, a can of water, a leather jacket, a blanket, a first-aid kit, a knife, even some gas. He filled the tank. And off he went. He left the city, chose a particular direction, drove a short distance—and suddenly, full consciousness returned to him. He realized he was truly going in search of the place of his dreams. He still didn't believe it existed—and yet something was pulling him, leading him by the hand through the desert, giving him inaudible directions, to which he obediently followed. And consciousness only kicked in when everything was already planned and prepared—the car was gliding in a straight line toward its designated destination, and the passenger was practically equipped for a multi-day journey.

He drove without rest for two days and two nights. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly and he plowed forward—tense, focused the entire time, as if at any moment, quite suddenly, an obstacle would appear right in front of the hood, which he would have to avoid immediately. But in reality, he didn't even have to swerve—unless, of course, he spotted something black and sharp in the distance on the orange, parched earth. Then he would swerve—a piece of sheet metal, or sometimes just a misplaced shred of foil—and immediately return to a straight trajectory. At night, blinking rhythmically, he carefully observed the narrow strip of ground illuminated by the headlights in front of the hood.

In the early morning of the third day, around five in the morning, he fell asleep.

***

He woke up after eight. He jerked so hard that the whole car shook. He had the same dream. And once again, he ruined everything by questioning the reality of what he was seeing. He reveled in the beautiful view and absorbed the peace it filled him with—but at one point he simply asked, "How do I get here?" And again the draft hurled him through the cracked wasteland, through the chrome-plated city, then across the vastness of the orange earth, to his sleeping body, curled up in the car.

"Go," Big said, opening his eyes.

When he came to himself a moment later, he found the car stationary and the engine off. He had half-consciously had to stop as he fell asleep at the wheel. And although he couldn't remember when he'd done it, he decided it was a good thing. True, he might have driven quite a distance and now be a hundred kilometers closer to his destination. But on the other hand, he was taking a risk. He could either hit something, or run into something, and a crash or a rollover would await him. And—perhaps instantaneous, perhaps slow—death. From wounds, bruises, and fractures, or from hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. Or an explosion. After all, he had gasoline with him.

He started it. The cart jerked, then moved smoothly.

Redrick turned on the wipers to clear a thin curtain of orange dust from the windshield. And he thanked himself for his foresight; for having turned off the engine during the night before he hit the chrome wall.

The City stretched before him and above him. It stretched for miles to the right and left. It rose into the sky for miles. A layer of rusty sand covered the outer walls, but inside, in the tight spaces between the gleaming walls, the wind weakened, tangled, and lost, finally dying. The air in the City was still, heavy, and dry.

The big man turned and drove a short distance along the side of the great, towering building, trying to find some way into the city. He turned and entered a narrow street. A heavy, cold, chrome night fell over him. Not a ray of sunlight penetrated the thicket of steel fortresses. The streets, too, were asleep. Redrick couldn't see a single car anywhere. Passing chrome skyscrapers, he didn't see even a trace of a door in any of them. Perhaps it was the architecture—doors perfectly integrated into the wall, opening automatically when approached from inside or outside. Or perhaps there really weren't any. He didn't get out of the car to go and check. He drove on, anxiously observing the silver houses with black windows that framed all four walls. It was impossible to see inside—or perhaps no one was looking outside. Perhaps they were hunched in corners, absorbed in zeros and ones, consuming silicon and sipping electricity. And perhaps the entire vast city, stretching hundreds of kilometers across and across, would die if only a single plug were unplugged.

Red slowly passed the dark, empty streets. They still looked as they had when something still drove on them. True, they were neglected, unswept for years, cracked here and there—but the sidewalks, lanes, and deactivated traffic lights remained. Unnecessary, but preserved. Weakened, but still present—like hair growing all over a person's body. Once useful, now they served no purpose.

The big man almost laughed when the red lights stopped him at one corner. Of course, only "almost"—he would have suffocated rather than laughed. He waited patiently for the red lights to turn yellow, and the yellow lights to turn green. And then he moved on.

He couldn't say exactly how long it took him to drive through the city. When he entered, it was morning. When he left, it was dawn again. So maybe a day, or maybe two. He felt tired, but for a long time he simply ignored it. When he got hungry, he munched on a biscuit; he drank water regularly, even when he wasn't thirsty. But he didn't sleep. So now, fully conscious, he stopped and turned off the engine. He leaned back in the seat and let his limp, sleepy head hang forward.

***

Waking up, he said to himself in an understanding tone:

- It's not far now.

This time, when he was sent away from the place he'd dreamed of, the journey was much shorter, and the wake-up call wasn't as abrupt. He only shuddered slightly, shaking off the numbness.

He started the engine and shot forward, knowing he only had a short distance to cover through the wilderness. A day, maybe two days of riding. He told himself he'd endure. After all, twice before, he'd already been driving for more than 24 hours, each time taking no more than a few hours to rest. He'd endure this time, too. He was a tough guy. He wouldn't starve or dry out either, because he had supplies. He filled the tank from a spare jerrycan right after leaving town, shortly before falling asleep. He had another full one left.

He sped ahead.

But he'd miscalculated. He'd overestimated his abilities. True, he'd only gotten by on a few hours' sleep before, but it was only now that it was taking its toll on him. Several times during the day, he'd had to stop and catch at least an hour's sleep. Then he woke up and realized he'd been driving all this time—sleeping. His supplies were dwindling—and he didn't even know when. As if by magic, every time he looked at the plastic water canister, he'd noticed that the liquid had gone down by a few centimeters; the package contained fewer and fewer biscuits.

Until everything was gone. First, water and food. Redrick steered the car with his last remaining strength. His hands trembled on the steering wheel, hunger gnawed at his stomach, and thirst burned his parched throat. Then the car jerked several times and stalled. The gas tank was empty, too.

The big guy had clearly been wasted on the journey. Pale, puffy, with dark circles under his eyes—he didn't look as impressive as usual. He'd even shrunk a bit. His composure had vanished, too. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His chapped lips trembled as if he were speaking. Finally, he balled his hands into fists and began pounding them on the steering wheel, cursing profusely. After a long moment, he stopped. The curses turned into an irritated growl, which finally subsided. Red slumped into the seat.

After a moment's reflection, he got out of the car.

It was late afternoon. The sun still had a few hours left before it would find privacy, sinking below the horizon. The wind lashed the ground in short, sudden bursts. It carried particles of orange sand close to the surface. It blew cold, dry air into Green's face; chill, tinged with something barely perceptible—warm and sweet.

***

The big man lumbered forward. He staggered, staggered—but even zigzagging, he stayed firmly on the same trajectory. He stared at a darker shape on the orange horizon. He breathed heavily, inhaling the increasingly strong sweet scent. He panted, rasping like a stone being ground on a grater. He plodded onward without respite. He stumbled, fell, knelt, unable to stay on his feet any longer—then got up and moved another few meters. And the dark shape drew closer, grew larger.

The crunch of rock and sand under his boots turned to the rustle of grass. And the tree with blue leaves was—real and wonderful as a dream—a mere thirty meters away. Redrick stood exactly where he had been in his dream. Exhausted, but above all, happy. Aching and stiff, he felt as if he were about to fly away, dissolve, become the wind; mingle with the warm, sweet scent.

He collapsed flat on the spot where he stood.

***

He woke up. He gasped. But not a word escaped him. All the time he had been sleeping—and when he woke, it was dawn—he hadn't dreamt anything. It wasn't that he didn't remember. It was just—nothing. One moment he was asleep—the next he was awake. Though he remembered that he clearly remembered the tree with blue leaves—the one he had dreamed about every night for the past few days, and every time he had dozed off, even for a moment.

He lay on his back, his eyes closed. He must have rolled in his sleep because he'd fallen forward, not backward. His ribs ached. But other than that, he felt fine. Not hungry, not thirsty, not weak or limp. He could get up at any moment and keep going, or turn back. It was as if something had sucked all the pain, thirst, and hunger out of him—and taken away his dreams

. He opened his eyes.

A blue leaf lay on his stomach. Disbelieving, Redrick took it and clasped it lightly in his hand, so as not to tear it. He stood up, supporting himself with his other, free hand. As he'd suspected, there was nothing before him but orange sand and the yellow morning sky.

The wind blew against his neck, bringing a familiar, wonderful scent. A tree with blue leaves grew behind Big.

He turned around slowly, immensely happy yet disbelieving. But he was here. He stood in an emerald meadow, and the Tree of Beautiful Dreams loomed before him. The imposing colossus had a trunk so wide that it would take a full minute to walk around it. It spread its long arms low but wide. It rooted itself into the earth with thick, twisted roots. Real. And exactly as in the dream. Green walked slowly, stiffly toward the tree. He looked from the thick trunk in the shadow of the crown to the leaves trembling in the wind almost directly above his head—but out of his reach. He couldn't grab them, and even jumping wouldn't help. He glanced at the slightly withered leaf in his hand. He dropped it to the ground and continued walking. He looked straight up at the crown; at the branches shooting out from the trunk. The sun occasionally squeezed through the foliage, gleaming for a moment like a star in the dark blue night sky.

Carefully, careful not to step on any roots, Big approached the tree to within a step of its length. He placed his hand on the cold, rough bark. He moved it up and down. The old, wrinkled trunk rustled beneath his fingers.

Redrick slowly walked around it, stepping over the roots. Until he came upon something peculiar—if anything more peculiar than a tree with blue leaves in the middle of a scorching wasteland. A branch was growing from the trunk at waist level. A strange, young shoot, only slightly woody. The irregular protrusion branched out into five short branches. It looked just like a hand. The big man smiled faintly; he snorted softly through his nose. Truly amusing.

Since he was in an excellent mood—something he didn't often experience—he allowed himself a little joke. He extended his large hand and gently squeezed the amusing branch.

"What...?!"

Never before had horror looked so picturesque on his face. Redrick had seen death before, had witnessed or been involved in accidents. But he had expected this. To maintain his composure, he told himself that certain things happen sooner or later, or the risk of them happening was already high. However, he would never have expected the branch to return the embrace.

He tugged. The branch wouldn't let go. It wouldn't grip Big's entire hand. It wrapped a strong band around it about halfway; tightening its grip, it crushed his knuckles. Green grunted and wheezed as he pulled. He slowly pulled his whole body back, hoping to free his hand from the vise.

"Ugh..." he gasped, momentarily ceasing in his efforts.

Then he felt a sudden, hard tug. The side of his face hit the tree. Blood gushed from his eyebrow. To Red's horror and surprise, the tree was clearly trying to pull him in.

"I can't wait!" he screamed. He pursed his lips and inflated himself like a purple balloon. He summoned all the strength he'd woken up with that morning and put all his power into a single tug. He pulled the strange branch out to where his elbow would have been if it had been his arm. But the tree wouldn't let go. So Red jerked again, digging his feet into the ground and throwing his entire weight backward. It wouldn't let go. But it went further.

Big pulled Little from the tree.

It shook him. A moment ago, he'd thought that Armstrong had greeted everyone with such a tight grip, crushing their largest paws with his spindly hand. But then Green silently scolded himself for the ridiculous thought. But when he pulled Vic Armstrong from the tree—without knowing how it happened, because he squeezed his eyes shut with each tug—he realized he'd never again call anything that came to mind idiotic. Even though for several days now, nothing but idiotic things had been happening, and—as such—impossible in Red Green's world.

Little gave no sign of life. Unconscious—or perhaps dead—he dangled limply, his head lolling forward, his eyes closed, pulled whole from the bowels of the tree. Big pulled at him from one side. And from the other—another hand.

The little one didn't let go, and neither did he. Redrick pulled and jumped back. And again. And again. He pulled out... someone else. And someone else. Every time he pulled, he pulled out another fainted—or maybe dead—person, accompanied by a sickening sound. A short gurgling sound, like vomiting. But he didn't give up, and still, his hand crushed in the steel grip, he trudged backward.

He stopped for a moment. He braced his legs to keep those he had already saved from being dragged back. He

pulled a large chain. A woman and a man. An old man and a child. A hunter and a priest. Red, yellow, white, and black. A redhead and a blonde. And a brunette. A shaggy man, a bearded man, and a bald man. A nobleman and a peasant. A princess. And a knight. And a monk. And a monk who was a knight. A raggedy man and a lady drowning in ruffles. A skinny man in a yarmulke and a fat man in a fez. A merchant and a beggar. A womanizer in a powdered wig and a robber with an axe. A soldier in a red uniform and another in navy blue. A computer scientist in a tie and a hacker in sneakers. Crowds. Countless pairs of similarities, differences, and contradictions, clutching each other's hands.

He tugged twice more. A monkey and an alien jumped out. And though he pulled, it didn't budge. There seemed to be nothing left, yet something held.

The scream the tree emitted sent a shiver through Redrick. Loud and inhuman—like the sound of a knife scratching glass. The scream didn't stop. It paused for brief moments, then erupted again, wild and hysterical.

Redrick drew the knife strapped to his belt and moved toward the trunk, dragging a row of limp bodies behind him across the slippery grass. There was no point in tugging, hoping that whatever was there would let go. Some force—enraged and spitting anger—held on, and it seemed it would sooner snarl than give up.

The piercing screams grew louder, their source closer and closer.

Finally, Red found himself face to face with whatever was holding the monkey—the first in an endless chain. The creature grew from the tree like a branch. He was a tree. Just as wrinkled, mossy. He emerged waist-deep from the tree. His legs must have been roots. He resembled a man. He was a bony man. He had a bald head and thin arms. But he was also a tree. He was covered not with skin but with blackened bark. Partly human, more than a plant, but above all, monstrous. From his black face gaped large, blazing yellow eyes, devoid of lids. From his empty, toothless mouth issued a torrent of inhuman sounds.

The big one leaped at the monster and with a single blow of his knife shattered its thin forearms. The wooden hands, clenched around the monkey's wrist and elbow, fell away. The chain of lives staggered backward. Everyone fell to the ground with a soft, dull thud.

Redrick, stunned, stared blankly into the monster's terrifying eyes. The monster, still cursing, struggled and gestured frantically with the stumps of its forearms, which had been severed in half.

Green felt a nervous nudge in his shoulder. He heard a muffled voice.

"Big..."

He turned. It was Little One who had woken up and was clearly demanding something from him.

"What, Little One?"

Vic shrank, turning pale. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Big One... What have you done?"

"What?" Red couldn't understand. After all, he had saved Little One and countless other people.

"What the hell have you... done?"

Only now did Green realize that something was wrong. One by one, the survivors were crumbling into dust. A woman and a man. An old man and a child. A hunter and a priest. Red, yellow, white, and black. A redhead and a blonde. And a brunette. A shaggy man, a bearded man, and a bald man. A nobleman and a peasant. A princess. And a knight. And a monk. And a monk who was a knight. A ragged man and a lady drowning in ruffles. A thin man in a skullcap and a fat man in a fez. A merchant and a beggar. A playboy in a powdered wig and a highwayman with an axe. A soldier in a red uniform and another in navy blue. A computer scientist in a tie and a hacker in sneakers. When the last one before Armstrong vanished in the wind, it became obvious to Little and Big that this was the definitive end of one of them.

"Ah... and it was... so beautiful..." Vic stammered in a trembling, tearful, hoarse voice. And withered, like a plant. Pale skin stretched over lean bones. The dried, shriveled body crumbled.

Red closed the hand that Little had almost crushed, burying in it the gray dust that had scattered by his friend's hand.

He fell to his knees. The last words of the departed one rang in his ears. What the hell did you do? And it was so beautiful. Once again, Big had destroyed something that brought Little joy. He always did. He simply never considered whether it would hurt. He simply said and did what he thought. And Vic always listened. But when it came to the Tree, for the first time, he wasn't put off by Red's indifference. He simply got in the car and, driven by his innate enthusiasm and guided by his dreams, arrived here, and he must have known happiness, if he claimed so. And then Big Man arrived and destroyed everything. As always.

He reduced everything he dreamed of to nothing. He looked up and surveyed the ruins of his dreams. The green meadow withered, withered, and crumbled. Beneath it emerged the scorched, cracked orange earth. Above him hung a blood-red sky—silent and menacing. And finally—the tree... In the heat of the moment, Red didn't even notice how the leaves fell from the branches like rain, then turned black on the ground. The tree itself shriveled until it was a stump as thin as a thigh, low, with twisted branches.

"What the hell have you done?!" the monster demanded desperately, in a dry, stale voice. And coughed. He spat some blue goo. He spat in Red's face.

The big man wiped the stain in disgust. He was surprised to smell that familiar, sleepy scent. He sniffed his hand. The scent filled his head—then vanished. And then Red understood.

He rose from his knees and, with a grave expression, approached the tree monster.

"Ah! Don't kill!" the creature screamed, turning his face away and covering himself with his thin stumps.

Red took them in one hand and stretched his other hand—his right—behind him. The monster looked at him, astonished. And he saw no anger or murderous intent there. Only guilt.

He pulled.

***

Red moved out of the dusty town. He settled in a beautiful valley, in a large brick house—with a swimming pool and a vast garden. He didn't work. He didn't have to. When he did something, it was because he wanted to. And when he wanted something, he did it. He could afford anything he dreamed of. He didn't have to worry about a thing. He lay all day on a lounger by the pool. When he wanted a drink, a glass of cold juice was already within arm's reach.

Red also had a beautiful wife and three sweet children. She didn't work, and they didn't go to school. They went for walks together. They went on picnics in a red Cadillac. The weather was always perfect, and the raspberries they picked tasted wonderful. And Red learned to smile.

There were no autumns, no winters. No winds, no nights. No worries, no taxes. Peace, quiet, and bliss.

Vic Armstrong lived across the street. Across an avenue of blue-leafed trees...

***

In the middle of an orange, cracked wasteland, at the end of the world, stood the Tree of Beautiful Dreams. It wasn't very big. Just a little bigger than a tall, broad-shouldered man. Like Red Green. Exactly.

Blue leaves sprouted from its twisted branches. All around, on the scorched earth, grew a green meadow. The grass was tall and thick—mostly where Red's sweat dripped as he wrestled with the tree. Where his blood had flowed from the wound on his forehead, nothing grew; small patches of sand and dried ichor, hidden among the emerald tufts.

Big was alive and well. His hand stuck out of the tree, hanging limply, beckoning to be squeezed. Only his thumb was strangely stiff; unnaturally and painfully contorted. Up. Inside the Tree, he dreamed Beautiful Dreams.

It was good. And the Tree was good. He and Red helped each other. The Tree had more leaves—and bluer ones at that. Thicker roots, and taller, denser grass around it. And all thanks to Big. The Tree was good. Red was good. Everything was perfectly fine.

But it could have been better...

The following spring, as many as fourteen people had the dream of the beautiful, sweet-smelling Tree. Because some things need to be sped up a bit...