In front, a forest. Sequoias and willows standing side by side and a pathway, rarely trodden, branches, waving in the wind, beckon him in.
No choice.
In now and darker, the branches forming a great interwoven canopy above him. A Mirkwood, where Hanzel and Gretel never ventured to go. But beware the big bad wolf, and the tyger, tyger, burning bright. But not night. The sun hot and directly above creating dappled shadows on the forest floor, and the tree trunks and the ground. The sun heating up the air around him, creating a fine warm mist which attracts midges and mosquitoes. Then the ground alive with snakes, cobras and rattlers, copperheads and vipers, moccasins and boas, who all slither away, coiling and climbing up into the trees to bask on the lower branches, soaking the heat into their cold-bloodied bodies. Vines suspended from higher, hang, awaiting a Tarzan who never comes. They move, slowly from side to side in whatever faint wind penetrates this far in.
Jungle fever.
Kramer climbs an ancient oak, plucked from Sherwood Forest complete with hollow trunk and arrow scars. High up into the branches until he clears the top and surveys his green domain, his tropical kingdom. Then climbing down again, down a long ladder that bends and rocks has he steps on each rung. The ground again. Ankle deep in pine needles and cones. Cones that predict the weather. Or whether not.
A pine forest now, planted by the hand of man. Nature ordered into straight lines and looking wrong. Giant Christmas trees with no presents beneath. And wildlife. Herds of reindeer nibbling magic mushrooms, psychedelic deer with not one red nose between them. Come Dancer and Prancer and Donner and Blitzen.
The trees are snow-covered now, a winter wonderland. Where did all the snow come from? Gone one minute, here the next. Now you see me, now you don't.
Kramer trudged through the whiteness around him, waist deep but suitably dressed. Like Scott of the Antarctic, like Shackleton or Amundseen. Shoot the dogs, shoot the dogs!
Suddenly Kramer was on a sledge, a team of huskies stretching out in front of him, their big, padded paws barely sinking. And now on a snow-mobile, its engine revving, leaving caterpillar trails behind it. Zig-zagging throughout the trees, ducking beneath low branches, surprising Eskimos who had no idea what they were doing at the South Pole. Past the Snow Queen on a throne of ice which has begun to melt in the midday sun, a sun now shining on mad dogs and Frenchman.
Leaping crevasses that gaped before him like Evel Knievel with no ramp or safety net. Now on land again. Dry and warm. The snow-mobile having a tough time on this alien terrain. Coughing and spluttering and mis-firing until it surrenders to the law of nature and stops. Kramer kicked and cursed all things mechanical, all things electrical. Machines with minds of their own, put upon the earth to annoy and frustrate. The heart of the machine with clogged arteries and faulty valves.
The beast must die.
Trick or treat?
