Crooked Angels
by Josh Sippie
Every child from Nowe Czarnowo grew up on stories of the hooked trees in the Krzywy Las and Simon was no exception. Stories of ghosts and wraiths, of demigods’ intent on making a point and mythical beasts with the strength of a hundred men. But no one told the story that Simon’s grandmother Zofia told.
“God is fishing for angels,” Zofia always said with a smile. “I would know, I’ve seen people taken, reeled right up into the sky like trout.” Simon always got excited at that part because she’d make the squealing sound of a fishing line reeling in the catch. But when Simon’s mother and father disappeared in those woods, the notion of God having taken them to be angels lost its shimmer.
“Why wouldn’t he take me too?” He asked Zofia.
“Because I need angels down here too,” she said. She smiled again. She was always smiling. Only this time she was faking. Her smile looked tremulous, unsteady, shaken. He wanted to hug her, but he didn’t. He thought only of her story. Of his parents being reeled in like trout to be angels in the sky.
All Simon’s life, Zofia told him to keep the story secret.
“The more that know, the less power the story has,” she said.
It sounded sacred, so Simon never questioned it. But his grandmother’s fractured smile had kicked up the dust of inaction. He had to do something, even if he directly disobeyed her. He took the story to town and started asking around. Nobody had heard of Zofia’s version. Many laughed at her, or called her a madwoman, a spinster, a bedeviling hag.
“Fishing for angels?” One man snorted. “Your parents were no angels. My condolences, though, of course.”
Simon went home, straight to his bedroom. He collected his slingshot and his father’s too-big messenger hat, clutched it to his head, said his prayers, and walked for the Crooked Forest during Zofia’s afternoon nap.
He’d taken this walk with them so many times. While neither parent had the same storytelling capacity as his grandmother’s fishing story, they told him that decades ago, these trees were planted with a purpose. There was a scientific reason they all looked like fishhooks. When Simon heard that, he saw the trees differently. He saw the purpose behind them, even if he didn’t know what that purpose was. If you stood just right, each one would line up perfectly with the one in front of it, like soldiers at attention. That’s no accident.
“It’s probably meant to point to something,” his father had said once, wearing the same hat Simon wore now.
“Like what?” Simon had asked.
His father shrugged, but his mother smiled.
“They point up, don’t they?” She said, but she didn’t say anything else about it, no matter how much Simon asked. “Ask grandma,” she always said. And just like that, the scientific purpose of the trees disappeared, and his grandmother’s story reigned again.
Maybe it really was his grandmother’s sacred duty to guard the truth. Maybe they really were fishhooks from some God in the sky, determined to pluck angels like fruit, when they were at their ripest. It still had a violence to it, though, and as Simon saw the hooked trees now, his heartbeat increased. He’d never feared the trees before, but it was different now. They were different now. They had been ever since that day.
He nocked a rock into his slingshot and mustered what confidence he could as he scoured through the trees, watching for movement. He spent his life in these woods, doing exactly this. Only back then, it was a game he’d play with his grandma.
“Catch the fish before God does,” she’d say, prowling through the trees with him. But there were no fish to catch. Not then, not now. Being alone in the woods, Simon realized the absurdity of the whole situation—fishhooks baited for angels? It didn’t make any sense. And why would God need so many hooks?
He sat on a tree bend and stared up at the sky. If there was a God up there, he wouldn’t be able to see through the clouds. He wouldn’t be able to see how alone Simon was. How empty everything was.
Simon’s breathing began to staccato, but he mustered himself before any tears could escape. He couldn’t decide whether his parents were taken or if they’d just abandoned him to start a new life. He tried to remember if it was overcast the day they disappeared. Maybe God didn’t even know the answer.
“Simon.”
Simon sat up, the voice vaguely resembling his mother’s. But his grandmother stood across from him, still in her slippers and gown. She was one of those people who had to be dressed to sleep in order to sleep.
“Oh,” he said.
Zofia half-smiled. “Am I so unremarkable?”
“You sounded like mom.”
Zofia sat on the tip of the hook with Simon and put her arm around him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. She smelled like potato and leek soup. Yesterday’s dinner.
“Where do you go?” Simon asked. “When you come out here and go for walks?”
“I go where you are. Where we are.”
“Are you trying to get hooked too?”
“Is that what you were doing?” Zofia frowned at Simon.
“No,” Simon said. “I don’t know what I was doing.”
“You were looking for them. I look for them too.” She paused, waiting for something, but Simon wasn’t sure what. “Who do you think will find them first?”
Simon looked over at her. She hopped to her feet and prowled through the trees, no longer able to bend and hunch like she used to years ago.
Simon didn’t want to follow. He didn’t want to play this stupid game anymore. But she did. And for that, he joined her.
“God is fishing for angels,” Zofia always said with a smile. “I would know, I’ve seen people taken, reeled right up into the sky like trout.” Simon always got excited at that part because she’d make the squealing sound of a fishing line reeling in the catch. But when Simon’s mother and father disappeared in those woods, the notion of God having taken them to be angels lost its shimmer.
“Why wouldn’t he take me too?” He asked Zofia.
“Because I need angels down here too,” she said. She smiled again. She was always smiling. Only this time she was faking. Her smile looked tremulous, unsteady, shaken. He wanted to hug her, but he didn’t. He thought only of her story. Of his parents being reeled in like trout to be angels in the sky.
All Simon’s life, Zofia told him to keep the story secret.
“The more that know, the less power the story has,” she said.
It sounded sacred, so Simon never questioned it. But his grandmother’s fractured smile had kicked up the dust of inaction. He had to do something, even if he directly disobeyed her. He took the story to town and started asking around. Nobody had heard of Zofia’s version. Many laughed at her, or called her a madwoman, a spinster, a bedeviling hag.
“Fishing for angels?” One man snorted. “Your parents were no angels. My condolences, though, of course.”
Simon went home, straight to his bedroom. He collected his slingshot and his father’s too-big messenger hat, clutched it to his head, said his prayers, and walked for the Crooked Forest during Zofia’s afternoon nap.
He’d taken this walk with them so many times. While neither parent had the same storytelling capacity as his grandmother’s fishing story, they told him that decades ago, these trees were planted with a purpose. There was a scientific reason they all looked like fishhooks. When Simon heard that, he saw the trees differently. He saw the purpose behind them, even if he didn’t know what that purpose was. If you stood just right, each one would line up perfectly with the one in front of it, like soldiers at attention. That’s no accident.
“It’s probably meant to point to something,” his father had said once, wearing the same hat Simon wore now.
“Like what?” Simon had asked.
His father shrugged, but his mother smiled.
“They point up, don’t they?” She said, but she didn’t say anything else about it, no matter how much Simon asked. “Ask grandma,” she always said. And just like that, the scientific purpose of the trees disappeared, and his grandmother’s story reigned again.
Maybe it really was his grandmother’s sacred duty to guard the truth. Maybe they really were fishhooks from some God in the sky, determined to pluck angels like fruit, when they were at their ripest. It still had a violence to it, though, and as Simon saw the hooked trees now, his heartbeat increased. He’d never feared the trees before, but it was different now. They were different now. They had been ever since that day.
He nocked a rock into his slingshot and mustered what confidence he could as he scoured through the trees, watching for movement. He spent his life in these woods, doing exactly this. Only back then, it was a game he’d play with his grandma.
“Catch the fish before God does,” she’d say, prowling through the trees with him. But there were no fish to catch. Not then, not now. Being alone in the woods, Simon realized the absurdity of the whole situation—fishhooks baited for angels? It didn’t make any sense. And why would God need so many hooks?
He sat on a tree bend and stared up at the sky. If there was a God up there, he wouldn’t be able to see through the clouds. He wouldn’t be able to see how alone Simon was. How empty everything was.
Simon’s breathing began to staccato, but he mustered himself before any tears could escape. He couldn’t decide whether his parents were taken or if they’d just abandoned him to start a new life. He tried to remember if it was overcast the day they disappeared. Maybe God didn’t even know the answer.
“Simon.”
Simon sat up, the voice vaguely resembling his mother’s. But his grandmother stood across from him, still in her slippers and gown. She was one of those people who had to be dressed to sleep in order to sleep.
“Oh,” he said.
Zofia half-smiled. “Am I so unremarkable?”
“You sounded like mom.”
Zofia sat on the tip of the hook with Simon and put her arm around him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. She smelled like potato and leek soup. Yesterday’s dinner.
“Where do you go?” Simon asked. “When you come out here and go for walks?”
“I go where you are. Where we are.”
“Are you trying to get hooked too?”
“Is that what you were doing?” Zofia frowned at Simon.
“No,” Simon said. “I don’t know what I was doing.”
“You were looking for them. I look for them too.” She paused, waiting for something, but Simon wasn’t sure what. “Who do you think will find them first?”
Simon looked over at her. She hopped to her feet and prowled through the trees, no longer able to bend and hunch like she used to years ago.
Simon didn’t want to follow. He didn’t want to play this stupid game anymore. But she did. And for that, he joined her.
Josh Sippie is the Director of Publishing Guidance at Gotham Writers and an Associate Editor of Uncharted Mag. His writing can be found at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Hobart, Brevity, Sledgehammer Lit, Wretched Creations, Not Deer, and more. When not writing, he can be found wondering why he isn't writing. More at joshsippie.com or on Twitter @sippenator101.