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This was Boil’s favorite time of the day, just as the sun was creeping up over the horizon. He was still wet from the morning dew, a light fog hung over the river muffling the sounds of traffic from the bridge, and there wasn’t a dog in sight. It was going to be a good day.
He stretched his branches out, careful not to disturb his residents, then stepped out into the morning air. The air shimmered around him as he took form, the greens of his leaves bleeding into the brown of his bark, strands of ivy wrapping around his forearms. The green of his arms blending into the brown on his legs, he reminded himself. He hadn’t stepped out of the oak once summer kicked into high gear so he could avoid the joggers who seemed to swarm the park, but as the solstice approached, he had more time alone. His birds called out to him as he started off, chirping for him to have good hunting. He didn’t hunt, but he appreciated the sentiment and affectionately rustled the leaves around their nest.
He edged through the younger trees towards the human trail at the edge of his grove and began pulling the ivy off himself. His roots, toes, dug small furrows along the edge of the path and he leaned over to deposit the ivy in the grooves before brushing the dirt back into place. Kneeling, he let his hands hover over the turned earth, concentrating to bring some water up to dampen the ivy’s roots. A minute more, he thought, reaching deeper into the ground.
It had been a dry, hot summer, so he wanted to make sure the ivy thrived. He smiled to himself, small but satisfied, and shook his wrists out before reaching out to brush his fingers against the little groupings of dull green leaves, their tiny hairs ready to grab and climb on their own, and mentally nudged them in the direction of some rocks. The ivy grew faster at his touch, spreading over the rocks, and Boil hummed softly. It might not have long, but it would definitely come back next summer. He finally stood and looked up the path, knowing he had a few minutes before anyone came in his direction if the chirping of birds was any indication.
“Let’s see the humans get past that one,” Boil smirked, feeling satisfied with himself. He had lived in Inwood Hills Park for more than a hundred years already and was used to the daily invasion of people, but it didn’t stop him from planting poison ivy along his grove. It really was the best deterrent, and the foresters let it stay. Who were they to disturb the natural order of the city’s oldest forest, right?
Boil edged back up the hill to his grove, trailing his fingers along oaks that had no spirit. He still wasn’t sure how he ended up here alone, but he vaguely remembered a Greek man bringing his family to his tree when Boil was still young. Still, Boil liked the solitude.
A hush settled over the forest and Boil cocked his head, listening for whatever had disturbed the blackbirds that nested with him. His shoulders tensed, a scowl settling over his face as he heard metal clanking. He melted back into the shadow of another oak and concentrated on becoming invisible to whatever was coming. The rhythmic jangling came closer. Boil raised his right arm and held his hand level, ready to send a wave of wind, leaves and rocks towards the threat, before he heard a woman’s voice call out.
“Mister Darcy, you get back here right now! I swear to god, I am never letting you off your leash again!”
The paws scrambling up the slope suddenly came to a halt as the dog turned to look back to his owner. Boil’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at his newest nemesis, the little dog turning back to sniff at the ground as it edged nearer to him.
“Don’t do it,” Boil rumbled. “You turn your furry little orange ass around and go away.” He tilted his palm, ready to push towards the dog. The dog made eye contact with him and started to lift a leg. That’s it, Boil thought, as leaves started to swirl around him. Dirt flew up into the little whirlwind he created, circling faster with the leaves. Mister Darcy bared his teeth, hackles raising. Boil grinned back and pushed his hand out, feeling satisfied as the gust blew the dog back.
“There you are,” the woman said as she came around a tree, bending to pick up her dog. Mister Darcy jumped around and ran to her hands to be picked up, the wind bringing leaves, dirt, and small rocks after him. His owner lifted him and got a face full of debris as she straightened. “Ugh,” she moaned, turning away to go back down the hill as she shook her head and began picking leaves out of her dog’s fur. She stopped at the foot of the hill and set him down, then noticed the greenery around her. “Uggghhh, did you run through poison ivy? Are you trying to kill me? I am never bringing you here again. You can deal with the dog park by the apartment.”
Boil wiggled his fingers in a taunting wave as the dog glanced back at him over his owner’s shoulder before turning back to his tree. The blackbirds were perched along a lower branch and gave him a chorus of approving noise as he approached.
“Why, thank you, ladies. No, I don’t think that one will be back any time soon. One dog down, only a million to go.” Boil cocked his head and tilted an ear, listening to the bird closest to him chirping at him. “No, sweetheart, I can’t do that to the squirrels too. I need them to keep burying acorns. Don’t you want more of us around to give you good places to nest?”
He raised his arm as she fluttered down from the branch, settling on his wrist. “You ready?” Boil brought his other hand up to cup around her small body as she raised her wings. “What are you in the mood for today? Ahh, good choice, but I get to pick the song!”
Boil started humming before stepping into an easy waltz around the grove, gliding among the roots and brush and giving his partner a broad smile as he added a spin. His partner chortled as she lifted her wings. “Beyond the Sea,” he answered, “we heard it last week, remember the old man with the walking stick?” He danced off to the side of the grove as his other residents followed, flying in circles around them. His partner cooed when he finally stopped and he grinned, lowering his hand to help her launch herself into the air. The others followed as she swooped into the sky, circling his tree before heading off towards the meadow and breakfast.
He leaned against a tree as they flew off, relaxing against the rough bark. It felt good so he rubbed his back against it, scratching an imaginary itch from being in his tree for so long. The vines he had around his waist and lower legs reached back, wanting to climb, but he willed them back to him, settling into the feeling of them wrapping around him. He ran a hand over the ones on his belly, soothing them, before straightening away from the tree and moving towards the river.
The sounds of morning traffic were already starting to pick up, and Boil could smell the exhaust coming from the bridge. He wrinkled his nose and stretched the sense of his roots into the earth. He still had time before the rangers started their routes for the day. This time of the year, they would probably stay over by the docks, but he couldn’t count on it. He’d head for the meadow instead.
Sharp hooting from an owl that lived next to his tree made Boil stop, checking the perimeter of the grove. He heard the steady chop chop chop of a helicopter coming from the bridge and rolled his eyes. Another set of noises, then a third, quickly joined and Boil froze. Maybe this wasn’t a good day to leave his oak, he thought, before quickly turning and jogging back home. He looked at the bridge again as he heard sirens screaming, shook his head, and put his hands on his tree. Closed eyes, a deep breath, a warm rush down his body, then he no longer had a body.
His roots sank deep into the earth and Boil could feel the system spreading out as he reconnected his spirit with his oak. He reached up into his crown, feeling the air against his leaves, and checked on the nests in his branches. A squirrel scampered up his trunk, the scritches from its claws causing Boil to shiver in pleasure. His acorns were just about to mature and ready to drop, but if this little guy wanted to start stockpiling early for winter, Boil had no problem with that.
He monitored the squirrel’s progress with interest, twitching a twig or two to guide him away from nests, and hoped that the squirrel could carry more than one. He didn’t recognize him by sense, so maybe his acorns would make its way to the other side of the park. Boil was about to shake one loose for the squirrel when he felt a heavy thump on one of his lower scaffold branches. He froze, hearing what residents remained take flight, and sent out feelers to the branch. He had no idea what had landed.
The new weight started to make him angry – he had no room for something that big to move in, considering the number of birds he had living with him. If it was one of those eagles, it would take up too much space with its huge nest, and he wasn’t having it. It could go find some other tree to camp out in. Boil started to pull himself back to the lower edge of the trunk so that he could step out, then eased away.
He pulled more vines and bark to him than he usually did. If something as big as an eagle was going to cause any problems, he wanted to be as protected as possible. Vines crawled up his arms and around his shoulders, bark covered his legs and hips, leaves crowned his head, and he opened his deep brown eyes as he pushed away from the trunk. He heard laughter and hesitated, crouching down to lean around the trunk, a scowl on his face. His eyes went straight to the northwest lower-level scaffold and widened, jaw dropping. He didn’t know what the hell he was seeing. It wasn’t a person, wasn’t a bird, wasn’t a cat. A chimera?
It was big, whatever it was. The whatever-it-was was holding the squirrel that had been running around in the palm of its hand, stroking its small head with the other. Boil could hear the both of them chattering at each other, so it probably wasn’t going to eat the squirrel. He looked at the squirrel, recognizing the furry little shit, knowing it for the complete jackass it was, so whatever would make friends with that kind of squirrel was no friend of his. He paused, thinking. Scare them both off, wait and see, go back inside? That thing was huge and had a wingspan bigger than two eagles, and it didn’t look like it was going anywhere. Maybe wait it out? If it wanted to fight, Boil would probably be better off working from the inside where he could be more flexible. He’d wait and see.
Palms raised and almost touching bark, Boil closed his eyes and…
“Hi there!”
Okay, he wasn’t expecting that.
Boil slowly opened his eyes and leaned around the trunk, looking up at the scaffold. Whatever-it-was had a good chance of being magical. That didn’t mean Boil had to like it, though. There weren’t many magical creatures in this part of the city and he tried to avoid them if he could. He was the only one that lived in this park, and he hadn’t left in the hundred years that his tree had been rooted. Once in a while a shapeshifter would run through, but that was about it. Boil was quite happy being alone in his grove and he didn’t need something like this taking roost.
He wrinkled his eyebrows and tried to look menacingly at the creature perched on his branch. Instead of cowering in fear like it should have, it let the squirrel run off, pulled its paws up onto the branch and set its elbow on its knee. It looked comfortable in Boil’s tree, resting its chin in its hand with a dimpled smile stretching across its face. Its tail wrapped around it, dangling over the scaffold branch, and its wings were folded in. The wings were in a bit of a sorry state – if Boil’s girls could see them, they would be preening those wings back into shape before he could stop them. At least it didn’t have its claws dug into Boil’s branch.
“What’s your name, buddy?” It nodded at Boil encouragingly, inviting him to talk.
“Who are you and why are you in my tree?” Boil wasn’t about to start a conversation with it, he just wanted it gone. But he had to admit, it was pretty easy on the eyes. Not that he was going to talk to it.
“I’m Waxer, I was just flying home and got clipped by one of those choppers. I guess I was distracted by that accident on the bridge and didn’t realize how close I had gotten.” Waxer shrugged, embarrassed by the accident, and tilted his head toward his left wing. “I need to get this back in shape, then I’ll be out of your hair. Or, out of your leaves and branches, anyway.”
The creature scowled and looked away, but that didn’t stop Waxer. Waxer fluffed his feathers and angled his wing around, so that the longest feathers rested across his lap, narrowing his eyes at the damage. Waxer thought he was probably a tree nymph of some sort, judging from his soothing green coloring and rough brown texturing, but he had never met a male nymph. He was intrigued, and definitely wanted to know more, so he would do his best to find out. Whatever he was, Waxer thought, he was handsome. This would not be a waste of time if he could enjoy the view while he got his feathers sorted out.
“It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so, if you don’t mind. What are you, anyway? You look like one of the hamadryads in Central Park, but they’re all girls. Same coloring, though. Not a satyr, no tail. Not a potamoi, you’re not in the Harlem and I know the one in the Hudson. I’m a gargoyle, he/him.” Waxer started pulling his fingers through his primary feathers and gave Boil another sunny smile. “Guess you really can’t tell me anything if I don’t let you get a word in edgewise, can you?”
Deep breath, Boil thought, I can go back inside as soon as he’s gone. “Dryad, he/him. I’m going to go now. You can leave when you’re done.”
Waxer’s smile slid off of his face, a hurt look taking its place, his ears flicking down in disappointment. Before Boil could blink, Waxer dropped from the tree, landing softly on large paws. He crouched down and brought his left wing in front of him again, tilting his head so that he could meet Boil’s eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Waxer said solemnly. He moved back from Boil, putting more space between them. “You can stay. It’ll be nice for me, having someone around to keep an eye out while I get back in flying shape.” Waxer smiled encouragingly and nodded his head at his wing.
Boil was skeptical, but it made sense. Magical creatures usually only attacked within their species anymore, since their numbers were dwindling across the board. Even then it was rare, but sometimes internal matters had to be settled the old-fashioned way. He nodded grudgingly and looked around.
“I’m the only creature in the park, but we do get some eagles and coyotes around here, and it’s still early enough that they might be around. You’re too open where you are. You can put your back up against me while you get yourself fixed up.”
The smile came back as Waxer shivered in glee. He bounced back up but calmed his movements when he saw Boil flinch, slowly stepping towards him. He froze when Boil started talking.
“No, not against me me, against that me,” Boil said, pointing at the oak that Waxer had landed in. Waxer’s smile turned sheepish as he edged back towards the oak, finding an open spot amongst the brush at the base.
“Thank you. Will you tell me your name, or is that something secret to you, like how the fae are? The hamadryads are pretty free with their names.” Waxer crossed his legs and settled in to preen, pulling his fingers through the primaries to straighten them out. He was so lucky that he had only clipped the landing struts and didn’t get caught up with the blades.
Boil edged a little further away from Waxer and looked up as he saw some of his girls flit back home to settle into their nests. If they weren’t worried about the giant winged being, then maybe he shouldn’t be, either. “I’m Boil.”
“Boil,” Waxer whispered, testing the name in his mouth. He liked it, a hard start with a gentle lull at the end. He couldn’t wait to say it again. He looked up at Boilllll and saw him settle down onto the ground, Boil’s ears cocked and his eyes scanning the grove for danger. Waxer smiled and continued working on his wing. It wasn’t as bad as he initially thought, but he planned on taking his time. He wanted to see what Boil was all about.
“So,” Waxer started, “technically I’m a chimera, but I was made and not born, so I go by gargoyle now. Some guy liked one of the spouts that he was sculpting on my building so much that I think he wished me into existence.”
And I’m ready to wish you out of my park, Boil thought uncharitably.
“He had an imagination, I’ll give him that. Some Greek guy, a stonemason. A lot of talent, and a lot of heart,” Waxer continued. “Tribeca’s pretty busy now, always has been, but we do have some great architecture in the neighborhood. Some of the churches are to die for, and the gargoyles there are really welcoming of us new ones, unlike the actual humans. They are no fun at all.”
Boil huffed in agreement, thinking of the birdwatchers, dog-walkers, joggers, and children that passed his grove continuously.
“How do you keep them away?” Waxer asked, straightening the last crooked primary. “This is pretty prime real estate for people who want a bit of nature. I’m surprised they’re not right on top of your tree.”
“Poison ivy,” Boil admitted with an evil grin. Waxer’s head jerked up and he froze before scooting a little further away from the tree.
“I have no idea what that is, but it has the word poison in it. Do I need to worry?” Boil’s arched eyebrow wasn’t reassuring, but the slow smile that crept over his face eased Waxer’s fears.
“Nah, it’s an ivy I keep it on the edge of the grove. If most humans touch it, it gives them a pretty bad rash. If they get past it once, they have something to remind them of their trip and they usually don’t come back. It doesn’t affect the creatures that I’ve seen here so you’re all good.”
Waxer sighed in relief and grinned back at Boil. He was done preening but he wanted to spend more time here, so he readjusted himself, stretching out his legs and letting his wing lay on his lap. His hands were covered, so Boil would never know that he wasn’t preening anymore. He wiggled his feet and stretched out his toes, claws extending then retracting and noted that he needed to trim them. He figured a few runs up and down his building would take care of them.
He watched as Boil finally seemed to settle in comfortably, bark extending and retreating on his torso, ivy wrapping around and reaching out. As Waxer watched, a bud in Boil’s leaves began to bloom into a pink blossom. He was mesmerized by the loosening of the bud, the furl of petals. He wondered if it would feel as silky as it looked.
“So, I usually don’t go past The Park, but I’m glad I did. I’ve flown past this park before but I’ve never stopped in. It’s nice to see a creature where they were meant to be. This has to be one of the oldest groves on the island, right? The trees are huge, even bigger around than in The Park. It’s so much quieter here, though.”
Boil nodded and looked around. “I’ve been here for about a hundred-fifty years or so, but it’s changed. The roads, the bridges, the boats, everything is different now. More engines, less horses.”
His eyes travelled back to Waxer. He had never seen a gargoyle before, so he let his eyes wander. He took in the tall horns at the top of Waxer’s head, slightly curved back and ridged. He wondered if the ridges told Waxer’s age, like the rings in his tree told his. The little tuft of fur on Waxer’s chin was darker in color than the tawny fur on his legs but had the same whorls in it, curled like the knots on Boil’s tree. Waxer’s tail, slowly swishing behind him, had both kinds of fur, a dark tuft at the end of a less curly tan. His eyes followed Waxer’s legs to his paws and saw the little pads on the bottom. They looked like smooth little pebbles and he wanted to touch them.
Boil was shocked by his train of thought and quickly looked down, running his hand across a mossy rock nearby to distract himself. He had no idea why he had even thought about wanting to touch Waxer and dragged himself back to the conversation. “I like being here, though. I’m surprised you got a name out of a hamadryad, though,’ he added pointedly. “We’re usually pretty solitary.”
Waxer shrugged self-consciously. He loved creatures and had always been good at getting others to talk with him, but Boil sounded suspicious. Maybe it was just a dyrad thing. He had to admit though, he liked the hamadryads a lot – they always made him feel peaceful and inspired such wonder in him when they talked about their connections to their trees.
“I’m a good listener,” Waxer started, before catching Boil’s dubious look and raised eyebrow. “I am! They know I love to listen to them talk about their trees all day, so they let me stick around. I am also very charming,” he added in a lofty tone.
“Yes, you have won me over.” Boil knew that his dry tone was unconvincing, but that the blush he could feel spreading across his cheekbones probably told otherwise. Maybe Waxer hadn’t been around enough dryads to figure out their skin-tone variations, he hoped.
Boil was wrong. Waxer watched the color creeping over Boil’s face and felt a small thrill at the reaction. I am going to win him over. He let his wing fall back behind him and scooted forward so he could bring his knees up. He crossed his arms over his knees and leaned his chin onto his forearms, smiling softly at Boil as a blackbird flew down to land on Boil’s shoulder.
“She’s really pretty,” Waxer said. “She has the sweetest little red spots on her shoulders. If she’s looking for love, we have some really handsome ones in The Park. Solid black, bright red and yellow shoulder patches, beautiful songs,” he added teasingly. Boil grinned and tilted his head to look at the bird on his shoulder.
“What do you think, sweetheart, want to take a flight with Waxer and check out the boys in The Park?” He laughed as she squawked in interest then continued warbling. “No, I’m not sure if they know Beyond the Sea.”
Scooting closer, Waxer raised an eyebrow in interest. That sounded like a story, and he was going to get it. But first, he wanted to get closer.
“Boil, I think I’m done straightening out my wing but I would like to do a quick test. Would it be ok if I hopped back up on the branch?”
Boil ran an eye over Waxer’s wing appraisingly, checking for any out-of-place feathers. Everything looked alright, and a quick flight up to the lower scaffold wouldn’t put too much stress on anything, so he nodded and watched as Waxer stood and fluffed his wings, rolling his shoulders to settle them into place. He has nice shoulders, Boil thought before shaking his head and standing. The blackbird stood and copied Waxer before flying up onto the outer edge of the scaffold.
“I think she wants you to join her,” Boil said with a smile.
Waxer huffed out a laugh and jumped a little as he launched himself into the air. A few powerful flaps brought him to the branch where he set down, letting his legs hang over the edge. “I think I want you to join us,” he teased, patting the branch next to him. Boil ducked his head, color creeping back onto his face, before glancing back and forth between the blackbird and Waxer. He paused then nodded to himself before stepping to the tree and placing his hands on the trunk. Closed eyes, a deep breath, a warm rush down his body, no body.
When he reformed on the branch next to Waxer, he was closer than he expected, with only inches between him and Waxer’s knee. Sitting next to him, Boil let more of his legs form from the bark. This close, he could reach out to touch Waxer’s fur if he wanted. He could feel the curly hair on Waxer’s chin, or the tip of the tail that curved up to rest next to Boil, or the thick pelt covering his haunches. He could reach out to touch Waxer’s wing, to examine whether they had the same heft and structure as the blackbirds’, or whether they were something completely different, more magical in origin. He could touch the smooth skin, or curved horn, or exposed shoulders.
Instead, he clasped his hands on his knees, vines curling around his wrists and each other, as if to make sure he kept his hands to himself. Further down the branch, the blackbird tilted her head, fluffed her feathers, then jumped before riding a draft back to her nest, leaving them in silence. Boil felt like she was judging him, or helping him, or… He didn’t know. He was rarely this closely exposed to beings his size, someone that wouldn’t fit in the palm of his hand. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what he wanted to do. He didn’t know why he suddenly wanted to touch someone else. He hunched over his knees and instead concentrated on the sun-warmed bark against him, growing more connected to his oak as he sat.
Waxer knew that not all of the hamadryads in The Park liked to be touched, and Boil’s tension started to concern him. He wanted him to feel safe, not afraid. He brought his right wing up, shielding Boil from view, leaning on his hand, then rested his left hand on his knee, visible but so close to Boil’s twined fingers. Waxer hesitantly stretched his fingers out a little bit, then relaxed as he felt a vine brush against his knuckles. He wasn’t sure if Boil was consciously reaching back or not, but if some part of Boil welcomed the contact, he wouldn’t complain.
Boil looked over at Waxer’s wing, curled around him, and felt the tips of feathers brush against his side. It felt different than when the blackbirds flew around him, probably due to the size difference. He tried to keep the larger birds out of his tree so that the little ones didn’t need to compete for space, so he wasn’t used to such large wings. Still, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward again. Waxer’s feathers brushed against him again, soothing him, and he felt his vines reach out in response.
The flicker of the tuft of tail fur against his calf was sudden but soft, and Boil felt a watersprout growing up for Waxer’s tail to twine around. He concentrated on the feel of fur, so different from what he had come into contact with in the past, longer, softer. He thought about it, then decided he liked it. He leaned his knee forward and felt his shin brush against Waxer’s haunch. It was decidedly softer than the tuft on his tail, more like the fur he had felt when he removed a squirrel from a nest but with more muscle and warmth beneath. He snuck a glance at Waxer and was surprised to see his gentle smile.
Waxer watched Boil silently assessing each instance of contact, waiting for a flinch or some sign of discomfort. When their eyes finally met, Waxer felt another vine start to wrap around his forearm, slowly circling up to his elbow. He rubbed his tail against Boil’s calf and leaned towards him, glancing down at Boil’s full lower lip. Boil’s eyes widened in surprise, and Waxer leaned in some more. Boil’s body didn’t move, but his vines pulled Waxer a little tighter. Another bud began to unfurl in Boil’s crown of leaves.
With a tilt of his head, Waxer rested his forehead against Boil’s, feeling cool, smooth skin against his. Their noses brushed against each other’s, the moss around Boil’s mouth soft and springy, and Waxer saw Boil close his eyes.
“Will you let me kiss you?” Waxer whispered against Boil’s soft lips. Boil didn’t answer.
The press of Boil’s lips against Waxer’s was all the answer Waxer needed.