- for a tree to climb.

I'm sure there wasn’t a tree in the middle of Swanston Street yesterday. Quite positive. Along with everyone else, I watch it, waiting for the surprise enigma to suddenly unwrap itself. It is just a tree though. It just stands there.

It’s made a mess of the tram tracks.

Police stand around it, but make no effort to move people along. There isn’t any traffic for them to keep flowing, and they don’t bother the children who leap about the thick sprawling roots. I step out from beneath the awning and look up. The vast canopy blocks the sun, and here beneath the leaves the air is cool and fresh. Is it an oak? It looks sort of oaky. Something in the manic splay of the branches suggests ghost gums as well.

Jack planted magic seeds that grew over night, didn’t he? I don’t remember. It’s been a long time since I last heard that story. There was a whole kingdom up there. It all ended badly, I remember that much. When giants fall from the sky, it can only ever end badly.

The bark has no special texture when I press my palm to it. Disappointing. I clamber up a root, laying my hands all over it, but it doesn’t do anything magical or mysterious. It’s just a tree.

The first branch is well within my reach, and I haul myself up onto it. The second is a natural and easy step up, and so I go, from fork to crook, ignoring the police officers below watching me with arms crossed and disapproving frowns. They don’t call me down. They probably want to know if there’s a magical kingdom up there too.

I remember climbing the Japanese maple in the backyard as a child. That was a tenuous trip. Those branches were supple and quick to thin, unable to support my weight. These branches are as a whale’s backbone, stalwart and solid, and while the veil of leaves shifts in the breeze, they don’t even shiver.

Soon I loose sight of the ground entirely, and after a token nod at hesitation I keep going. And going. And going. There must be something up there, somewhere. Giant trees to not just appear without there being something special at the top. Treasure. Kingdoms. Giants. A once in a lifetime view of the horizon.

I try not to think of spiders.

My arms and legs aren’t prepared for this, and I stop to sit in a fork, wiping the sweat from my face and lifting the shirt from my back. Poor little data entry operator body. I can’t hear the city. The muted brrr of engines, obnoxious horn toots, incessant conversation, sporadic shouts, the clatter of trams and the roar of trains; none of these things penetrate the tree. It’s a great, green cocoon. I rather like it. Sometimes I find a quiet like this in the backyard back home, for maybe half a minute at a time. This sound, this wonderful susurration of air and leaves, is one of the most calming sounds the world has ever produced.

I need a drink.

And, lo, there is a bottle of juice in a hollow.

That’s...odd.

Maybe an earlier climber left it. Maybe fairies left it. Maybe I don’t care and I drink it anyway. It goes down sweet, exactly what I need, and I resume my steady climb.

Up, up, up, this tree never ends. I must have climbed past even the Eureka Tower by now. Well, maybe not. I flatter myself, I’m not moving that fast. Time to start keeping track of time. An hour later I stop again, when shaking arms force me to, and I find sandwiches and more juice. Most convenient.

Maybe I should go down. Down is always harder than up. What if there are giants at the top? I won’t steal the harp or the goose that lays the golden eggs. I’ll leave the giants alone. I’ll just lie on top of the clouds and watch the sky. It must be even quieter up there. Clouds must be immensely comfortable. Ridiculously comfortable. The sort of comfortable that only exists in the imagination. A possibility worth climbing for.

The day ends. In a knot of branches I find, quite literally, a bower. Moss makes it soft, and after some hesitation I climb in. It sways in the breezes, but feels secure. It would be dangerous to climb in the dark. Too late to go back down now. I sleep.

The next morning birds wake me. There’s milk and more sandwiches. My muscles scream. I look down. I climb up.

For lunch, I eat a cold pastry of potato and spinach. For dinner there’s salad and chicken. For bed, a hollow tucked behind a bole. The tree wants me to reach the top.

My arms and legs get used to it. It isn’t hard climbing. The tree doesn’t want me to fall, doesn’t want me to give up. The tree wants me to reach the top.

The birds wake me. There’s cereal and tea. For lunch, stir fry. For dinner, pasta.

I don’t think there is a top. There can’t be a top. Nothing changes, no matter how high I go. Every day is a trance of elevation ascension motion and rhythm. There is no bottom. There is no top. There is only me, between leaving and arriving, always going. I never need stop again.

The birds wake me. There’s eggs and toast. For lunch, sandwiches. For dinner, curry. The birds wake me. There’s fruit and yoghurt. For lunch, a meat pie and tomato sauce. For dinner, roast beef and vegetables. The birds wake me. There’s onigiri and tea. For lunch, salad roll. For dinner, risotto.

The tree, I realise, is the giant. It was here all this time. In the story, the beanstalk fell to the ground, and the giant fell to the ground. This tree is both. This tree, which has been blocking one of Melbourne’s main streets for several days now. There’s not a chance that they haven’t started cutting it down. It’d take a while. They’d have to clear the buildings around it, and the trunk is no skinny thing to be hacked through in an afternoon.

This can only end badly.

The birds wake me.