Mustache Magic
For Inktober day 1—Mustache—I sketched a proud old tree with a leafy mustache. But as I drew, a story sprouted: one of grumpiness, autumn loss, and an unlikely act of kindness.
The Pride of the Forest
Deep in the old woods, past the briar-riddled path and beneath a cloak of turning leaves, stood a beech tree who did not enjoy company.
His name, or rather the one he’d given himself, was Treestash—on account of the magnificent leafy mustache arching proudly across his lower canopy. He claimed it gave him an air of mystery and might, unlike the scruffy moss-beard his uncle sported, which had once earned that old geezer a cameo in a fantasy novel no one read anymore. Beards were passé. Mustaches were eternal.
What Treestash did not enjoy were squirrels. Or birds. Or mushrooms, especially the kind that sprouted from his bark uninvited, like fungal squatters. He detested toadstools even more, poisoning his roots with their smug little red caps. And don’t get him started on autumn. That cruel season stripped him of his dignity one leaf at a time.
Today, he stared into the nearby creek and saw something horrific: bald patches. Clear, unmistakable gaps where his upper leaves had once flourished.
“I’m thinning,” he groaned internally. “I’m going… bald.”
Still, there was one patch of pride left. The mustache held. Golden and amber, flaring above the knob where his lowest branch had broken off decades ago. It curled handsomely across his trunk, untouched by wind or rot.
He sighed.
And then he smelled trouble.
The Barking Menace
It scampered out of the underbrush with floppy ears and a tail like a frantic feather duster. A puppy. Mud-speckled, nose down, tail up, sniffing like it had a debt to settle with every root and rock.
Treestash’s inner bark stiffened.
The creature paused. Looked up. Grinned.
Treestash did not grin back.
Instead, he watched in mounting horror as the puppy circled, turned, lifted its leg—
“No,” Treestash begged the universe. “No, don’t you dare…”
But the puppy dared.
It peed.
Right on his bark.
“Oh my woodness,” he gasped silently, “I’ve been defiled.”
Desperate, Treestash shook his branches. A few beechnuts dropped. The puppy, ever enthusiastic, chased them like they were gifts from the sky.
“I’m under siege,” Treestash thought, rattling his limbs furiously. “It’s like a squeaky storm with fur.”
The puppy barked. Loudly. Repeatedly. Echoes bounced between trunks like a chorus of chaos.
Treestash missed the quiet squirrels. And that was saying something.
The Great Unmustaching
By dusk, the intruder had claimed the territory. It chased squirrels, drank from the creek, dug a hole near Treestash’s roots, and barked at birds. Treestash was exhausted from watching.
Finally, the puppy yawned. A big, slow-motion yawn with a squeak on the end. It turned in a tight circle, then nestled into the bed of fallen leaves between Treestash’s roots.
That’s when Treestash noticed: it shivered.
The wind had picked up. The golden light slanted colder now. The forest was going to freeze tonight.
And something unfamiliar crept through Treestash’s fibers. A leafless limb twitched. A core-knot ached.
Pity.
Not the grand, haughty kind trees feel when ants drown in puddles. But something smaller. Sharper. Realer.
He tried lowering a branch to shield the pup. Most of the upper leaves were gone. Only the mustache remained—full, fluffy, magnificent.
Then came the howl.
It slithered through the trees like mist.
Wolves.
The puppy sat up. Ears twitching. Nose sniffing.
Another howl. Closer.
Treestash panicked. The mustache. It was warm. Dense. Sacred. But useless if kept.
He sneezed.
A few leaves shook loose.
He sneezed again, harder this time, and the entire mustache fluttered down in a glorious golden swirl, blanketing the puppy in a cocoon of crisp warmth.
Treestash trembled. He’d never felt so… bare.
But when the wind howled again, it didn’t reach the puppy.
And the wolves never came.
Epilogue: Reflections
The morning sun rose through the misty forest.
Treestash stared at his reflection in the creek. No mustache. Just smooth bark and empty branches.
He felt… odd. Vulnerable. Lighter. Younger, even.
There was a rustle. He turned inward just in time to see the puppy stretch, tail wagging furiously, head poking out from the mustache-blanket like a sprout from soil.
Then came the shouting. Human voices. Relief. Joy.
The pup yipped and bounded into their arms.
Treestash watched as they hugged the dog, laughed, wiped away tears.
And then, without realizing it, he smiled.
A long, slow smile in his bark, in his roots, in the old crack where his branch had broken.
The mustache was gone, but his heart had grown a ring.
This is a real charmer of a story. It made my day and lightened my heart. Thank you!
"He claimed [the mustache] gave him an air of mystery and might, unlike the scruffy moss-beard his uncle sported, which had once earned that old geezer a cameo in a fantasy novel no one read anymore. " Gee, I wonder which fantasy novel that could be. I have absolutely no idea! ;). I really enjoyed this story, Father. You have a gift.