The Leaves of Diablo
written by: Amy B. Logan
“It just ain’t right,” Sam muttered, looking out of the kitchen window. “It ain’t natural.”
“What are you going on about?” asked Stella, moving past him to wash apples in the deep sink.
“The leaves. They aren’t falling. The way they sit there, hanging on the trees, all red and gold like natural, bit by the frost of the last week of nights, but they just sit there. Not one has fallen. Not one has fallen to the ground, crisp and light, waiting for the touch of the rake and the burn of the flame. Not one. Haven’t you noticed?” he asked Stella, searching her face for confirmation.
Stella looked out the window, her eyes focusing on the large stand of oaks at the edge of the farm. They never bothered raking up those leaves, they were on the edge of the woods. Those leaves would fall and blow away with the winter winds, or get plowed under in the spring. But the two large trees in the yard, those leaves hadn’t fallen either. Halloween was past. She remembered years of walking up the driveway to the house, her leather shoes scuffing the leaves before her. There were usually leaves underfoot, carpeting the hard-packed dirt of the driveway, leaves loose and light to mulch the garden, to bed the roses. But now that Sam mentioned it, there were no leaves. At least not on the ground. It will be Thanksgiving soon. And still the trees clung to their leaves, red and gold like Sam had said, with not one loosened from the tree. Sam was right. It wasn’t natural.
“I’m going to town,” Sam declared. “Need anything from the store?”
“Lemon juice. I need lemon juice for the apples, if they have any. If not, I’ll get by. And Sam?” Stella asked, her eyes focused on the large maples in the yard. “Do you think you’ll be back before dark?”
Sam moved toward her and pulled her toward him with a quick hug.
“I’ll be back before dark.”
In the town of Diablo, the situation was the same. The oak trees all clung to their leaves just as stubbornly as the trees on Sam’s place. Beneath them leaned rakes and wheelbarrows, tarps and shovels, waiting. Burning barrels sat empty. Truck beds and trailers yawned, hollow, with expectation. But no leaves had fallen. Not one. It was if the trees were waiting. Just waiting, silently, with their leaves making red and gold silhouettes against the darkening November sky.
Sam stopped at Thomas’ Market for Stella’s lemon juice. Tom stood behind the counter, making out orders on a thick pad of tan paper.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Hey Tom, Stella’s needing some lemon juice. Got any in stock?”
“I’m sure I do, in the back. How are you folks doin’ out there? Since you moved out to the Stern place, I don’t see you that much. How’s Stella? Must be quite a change, bein’ way out there instead of here in town.”
“Fine, Stella’s fine. Tom,” began Sam, walking closer to the large plate-glass window of the store. The window was stenciled with the words Thomas Market in big red letters, in a large arch, but Sam could still see the orange and yellow of the trees beyond, surrounding the bank across the street. “Have you noticed anything different this year about the trees?”
“Trees? What trees?”
“All the trees, the oaks. They still have their leaves. The leaves are still hanging on, for dear life, as if they’re afraid to fall, as if they weren’t already dying, like there was something worse than loosening themselves from the branch, and floating to the ground. It’s almost Thanksgiving. And still the leaves are on the trees, hanging up there high. Haven’t you noticed?”
Tom moved closer to Sam to look out the window. “Well, I’ll be, I guess you have something there,” he replied. “Let’s go outside.”
Both men stepped through the door onto the sidewalk. They stood, silently, surveying the trees of the town.
“Well, there, look down yonder by the church. Those trees are perfectly regular. See? Ain’t no leaves left on those trees, the ones around the church. And the big burning bush, at the church doors, every leaf gone. And in the churchyard too. See? Those trees are bare naked, nothing but branches sticking up into the sky. That’s kind of odd, now that you mention it. Those are the only ones. The trees in the churchyard. All the rest, up and down the street, back behind, they’re all still red and gold as can be, up in the sky. What do you know about that?” A cold breeze hustled through the town, sending the men back inside. “I’ll get that lemon juice for Stella,” said Tom, going to the back store room.
Reverend Brown entered the store, slowly methodically opening the door, giving a smile upon hearing the tinkle of the bell hanging at the top. “How are you, Sam, on this fine afternoon?” he greeted Sam and approached the glass counter.
“Afternoon, Reverend,” replied Sam. Tom returned with the juice and put it on the counter. “Afternoon, Reverend,” Tom said, the Reverend tipping his head in acknowledgement.
“Say, Reverend, do you happen to remember when the leaves fell from the trees around the churchyard? Do you remember when you cleaned them all up?” asked Sam.
“Oh, let’s see, been a number of weeks now that you mention it. Before All Saints Day. The members and I cleaned them up quickly, gathered them all into piles, burning them hot and fast, sending them to their eternal life, with their ashes rising high into the sky. The leaves were nice and dry, burned quickly as you please. Why do you ask?”
“Well, Reverend, Tom and me were just noticing that so many of the trees in town haven’t lost their leaves yet. Except for the ones around the churchyard. We were just thinking about it, that’s all, why the trees around the church are acting so differently.”
“Well, I hadn’t noticed,” said the Reverend. “He walked over to look out the store window. “I suppose that maybe those trees are special, being churchyard trees. Having been planted so long ago on purpose, to shade God’s house, and all the congregation during all those years of spring church suppers and box socials. Or maybe all the voices singing to God so loud and clear from the church every Sunday morning rattled all those leaves right off the branches, down to the ground.”
Sam smiled at the Reverend. “I don’t know, Reverend, but if that’s true, we’ll have to wait clear till December when everyone gets to caroling around the town for the other leaves to fall.”
The men laughed.
“A big wind, that’s all we need,” said Tom. “A good strong wind, with some rain pelting down, to loosen those leaves up, to make them fall. A storm’s coming through tonight, I can feel it. That will do the trick. That will make all the leaves fall, like the ones in the churchyard. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll see that the storm will knock those leaves to the ground faster than you can say the devil’s in the churchyard. Pardon me, Reverend.”
Reverend Brown tipped his head.
“Well, I hope you’re right, thanks, Tom, Reverend. Put the lemon juice on my account, will you, Tom? We’ll see you all later,” said Sam, taking the juice and leaving to return to the farm.
That night, a big storm did blow through the town. The wind came from the east, a devil’s wind. All night, Sam and Stella lay snug under a layer of quilts in the bedroom of the old farmhouse, listening to the wind as it tried to force its way into the room, through the multiple layers of tarpaper and newsprint that lay beneath the plaster and wood of the bedroom. As always, some of the wind came through, enough to chill the air of the room, but it couldn’t penetrate the quilted layers of the bed. And at 6 a.m. the wind stopped.
Sam’s eyes opened. He lay there, contented. He was content that now all had been set right. The leaves could not have withstood the winds of last night. He pictured himself getting out of bed and looking out the tall window of the bedroom at the trees. He would see them as they should be, with naked branches, and the leaves of red and gold scattered around the yard. With a wind like that, there wouldn’t be much raking. The wind would have blown the leaves clear off the property. He lay there, relishing the thought. Everything now would be as it should be. Tom was right. The storm, sent by God’s hand, had set everything right again.
He got out of bed and moved aside the lace curtains. The trees stood there, majestic as always. But their branches weren’t naked at all. The trees were still fully clothed, in red and gold, as if the storm hadn’t even happened. Every leaf remained in place. Sam looked at the ground below. Brown and green, with no color at all. No flecks of autumn cheer floated in the air, or gathered in the rose bed, leaves impaled by the thorns. Every leaf, each and every one, remained on the trees.
He didn’t wake Stella. He rose and dressed quietly, then went downstairs and outside. He looked at the trees at the edge of the property; their condition looked to be the same. Nothing had changed. It must be because the wind came from the East, he thought. The Devil’s wind they called it. Not something sent by God at all.
Thanksgiving came and went. Stella cooked a turkey and had the neighbors over for a big dinner; there was dressing and cranberries and pumpkin and mince pies, like always. After dinner, they said their goodbyes under the trees in the front yard, still fully clothed with their leaves. Sam was not alone in noticing. By now, the others in the town had noticed the trees as well. But no one talked about it. The red and gold trees of the town, by their mere presence, had made a gray cloud form to settle over Diablo. The neighboring towns were unaffected. Their leaves had fallen at the appropriate time, and had been cheerfully gathered up with rakes into piles for the children to jump in, leaves to be pressed between waxed paper beneath the bibles in the parlors. The leaves were gathered and dumped into ravines and rivers, burned in black sooted burning barrels in backyards and in large piles, at night, while the people stood around with mugs of cider, the glow of the leaves, now burning, reflected in their eyes. Autumn. A happy time.
In Diablo, the people didn’t give up hope. They supposed that somehow the frosts didn’t reach Diablo this year. The rakes and wheelbarrows sat silently, leaning up against the trunks of the trees, waiting for the leaves to fall. Christmas approached. People tried to ignore the leaves, stringing lights and decorations right on top of them. Now, even in December, the Christmas lights threw October shadows into the night of each leaf, still stubbornly clinging to the bushes and tree branches.
The week before Christmas, the caroling parties began. Sam took Stella into town to sing with the church choir. They marched resolutely through the darkness, beneath the rustling trees, the streets bare of snow and any residue of autumn. They stopped at each house in the town, standing under the trees in each yard, singing of mangers and wise men and Jesus’ birth. They sang loud and clear, with melody from their hearts and conviction from their souls. They sang, dressed in warm woolen coats, some holding candles, others with their hands holding sheets of music. It took the choir just over an hour to make their rounds. And still, not a leaf fell. Sam picked up Stella back at the church, where the trees were bare as trees should be.
Sam had almost given up. He didn’t know what it would take now. He had even gone out one early morning, before Stella was awake, to take a rake to swat at the lower branches of the trees in the yard. The leaves held fast. He tried not to think about them. But in bed, late at night, he could hear them rustling, restless, just outside the bedroom window. He could hear the rattle and crinkle of their dried skins, rustling into the night. It wasn’t natural, he thought. It wasn’t right.
They drove back to the farm late, and Stella went right to bed, Sam following shortly after. Christmas Eve. Sam lay in bed and prayed. All he wanted for Christmas was for the leaves to fall. He wanted to see the bare limbs of the oaks against the sky. He wanted to feel the rustle of the leaves on the paths and roads. That’s all he wanted for Christmas.
Out in the dark, the cold December sky was sprinkled with stars. Just after midnight, a bright star appeared. Its brightness outshone all the other stars surrounding it, so it alone appeared, high and solitary. Shortly after, the clouds moved in. Banks after bank of dense cloud cover move slowly over the town. The clouds were heavy with snowflakes, barely being able to move across the sky to lay thick and deep over the town. Then the snow began to fall. It began with large lacey flakes, floating down, landing on the sidewalks, roofs, and roads, but not remaining long. Then the real snow began. Tiny snowflakes, falling from the sky, thousands upon thousands. The snow landed on the roofs and roads, the trees. It collected there, on the trees of Diablo. It gathered on the serrated edges of the leaves and bowed each leaf down with its weight. Each leaf, red and gold, its stem pulled and twisted under the weight of the new snow, until the stem finally broke free, and the leaves fell. They fell out of the trees to land in the empty burning barrels and wheelbarrows, onto the empty tarps that yawned below. And after those were full, the leaves continued to fall, until piles and piles of them filled the yards and streets of the town. But the snow continued to fall and covered the leaves under a blanket of snow. The snow fell for hours upon hours, until every branch of every tree was bare, and all the leaves of red and gold lay buried deep beneath a blanket of white.
Then the clouds moved away from the town. Unburdened, they swept away through the sky, away, revealing a star-speckled night sky. The lone bright star of Christmas outshone them all, shining its light down upon the farms and houses of the town in the deep dark night of Christmas.
Sam slept soundly through it all. If he had been awake, he would have noticed the silence. He would have noticed that the sound of the leaves, pushing and jostling among themselves in the trees, was gone. It was replaced by the deep quiet of the snow, covering everything, every sound muffled by the blanket of white.
Hours later, Sam did wake. He opened his eyes and immediately sensed the difference. He could tell snow had come by the light within the room, even through the curtains of lace that hung at the window. Snow on Christmas Day. Stella would be happy about that.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up to look out the window. He saw the trees, their bare branches exposed at last, stretching up into the pale blue sky of Christmas morning. There wasn’t one leaf in sight. Not one leaf clinging to a single branch, no leaves in the yard, or in the driveway, or on the small piece of lawn beneath the trees. Just snow. A thick blanket of snow over everything. All Sam could see was white, beautiful white, except for the pale blue morning sky with the silhouettes of the bare branches of the trees.
He turned and crawled back into the bed. He nestled down warm and quiet under the thick quilt, thinking. Relishing the thought of the leaves being down and gone, as they should be. Finally, he turned on his side to move close to Stella. “Stella,” he said softly, “Wake up! It’s Christmas!”
The End
- The Leaves of Diablo - December 14, 2025
