“Red foot. White foot,” said the talking tree. “I can’t tell. They’re both so close.”

“That’s right,” I answered. I paused – was that actually a question? No it wasn’t, said Little Man. My head was pounding.

“So it says, and so it shall be.” The tree was now mocking me. I knew it, and Little Man knew it as well.

Cut it down. The stupid tree doesn’t deserve to grow in this garden. He is arrogant and dismissive, muttered Little Man.

“I can be equally dismissive,” I quipped. “Keep quiet.”

“Child, baker, elephant seed. Trail not found? Green foot.” The talking tree swayed his branches menacingly, wind whipping through his crusty, browned leaves. I was beginning to tire of the nonsensical ramblings atop half-truths and outright lies. My head hurt enough with Little Man constantly grumbling in the background of every thought – now this damned tree was yet another obstacle in my way.

You’re never getting to the Golden Path.

Ignoring Little Man, I reached into my satchel. This ends now, tree.