Tree of Life and Death
It watches over the entire village with its friends, up on a small hill next to the brook. It doesn’t remember everything it sees, of course, but it remembers enough. It watches the village flourish from caves and mud to houses of grass and straw, then now to this sprawling collection of stone and bricks.
Two hordes of humans built their stony abodes right under the hill, one family with a blonde haired little boy and the other with a girl with fiery red hair. Like all humans they move around, seemingly never able to hold still for too long before they’re up and running again, like the numerous creatures that roam Its body.
The boy likes climbing It, a lot, and challenges the girl to do the same. The girl always hesitates, clutching her flowery dresses, her bottom lip quivering with embarrassment. But she always agrees and soon, both kids are covered with Its leaves, and It bears their weight without any qualms.
Come spring, where the birds settle into It’s branches, where the snake emerges from its sleep, the boy and the girl are children no more. They lie side by side on the hill, joining It in watching the flurry of activity that happens beneath their feet. He holds out his hand and she takes it, blood rushing to her face. He no longer makes her climb trees and she no longer puts up a brave facade, pretending to be someone she is not as the time to impress is long gone now. As the birds are composing their symphonic tune, he kneels down and gives her a flower as wild as her red locks.
Summer, and the man is brimming with excitement as he holds a stick against an imaginary foe, dancing among the undergrowth chasing butterflies that fall beneath his blade. His hair sticks to his skin like a golden halo with sweat. The girl looks on, clapping her hands together and smiling when he glances at her, but worry is laced in her tone as the man stabs at It.
Soon he is off fighting a battle for someone It does not know, It merely knows that the woman stands beneath It every day, staring at the horizon. It joins her, but soon gives up and turns Its gaze to far more interesting matters than to wait for a shadow that never appears. Its fruits ripen and fall, red splattering against the grassy hill, rolling down into the hands of expectant children. Still she looks on, ignoring the feast at her feet.
When autumn comes It finds her always on her knees, head bowed low, hair flowing down around her like silk. She touches her hand to Its bark, murmuring fervent prayers under her breath as her gallant soldier continues to fight. The sky rusts ahead, the steel of storm clouds dulled and worn away by summer showers, the scent of apples on a tentative wind that swirls and stops and swirls again, disoriented, coming to a halt around the feet of the woman, who is really still just a girl. She weeps, but It cannot share her tears.
More humans come and join the woman in her epiphany, casting her looks of sorrow and understanding. It understands her pain, too, as Its companions fall under the axe of humans with tear stains on their faces, weeping for their own children and husbands and fathers, making caskets out of dead bodies for the men that they may never see again for the rest of their lives.
Heat roars and lunges into the sky, chasing the clouds like a hungry cat, pouncing on the wisps of the fading sky. Snowflakes evaporate into ashes before they can touch the ground, burned up by the intensity of the flames and the sound of metal sinking into flesh. Banners unfurl in the name of justice, swallowed quickly by fiery vengeance, or trampled under feet just like their armours of honour and pride.
It watches silently as the pieces of fabric on poles and sticks approaches the village, their inferno right on their heels. It watches the ground turn black and red, vitality and life seeping into the earth and into It’s roots. The taste disgusts It.
The animals have fled their homes, leaving their wealth behind and venturing into the unknown. The sky darkens and shifts and the men come and go, until silence reigns over the little village, now black and red and white and dead.
Those who survive pick their way among the ashes, their tears long dried up. They fall to their knees, salvaging whatever they can. Their homes, their possessions, their lives. It’s companions suffer, too. Those who did not fall to the senseless carnage are cut down to make gravemarkers and crosses, coffins too luxurious. It survives, as the humans rely on It to ask for the gods’ blessing, and only It knows that the gods have already turned their eyes and ears away from them.
Spring again, and Its branches were also kissed by fire. Leaves and flowers will never grow again on those branches. It sighs at the thought. The golden-haired hero returns too. He is taller than It remembers, more haunted. His king has won, but his battle lost.
Time passes and It feels Itself shriveling up, roots struggling to compensate for its green compatriots. The blonde little boy returns to sit under It, staring into nothing and everything. His gold and treasures mean nothing to him, when the red-haired woman no longer visits It anymore.
The people take It’s condition as another omen from the gods, and It wants to laugh at the stupidity of the villages. If only they would cut off its charred branches, so leaves can grow again and the animals will return.
It had wanted to die a hero’s death, become a martyr, instead of feeling Itself rot from within like a plague, like a disease eating away at Its heart. The blonde boy understands too as he looks at the branches contemplatively, still strong and sturdy despite everything. He knows what is going on.
Come summer, come autumn, come the next spring, the village will grow again, new humans moving in to replace the ghosts of the past generation. But It will no longer be able to watch over the village, and nor will he.
