FICTION
Iron Tree
Part of a futuristic mythology-oriented story cycle “The Fading”
Two men slowly walked down the forest trail. Giant thousand-year-old pine trees surrounded them like castle walls, but the evening sun still pierced through thick evergreen branches. The men were berry hunters, and they had left their communal village of Mikon three days ago. Usually, a berry hunter shift took one to two days. However, luck had not been on their side this time. Their baskets were almost empty, and their knives had hardly been put to work in the last few days. None of them wanted to return home empty-handed.
One was younger, his thick white hair curled up from the humid forest weather. The other man seemed much older, with skin etched with wrinkles and a walk reminiscent of the elderly. From time to time, he stopped to take a breath. He had been a berry hunter for fifty years now, but age had begun to take its toll.
“Come on. You have to keep up,” said the younger one, seeing his partner leaning on a tree once again.
“I will catch up with you, you can go,” said the old man. I can’t stall the boy, he is angry that we have caught no berries, thought the old man. And every time I make a halt, his anger grows. I can understand that.
The young man approached his companion.
“You are old,” he said. He didn’t mean to be rude. In fact, there were caring undertones in his voice. “You should have stayed behind and returned to the village yesterday. You can go now. I will finish the hunt, and we can share the goods.”
“That is very kind of you,” said the old man. “But it’s not a good sign for a berry hunter to come home empty-handed.”
“Here, let me help you,” the young hunter took the leather pouch bag from the old man’s bony and sharp shoulder. “You know, you shouldn’t go on hunts anymore.”
“I know. But I want to go anyway.”
“I know.”
“I am tired, though. We have been walking for eight hours now,” said the old hunter.
“Then we should make an early camp. It’s getting dark. I saw a good spot just a few minutes walk from here, there is an opening. We will boil some water and moss and have dinner before bed.”
The young man opened his pouch to see what food they had left. It wasn’t much. When they left, he had packed enough for two days. But now, all that remained were some salted moss and a piece of firm bread. They could, of course, eat those little berries they had managed to catch, but the young man decided to leave that as a last option.
A small fire was burning in a tin can, skilfully altered to work as a burner. The old man put a cup filled with water and moss on it, while the young one unrolled the hay mats. It was midsummer, and the night weather was merciful enough to sleep without a campfire. A thick cotton henley shirt and canvas trousers served well as a cover.
“You will be cold again, like last night,” said the young man. “You can take my hay mat as a blanket, to cover yourself.”
He has a kind soul, thought the old man. But I can’t take his mat, he will sleep badly and be angry all day.
“No, thank you, I won’t be cold,” he said. “I wake up too early anyway. It is the age. So if I feel cold — I will set a small fire.”
For some time they sat in silence, feasting on what little they had left. Half-cup, the old man stopped eating. He looked at his companion. Salted moss is nutritious, he thought. And I have had my share of energy already. I am thin and small; I don’t need the whole cup.
“Here, Alexo,” he said, offering his cup to the young hunter. “I am full now. You need to eat.”
“No, old man, you have to eat too. I don’t want to carry you back to the village, but I will if I have to,” said Alexo.
The old man put his cup down and looked at the stars.
“You always say I’m too old for berry hunting,” he sighed.
“I don’t mean to offend you. But it is true.”
“Of course. But I believe I have a reason to do it,” said the old man. “I think it is the hunt that keeps me alive. I have done hundreds of shifts, and I love them. They bring me the passion to breathe”.
The young man looked at his companion with doubt. The old man saw that.
“I can explain. You know the legends Marshal Nimona always tells, the ones you can find in her books and journals. About the old times?” Alexo nodded.
“The things built long, long times ago. They are so old. But they still stand there, if you believe the stories. The triangles in the sands, the stone walls. And the one I enjoy the most: The Iron Tree in the heart of an ancient city. Do you know this one?”
He looked at the young man. Alexo shook his head, taking another sip of the steaming green mush from his cup.
“Oh, it is beautiful. Thousands of years ago, when humans still lived all over the world, in cities, there was a man. I don’t know his name. I think it was Efel. He wanted to build a great monument from metal. To make it a symbol of his city. He envisioned a tower. Like an iron tree. Only no one knew how to grow one. Metal, unlike stone, is too light and thin. But Efel found a way. His heart knew love. With love, he saw joy and eternity in such a simple gesture as holding hands.”
“He connected metal logs together as if they were lovers holding hands. That Iron Tree is still there if you believe the stories. An ode to a thousand lovers forever bound in harmony. Everything that was made with love holds this love. Love keeps life in it, just like in me. I love berry hunting — it is my craft. It is my reason to wake up and go to sleep. Yes, I am too old for hunting. My hands are not as steady as they were. But I still go on the shifts. And they make me feel young again.”
The old man finished his story and added another sliver to the tin can. It caught flame, letting out a warming and comforting crackle.
The young hunter put his empty cup on the ground and laid on his back.
“It’s a good story, old man,” he said after a little pause. “I think I will find love one day.”
“Of course, you will,” said the old hunter. “We are humans. This is what we do.”
They slept peacefully through the night. The old man woke up before dawn, shivering from the early morning cold. He went into the forest and gathered some twigs and sticks. Carefully, so as not to wake Alexo, he made a small fire that kept him warm for another hour before the day started. The young man finally woke up. He began to roll up the hay mats. There was another long walk ahead of them.
“How did you sleep?” he asked the old man.
“Good. Very good,” said the man. “I felt the south wind. I think we are near the outer berry meadow now. Not many hunters go there. We will have plenty of berries to bring home with us.”
“Let me boil the remaining moss. We need to eat now and return to the village tomorrow morning. If we find enough berries, we won’t have to starve.”
Alexo prepared a humble breakfast, and they ate, waiting for the rays of the morning sun to pierce through the pine crowns.
The Fading is a collection of short stories and novellas about events taking place in a very distant future. In the future where there are no more wars and global catastrophes because the Earth is no longer global. Humans now live their last centuries in small communal villages, scattered across the remaining land. Surrounded by oceans and deep forests, they rarely communicate. Despite the isolation, they persist in their existence and hope still resides within them.
