Wind, Sky, & Stone — A Fable: Part Four

Day Twelve of Thirty Days of Writing

Shawn McDaniel
Jul 27, 2017 · 4 min read
Photo taken by Shawn McDaniel

Stone had sunk down to the floor, but feeling awkward and out of place, it was thinking of floating downstream, as far as the stream might go, maybe to the ocean, to be lost in that great watery abyss, to be ground down by salt and sand and motion, to drift away.

Then something else adrift caught his eye. Near the surface where water met air, some flotsam was snagged upon black gnarly roots that were jutting out of the bank. The roots belonged to a great tree, whose trunk and branches hung over the stream like an arch.

A small piece of driftwood was struggling to break free from his binds. Stone decided to put its own drifting on hold. Slowly it floated to the surface, once again engaged in dodging the traffic of fish and plants and snakes whipping by without a mind for patience.

When finally reaching the threshold, Stone buoyed between air and water, a shiny grey bauble immersed in two opposing worlds. Are its line and hook invisible? Surely they must be there, fishing for something. What was Stone trying to catch after all? With all its intentions and curiosity, what drew it to this distraught driftwood and not to some other helpless being caught in a net or sunk by a heavy heart?

“Are you there?” The entangled Driftwood called out, “I sensed an unusual movement in the water. We trees are keen at sensing disturbances. Beings who reach far beneath the surface to investigate sources of water, to seek out secret springs, notice the slightest alterations, all the while massaging the soil, sustaining life for everything that breathes and thinks and grows.”

“I know of trees,” Stone said dismally, “how devastating their roots can be, causing fissures and cracks to ancient boulders, wiggling their way through sheer rock faces, fracturing once clean slates.”

The little piece of driftwood blushed but did not apologize.

“Don’t get me wrong, I hold no ill will Driftwood. It is but a process of life. Earth is broken down again and again, only to be reborn, remolded into something new. Clay experiences trauma and thus takes shape. Stones too are cut and chipped away until finely sculpted or crystallized. Even then, with pristine lines and beaming with light, time wares away until only dust remains, carried on the back of wind, recycled into the soil, the soul.”

Driftwood smiled, “I believe this as well. Right this very moment I am planning my return to the Mother. We Trees require the nourishment of not only air, soil, water, and sunlight, but also of the spirit which flows between all living things.”

“You remember all that in your severed state, Driftwood? You, but a shard of material cast away and floating downstream? I have seen your kind stripped down and sliced like meat, then rebuilt into a horrific puzzle of straight shapes, your surface sanded, your grain set akimbo to the virulent air.”

“I remember as if it were happening this very moment. We trees share our most ancient memories through our roots, from generation to generation. Our wood is a valuable resource to many, those who make homes, those who devour our flesh, it all remains within the woodwork, so to speak. Stone too provides shelter and many other things. Don’t you recall, your history, your bond?”

Stone bobbed upon the stream’s surface in silence. Up into cool air, down into warm water, a troubled look permeated its scarred face. Deep down within itself an ancient song was humming. The stones of the stream bed seemed to pulse, the soil and sand along the banks began to shimmer ever so slightly, even the distant mountain rumbled in their very core.

“This stream,” Driftwood spoke, calmly breaking the spell, “along with the fingers of other streams, flows into a mighty river and that river runs many miles through the countryside before reaching a vast place where it opens its wide mouth and is fed. An arm of the sea stretches out, opens to embrace all that flows forth from this land. There, the tide meets the river current. The estuary is where I shall go to rejoin with the Mother.”

“What makes you so sure the Sea will accept you? How do you know your Mother is there at all?”

“It’s simple isn’t it? I am in this stream and it is carrying me to my destination. I may have doubted it since here I am, snagged upon the roots of my own family, but then you came along, and I was sure I was meant to keep floating on.”

Stone doubted this line of logic, but without hesitation it freed the imprisoned Driftwood and bowed farewell.

Happy Driftwood rushed down the stream, but called back to Stone once more, “This way chose me, but in a way I chose to be chosen by this way. I am sure that whatever happens it was meant to be. Thank you Stone, you won’t be forgotten.”

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