I had to trust it.
We stepped forward simultaneously. The sensation of sinking came over me. Then I saw that I had wet shoes and had hit bottom. Puddle kept sinking like a feather on the moon. I held his weight in my hand, and became worried that he would be gone forever in other worlds. That must have been enough because I began sinking further until the last I saw of Earth was a robin pull a worm up for her children.
I thought for an instant how much my kin and kith might miss me. A tiny part of my heart broke off, and stayed.
*~*
Planet Veorda
Two saplings rose from the ground water. They made strange noises, but we understood them. We comprehend most all of the sounds created by lesser beings, and we respond in our own time. We decided many ages ago that we would go through the worlds unhurried by the presences of others. We have already outlasted most.
We watch them to make sure they are polite. If we are to make contact with them, we must know they are worthy. They appear slightly clumsy, but perhaps that is because they show little sign of root growth. Their branches stick out from four nodes, and smaller twigs extend from those, but their roots are faint. We may be able to help them cultivate those roots. It will take some work, and mostly from their side. Roots grow with proper water and nutrients, and in both a physical and energetic plane. We shall help them discover how to flourish, if they understand us.
Good. They are perceptive to their whereabouts. At least they seem to be making efforts of consideration. They step carefully as their ungainly lower branches allow. They wound some of our very youngest in their movements, but our children are strong enough to withstand their inelegant conduct. Like our own saplings, they grow quickly and have much to learn. We tell our children to remember their own past, and the stories they have created. We remind them to stay in the present because that is where they are most effective. We advise them to see into their futures so they better know their choices now. The tripod of past, present, and future must stay balanced.
The Forest speaks. Our language resonates within our roots, and flows from our twigs. These beautiful, bumbling branched saplings use words. We are aware of how to speak in their tongue. We speak the language of the Universe. Our words are old and formless, and shaped with grace. Our speech is that of listening. Each leaf in the autumn breeze is a tale. The spring buds stretch and pop, each with its own novel. Every flake of snow sifting down in winter is made from a wish, and melts into the flowing veins of the hills, so the stones may hear. And summer, the season we find ourselves in now, swells with the stories told through dancing until dawn and onwards.
We trees are only one of the many maestros performing our stories. Our song is a secret that anyone may sing. Every creature living adds its voice to the Song. Each stone, current of air, and gurgle of river creates notes in harmony. Plucked berries bring tremors of treble, while the waterfall rushes in waves of baritone. Our symphony is strengthened by every part, and it all comes together as an intricate masterpiece of wild, reckless order.
*~*
Waterjumping was like sinking through cumulous clouds. Rather, it was like sinking through what cumulous looked like from a distance, rather than their clammy, damp reality. It was like petting a thousand sleeping kittens and a few intermittent, slightly coarser yet wonderfully springy lambs. Like under water, pressure pressed from all angles. Directions were meaningless. Colors swirled in greens and browns, and glowed with a faint indigo aura. The transition may have lasted an eon, or an instant.
I stretched my hands out, and felt them grip a spongy material. I pulled the rest of me through the water and onto a stratum of moss. The fern canopy brushed our faces as we stood. The scent of sunshine and leaves welcomed us with a lingering hug around our olfactory senses. An unseen bird played notes of magic that would have opened the doors to the Otherworld, had that been the story into which we rose. The bird’s song sounded like the tinkling bells of the hermit thrush. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Faeries, or talking animals in this realm.
The dip between hills that held our portal was surrounded by old trees. Only the ferns cluttered the understory of that part of the forest. All of the layers of forest were useful for their own reasons, but I was glad our path was not chosen by breaks in shrubbery. These trees had never heard a chainsaw. No branch had ever been taken against its will. The Grandmothers and Grandfathers of the forest had not been felled by imprudent clear-cutting. Their boughs reached to the sky, as if the trees played volleyball and were trying to spike the sun over the horizon.
“Well chosen,” said Puddle. “If we never find our birth worlds again, at least we have seen this one.”
I liberated a giggle of pure delight that had been building since my eyes emerged from the portal, “I agree. Nothing like a bit of wonder and old growth in the afternoon. Is it afternoon here? The time seems to be relative as to when we left.”
“It looks that way,” agreed my companion. “Although, I have experienced shadows and various lighting can alter the time of arrival in a world. Let us follow the music of the river over these hills.”
Three rolling lumps of land later, we saw twinkles reflected off a brook. It was slightly too wide to wade through without wet feet, but some stepping stones provided leaping fun.
A hearty voice called to us, though no person appeared, “Ho, little saplings. You have come here a strange way, but welcome. Have a cup of tea.”
“Who beckons?” beamed Puddle. “We would gladly join you, but where?”
A big bulbous beech tree sidled over from nearer the river with some of its roots clear out of the soil. Other roots extended down, and glided as if the ground was water without ripples.
The voice that called to us answered, “I am called Beech. Welcome to the Beech Camp. I saw your entrance to this world. From where have you come?”
“My name is Birch, and this is Puddle. I watched him come to my world from his current namesake, just like how we came here,” I said as I tried to look into the tree’s eyes. The places where faces appeared depended on how I used my eyes. There were countless hidden eyes and mouths that needed the right tilt of my head, or the proper focusing of my eyes, to see. Some were humanesque, others not so much.
“We are from many places,” continued Puddle from where I left off answering. “We come from behind us, and are headed toward our toes. Where have we found ourselves now?”
“This planet is Veorda. You have arrived at the beginning of Festival. More formally, you are at the Gathering of Veorda. Your timing is fortunate, as these festivities last only five solar arcs every four seasons. We have been steeping raspberry leaves in clear river water. Here, have a cup,” offered Beech. A lower branch supporting wooden mugs swung around toward us. We sipped the earthy flavor that whispered about berries and sunshine, while they poured their tea on their roots.
Beech said, “We are setting up a game of beechi ball. Would you like to play?”
Puddle and I looked at each other, and nodded with smiles in our eyes. We were on an adventure. Naturally, we would love to play.
Puddle said, “Though, we do not know the rules.”
Beech swayed back and forth in a jolly, laughing sort of way, “Then we will enlighten you. There is a course of wicker baskets. Some are high, some are low, and some are hidden loosely behind a bit of foliage. We have altered these beechnuts to have more tossing weight. You may roll them, heave them, fling them, flick them, or do what you feel most fitting to get them into the baskets. Scoring is negligible. We are here to have fun and perfect skills. If there were points, they would be for style. Choose your own track, though be careful of getting whacked by another player. We try to pay attention, but sometimes this game gets too silly.”
So we sipped our raspberry leaf tea while we spun, hopped, and danced a game with the Beeches. They told bawdy jokes and shared the sorts of stories that happened when they were young and heedless, though not wild in the way that anyone would get hurt or insulted
. They appreciated the beautiful recklessness of loving being alive. They dedicated their efforts to create games out of every opportunity. Their games were always for the benefit of everyone involved. Nobody won. Nobody lost. The Beech clan laughed throughout their stories, and the game took ever longer because so often they would begin reacting to their tales with waving branches and rolling roots of laughter, rather than concentrating on the tossing.
Their roots were well out of the ground for much of the game, but when a tree would stand still for a while, waiting for a basket to clear or refilling their tea, more of their roots would embed themselves in the soil where they sat. I was not sure how they were able to dodge all the bits of undergrowth, especially in their rowdiness. Not a fern was bent as they passed, nor blade of forest grass.
I chose one beechi ball from a pile of beechnuts whose weight seemed quite appropriate to my tossing preferences. A wide-mouthed basket hovered in a slump of vines, and seemed like an easy enough target. These trees were looking for style, however, and I was going to attempt to deliver. Success wasn’t mandatory, and a wilder toss would get more cheers, whether I made it or not.
I spun three times, bent myself in a swirly shape, let out a heeyah noise, and lobbed the ball backwards through the hole I made between my arm and my torso. The beechnut flew and knocked against a tree behind me. I immediately remembered these beings were sentient, and yelped, “Sorry!” and got an answer, “No worries.” The beechnut ricocheted off that forgiving Beech and sailed toward some vines, where it bump bump bumped down in a waterfall motion and landed in the basket with a satisfying tiny thump.
And the crowd went wild. No, they were already wild. And the crowd went on as it was.
“Well played, little sapling,” boomed the Beech who had greeted us. “You are welcome at our camp any time. You would be just as welcome had you landed that toss far from any basket, but well done nonetheless.”
Tossing edges of used notebook paper into the recycle bins in class apparently wasn’t just to pass the time, so I answered, “Thanks. I’ve had practice.”
Puddle chose a beechnut and a basket, wound up for his throw, and landed way up in a branch. The crowd kept on going wild. Much of the fun was in the cheering.
“This is refreshing,” I said, “not to boo, and only applaud.”
Beech turned his beaming trunk toward me, “Booing makes a Beech hide itself. We see congratulations as productive because sad trees that have been booed tell fewer jokes, and we prefer laughter to lugubriosity. Do you know what the beechnut said when it grew up?”
We looked at Beech expectantly.
“Gee, I’m a tree,” chuckled Beech.
“Ahhahaaha, geometry,” I giggled. “I did not know you had math in this forest.”
“We are full of shapes, and we have to make sure everyone gets the premium amount of sunshine,” Beech explained. “We work closely with angles.”
The trees swayed about, and we had a glorious time laughing, and tossing, and being alive. At first, I thought the volume would be too boisterous, if a whole grove of trees were to laugh at once. All my ears heard was the quiet sounds of summer in a deep forest, and some bugs saying bugs, bugs, bugs, bugs, bugs. The particular speech of the trees flowed in and around the area. I heard their voices in the way that I knew what they were saying, but needed no ears to do so. I heard them in a similar place that I heard my inner monologue. It was the kind of listening that happened when you walked in a room where something intense had recently happened, and you knew before anyone told you. When a Beech addressed me personally, I heard its words most distinctly. I could listen to the general rustling as well, just like at any social gathering.
“Look, the Pine clan is approaching,” Beech said before bellowing, “Hello!”
“Ahoy, neighbors,” greeted the gaggle of various sorts of Pines as they sauntered toward us. “How’s it swaying over with the Beeches? We have brought a pesto dip and some chanterelles we gathered near our camp. What are these mossy saplings?”
I was a bit disturbed about the pesto, if these trees had added the traditional pine nuts. Would it be considered cannibalism for them to eat themselves? I would wait to ask.
“Ah, good,” responded Beech. “All sways softly with this summer breeze. How grows yourselves?”
“All grows sun-wise,” spoke the Pines.
“And scraggily,” added a Jack Pine, who adapted well to wind and sun.
“We have tea to supplement your delectables,” offered the Beeches. “These little beings rose from a pool of rain three hills over. This one is Birch, and this is Puddle. They show skill in beechi ball.”
“Very nice to meet you saplings. Welcome to Veorda. These Beeches have informed you that you have arrived in time for Festival, yes?”
We nodded, and Puddle kept on, “We are honored to meet you. This land is beautiful.”
“How exciting to be able to experience a forest Festival,” I added. “What an honor.”
We stood swaying with each other for a comfortable moment, appreciating.
There were seven Pines, but they could speak with one voice. Additionally, the Beeches seemed to speak together as one voice, and the Pines as another. Each collective voice had its own flavor. Both sets of voices blended together like melty swirled ice cream. Their conversation became one big rustle, with a few distinct words poking out here and there. If I didn’t concentrate, their voices turned to ambiance, like white noise brushing past my shoulders. They sounded ancient as stone and sand.
I wondered whether they were speaking with separate voices because they were newly reunited at their Festival. As they spent more time together, I pondered whether their voices would grow together too. Would words, even in their mind-speak way, become unnecessary? Words could be useful to examine thinking, and thinking was useful to examine words. However, a comfortable silence sometimes said the most.
Perhaps the Earthen trees had an equivalent speech ability to the trees on Veorda. This forest and my herb garden spoke somewhat similarly. My short experience with the Beeches and Pines gave me insight as to how to listen, and I wanted to try at home. Home? Home was anywhere I found myself now. I could no longer listen to the trees on Earth.
“We were on our way to the Pawpaw camp,” the Pines were saying, “but we heard a frenzy over here and had to come investigate. How did you two saplings learn to use the water portal? We have a variety of ways in which we travel between worlds, but we were under the impression that barked beings were the only ones who held that particular knowledge.”
Puddle cleared his throat as if he had invaded a secret, “I fell through once on accident while holding this tektite. The stone laid on the shore of a lake in a cavern so deep the mountain roots grew there to drink their fill. I had never seen another carry a stone quite like this until I met Birch.”
The Pines watched us thoughtfully for a moment. They Looked at us the way Puddle Looked at me during our encounter in the moonlit garden. I felt comfort in their steady observation. Under the gaze of the trees, Puddle and I were rootless youths with healthy sap, who had a habit of figuring out life through what we called accidents, and they called opportunities. Then the trees all swayed together, and decided that another game of beechi ball would be the best way to savor the afternoon.
While we played, Puddle picked up a handful of pinecones that had been dropped. He tossed one in the air, and caught it while he tossed another. By the end, he had seven flying against gravity in loops and leaps. They wove a story of dedication and delight, of patience and persistence. The pinecones were beautiful, flickering in the stretching sun. Puddle played with gravity, and made silly faces at me, tempting me to laugh along.
The trees paused the game while they watched Puddle juggle. They kept rustle-cheering all the while. Puddle let each cone drop where it would, one after another, and with a flourish, presented me with the final one. I held it in all its pokiness, and my smile explained my appreciation, and my joy.
Puddle winked his acknowledgment.
“You saplings are jubilant,” acknowledged a Pine.
My smile turned toward the tree, and said, “Mmmmmhmm.”
“Your energy flows. You move and laugh, and feel happiness. The forest does the same. Our celebration of being together connects us, and strengthens us. We, as trees, spend a substantial part of the day in meditation as well. I feel you two do the same. Often, our meditation is to sense the continuous flow inside us, in the sugars of our phloem, and the waters of our xylem. We search for blocks, or places that flow too quickly. Our intention is balance.”
“Would you show me what you mean?” I asked, always open for techniques.
“Come. Sit. Hold the tips of your upper branches together,” advised the Pine.
I thought aloud, “You mean hands?”
“Yes, those. Concentrate on the space between the bases of your tendrils.”
“Palms?” I asked to confirm. Tendrils must have been fingers.
“Yes. Hold your hands as far apart as if you’re holding the flower of a daylily. Hold them still, and try to feel the space between them. Feel that there is something there. Feel it, and trust your feeling. Trusting the sensations in your palms is the main element of this ability. If you look in the right way, you can see a ball of energy forming.”
I looked at the space between my hands. My eyes went blurry. It almost seemed as if the air grew denser between my palms.
The Pine continued, “Pulse your hand branches together. You may not see it yet, but we can. Right. Feel it?”
I looked up at the tree with a maybe in my eyes. My palms felt like they held tiny magnets, with the same poles facing each other.
“Make it a bit stronger by intending it to be so. Yes, quite right. We would think you’ve had practice with this.”
I sat with my spine straight, and let myself feel. I felt air on my skin, and soft grass beneath me. My attention was focused on my palms. Extra thoughts drifted away. I felt the space that existed around my body. Everyone else became fuzzy, on the other side of my awareness. I listened to everything and nothing. The world fell away, and all that existed in that moment were my hands, suspended in space. I didn’t feel my muscles. The only sensation that existed in that moment was between my palms.
Puddle: A Tale for the Curious Page 7