“We were told that trees can do the same thing, but easier,” commented Puddle. I think he was fishing for stories. Good idea.
“You heard correctly,” whispered Rowan. The voice of this tree sounded like woven dew and fresh berry jam. My ears wanted to bask in every word.
“Do you have a favorite world?” I asked, putting my lure in the sea of stories I felt Rowan carried.
Rowan swayed, “There is goodness in any world that appreciates sacred space. Rowans have a tendency to watch over such places, and we enjoy being appreciated.”
“Being appreciated is nice,” I interjected, then regretted it because my interruption stopped Rowan’s voice. I kicked myself because my statement wasn’t even helpful to the conversation. Just as quickly, I forgave myself. That was the point of Cedar’s workshop. I didn’t want to hide from my voice.
The perceptive Rowan swayed and continued speaking, “I was born on a different world, but this one holds my heart. This land where we are now holds much appreciation, but the distant past knows a different tale. Would you like a story of Veorda?”
We nodded, and my smile screamed YES, as we settled to listen with the sun on our shoulders and young butterflies dancing among the clover.
~
There was a world in place before this one that you see, and its echoes are so faint the stones do not whisper them aloud. Perhaps we would be better leaving that world to its echoes, because some things are gone for a reason. But rumors have risen, quiet as the space between stars. There was a secret in that land before this, and all who lived there craved to possess it, rather than understand it. The secret passed from place to place. It manipulated those who handled it. It was hoarded, stolen, and hoarded again. The few who sought to understand it, in order to be free of it, were hushed to a silence from which few can return. The secret fought back. Its influence grew.
The secret was held in a metal disk. It spoke of chaos itself.
It was pure action without balance. It kept the beings of the planet moving, always moving, and never a moment of rest. This piece of chaos seeped into the minds of all who lived in the land. Untrue thoughts settled in to stay. Foundationless worries pushed all that lived in the land to fret. This piece of chaos put holes in their hearts. Those holes filled with fear. Nowhere was safe. Each creature built walls around its heart, and placed its mind in an impenetrable tower. Nothing in and nothing out. Every living thing put up a siege against the others. Every living creature lost its own story, its song that kept it connected. Love was silent. Truth was silent. The battles began.
All was destroyed in fire and anger. Emptiness entered the land. The survivors retreated below the ground, and slept for many years. The world tossed and turned in its slumber, and shivered periodically. The rivers, mountains, and prairies morphed until they were gone from sight and memory. They were replaced by other rivers, mountains, and prairies. The stones dreamed, and forgot themselves.
In their desultory dreams came a choice: to awaken and start afresh, or to keep their silence. They let the choice pass on. They were too tired. They had seen too much. They wanted nothing more to do with the heartless outside world, and their consciousness sunk beyond silence.
Seeds slept underground. Their memories were more peaceful. They were hidden away at the first sign of trouble, before the chaos reigned. Their strength survived, buried deep, as did their intelligence. They spoke in dark whispers, trying unsuccessfully to remember their past, and planned for their future. They waited what felt like ages, without a change in light or temperature to indicate the cycles outside. They felt the land shifting. They knew they must stretch their strength in patience. They held more hope in the cycles of time than the rocks.
Then, one reckless Mugwort screamed in hunger and disorder, and stretched forth toward the sun.
Others heard and followed.
But the land above ground had been changed. The sun had left, and in its place was an overcast so dense that it held back all water from the arid land. The young seedlings were thirsty. Many plants tried to reach skywards and poke a hole in the clouds, but the clouds were too high. The new plants discussed wakening the four-legged, or the feathered, or any flapper, buzzer, or slider. None could be found.
Oak, in wisdom, flung acorns toward the clouds. They bounced back without piercing the thick cover. Holly followed Oak, and sent serrated leaves to cut the clouds, but they only fluttered back down after shallow scratches. A few drops followed, but not enough to even soak through the first dusty layer of soil. The plants, so thirsty, wilted against the wrath of withheld water.
A last chance awoke. Hawthorn appeared above ground and shot a spike up to the sky and ripped open the clouds. Thunder broke the air and fell in shattered pieces for all to hear. A mighty rustle erupted from the plants across the land as they waited for the rain to reach them. Their thirst, finally, was abated.
However, physics was its own Trickster. Gravity pulled the thorn toward the land with such force and little air resistance that when it hit a branch of unsuspecting Pine, the new branch broke off with a crackle and caught fire. To this day, that is why Pine pops and sizzles when burned.
~
Puddle and I sat for a moment after Rowan finished speaking and let the story settle in our ears. I wondered how Hawthorn had any thorns after an age of slumber. I thought it took a while for the thorns to form after the sapling peeked out from under the soil. Whatever. I believed in magic. I believed in the magic of story. Stories could mess with facts, and still be true.
Anyway, I was more interested in the fact that I had seen bees, squirrels, and such about, while Rowan’s story indicated that all those non-planty loosely-termed people had gone extinct.
“Thank you for this story,” I began, “I have seen bugs and squirrels in this land. Your story held that animals died out. Everything but seeds and rocks were lost. Evolution takes a long time. What happened?”
Rowan caught a breeze in its leaves, then said, “We trees travel land to land in similar ways as you have discovered. We accomplish interplanetary travel a little differently, but the basic concept remains. We try to be careful, but sometimes we will pick up passengers. Every now and again, we’ll get an invasion that we need to have a meeting and decide upon a solution. Most of the time, there is an easy enough remedy to be found. I saw some booths at the market carrying a cayenne pepper and garlic aphid spray, and neem oil for the bug called scale. Those can get pretty bad, but are manageable pests.”
“Where is this market?” asked Puddle.
“We have one going on while we’re here at Festival,” replied Rowan. “It’s between the Hawthorn and Elder camps. From where we are, head straight toward that boulder and keep going.”
“Do trees use money?” I pondered.
“We barter and exchange energy. That can be material things, thoughts, tasks, or whatnot. Trees can get creative with sharing.”
I put my hand in the pocket of my dress. Something clung to my finger, and I yelped. I opened my hand to a shiny beetle. I figured it had crawled in there while Rowan was telling the story, and I flung it to the wind.
“Hey Puddle, let’s check out the market,” I said.
“Sure,” said he.
Time was endless, didn’t exist, and always running out. It was a special gift. Rowan’s gift of time came with a story. Puddle’s and my thanks came with deep gratitude and a hug.
“Sorry to rush away,” I said to Rowan.
“Oh, please, my friends,” replied the tree. “It’s all part of the journey. You are young and there is much to see.”
“I want to see everything,” I continued. “There was so much to see in my world, and now there’s this world too.”
Puddle elaborated, “Yes, I find myself bouncing between rushing to explore and stopping long enough to meditate on all I experience. The difficulty is knowing when to wait and when to rush. Each choice of what to do, or not do, changes your entire destiny. Your available options change w
ith those choices.”
“Like if I go wade in the river rather than go dangle my feet off the bridge, and I met someone walking by with an interesting story to share. What if that person had crossed the bridge? And I had needed to hear that story because all these things were going on in my life, like useless homework and a crush that wasn’t crushing back, and my mind felt in a tizzy, and that story was the key to finding my calm at that point.”
“I think that story would get to you somehow,” countered Puddle. “Maybe not on the timeline you hoped, but it would get there eventually. At the same time, I think you have to be looking for it.”
“Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
“You just feel something is off?”
“Yeah. Like I feel I’m supposed to be doing something other than whatever I’m doing, or talking to someone particular. Like something is trying to get me to remember it.”
“I get that too. My intuition seems broken sometimes.”
“It’s all about balance,” noted Rowan. “We can hear our intuition best when all our partsour minds, hearts, and bodiesare in sync. Following intuition has a tendency to bring us what we really need. There are times when worries and judgments block intuition. It can be difficult to sort out what is intuitional, which comes from a sincere heart, and what is something that comes from an old pain or injustice. Most often, if you find yourself repeatedly drawn to something that causes you pain, it is trying to give you a message. It is trying to show you where you need to heal. Reflecting on experiences helps. We trees have set a pace for ourselves that requires little rushing and much contemplation. That is why we appear so calm. Proper timing is still necessary. We survive by living in season.”
I nodded to this, “I’ve noticed that the food growing in my garden tastes best, and not only because it’s fresh and full of love. Our human bodies have adapted themselves to crave the food growing in season. Our taste buds have their own intuition.”
“The traveling I have done to other planets supports that,” added Puddle. “Mostly, though, the creatures on any of the planets graze their natural habitat. They have little choice but to eat what is growing.”
“As for trees,” said Rowan, “we enjoy the humus of the ground as much as grape jam or fresh blueberries. I could talk endlessly about the complexity of soil, and the microbes needed to keep it alive and healthy for plants. There is acidity to consider, and the layers upon layers. That is for a different time. I will walk with you a moment in the direction of the market. I’ve got a meeting with Beech soon about the sweetgrass by the pond.”
We sauntered along beside the scratchy bark tree, and it told stories of forest foods and medicines that we passed, and warned against a few dangerous counterparts.
Rowan’s advice was sound, “After you meet the plants personally, you’ll be able to tell the difference. Leave away your worries on being hurt by eating anything growing here, once you’ve been properly introduced.”
And on that note, we parted ways.
*~*
Puddle and I commenced our hunt for the market. It wasn’t much of a hunt, but we had fun pretending to sneak about so we wouldn’t scare it away. Being a market, it didn’t scare very easily.
The forest opened into a glade, where sunbeams sifted dust and pollen together into sparkling magic. The glade was lined with stalls, tables, rugs, and buckets, and looked like my garden in its ordered chaos. The main aisles left enough space to wander and browse, but it still was a little difficult to weave through with the vines and limbs of everyone around.
A tree’s need for material things was minimal. They took delight in adding extra bird and bat houses to their groves, and sparkly bits to keep the nature spirits and crows happy. We passed strange and secret things, concoctions in colorful bottles, and shovels. Wooden trunks held my entire imagination until I got close enough to see inside. We sniffed teas, and carved boxes of spicy scented resins. Incense caressed my mind. We saw stones carved into shapes, and crystals that still had their rock roots on them. They could be put into rich soil and grown like a plant, but slightly different. Strings of frayed fabric, beads, jingles, and little mirrors made the slight breeze sing and sparkle. One stop had jars of medicinal herbs, like valerian root, with its old sock smell. Valerian could envelop me in sleep until my entire being was ready to wake, refreshed as rain. But, if I ever woke early, I’d have to wade through a whole groggy day.
“Hello saplings,” greeted a voice with administrative edge. We turned to see Hawthorn surveying the market. “I trust you are enjoying the Festival.”
“Yes, quite,” Puddle replied. “We have learned so much.”
“And we have delighted in the tastiest meals I’ve ever eaten,” I said. “Rowan just told an amazing story. You saved everyone with your thorns. It was wonderful.”
“Ah, that one,” said Hawthorn. “That one has survived many generations, but you give me too much credit. The final solution was built upon the attempts of those before me. We worked together, and I just brought the right tools for the job.”
“Do you suppose Pine would not pop in the fire had the thorn landed elsewhere?” I asked.
“Perhaps. Perhaps the robin would lay purple eggs had it eaten bergamot rather than the sky piece.”
“I am unfamiliar with that tale,” Puddle reckoned.
“Another time then,” said Hawthorn. “Rowan for the stories, and I for portents and protection. There are days I would have preferred a different job. Still, I find my work fulfilling and accept my responsibilities. They keep me balanced and grounded. Go to the meeting today. It would do you good.”
“What meeting?” I asked.
“The one today. Go to the Stone Circle when the sun is halfway between the zenith and the horizon.”
“What’s the zenith?”
“Straight above your head.”
“Cool.”
“My future sight is fuzzier than my present sight. I only see that you would be wise to attend the meeting. Dawdle another day.”
“Hey, we never dawdle,” I objected. “Well, maybe sometimes. Isn’t dawdling healthy for you?”
“I would say so,” said Puddle. “To dawdle is to bask in the enjoyment of life.”
“Just not today,” instructed Hawthorn. “See my thorns. They hold knowledge. They hold warnings and advice. You would have to go elsewhere for a threat, but these spikes are a blessing and a warning. Heed to their advice, and find that the paths you choose have less pieces that need picking up. So, remember the meeting.”
“Halloo Hawthorn and small saplings,” Hazel greeted, while plodding over with all the gracefulness of a bough full of possums, which was surprisingly graceful. Squirrels and sparrows rode in other branches, while a porcupine clung to a sturdy stem.
“Cheers. You have lovely critter friends with you,” commented Puddle.
“It takes a special sensitivity in a tree for critters to allow themselves to be carried about,” said Hawthorn. “Hazel’s roots are so sensitive that hidden things reach out and touch them, both physically and with their aura of energy. Deep wells of clear water call to those roots, which makes Hazel’s dowsing devices quite useful in thirsty lands. Metals underground ring in various vibrations that Hazel can identify. The animals feel the sensitivity too, which in turn makes them feel safe. They love to lounge in those branches.”
“They do,” Hazel agreed. “And I love to have them there as company. Hawthorn, we both have some sort of divinatory prowess, you and I, huh.”
“We both search rather effectively,” said Hawthorn. “You find benign hidden things well, while my thorns make me more naturally suited for protection. They help sense when danger is near.”
“That is a lovely delegation of tasks,” I said. “You can weave your abilities together to make a stronger cloth.”
Hazel added, “If we were all the same, we would be weak as snowflakes on the sun. We would be dangling threads, wearing away in an attemp
t to stay useful.”
Puddle concluded, “Variety is the spice of life, and the tubers, vegetables, and grains of life as well. Perhaps even the very essence of life.”
I looked out at the market. The variety of wares pulled my attention, yet the bustle was intimidating. I didn’t want to miss anything, but there was so much. I remembered the dowsing wands Puddle and I picked off a Hazel tree before we got to Veorda. They could have dowsed us to the right places, if we had the right intention, maybe.
“We lost our Hazel wands between worlds,” I whispered to Puddle. “We’ll not be able to find anything now. There is so much.”
“I heard you need some of these,” stepped in our sensitive, critter-laden tree friend. “Here, may these sticks be useful to you.”
Hazel lowered two perfect pointers to Puddle and me. Hawthorn gifted us a few thorns to attach to our new tools for increased protection.
We thanked and hugged the trees and followed our divining wands around the marketplace, though we were paying more attention to shiny things that snagged our eyes than the pull of our intuition. We found pewter statues of leaves and unicorns, and butterfly wings. We found blank books made of papyrus, and quills with walnut ink. We found wind chimes that sounded like birds, or brooks, or bubbles.
One of my favorite stalls had assorted teapots for assorted purposes. Some were really for tea, while others could be tiny houses for tiny creatures. Some held growing plants. Others were clear and carried river-washed stones. Some were full of pieces of yarn that birds could take for their nests. At the same stall, waxy wooden boxes held blends of herbs for steeping in the teapots intended for tea. We sniffed them and guessed what might be their effects. One smelled of oranges and orange blossoms that I said was for easing stress. Puddle guessed the one that smelled of cinnamon and cloves was for getting a crush on someone. I said it probably helped boost immunities, because cinnamon was antibacterial.
My attention returned to Hazel’s gift, the divining wand. It wasn’t doing anything, so I stood still as stone and tried to empty my thoughts. I needed a solution that would let my divining wand do its dowsing job. An image of an idea began to form in my mind. I kept still in order for it to emerge and become clear. Ah. Yes. I was constraining it too much.
Puddle: A Tale for the Curious Page 11