The Old Woman stands at the entrance of her cave, looking out at the day. Crunchy, crystalline frost coats most of what she can see, but a shroud of fog hangs low over the island today, covering the water. The fog has left a sheen of ice on the stone entrance where The Old Woman rests her tough, old hand. The low-angled light of winter bends through the cold moisture in the air, glancing off the frost and ice, producing a muted sort of glitter. As she watches, the fog shifts in small patches, like a woman lifting her long dress, revealing the smoothest ocean surface beneath.
A clatter from behind startles The Old Woman and she turns with a sigh to see what trouble Raven has caused.
“What are you doing?” she scolds when she sees him.
“I’m helping with your work,” he mumbles around the wooden spoon handle in his beak. He is vigorously stirring the largest cauldron, hopping from foot to foot to keep from burning himself on its edge.
“You can’t use the dye pot spoon; you’re going to poison the plants!” She snatches the spoon from him and hangs it back on its hook. With the ladle she uses only for the herbal cauldron, The Old Woman carefully scoops out the little patches of blackened leaves and seeds that had touched the residue from the spoon she reserved only for the dye pot. “The Trees of Life are already having a hard enough time. They don’t need your meddling to make things worse.”
Raven cocks his head beside her. “I haven’t heard any of the birds mention a Tree of Life in a long time. What’s become of them?” He forgets to shift his weight and the cauldron sears the tough skin of his feet. He croaks in surprise and flaps his noisy wings, dropping down to the cold stone floor of the cave.
“The world is full of stories about the Trees of Life. Most of the stories are from the beginning, from the first plantings, and how the land-bound peoples related to the great Trees whose roots stretch deep into the Earth, and whose branches reach so high that they sweep the cosmos.
“Long ago, the Trees of Life grew tall and broad, sharing their flowers, fruits, and nuts with the insects and animals who lived nearby. That time stretched on with its seasons and cycles, and the Trees taught those around them how to live in the rhythms of Life itself.”
“I know all that,” interrupts Raven. “Where are they now? Why did you say they were having a hard time?”
“As I was going to say,” continues The Old Woman, “a strange cycle swept over the Trees of Life, in which men chopped and felled the great Trees without ceremony or care. Some of the Trees crashed to the Earth below, sending shockwaves through the lands that have not yet stopped reverberating. Through their web of roots below ground, the dying Trees sent warnings to their siblings around the world. Heeding the warnings, the Trees responded in various ways. Some enshrouded themselves in mist, never to be seen again. Others grew hundreds of saplings from their huge root system so that what appears to be a whole forest is actually only one mother Tree. Would you like to hear the story of what became of one of those Trees?”
“Of course!” Raven flies up to his perch to listen, while The Old Woman settles herself at her loom. A fortnight before, she pulled down all the colored yarns Raven had “decorated” their cave with for Solstice. She will never tell him, but she rather enjoyed the festive atmosphere they had brought to the cave. Smiling to herself as she wraps a lovely white - like the frost - around her shuttle, she begins her tale.
“Between a forest and a pebble beach grows a garden where once stood a church. The roof rotted away many years ago and all that remains now are the thick, white, plastered walls and the attached rectory, now used as a cottage. The church floor has likewise crumbled and decomposed, leaving a grassy garden that slopes toward a far wall that towers up, pointed where it once held the roof.
“Round river stones are emerging from the soggy ground near that far wall. They want to feel the rain and the sun and the snow as much as the grass does.
“At the height of the small slope, where the cottage still stands, sits the sad stump of an enormous, uprooted Tree. The trunk was hacked off long ago, and the stump crumbles with rot. Life persists deep inside that ancient Tree, but not for much longer.
“The people who cut down and uprooted that tree never quite finished the work of removal, choosing instead to build over the old life that had grown there since before memory. The family remained even after the church fell apart. Each generation that looked out of the windows at the walled garden saw the tree roots as an eye sore, a chore to remove, but they never managed to do the work. Perhaps the Tree herself had enough life left in her to whisper her weakness into their bones and they never found the energy to kill her completely.
“The descendants of the people who built the church and lived in the rectory decide to move, likely to a city where they do not have to look out their window at the Tree’s dying roots and feel the discomfort of that legacy. Perhaps they feel a pang of regret in leaving their home, or maybe they are imagining a future that looks like straight lines and shiny surfaces.
“A new inhabitant is moving into the old cottage, and she is quite different than the old family. She is human, yet if you look at her sideways, she seems to shimmer green, like bioluminescent blooms on the ocean in summer. You might even catch a glimpse of wings growing from her shadow’s back - if you happen see them from the corner of your eye. This woman is neither old nor young, but somewhere in between, and she has been waiting for this house for a while. Or rather, this house and the walled garden have been waiting for her.
“The Tree knows she found just the right person when the new inhabitant bypasses the house to go directly out into the garden. She shows no love for the thick, white walls, but hears the whispers from the Tree, begging to be replanted. However, Lady Green Wings has never replanted such a large Tree before. She is not an experienced elder, and she comes from a culture that tells her to trust her mind above all else.
“She moves about the garden, questing for the best place to replant the Tree. Instead, she gets lost in her thoughts and does nothing.
“She’s stumped! Kaa kaa!” laughs Raven.
The Old Woman rolls her eyes with a smile. She continues her story.
“But for all that, Lady Green Wings does not give up. She pulls half-buried stones from the sodden earth by the far wall, so that the water trickles over them. She moves about the garden, imagining the forest edge creeping into the grass. She listens to the Tree, walking around her crumbling stump and over her woven roots. She notices, as no one has before, the tiniest shoots beginning to grow at the base of the old trunk.
“Seeing proof of the Tree’s life, she renews her effort to replant the great being. She calls for help and beings gather from the cosmos: star, fire, earth, and animal goddesses, and a great, golden god gather to help. Long-buried ancestors from lands far apart join the solemn party.
“Lady Green Wings holds her shovel upright and asks permission of the Earth to dig. The Earth bypasses permission by splitting Herself apart in deep cracks. As one, all of the beings lift the Tree by her roots and fit her into the cracks. The work is hard and heavy, but together they return the Tree to her rightful place, covering her roots once more with the soil of the Earth.
Standing on the deck behind the house, Lady Green Wings watches as her ancestors and the other spirits turn and rush at the walls. They push hard until the plaster and mortar crack, crumble, and crash down to the ground. One by one, the three walls surrounding the garden fall and break apart in chunks. White dust lifts on the breeze, sweeps over the land, and disperses out over the sea. Green life will soon disintegrate the rest, turning the stone and plaster back into soil.
With the walls down, the garden makes more sense. The low, soggy patch reveals itself as a section of a small stream now freed to flow out to the ocean. Sunlight pours in, enough to feed the green life once shadowed by the high walls.
Lady Green Wings is the mother of a long-haired, dark-skinned, wild-eyed toddler. This child begins to climb the Tree’s crumbling stump, threatening to snap off the tender buds of new life.”
Raven croaks with delight. “Now that is a child after my own heart!”
“I’m not so sure this child is as… intentional with its mischief,” The Old woman counters. “However, when she sees this, Lady Green Wings realizes how the Tree’s life is still not guaranteed. Even the most innocent hold the power to kill the Tree, by pure accident. She gently coaxes her toddler off of the Tree and shares the miracle of the new shoots with her beloved child.
“They gather then, Lady Green Wings, her child, and all of the spirits, in a circle around the Tree’s stump. Each pulls out a drum of their own particular style: goat-skin bodhráns, smaller drums of stretched deer-hide and padded antler beaters, some painted with runes and knots, others with buffalo and birds.”
“What kind of birds? Any Ravens?”
“Yes, of course, and Owls and Eagles. They each have their own special drum, and they beat the rhythm of Mother Earth’s heart.”
“Why?”
“Oh, to ground the Tree back in her Mother’s body. To call the Mother to receive her stolen child.”
“Then what happens?”
“The Winter Solstice comes and Lady Green Wings lights a driftwood bonfire down on the beach to celebrate. Carrying her child on her back, she brings an ember up to the garden and encircles the Tree.”
“You call her ‘Lady Green Wings,’ but you never talk about her flying,” observes Raven.
“Oh, I’m sure she flies, when no one else is looking, or only in the company of spirits.”
Raven hoots in laughter. “The other humans wouldn’t know what to think about a green bird-lady flying about.”
“So true,” The Old Woman chuckles. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Yes! What is she doing, flying about with an ember?”
“She is smoking the area, cleansing the old memories to make space for new dreams.
“Every day, she drums for the Tree. She and her child take charcoal sticks from the Solstice bonfire and draw Ihwaz, the rune for the Tree of Life, and Algiz, the rune of protection, on beach pebbles and place them all around the stump. Next, they draw Thurisaz, the rune of thorns, on several pebbles. Gathering them all, they walk - well, she walks, the child runs and squats and jumps - the land between the garden and the forest, ‘planting’ the rune stones along the edge.
“In this way, she invites the thorny spirits of roses, nettles, salmonberries, and devil’s club, Our Lady of S’axt, to grow along the edge of the forest. She drums them awake, greeting them as the wise elders they are. She invites their medicines and nourishments to grow close to the Tree, and to heal the land.
“She drums to the rhythm of the Water Song she learned from a river, welcoming the spirit of the stream to flow into the land where the Tree’s roots can drink deeply. Violets spring up around the trunk, as do mushrooms. She drums the Womb Song her ancestor taught her and a spirit Owl catches the song in its beak.
“She sings the song over and over:
Hua mea, hua mea,
Hua mea, eo-han.
Hua mea, hua mea,
Hua mea, eo-han.
“As the Owl flies in a wide spiral, the glowing gold, green, and blue lights of the song’s spirit light up the spirit of the Tree’s once-great trunk. Lady Green Wings drums and sings, over and over, watching as the Owl flies higher and higher, up into the wide boughs with their memory of summer-full leaves.
“Once upon a time, she was a Tree of Life. Her roots stretched down to the Heart of Mother Earth, and stardust swept through her crown. That Tree will never grow in a single great trunk again, for that was cut away. However, now that the Tree has been replanted, she has a chance as a coppiced Tree to grow many, smaller trunks. Not one story but several will connect the roots to the stars. Each tale will have its own unique perspective of sunlight and seashore. Perhaps this way, the Tree will be able to give more without risking death.”
“How so?” asks Raven.
“Well, when her many trunks have grown tall and thick enough, she can offer some of them for weaving and building and firewood without losing them all. She can live many lifetimes-worth of trunks. For everyone must learn to adapt, including the Trees of Life.”
“Lucky for me, that’s all I do!” Raven declares.
“No, all you do is make messes and mischief,” responds The Old Woman. “I’m the one who has to adapt to all the trouble you cause.” Threading the last of her white weft through the warps on her loom, she leans down to her basket of colored yarns to choose another skein.
“Kruk!” cries Raven. “Stop your complaining. You know you would be much sadder and stiffer without me around to keep you young and creative.”
I, too, love your mother-nurturant Tree of Life imagery. as Daisy Anne has pointed out.
“Long ago, the Trees of Life grew tall and broad, sharing their flowers, fruits, and nuts with the insects and animals who lived nearby. That time stretched on with its seasons and cycles, and the Trees taught those around them how to live in the rhythms of Life itself.”
And:
“…so that what appears to be a whole forest is actually only one mother Tree.”
I also enjoyed coming across your allusion to synthetic, civilization-addiction: “… or maybe they are imagining a future that looks like straight lines and shiny surfaces.”
And the eschewing the enclosure for the garden: “The Tree knows she found just the right person when the new inhabitant bypasses the house to go directly out into the garden.”
Good story here, K.H.