The Silence of Trees

Deep in the Caledonian Forest, a heart beats its final beat.

The cadence is watery, in memory of bloom. The memory of soft air and the shy twinge of sunlight speckling down upon it. It beats for petrichor, for silk sodden earth.

Two slender figures entwine for the final time. Wrapping over one another, pulling together wildly and deeply. Rooting down into each others’ depths. Anchoring together like old ships, bobbing upon a soupy shore. Silence blankets them, yet they sway in solemn synchronicity. A polyphonic song crying in melancholy for days long ago.

Only the swish and ruffle of damp wind flows between them as if it were taunting them. Edging them together, closing the gaps, and becoming one. Daring them to consume one another, so that no breeze shall be caught between them again.

Deep beneath the dirt of the Caledonian Forest, a voice utters its last words. A voice unlike those of the sky. This voice holds an ancient softness. It speaks in the elder tongues of earth and dirt. A gentle whisper that jolts through the earth, thick and ruddy with both regret and gratitude. Love and longing. It purrs farewell. The strong one weeps for it, but more so for itself.

The weak one is unafraid, for this is the gift of living. But the strong one quakes in desperation, willing it to hold on. For the stars will soon sleep and then comes the birth of dawn, of new beginnings and recovery. This night feels longer than most, darker than most. It traps them in its grasp, with its reaping imminent. The strong tree begs for longer, there was not enough time for them. Yet it knows, there will never be enough time to say goodbye. No time could cure the sickness it caused in its heart.

"I give my life for you if it means your heart might beat on. That you may grow taller, stronger. That you may shine emerald once more, adorned by thick mosses and lichens, alive and drunk on sunlight. For you to thrive in our world I would give every leaf of myself. I let my veins run dry marigold and sun-specked. I would wither for moons; then crumble into ash once Summer blooms hot and sticky red."

The figures embrace, holding tightly to the fast fleeting seconds of life. One figure, pulses and grows; one fades dimmer, diminishing. The strong figure bleeds itself into the other, more and yet more honied sap pooling between them.

"Take it." It cries.

"Take it."

But there is no nutrient, no livening cure. Only the kiss of sunken earth awaiting below. They know, one cannot survive without the other. They are dependent, connected almost entirely. The lovers are conjoined, growing limbs to latch onto their bodies, wiring together. Sharing life forces.

"You are mine and I am yours."

How terrible a thing seems death. How cruel a thing it feels to pluck us from our roots and let our bodies deconstruct, decaying to mush. For worms to wriggle through our wooden corpses and suck on our dewy insides. How intolerable to watch, rotting from within as they are plucked from us. The weak one croons.

"Don’t you see? Dawn and dusk are married as we. Their souls are too, joined. As are life and death. There may be a day when dawn does not come, then dusk too would cease to be. Do not dismay for dear death has given us the beauty of life, as much as dusk has given the break of dawn. As Winter has melted to Summer glow."

The dirt below quakes in agony. The map they knitted together, fragmenting. Voices slur as every stem rips them from one another. They fall apart in funeral pace, murders of crows crowning from above, signaling the feast.

Deep in the Caledonian Forest, a single, silent birch stands where once stood two. Where once they sewed together a path of roots and desire, love, and eventually grief.

Alone, it withers.