Monday, January 15, 2018

January 15, 2018 - The Underside

A terrible ice and windstorm had torn through a small country community, leaving devastation in its wake.  Old roofs were damaged, old barns were devastated, and thick pockets of ice on the roads made travel very dangerous.  In this setting a young boy of about 13 years sat in the meeting house listening to the older people in the community as they discussed the damage and how long it would take to clear things up and make repairs when the warmer weather finally came again.

He was bored, so very, very bored as he sat listening to them.  Now and then his mother would give him a sharp jab when he yawned loudly or started aimlessly stomping his feet.  “Don’t be so rude!” she would whisper.  “We have a serious situation going on here!  Travel is dangerous, and that means supplies might be very late getting here.  This is important!”  To which he would slowly nod and then roll his eyes when she turned her head.

The underside of the old tree.
Who cares about the stupid rooves? he thought.  Who cares about the barns and the stupid animals?  Who cares about the dangerous roads or the ice or the supplies or the medicine that can’t get here?  Who cares??  This is so stupid!  I wish I were anywhere but here, listening to these stupid people.  But he did his best to at least look as if he were interested after each jab from his mother.  And oh, how he tried to stifle his yawns. 

His ears perked up a bit when he heard a bent and crooked old man mention the number of large trees that had fallen in the woods from the tremendous wind.  His father had always talked about how strong and brave and regal the old trees of the woods were and how the woods provided for much of their needs.  He never believed that, but it occurred to him now that he would get a chance to see a strong and brave and regal thing lying flat on the ground, its underside exposed.  Yes, he snickered to himself, I would like to see that!

And as if he knew what the boy was thinking, the bent and crooked old man pointed a crooked old finger at the boy and suggested that maybe he could go out and count the number of trees down in the woods near the path that led to the next village.  This way they would know how much work to expect and where the worst areas were.  Maybe they could at least get the path clear.  Well, the boy was only too happy to oblige as it meant getting away from all these stupid people and his jabbing mother who kept telling him not to be rude.

He eagerly volunteered, avoiding his mother’s eyes as she looked at him sharply.  She wasn’t fooled.  As he put on his sweater and coat and extra pants and good boots and thick gloves, the bent and crooked old man watched him keenly.  “Be quick boy as it’s already late, and mind your counting.  We need a total from you, and we need to know where the worst damage is,” he said.  The boy just nodded absentmindedly, avoiding the old man’s eyes.  He did not like the old man’s eyes.

Then he was free!  He was finally out of the meeting house, away from the mumbling of the stupid old people, and free from the constant boredom.  He stepped out into the freezing, late afternoon air.  As he walked toward the path by the woods, it didn’t take long for him to start complaining about the cold and feeling sorry for himself.  But then he thought of the venerable old trees lying flat and powerless on the ground, and this gave him a secret joy.

He was so busy in his thoughts, that he almost tripped when he realized he was actually upon a fallen soldier of the woods.  There the great tree lay on the cold ground, its underside exposed, helpless and weak.  The boy was delighted.  He laughed out loud and said, “King of the Woods, huh?  Not so big and brave now!”  He smirked at the old tree.

“Come closer,” said the old tree, “and have a good look.  You’re too far away.”  The voice was deep and raspy and dry.  The boy jumped back quickly but then remembered himself.  He did not want to appear frightened in front of the old tree.  After all, he was the one standing tall, not the tree.

“You’re missing the best part,” the raspy old tree said.  “Come closer.”  And so he did.  He walked closer to the tree.

“Have a good, long look,” said the dusty old voice.
“I will,” said the boy rudely.  “Not so high up in the clouds now, are you?”
“Not at all,” admitted the old tree.  “Not at all.  Have you seen the secret part of me?”
“What secret part?”
“The part that no one ever gets to see because it stays hidden.”
“Well, which part is it?” the boy demanded.  “I haven’t got all day!”
“Have a look in the back at the underside of me, the part I keep hidden in the dark ground.”

The boy headed toward the large bulbous part of the tree that had been exposed when it was ripped from the Earth and thrown to the ground.  He walked quicker than he wanted to, but he was determined to appear brave.  He would not let the tree know that he felt very frightened, indeed.  That raspy, scraping, desolate old voice rattled his nerves deeply.

And then he was at the underside.  He had always wondered what the underside, the dark side, of the trees looked like.  It was filled with large roots that had broken and small roots that had woven a thick and deep web.  It was dark and smelled strange.  There were frozen little dead things hanging off it, grubs and bugs that weren’t going to survive this winter after all.  The underside was dark.  It was black and torn and cold, and all around it a biting cold and thin mist swirled.

“Have you had a good look?” the scraping old voice asked.
“I have,” said the boy arrogantly, “and it’s ugly.”
“Oh, yes, yes it is, indeed!” said the old tree matter-of-factly.  “The hidden part is always ugly.  The dark part never gets to see the beauty of the sun, and it festers in its dank loneliness.  Do you like it?”

This was not what the boy had expected to hear.  He expected the old tree to be embarrassed or ashamed or afraid.  He expected it to cower.  He expected it to be hurt.  But he did not expect it to be inviting.

“I said, do you like it??” the raw old tree asked.
“It’s even uglier than I thought,” said the boy, feigning bravery.
“Thank you,” said the old tree.
“I have to go.”
“Of course you do.  But you’ll remember, right?”
“Remember what?” asked the boy, puzzled and still very much afraid, backing away slowly.

“You’ll remember the underside.  You’ll remember the deep, dark, dank, and hidden part.  The part with worms and grubs and fungus and secret members of the Underworld that relentlessly and slowly chew and dissolve all living things.  You’ll remember the decaying scent and the death and the webbing roots that reach out to greedily grasp everything in sight, to devour and gorge.  You’ll remember the stark ugliness and how you wanted it and how you stared at it right in the face.  You’ll remember the embrace,” said the dying old tree.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the boy said, backing away a bit further.  He did not sound nearly as convincing as he’d hoped he would.

“Yes, you do.  Because like attracts like.  Things join with other things that are similar.  They congregate.  They meld.  You wanted the underside of me because your own dark underside is just as cold and clawing and ugly.  You are dark and cruel.  Have a good look, boy.  Come and cover me with kisses,” the old tree laughed darkly.

With that, the boy took off running as fast as he could!  He was scared out of his wits.  It was getting dark fast.  How long had he been staring at the dark underside of that tree?  It was actually getting really dark now, but he kept running.  Then he tripped and fell, cutting his head on a sharp old tree stump.  But he got up quickly and kept running, fell and cut himself again, but got up yet again and kept going as fast as he could.

At last he saw a small light coming from a window at the old meeting house.  He ran as fast as his legs would carry him to the house, half frozen and half scared out of his wits.  He tore the door open and ran inside, shocking everyone into silence.  They all stared at him for a moment, and then his mother wailed and ran to him, helping him out of his heavy and frozen outer clothing.  She got a hot, wet cloth and cleaned the cuts on his head while he sat in a chair silently.

The others, having realized the boy was fine, had begun talking in groups again about the work that needed to be done.  All except one.  The bent and crooked old man sat in a dark corner looking at the boy thoughtfully.  The boy never looked up, but he knew the old man was watching.  When his mother had finished cleaning his cuts and had given him some tea, the old man slid over to boy’s side.

“So, how many trees are down?” he asked sharply.
“I don’t know.  A lot.  Many.  It was dark,” the boy said.
“Yes, it is dark.”
“It was very dark,” the boy whispered, now close to tears.
“It comes on quickly, doesn’t it?”
“What??”
“The darkness.  It comes on quickly, doesn’t it?” the old man asked.
“Yes it does,” the boy said meekly.
“Be sure that you do not forget it.  Next time you might not find the light of the meeting house.”

The boy looked up at the old man.  For once he was not arrogant or sullen or rude.  He was just a young boy in a cold world, and the only thing that was keeping him from dying a tragic death in the frozen outdoors was the tiny meeting house and the people and the warm fire inside.  He drank his tea gratefully as he shivered by the fire, sitting closer than he should so that he almost burned his shins, and the darkness receded just a bit as he stared into the flames. 

The bent and crooked old man went back to the corner and sat hidden with his thoughts.