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.
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.
 |
| The underside of the old tree. |
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.
