Psithurism Concerto

This year I am tall enough to play the symphony with my brethren, after their centuries of practice. Legend says it began with only one, the Maestro, in an open field. He crossed the meadows of his manor on a tumultuous night, feeling the Westerly Winds push Him uphill before tumbling down a slope and pulling up to greet the next mound of dirt. I wonder what possessed His mind that night. What ghost gave Him the knowledge of where to plant the early musicians that would birth more to fill the empty seats of the orchestra? The foresight the ghost gave Him clearly bestowed the Maestro with a terrifying wit and alarming sense for music which He couldn't yet hear.

I often wonder if His passion blessed these lands to grant the forest sentience. A long time ago, passersby stopped on the outskirts of our forest, too scared to enter, under the belief we are cursed! While we strive to achieve the Maestro’s dream, we have gained a reputation for spook and dark mysteries of things humans can’t face. I wish we had more visitors through our woods. An audience of humans who might enjoy it like our Maestro made it to be enjoyed would be the perfect finish.

I heard whispers that the ruins of His manor aren't far from me, but I can't see it. Blast these dastardly roots for trapping me in my place. I yearn to crawl away from the hilltop and see the Maestro’s rubbled home for myself, bask in the presence of the few descendants of original garden posies… but I shall never leave. After all, I have a very important job to do.

This evening, black rolling clouds brewing up ahead quickly approach our woodlands, spurred by the Westerly Winds. My leaves rustle frantically with my nervous energy, and I feel the disapproval from my neighbours for the unnecessary sound.

Right, I have an important role tonight and I can’t mess it up. My fellow trees waited 43 years for me to finally be big enough to catch the wind and finish the symphony. Every few years we had a new player with a new note and I am the finishing piece. It's a huge responsibility, one that I must treat seriously. I can't disappoint my family. The last time we were this close to finishing the Maestro’s song, the great fire of the North killed eighty-four of our musicians, and set us back centuries-worth of progress. It was a tragic day.

The wind carries the Psithurism Concerto and the first notes are the gentle whispers of our leaves. This susurrus sound builds into a shivering hum, and peaks at a hiss sweeping across the forest. My leaves shudder on my branches to join the throng.

My supple twigs slap against each other as my wing of the forest embraces the Westerly Winds, our lead musician. Thwack - my branch hits my neighbour and they hit back - thwack. We continue to spar like swordsmen, the twang of our limbs signalling the next piece of music.

The trees to the East stretch and twist in the gale, groan and moan as our lead musician pulls at their branches. Their voices boast a beautiful sincerity, a grieving tone for our lost musicians, and reverberate with ethereal quality.

The Westerly Winds slow a moment, offering respite to the tune and a moment to breathe. We calm into a soft creak, my own pitch higher than that of my elder counterparts (my youthful limbs offer a mere squeak). The ancient trees' sounds are deep and vibrate through the air with some mystical projection. As a young sapling, I would feel their creaks like a caress on my smooth surface.

A flash of light erupts in the sky, illuminating the musicians for a split second during their performance. The shadows plaguing them are haunting; a sign of their dread. The thunder rumbling across the land confirms their fears; this is a lightning storm. What have we done to deserve such bad luck? If the lightning hits one of us, our progress and hard work will be ruined once again.

The storm sends the Westerly Winds into a rage and the Psithurism Concerto increases pace. There is no time for me to worry about the energy pulsating high in the clouds. As we are stretched to our limits by our lead musician, pop-pop-pop sounds bounce through the forest and swish, whoosh - our upper branches and foliage catch the gale.

Crack! Lightning tendrils reach down to our musicians, missing them by metres. A boom floods a bar of our symphony as the thunder overlays the noise of the forest.

I try to resist the force of the wind while I prepare for my final notes. The music of my brethren in tune with the Westerly Winds holds a haunting beauty, with the lightning and thunder bringing brilliance to spaces of sound I didn’t realise needed their presence until now. No rehearsal has come as close to epic perfection as we have tonight… I am terrified I won’t do the piece justice. What a burden I hold, to be the closing musician!

No trees are felled, but I hear the thump of limbs coming to rest on the forest floor not far from me. Another sacrifice for the Maestro’s dream.

My moment is here. I pull together all the energy in my supple branches and release a screech as I twist my limbs at an uncomfortable angle, at which point my fellow musicians pull back into an outro and the Westerly Winds drop into a stiff breeze.

Finally, ehrrgrr - my final creaky sway brings the concerto to a close.

Another flash of lightning drenches us in light, and in the distance a low rumble breaks the short silence.

The rain begins to pour, slaking our thirst after our hard work tonight. A reward, even. After all this time, the Psithurism Concerto has been completed. I wonder now what purpose we will find in the world? We are busy trees, always needing a new project, and I think we work better together than alone. I feel my neighbours’ branches pat mine after a job well done. Pride keeps me warm tonight while I watch the storm, excited to see what tomorrow brings. I hope to find out what follows a destiny fulfilled.