Root and Leaf

The footsteps… the mere act was enough to shatter the ancient peace.

A light rain had begun to fall as the night set in.

The venerated one with moss covering the boughs was the first to sense the outsider. She sighed, helpless as the one in gleaming metal stalked past. It had a face, that they knew, but it was hidden behind a wall of plate metal, the dying light of day painting the curved surface a spectre of wan half-light. The man did not feel their presence. Warnings were made. None were heard. It had ears, surely it did, yet it did not know the language of root and leaf.

An old vine crunched beneath the man’s heavy boot, the noise a sickening knell in that quiet place. A shy sapling too close for comfort braced herself for the man as it sat nearby. Her mien was all terrified anguish, she could do nothing should this quick outsider choose to rip her from the ground. Others around shivered in their terror. A wind had risen as the sun sunk below the hills, and now the eventide chill filled this wood, just as the whispers were sent echoing through the glade.

Removing the dead metal from its head, the young tree with the arced bole saw the face of the one who did not belong here. Unremarkable, and plain. A face that did not look evil. Eyes as verdant as summer grass, lips the colour of ripe berries, and young. It was hard to count the winters of these creatures. Yet it was agreed that this one was indeed young. Their hair was long and had not been kissed by the hoarfrost of age, and their skin was smooth and splashed by a flurry of dark freckles.

It was for a long time that this creature rested, setting itself against the lee of a rock that hosted some mean shelter from the downpour. It sat and looked out at the opening in the canopy. To the pinpricks of light that managed to shine through the serrated edges of the rainclouds. Peace did not return to the wood. Not while the outsider was present. A profane act to the serenity of the green ones. The eventide turned to night, and the disquiet remained. A new light filled the glade, and then outrage.

A thousand thousand voices raised themselves in terror, the countless boles made into columns painted a deadly crimson.

Ashmaker. The red death.

Those old ones amongst them could remember times long ago when the ashmaker had set them ablaze to turn them into writhing orange flowers until all that was left were husks that could no longer speak. Could no longer sing. The young ones had heard the tales, and knew from instinct alone to fear the dancing light.

It was a small thing, and it sprung from a small round thing the outsider tended in their makeshift den. Small, but bright in its fury. It hissed like a beast when the outsider placed dead things atop it. Hissing, and spitting.

Voices barrelled over one another. The wind was a howling that gave noise to the quiet rage of the wood. Something should be done. Something must be done. Many and more were in concord, and threw their voices behind those that desired action. Branches groaned as they bent, and the leaves that bejewelled them shimmered in the mingling light of star and fire. All shared a mind. All shared the memories of the past. One memory was brought to the forefront of their collective. A time in ages past, when their wood had been threatened. They had woken the guardian.

The man could not feel the countless minds that regarded him then. Nor could it comprehend their plan.

Roots dig deep into the earth, and branches extend far into the sky. Far away from where the man had profaned the green, on the slopes of the high mountain, the trees sang to one another in their secret, unknowable language. They looked to those that had grown near the chasm. Deep and sheer cliffs that split the mountainside in two. Only bare and gnarled trees clung to the edge, their roots half exposed to the scree and raw rock of the expanse below them. Hundreds of years, they had seen the rise and fall of the sun, on the world that had known serenity. A thousand rainstorms, all helping to erode the ground around their feet. Tonight would be the last, for one of them. The twisted burned one, that had been struck by the sky fire all those years ago. It had come from a thunderstorm, and had left her mute. Now she leaned dangerously. Despite this, she still had her thoughts, and the memory of a thousand generations of the green. Her song had long been quieted, her voice a distant thing for even the oldest in the whispering wood. Yet, her roots still dug deep.

The stones fell slowly, at first. Each one slipping into the chasm, to expose more of the ancient one’s roots, a testament to her age. The wind helped to dislodge more, and more, until it was the weight of the old one herself that made the rest fall. The sun bleached bole tilted, and then creaked in an ululating song, as the tree toppled into the empty air.

This was not a bottomless pit. There was an end to the ancient one’s fall. It was an ear-shattering crash as the old wood slammed into the jagged rocks of the cave roof, and down into the ill-lit cavern beneath.

Something stirred in the darkness.

Night drew on, and the green ones that had the misfortune of sharing the same smoky air as the outsider could only watch as he fondled the flames more and more. They would wait. If it was something they knew well, it was patience. So silence clung to the glade like a stale odour. They all watched without sight, and listened without ears.

A stunted evergreen was the first to sense the guardian. A beast of such immense size, it was deceptively quiet, for it padded softly on the sodden forest floor, and his breathing was a controlled and calculated thing. Unhurried, his talons gleamed darkly in the night, on long sinewy limbs moving languidly between the trees. His teeth were hidden, but the green ones knew they were sharp, and had been the end of the last intruder. Slaver dripped slowly from that long muzzle, his thoughts brazen enough for them to feel clearly as he passed them. Rage, and hunger.

Noise erupted from the glade, as the man pulled a small buzzing thing from the tanned skins he wore. A series of repeating lights crawled over an overly large metal object in his hand, pings and whistles making it a mockery of birdsong. The confusion felt by the green ones who looked on was soon replaced by fear, as the man stood, and turned in the direction of the guardian.

What could they do to warn their saviour? Nothing. Their voices could only stretch to one another through the wood. The guardian was a beast, and could not sing with them. Branches bent and leaves fell in flurries as they screamed in unison. They had to warn him.

The man produced a long and sharp piece of metal from someplace. It was a long claw that caught the dark, refracting the firelight into a plenitude of colour. For a moment, the glade was awash with the vision of a field in bloom. Yet the green ones knew this to be only a trickery, an artifice to distract them.

The guardian saw the light, and followed it to the source.

A smile curled the red lips of the man as it saw the great defender of the wood approach. The beast’s gait was limned in moonlight and anxiety. He edged closer. Light bloomed rakishly from the blade now held aloft, and the guardian snarled at the fire. Even he knew it was a biting heat, and was no friend. The man stood its ground, a hand going for something hidden among the dead pelts. Something compact and shining, a tubular that he pointed towards the hulking silhouette.

What was this? What is it? The green ones were of one voice, and it was all panic. Time was ever slow for the trees, yet now even they felt it turn sluggish as though they were watching the crawl of continents.

The guardian roared, and it shook the very earth. The man braced itself, but one foot hit a rogue root that jutted from the soil. Then it was falling to one knee, and it made a foul noise in pain. Claws grinded against rotten leaves and mud, and the guardian loped forward with jaws opened wide. Each fang caught the firelight, and each one a different shade of red.

Another curse from the man, and then a thunderclap erupted from his hand. Something lost to sight flashed towards the guardian. All the howls of pain belonged to the guardian, whimpering helpless among the dirt and grass.

The man wore its smile broadly, and it stalked to the beast where it bled from the wound in its belly. Bearing down on him, the man held its coruscating blade to the exposed throat. The guardian looked up with white-eyed fear, the man down with satisfaction.

All those that watched them lamented the imminent end of the guardian. His kith had been hunted, until it was the only one they had seen in long over a century. The last, it would not hear the howl of a mate, nor nurture any young. He would die alone, at the hands of this man who did not belong on this world.

The green ones could do nothing, so they sang. The wordless chorus a promise to remember the guardian, long after the high mountain had crumbled and had fallen into the great sea. In generations, when the land would be forever changed, the trees would still remember. It was all they could do. So they sang. And sang. And sang.

Ragged breathing made the man’s chest heave, and its eyes shone bright despite the darkness surrounding them. Those eyes looked directly at the trees. Then the blade was no longer held tight to the guardian, and instead the man was making noises to the beeping thing he held.

The man left, but not before killing the fire. It turned, and did not look at the trees again. After that, only the wounded guardian was left to accompany the green ones, but eventually even he had enough strength to return to his lair.

Yet the trees were never alone. They shared everything. Now, they had something new to ponder for the centuries. In their long, slow thoughts they pondered what had happened. The man, and the look it had given them. It had spared the life of the guardian, and retreated to wherever it came from.

They gave thought to what had happened. The song did not end, when there were those to sing it.

By Rhys Barnard Jones