The Old Oak

Across the river, through miles of forest and underbrush, at the foot of the mountain, stood the Old Oak. He had another name once, but this is what he was known as in the forest of Evervale. No tree had stood longer than he. He was from a time before, a time when trees still had the ability to pull their roots from the earth and move from one place to another. The Old Oak had been a wanderer in his younger days, but centuries had passed since then. Now, he was content to be rooted in the soil, close to the base of the mountain where he had a view over the forest and could see all the comings and goings within it. Unbeknownst to him, that was about to change.

On the morning when Willow awoke to her world crashing down around her, the Old Oak was on the move. More than two centuries, rooted in the same place, had come to an end.

Several days earlier . . .

The midday sun had chased away the cool of the morning, mountain air. The mist had vanished, and the forest was alive with its steady rhythm of everyday life. Squirrels launched through branches and chittered at anything that moved, the woodpecker could be heard "knock-knock-knocking" on a distant tree, the swallows twittered and flitted about in search of food, and the trees rustled and whispered, at ease in the warm, midday sun. The Old Oak stood contentedly, listening to the world about him.

Suddenly, a call. "Oak! Oak!" he heard from the East. A fir at the edge of the meadow called to him, worry clear in his voice as his branches creaked in agitation.

"What is it?" called The Old Oak. "It's humans in the woods! To the East! They've taken down some of the young trees! Cut them from their very roots during the dark of night!" came the anguished reply. The Old Oak growled in anger. "What of the Pact? Have they no longer any care for what the Forest will do?" he demanded.

As the thought of what had been done to his kin threatened to throw him into rage, he began to shake. First, his crown began to churn and weave as if cast with a strong wind, leaves falling in a storm. Then his trunk began to creak, groan, and crackle as bits of bark began to flake off. Finally, his very roots began to pull up from the unwilling earth. With a might 'crack' and a heave, the Old Oak tore his reluctant form from the earth with a shattering roar of anger.

Birds scattered to the air in a cacophony of caws and trills and the trees shook in awe at what the Old Oak had accomplished. Most had forgotten this gift of the trees. Shaking his huge figure, the earth beneath his roots trembling with each thud of his movement upon it, the Old Oak wove through the jumble of rocks and earth towards the fir who had called to him.

"Show me!" he rumbled. "This way, this way," called the Fir and Oak and Ash, "Towards the East, through the valleys and over the mountain and across the river." As the ripples of calls and sounds shushed through the leaves and needles, the Old Oak strode through the forest, wrath smoldering within him as he drew ever closer to the foolish humans who had harmed his kin.

Two days later . . .

The Old Oak finally crested the final ridge of the mountain, weary now from unused limbs and the climb up the mountain. His wrath had solidified over the past two days, it had not cooled, merely sharpened. What caught his attention as he stumbled over the ridge, however, was the dark, smoke-filled sky, visible in the early morning light. The Eastern side of the river was nearly destroyed. Thousands of might trees lay now in ashes and ruin and fire continued to roar and ravage towards the river. From where he stood, the Old Oak could see only a cluster of oaks and a lone willow still standing. Around and through them wove panicked animals and humans, their brays and screams and cries echoing up the mountain side.

"Damnation!" swore the Old Oak, gathering his strength and throwing his great bulk down the mountain as swiftly as he dared. "It is time," he thought as stone and earth crumbled and slid around his rapid descent. "They must learn to be what they once were upon this land. Great trees, full of knowledge and strength, yes, but able to shake the earth from their roots to protect themselves and their lands." Long ago, the trees had formed a pact with the humans. The humans would only take from the trees already fallen or ill with disease. For their fires they could take the detritus of winter limbs that fell to the earth, but no fire was to be lit near the forest, else they would face the wrath of the trees. This was granted in exchange for the trees taking over many grasslands and fields that had once belonged to the humans, for with their constant comings and goings the trees had grown weary and longed for a place to call home. Now, what the Old Oak had so long feared, lay before him; and as he rushed towards the flames, determined to save those he could, he both feared and rejoiced that he was once again free of earth's chains and that his brethren would learn the ancient knowledge for themselves. Many would not wish to know, he knew. They had become earthbound, sliding ever deeper into themselves that they were almost no longer aware or awake. But he would do what he must, and onward he pushed.

Down in the valley, by the bank of the river, Willow shook and wept. Her end was coming, and struggle though she might, she could not pull her roots from where they entangled with stone and earth. Yet, just as it seemed all was lost, a mighty roar echoed down the side of the mountain, crashing off the boulders and eclipsing even the sound of the flames. Startled out of her fear, Willow looked towards the mountain to an amazing sight. A giant, ancient Oak, gnarled and rough, covered in moss and mostly leafless, raced down the mountain side, scattering rocks and gravel as he more slid than wove downwards. "Watch out!" Willow cried, "The river!" Just in time, the Old Oak stopped, strong roots winding to grip at the edge of the river embankment. Before Willow had a chance to say more, the Old Oak began to sing. The sound was deep and broad, it trebled through the roots and leaves of the trees, bounced from stone to stone, rippled across the water, and seemed to rise to the heavens themselves; and in that sound Willow felt knowledge. Not knowledge, carried through words or written form as the humans would have understood it, but through sound and resonance, a knowledge known only to the trees.

With the Old Oak's song and the knowing that it carried, Willow let loose a cry of triumph and tore her roots from the earth, exulting in freedom. Swinging her vines wide, she cast a net across the glade gathering all within it, human, bird, deer, it mattered not, and casting them all into the river. As the remaining Oaks of the glade pulled themselves loose, Willow forded the river to the Old Oak, secure in the knowledge that now, now things could begin, and perhaps all was not as lost as she had thought.

(End of Part II of "When Willows Weep")