Trees Don't Lie

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The old woman and her son had dreamed almost the same dream. Their dreams had disturbed them greatly, so they shared their individual encounters, their night visions, with care and trepidation to one another. Neither one really wanted to sound the thoughts that their brains were somehow trying to bury. Those thoughts demanded to be heard and seen, just the same though. There had to be some relief from the horror of what they had witnessed in that state of sleep consciousness. Maybe by exposing them they could take the heaviness off their shoulders?

They, (partners in re-homesteading their family land) hadn't been back to this inherited conglomerate of antiquity for over thirty years and were shocked and appalled at how much it had grown over with the ugliness of weeds and disorder. Mother Nature, left to her own devices, had acquired her throne with a vengeance. Disappointment and longing for the better days of yester-years caused mother and son to lower their heads and want to give up on this monumental battle with this wretched Queen and just hand over the domain. They had inherited a massive headache, indeed. But they couldn't return to where their comfortable lives had been before moving back. There had been changes...big ones that caused them both to leave and return to this dreaded existence that had once been a sweet place of solace for them long ago.

First, they tackled the mess left behind in each of the three properties on the land. What to keep, what to sell, what to burn, what to give away. Each house represented their deceased loved ones and their spirits still seemed to embrace them with their "finds." Seven family members had spent their lives here and had worked the land until they could physically do no more. In the grave and hopefully at peace, they now rested from their labor. The duo would have to take over this nearly impossible feat. There was a barn and three sheds to reckon with, as well. No rest for them.

Perhaps most disturbing was the acreage used for plotting the gardens of food that sustained them all. There were now tall trees...a forest of them and bushes and briars where cultivated rows of green once sprouted up with care and gave their yield. The tractor had been sold long ago and even the old chain saws were rusted and useless. Thank God they have moved with a riding lawnmower and a weed eater. That would have to suffice for now. Maybe a match and some fuel should be the tools to fight against this unrelenting enemy that reigned.

It was after a long day spent cleaning and cutting back the over-growth, mowing the spacious yards, fighting bugs, thorns, and afterwards, seeing the beginnings of poison ivy on their legs and arms, that as night came and they laid their heads down, the dreams had occurred. Morning came again...way too early. There wasn't enough coffee in this run-down world to ease the ache of their muscles or erase the shock of what they had dreamed, though.

The son, a grown man in his 40's, started his "telling" first. "Mama, there were three bodies buried out there. Out in the fields! I heard voices that told me, but I couldn't see their faces."

The old lady's stomach churned at this, and she gasped. She too, had dreamed of similar, but had seen headstone markers, nameless ones. Old, very old ones. Maybe more than three? In her dreams. And somehow, she knew in her soul who they were and who put them there.

As a child she had heard the hushed rumors of the adults. In those tales, there had been talk of the clansmen from way back then. She had seen some of the white material that the family had saved. It was no longer white, but yellow with age. When she had asked, she was told it was from an old parachute used in one of the "wars." But even back then, she knew a lie when she heard one. But she chose to accept it and go back to the business of child play.

As they exchanged what they knew of their dreams, the family history passed down (whether myth or not,) and their feelings about it all, they became determined to investigate the possibilities. There was no more child play to be played.

Neither the old houses, family heirlooms and Bibles, keepsakes, or the sheds or barn yielded any glean of a "parachute" or ties to a dark period in American history. They were grateful they found none. But soon they would make the trek, cutting paths into the fields and forest to see if there were clues to be had. Hoping they would find nothing instead.

Finally, the two, now outfitted with a new chain saw, had blazed a trail through the brush and they could see light amongst the trees. There were mostly pine ones, a few scattered cedar ones, and a lone, large oak that held vague memories for the old woman. With blistered hands, their next task would be twofold. First, they needed to restore the field for Spring gardens, cutting down some of those trees. And also, to search the grounds below their covering to see if in fact, there was evidence of any long-ago grave sites. Their dreams, which brought distress to them had dictated this.

As they stepped inside the scattered thicket of forest, a strange eeriness invaded their beings that brought chills to their skin. But they continued with their task that would probably take days if not weeks to complete. Her son, still a very strong man, would be burdened with most of the labor, but the old woman did what she could do, pulling dried branches from the ground and brush out to the burn pile.

Strangely, the Spring air was thick and overpowering with the mystifying sweetness from the periwinkle-colored wisteria hanging and entangling the trees. And then came a wind. And the wind picked up, sweeping the ground beneath their feet. Fearfully, the old lady reached for her son's strong hand.

At first, the sounds they heard they just chalked up to the wrestling wind, but then the whispers gained clarity, two distinct sounds differentiating themselves in tone and pitch. The whispers echoed to one another and to the mother and son who stood trembling, unable to move. "We will tell," was repeated as a chant and seemed to originate from the pines and the cedars.

The son recalled stories his mother told to him of the legend of the trees. She said that God made the evergreens immortal, and they would never die. But that in the cedars, lived the souls of our ancestors. And because the oak is the mightiest of them all, it was only fitting for God to visit us when we stood beneath it.

He pulled his mother underneath the protection he hoped the huge oak would grant to them. And then the chanting stopped. Their hearts stilled. And the fear left them.

The cedars spoke up in a very calming, feminine, soft voice, "Don't be afraid. You won't be harmed. We knew you would come to us. And you will soon know."

The pines, had a fatherly tenor, but it was not a threatening tone as they spoke, "It all happened long ago, and we are all at peace now."

"Yes, gone now but not to be forgotten," remarked the cedars.

The pines spoke again, "You will find Ned, along with two middle-aged Irish brothers named Stinson, who worked on the boats along the Mississippi River at the Tombigbee."

"You must understand we all, even those three, walk in love now, but not then. The love washed all the ugliness and pain from our hearts," cried the gentle cedars.

"Ned was a plantation slave before the Civil War. The Stinson brothers, whose father had drunk himself to death and whose mother could no longer feed her children, had been orphaned out and weren't much better off than Ned," spoke pines.

"Except they eventually paid their debts off to the "kind" people who had taken them in by working their fingers to the bone and were eventually freed," reminded the cedars.

The pines continued, "Ned didn't really mean to kill the youngest of the brothers. He didn't even know them, but he knew he would be hung anyway just for escaping. The burly Irishmen had been taking a load of cargo on the small flatboat they had saved up to buy when they spotted Ned hiding under the blankets along with the cotton to be taken to the gin. Ned had pushed him over in the struggle and banged the younger's head open. He never woke up again."

"Ned had jumped into the river, but the older Stinson brother shot him out of anger and drug him back onto the boat to make sure he was dead. In all honesty, there was probably a reward for Ned. But the older brother was too grief-stricken to be concerned, " the cedars said.

"The story doesn't end there, though. Stinson turned his boat towards his home and hid their bodies close by in the woods until he unloaded the cotton. He returned with his son and his nephew, the younger Stinson's son, to help him bury Ned in the field behind their home where you now stand. And then the family mourned for their departed, burying him across from Ned," spoke the pines.

"Those poor young cousins watched as the older Stinson brother's life waned away with alcohol and grief until they put him in the grave next to his beloved brother only three months later," whispered the cedars.

The pines spoke up, "But you are wondering about the parachute you saw? Well, the Civil War started a few years later and the Stinsons joined up. One came back and the other didn't. There was a lot of added and misplaced anger and hurt for a couple of generations."

The cedars seemed to read the old lady's fearful heart, "No, you never knew any of those relatives. You just knew some of their stories."

And the wind began to blow gently for just a minute and then stopped altogether. Mother and son stepped away from the oak tree and hugged one another.

This was all going to take a while to process and maybe longer to reconcile. They agreed to tell no one about the graves. It would be too much to bear.

"This generation should be freed from the past and have the love and peace that Ned and the brothers now share," the old lady said.

"Mama, that's exactly what I want my grandchildren to have. Especially since they are of mixed heritage," her son replied.

"I think we can all rest and live in peace now! Love can see to that," she reflected.

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Footnote: This story is VERY loosely based on family history and lore. It is true that my son and I have had these dreams, but as far as we know, there are no dead bodies or talking trees on our land. Some of our relatives were named Stinson and were Irish. There were two orphaned brothers who had a boat they drove down the Tombigbee Waterway on the Mississippi River, and a slave named Ned did kill one of the brothers. There is absolutely no evidence of any clan involvement after that, though. But it is my heart that all Americans live peaceably with one another, especially since we have beautiful mixed-race children in our tree. They are the reason for this story.