The Tree Whisperer - Chapter 3

The wind strongly blew and buffeted the trees, making them sway and dance before its raw force. Its pitch rose higher and higher still, the trees’ branches swayed more and more wildly, the wind soared among the pines and evergreens to a deafening crescendo. Then, as if someone had simply flicked a switch, the wind calmed to a whisper, to a sigh, to a simple flicker of sound which echoed across the woody landscape like a thunderclap’s peal. In a way, someone almost had. Styx had also heard the wind’s fierce, and if he’d heard correctly, angry rising and withdrew his hand immediately. The trees could sense the deep memory. His waking the earth had shocked them, reminded them, unsettled them. Something about the memory worried them, or excited them. He couldn’t quite tell. Trees had tricky personalities, and even after hundreds of years listening patiently to them Styx reflected he could only really hint at how they felt. He couldn’t understand a single word they spoke, yet knew the words they needed to hear. Somehow, both his and their words were part of the same song. They wove together smoothly, delicately, yet he could sense there was raw power behind even the quietest whisper. But, this foretelling, this cerulean memory had the potential to change everything; and trees didn’t like change. They liked what they knew; the rain on their trunks, the sun on their leaves, the earth beneath their roots. Most of all, they knew the song. After all, he’d sung it to them from seed, sapling through to full-grown tree. What would happen if the song changed? What if another voice began to sing? And what if it didn’t just sing, but learned to lead the melody?

He pondered this as he stretched one rough limb after another, turning knotted arms till they groaned in the dusky silence. Glancing across at the steep angle of the dusty shafts of sunlight, he noted several hours had passed. The light had begun to turn a dusky yellow, and every mote of dust was like a speck of gold dancing in the sunlight. Styx allowed the warming rays to play across his face and smiled as he pushed aside the mossy roots and stepped out into the forest. The trees were resting at the moment, gently whispering to each other in the setting sunlight. He allowed himself a minute to lean against a nearby Spruce, resting a craggy hand on the lowest branch. Change was coming. Change he couldn’t put his finger on, nor raise a hand to stop. He tried to trace the memory back again but already it was fading like the evening light. Darkness stood in its place, and only the wind in the trees reminded him that it had once been there. Whatever happened next, one thing was certain. A new voice would come, the song would change and the trees would learn to sing again.