The Tree Whisperer - Chapter 3 (re-written)

Elsewhere, the wind blew and buffeted the trees even more strongly, making them creak and sway before its raw force. Its howling tone coursed among the branches, causing them to swing and weave with each other like dancers in a crowded room. The strange thing was that Cann woods had been silent only an hour ago. As if from nowhere, the wind had suddenly picked up, its power and pitch steadily rising higher and higher, the trees’ branches swaying more and more wildly in their dance. Now, the wind soared among the pines and evergreens and its howl rose with an ear-splitting scream of ferocity. The air was electric with energy and tension. Just then, as the air felt like it might tear itself apart, there was a sudden change in the air. 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 ancient peal. The trees fell silent, their limbs easing themselves from their frantic dance, slowing to a gentle sway. The wind had all but vanished without a trace; only a whisper remained. It was as if someone had just flicked a switch. The strange thing was, in a way, someone almost had.

Back in the hollow underneath the fallen tree, Styx had been cradling the deep memory in his mind, careful not to let it slip back into the earth. Memories were like grains of sand, they had to be held both gently and firmly. Once you eased your mental hold on them, they flowed away like water into thirsty soil. In fact, he had become so absorbed in the memory that he hadn’t noticed the gradual rise of the wind, the swaying of the trees and the electric tension that almost crackled in the air. He could see a wind swirling around, like the air was flashing all shades of blue. It curled and wove and sang with a power he’d never known before. This was the song, but not as it was now. This was the song as he had known it before. Many years before. This was the song as wardens of old had sung of. He closed his mental eyes and immediately opened them. As he listened more carefully, yes, he could hear something new in the song. It was as if another voice had joined it, sang with it. No, led it. Ever mindful of losing hold of the memory, Styx focused closely on the center of the swirling mass of blue of the song and found he could make out a shadowy figure; the owner of this new voice, the leader of the song. Who was this figure? Where did they come from, and what were they doing singing, no, leading the song? He had never heard of anything like this. Styx was so thrown by this revelation that he felt his grip on the memory slacken. With that, he began to feel a change in the air. The vivid blue images swirled in his mind’s eye, becoming quicker, more erratic, and increasingly blurred. There was also a growing sense of worry in the back of his mind, like something wasn’t quite right.

Snapping back to his senses, he suddenly heard the wind’s fierce, and if he’d heard correctly, angry rising roar. He withdrew his hand from the glowing hollow immediately. It was such a shock that the memory catapulted from his mind, throwing him clean off his feet and back into the tangle of mossy roots, leaving him more than a slight bit dazed. As he slid to the ground and allowed his mind to take in where and who he was, he noted the pitch of the wind quieten, he could feel the trees calming down, and could sense the tension in the air ease and finally disappear. He didn’t fully understand what had happened, as he’d never seen the trees react so violently to anything before, but he had a firm suspicion that the trees could sense the deep memory. His waking the memory from the earth had shocked them, reminded them, unsettled them. Something about the memory worried them, or maybe it excited them. He couldn’t quite tell.

Trees had tricky personalities, and even after hundreds of years walking with them, listening patiently to them, growing to know 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 like the instruments in a piece of music, like the lines in an artist’s masterpiece. Smoothly, delicately, yet he could sense there was raw power behind even the quietest whisper. He shuddered in pleasure and fear at the thought of it. 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 dusty silence. Glancing across at the steep angle of the hazy 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 craned his neck around and allowed the warming rays to play across his face. Standing, he smiled as he pushed aside the mossy roots and stepped out into the forest. Simple moments like these were what he enjoyed most; the feeling of the warm sunlight on his face, the playful sound of the stream dancing among the rocks of its bed and the gentle whispering of the trees at sunset. The trees were resting at the moment, idly swaying as they quietly whispered 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, he reflected. Change he couldn’t put his finger on, nor raise a hand to stop. It felt like the revealing of the cerulean memory had changed the purpose of his life, like a stream that wears itself a new path. He was no longer simply a tree warden, speaking the words of the song to his woody wards. He would find this character, this new voice, this singer of the song. He would find them and teach them. He did not know who or what they were, nor where he’d find them. Where would he start? Yet, even as he asked himself this question, he had the sense that he would not need to look. They would come to him. A new voice would come, the song would change and the trees would learn to sing again.