The Sapling

On a distant continent undisturbed by man, where sanded shores hold the same brilliance as sunlit snow and forests forever weave mists akin to spectres of old, there stood an ageing cherry blossom and its sapling, growing beneath a nameless sun. They swayed along the edge of a grass sea that stretched far and beyond a great many hills, some often covered by herds of clouds dragging through open sky like great mammoths. Before them lay an inlet, where a pocket of turquoise water licked the white stone walls isolating the beach. It was during a peaceful night, with warm winds exchanging land for sea beneath two moons, that the young sapling shook its green buds free, and finally spoke.

Will my branches grow longer?

The older tree was amused by this, having had a similar thought before its own growth.

They will, little one.

The young sapling was made content by this, and offered no more words throughout the many cycles of both sun and moon that ferried the stars from one horizon to the next. When finally the younger tree had bloomed glorious petals of white and watched as time contorted that colour to match skies of dwindling light, it found itself in possession of fruit.

This would often attract large beasts with sun-blotting wings, appearing beyond the great ocean to feast with other weary beasts of nomadic nature, some belonging to the mists and others not. The young tree thought the taking to be unjust. These creatures should grow their own fruit.

They’re stealing from us.

No, little one. What is ours is not for us to keep. We grow to feed this world, and in turn it feeds us.

So that is why I am here.

The older tree could speak only in truths, and that is why it remained silent. There were seasons enough to indulge in the world’s beauty without the burden of certain knowledge. Purpose was as relevant as winds of days past, and those winds that blew presently were used by both trees to dance. Their branches would shift and sway against blue skies, often clanging off one another to create music devoid of rhythm. Their echoes were the discarded petals borne on a lofty breeze, an invitation to the denizens of the landscape to look upon them in wonder.

The young tree relished the thought of their journey, each uncoordinated gust of wind guiding them to places unseen.

How far will they reach?

The older tree had not considered this. Indeed, how far had winds of past seasons carried its own gifts to what lay in the great beyond? In one of the many seasons before the sapling’s arrival, the older tree recalled being greeted by petals of similar kind during a long winter. Had its own petals made their way around the world and back, or was another demonstrating its existence?

I cannot say. Perhaps they never end.

Others might see, and they will know they are not alone, as will we.

I am not lonely, little one. I have you.

They spoke no more for a time, observing the land as waters rose and sculpted the coast before them. On nights when the sky grew angry, distant lights struck the shimmering horizon from dark mountains that flew above, their migration a slow affair in the distance. Calmer nights gave way to more curious lights, some that flickered above the sky and others that crept along the ocean. In this dwindling of time and shifting of sands, there came songs of change that remained without a source.

It was during a season of calm when the older tree saw its petals beginning to wilt, and on days with strong winds would sometimes lose a branch.

You are breaking, the young tree said.

Not breaking, little one. I am returning to that which I came from.

But then who will feed the world?

You will. For a time as great as my own.

And I will be alone.

Never will you be alone, for you come from me, and through you I continue to be. I am you as you are me.

This was enough for the young tree, for it knew that the earth churned as the earth wills, and compelled all within it to take as they saw fit until eventually they must give back. And so the younger tree watched the older become bare, rejoicing in the spare moments when certain winds allowed them to dance in unison as before.

It was on a day of heavy rain that the older tree spoke again to the younger, just as nature’s assault moved on and wavered in the distance, allowing the sun to paint the land gold through ethereal wisps.

Do not cease to grow. Do not cease to dance. Let your branches brush the stars and sky as mine did, and remember that we beheld each other beneath them.

The setting sun marked the passing of the older tree, from one that fed the world to a landmark revered by creatures in passing, for they too understood the legacy of one so large.

And so it happened that the young tree was no longer young. It continued to grow, and it continued to dance. It fed those that passed and talked to those that could not understand, but always listened. As it grew it became more aware of that which had passed between itself and the older tree, and knew that soon it too could place a seed within the ground to sprout a sapling. But first it would weave its own patterns alone for a time, content in the knowledge that the older tree had spoken true, and that it too would speak only truths.