The Birth of the Trees

The trees have grown wings.

Ozik stood outside his house. House, it was a hovel. Four walls, built strong and short for the long winters so far to the north of civilization. There was a fire, to be sure, a small one in the center of the north wall. Every year the chimney grew, a new stone plucked from the roots of the fallen trees. Ozik was particularly proud of the stone currently sitting on the western side of the top corner. It had taken him three days to bring down the oak tree. After carving the tree open, he found that stone, perfectly square, sitting in the gnarled heart.

This house was his, and it was home. And he had to leave for a moment. Something wasn’t quite right.

The woodcutter left his home, and started waking. It is a strange thing, to consider yourself at peace with your victims. A woodcutter lives among his prey, never fearing his life would be taken in vengeance for the brethren he had already taken and stripped down for parts. They are just trees.

These trees, the ones he walked by, didn’t seem to care. They had stood long, long before he had wandered here, sea salt still stuck to his skin, sweating brine. They would outlast him, most at least. And any that this man took from them would be easily replaced. A century from now, the only thing that would remain of Ozik would be that little stone, hanging by a perch of a fallen chimney, just waiting to fall.

The trees had changed, though. They had grown wings.

They sat amidst the branches, trying to look as natural as the scenery. They were made of the same bark, lightly tanned, the movements stiff and sticky from sap. They moved against the breeze, against the pine needles and oak leaves. Leaves tore away, spinning down and away in a gust. The leaves scattered as the wings strained to lift the trees away. Lift them far away, gone from this place more home to them than the chimney.

The trees wouldn’t move. They refused, in spite of themselves. Their roots had grown deep, and sturdy. A simple burst of chaos would not steal them away from their watch.

He laid a hand on one of his favorites, a younger pine. He knew he shouldn’t have favorites, but this pine had been kind to him. There was a crook that enfolded his weary body after a day deeper in the woods. The sap only covered his hair when he was in good humor, and the roots never rose to take him off his feet. The pine was younger than its brethren, prone to harder shakes and even a fallen limb last winter when the frost had barely glazed its needles.

Ozik’s hand was as grizzled as his pine’s bark, and the pine calmed. The shakes settled, and the wings returned to rest. But they remained, a reminder that something was upsetting the forest. He remained with the pine a while, and watched all the poor trees inflicted with wings.

Darkness was supposed to come soon, but the day instead became brighter as it wore on. Ozik could see in the northern woods a pale green light, mixed with a sickly yellow. He armed himself with his axe, and walked on.

Ozik did not consider himself one with the forest. These animals still ran from him, especially the beasts that would lay on his table at night. Ozik was an outsider, from a land of sea and salt breeze. He walked away, no, he stole away. Stole away from a land that chilled his bones, from a woman he could not call wife, a thief with nothing stolen but his own person. Ozik still wondered who profited from it all.

The trees grew more wild as he moved forward. One ash tree had burst into flame, burning green. The sparks flew into the air, but the tree had not yet given off any heat. A pack of badgers guarded their den, now submerged under a purple river. They looked at Ozik, growling as he encroached towards their territory. Ozik could only remember sails on a ship being as purple as the river he now beheld.

Why was everything reminding him of the past? He had not thought of that place for years. He lived alone, away from any of those troublesome men and women he used to call friend. The trees were honest. They couldn’t lie, would not try to deceive Ozik under any circumstances. They wouldn’t hide the truths he needed to know.

That’s not to say the trees did not have secrets. Every one of them holds three very dear to their heart. If you discover one, the tree must have killed you. Understand the second and lose your soul. Find the third, and no force on earth can protect you from their beauty.

Ozik had not found any secrets. He just knew they were there.

The trees were losing themselves. Ozik ran as a copse of trees burst behind him. They burst into light, flying in all directions. What was going on? Why did it all lose cohesion? A tree was moving. A tree was moving! It had pulled itself and its roots out of the ground, and was moving towards Ozik.

For many years Ozik had trusted the trees. But this time he turned and ran. Ran to, where made sense? In one direction lay a fire of fluffy dandelion. In another squirrels ran through the earth like a stream, bubbling up to look at the woodcutter. The air was turning red, and there was a pulse. There was a pulse?

Yes, there it was. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard it before, but it was there. It had been low, just a rumble beneath the trees. But he was closer and he could hear a THUMP. There it was again. Was it a heartbeat? No, it came from one direction then THUMP, a brook shook. Water flew up, then cascaded down knots of the trees.

THUMP. Ozik fell to the ground, and found himself surrounded by roots. The moving tree had found him. Though he wondered if it had ever really lost him.

He stared up into the tree. Trees don’t have faces, as much as Ozik suddenly wanted to see one right now. His wife’s face, his lost wife’s face. He had lost her, or she had lost him, but before that, before trees had grown wings and tracked him down she had spoken to him about the future. It was a kind voice, and a face that could be kind. The face that was so used to frowns, and disappointments, and even screams, would melt away. And it melted away now. Why did he see his wife’s face in a tree?

Ozik raised a hand, and realized he had left his axe somewhere. He didn’t know where it could be, or what it was at this point. THUMP. One of those things could have sent it spiraling through this forest. This forest? Why this forest? Ozik only lived in the one forest.

The tree shook is branches. There was more than one forest? Since when?

Since the birth.

What birth?

The tree moved, back to where it came from, poor Ozik still clutched in its embrace. This was not like his pine tree at home. This was a birch, and it was supposed to be kind already. Except it didn’t want to be. The birch had too many things to do to be kind today. Like taking Ozik elsewhere apparently.

He was truly starting to feel like he was back at sea. Elsewhere always was more important than here.

Elsewhere was a ways away. THUMP. Those were THUMP getting closer now. Ozik huddled close into the birch. The trees were starting to thin. He heard a hum. It started as a light broke through the tree line. The light was the pale green he had seen before. But it was surrounded by darkness.

THUMP. Was that the forest, the birch, or his heart?

The birch broke through the trees, and stood still. Ozik climbed off, and looked down into a valley. Broken out of two cliffs, scarred rock climbed out of a ravine. The place was bare, and it took Ozik a moment to realize that he hadn’t actually been too far from his home. These hills were just two day’s walk north. But why come to such a place? There was no life here, and no reason to care.

THUMP.

There might have been a reason to care. But what?

A light winked, and Ozik looked around. The light that had shone so brightly as he had approached now blinked in and out around the ravine. A light came out from behind a rock, circled the woodcutter, and flew five feet before THUMP it was gone.

THUMP THUMP. Two at a time now. Things were apparently getting serious.

Ozik found a perch from a small boulder, and settled down. Something was happening, and he could feel the hum from the center. He couldn’t really go anywhere. THUMP THUMP. That wasn’t true, he always could run. THUMP THUMP. He ran from responsibility all his life.

THUMP THUMP THUMP. With each pound he could feel a tiny memory shake itself into memory. A woman, his wife, in bed. She is with a stranger. Her melted face is drowning him in misery.

THUMP THUMP. His first attempt at building the hut in the forest. His hands run red with blood. The winter will be harder than he could imagine. The trees gave him firewood. The brooks gave him life.

THUMP. Sitting with his wife. Ozik could feel the heat rise within him. She was so beautiful. Always so beautiful.

THUMP. The first tree. It broke three saplings on its way down.

THUMP THUMP THUMP. His hands on the door, his wife’s hands on his back, pleading. Her belly is swollen. It doesn’t matter. It’s not his.

THUMP THUMP THUMP. Was it his?

THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP.

Ozik is thrown backwards. The light comes forth again, blinding him. Bark enfolds him. White, birch. The tree holds him fast, but he cannot see. He cannot hear. All he has is darkness.

He ran. He ran into himself. Give him peace. Give Ozik solitude. That’s all he ever wanted. A chance to love far away. Solitude would only make the lights shine brighter. He would only hear sweet things. No more pain. No more doubt.

“What am I?”

Ozik opened his eyes.

The ravine had been broken apart. The rocks were covered in new grass, still wet from a morning dew. It was morning, the sun breaking through the trees ahead of Ozik. But there had been no trees before then. Tall trees, strong. Able to survive a winter.

In the middle of what had been the ravine huddled a small boy. He flitted from rock to grass to branch, his brow furrowed. He passed his hand through the branch, the brow furrowing farther than any child should. His hands passed through rocks. He could only move himself.

Ozik stood, watching the new thing affect no change, bring nothing to himself.

The boy screamed. The wail shook the trees, tearing leaves to pieces and spinning them around him in a torrent of wind and dust. The rocks broke again, hoping to appease this thing. He was a thing.

No, he was a he.

Ozik walked down to the boy. It still screamed, this thing. Ozik’s hair started to buzz and spark. He kept walking. A welt started to bruise even more.

The boy suddenly stopped, looking at Ozik. The thing passed his hand through Ozik. Ozik felt a rush, a spring air passing through his heart. He shuddered, stepping back.

The boy sucked in a breath to scream again.

Ozik pushed his hand into the boy, placing his hand where the heart should be. The boy stopped, looking at Ozik. The woodcutter placed his hand above the boy’s head. When the boy moved, so did Ozik’s hand.

They looked at each other. The boy’s eyes were young, jewels of fire and forest that sparkled with hatred and curiosity. Ozik’s eyes were mud, dark and possibly fading.

“Where am I?”

“Home.”

“What am I?”

Ozik led the boy back to his cabin. “What do you want to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s usually a good place to start.”