Snark's Tale
Jan. 17th, 2005 10:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joegodaThe tree woke from a short nap. It had spent a long time wondering about answers to the Universe's question, and why butterflies and what were little girls really made of. It had finally answered one, and was starting on the other when it decided to take a nap. That was a week ago.
It woke, shaking out it's branches in slow rythm to the wind, because there was a lump at it's base, near the roots and there was something slowly tickling it's bark. Not an annoying little tickle, like that time the cat came to sharpen it's claws, not a horrible ticklish tickle, like when the wood cutter decided to trim it's branches, but just a steady sort of stroke, stroke tickle.
It reached it's senses down to it's base, and found there a man. Sleeping. Curled about itself as though it was trying to hide and the best way to hide was to turn inside itself and dissapear.
Carefully, carefully, it reached out with tiny branches and touched the man. Then it poked the man with a gentle poke. Not getting a reaction, it reached out with one of it's longer branches and turned the man over, and slowly bent down till it could look at the man with it's knots.
The man was, it decided, a decidedly short man, as far as men go. Dressed in red and white stripes and not terribly attractive, and to all intents and purposes seemed to be asleep. And snoring. And scratching. It was the scratching that had woken the tree, because the man, trying to scratch himself in a dream, had instead reached out and was scratching the bark of the tree near it's base.
'How very odd', thought the tree. 'There hasn't been a man sleeping under me since.. since.. well, never, actually' So the tree pondered this strange occurance, while it stretched itself back up to it's real hight, pulling all the kinks out of it's back and front and sides, which to you and me, may look all the same, but to a tree, makes all the difference in the world.
It pondered a little faster than most trees do, but then, it wasn't your ordinary tree. This was one of the first trees in this valley, created long, long ago, out of a dream. What would take an ordinary tree perhaps a year to do, this tree could do in a mere matter of months. This tree was whip-crackin' lighting fast compared to your average run of the mill tree.
So it came to a decision. It once again bent down, but this time picked the man up in it's branches and carried him high up, up, up and up, until the stars shone down on him and the moon shone down on him. The tree did this so that it could know the man better, for to a tree, starlight and moonlight create a vision of the things that lie inside. The moonlight and the starlight reveal the soul of a thing.
The soul of this man was ... damaged. It was basically a very good soul, as far as souls go, but it had seen terrible times and horrible times and times that were downright just not very good times at all even a little bit. And still, this was a soul that could take pleasure in the drift of clouds against a spring day, that could take joy in feeling rain on it's skin, that could feel happiness in the quiet times that exist when there isn't a whole lot of anything much going on, so would you just scratch a little bit lower please and thank you.
It was the soul of a beaten child, who felt no love from anyone because it truely believed there was no one. Who had come to recognise the whip and the lash and the beatings as the definition of love, and in the same breath came to recognise and know the absolute wrongness of that truth.
It was the heart of a wounded animal, that would snarl and bit at anyone that came to close, even those that truely meant to do it good. It was the heart that kept beating and hoping and praying that there was someone, anyone, somewhere, that would just pick it up and love it and hold it and shelter it and tell it that the world really was a magical and good place.
And so, the tree did. All through the night, the tree held this soul, this heart, this man. It gently rocked him in a cradle made of boughs and sang lullybyes from the whisper of leaves. It reached under the skin of the man with little sprigs and sprouts and little by little drained the poison out of him, all the rage, all the hate, all the fear, all the doubt. Slowly, slowly, slowly it worked to heal the soul of this poor broken man.
And when the morning came, the man still slept, so the tree continued to rock him and sing to him. It hid him high in the branches so that nobody, neither man nor death, nor animal nor beast could find him while it held him safe. Little by little the tree was healing him, slowly, slowy, slowly, and while it was drawing out the poison, it replace what it took with parts of itself.
It replaced with love, with patience, with kindness. It sang in the man's blood with confidence and pride and strength of sinew and the ability to bend, but not break, no matter how fierce the wind. Slowly, slowly, and slowly, as only a tree can be slow, it replaced what was broken with what was whole. As has been said, this was no ordinary tree.
After seven days, and seven nights, during which time life and death had come and gone to a great many things, the tree sat it's bundle down on the ground and decided to take a nap again.
.... to be continued......
It woke, shaking out it's branches in slow rythm to the wind, because there was a lump at it's base, near the roots and there was something slowly tickling it's bark. Not an annoying little tickle, like that time the cat came to sharpen it's claws, not a horrible ticklish tickle, like when the wood cutter decided to trim it's branches, but just a steady sort of stroke, stroke tickle.
It reached it's senses down to it's base, and found there a man. Sleeping. Curled about itself as though it was trying to hide and the best way to hide was to turn inside itself and dissapear.
Carefully, carefully, it reached out with tiny branches and touched the man. Then it poked the man with a gentle poke. Not getting a reaction, it reached out with one of it's longer branches and turned the man over, and slowly bent down till it could look at the man with it's knots.
The man was, it decided, a decidedly short man, as far as men go. Dressed in red and white stripes and not terribly attractive, and to all intents and purposes seemed to be asleep. And snoring. And scratching. It was the scratching that had woken the tree, because the man, trying to scratch himself in a dream, had instead reached out and was scratching the bark of the tree near it's base.
'How very odd', thought the tree. 'There hasn't been a man sleeping under me since.. since.. well, never, actually' So the tree pondered this strange occurance, while it stretched itself back up to it's real hight, pulling all the kinks out of it's back and front and sides, which to you and me, may look all the same, but to a tree, makes all the difference in the world.
It pondered a little faster than most trees do, but then, it wasn't your ordinary tree. This was one of the first trees in this valley, created long, long ago, out of a dream. What would take an ordinary tree perhaps a year to do, this tree could do in a mere matter of months. This tree was whip-crackin' lighting fast compared to your average run of the mill tree.
So it came to a decision. It once again bent down, but this time picked the man up in it's branches and carried him high up, up, up and up, until the stars shone down on him and the moon shone down on him. The tree did this so that it could know the man better, for to a tree, starlight and moonlight create a vision of the things that lie inside. The moonlight and the starlight reveal the soul of a thing.
The soul of this man was ... damaged. It was basically a very good soul, as far as souls go, but it had seen terrible times and horrible times and times that were downright just not very good times at all even a little bit. And still, this was a soul that could take pleasure in the drift of clouds against a spring day, that could take joy in feeling rain on it's skin, that could feel happiness in the quiet times that exist when there isn't a whole lot of anything much going on, so would you just scratch a little bit lower please and thank you.
It was the soul of a beaten child, who felt no love from anyone because it truely believed there was no one. Who had come to recognise the whip and the lash and the beatings as the definition of love, and in the same breath came to recognise and know the absolute wrongness of that truth.
It was the heart of a wounded animal, that would snarl and bit at anyone that came to close, even those that truely meant to do it good. It was the heart that kept beating and hoping and praying that there was someone, anyone, somewhere, that would just pick it up and love it and hold it and shelter it and tell it that the world really was a magical and good place.
And so, the tree did. All through the night, the tree held this soul, this heart, this man. It gently rocked him in a cradle made of boughs and sang lullybyes from the whisper of leaves. It reached under the skin of the man with little sprigs and sprouts and little by little drained the poison out of him, all the rage, all the hate, all the fear, all the doubt. Slowly, slowly, slowly it worked to heal the soul of this poor broken man.
And when the morning came, the man still slept, so the tree continued to rock him and sing to him. It hid him high in the branches so that nobody, neither man nor death, nor animal nor beast could find him while it held him safe. Little by little the tree was healing him, slowly, slowy, slowly, and while it was drawing out the poison, it replace what it took with parts of itself.
It replaced with love, with patience, with kindness. It sang in the man's blood with confidence and pride and strength of sinew and the ability to bend, but not break, no matter how fierce the wind. Slowly, slowly, and slowly, as only a tree can be slow, it replaced what was broken with what was whole. As has been said, this was no ordinary tree.
After seven days, and seven nights, during which time life and death had come and gone to a great many things, the tree sat it's bundle down on the ground and decided to take a nap again.
.... to be continued......
