The Tree - Microfiction

THE TREE

It was just a tree.

Indeed, had you seen it, that might well be all you had thought of it. Just a tree. A tree like any other. One more lost tree in a forgotten forest. Most like, had you passed by, by that very nature you would not have seen it at all. Invisible it was, as the begging hand stretched out was invisible to those who hurried by, busy in the important matters of the world.

And perhaps that was why.

None knew how the word passed. And pass it must, for it was a different place each time. Perhaps in the drum of spring rain on sleeping skins of those with no cover save the sky. perhaps whispered in the slow slither of sweat down brows of those lucky ones who slaved each summer day at tasks no other would do, for perhaps a single copper coin. Or shouted in the howl of winter winds down those dark streets folks with coin never walk, set counter point by shivered bones and chattered teeth of those who had no other place to go.

But pass it did, that word. And having passed - they came.

Some there were who never ceased their walking. As each Tree came, and passed, they would set weary and blood torn feet to roads unknown, unwalked - to walk to the next Tree's being. Others would take up some sack of few belongings, or nothing save themselves, the moment they heard the word. And then set to walking. The most fortunate would have some small store of coin, and take a travel to some nearer place - but at the end, all would come the same. A-foot and shivered.

At the Tree they would gather. Gather, and sit silent. Sit and sit - and sit some more. ‘Til there would come a time all would know, and know no more would come that Tree-tide. And there would ever be spaces that had not been empty the Tree-tide past. Spaces not filled, for a body long cold in some lost place, a stomach too long empty and eyes now closed and dark.

Then would one stand. Which one mattered not, for there was no Tree-tide they would not be but the first of many. And stand they would, and they would speak. Speak of one lost, perhaps of one of those spaces empty. Speak of cold winds and endurance beyond last enduring. Of fire or wasting, of cold nights and morning sightless eyes. But not those words alone. For names they would speak, names the busy world did not remember, if ever that world had known them. Speak of kind words spoken in other cold nights, and speak of deeds done none save such as those gathered Tree-side would ever see. A rotten cast loaf of bread given by one hungry to one more hungered. Of shoulders offered to burdens not their own. Of life lived only among those with no life to live - and of worth only to those without the busy world's worth.

Then, as each name now lost was spoken last, then would the one who stood bring forth some manner of thing. A scrap of wood carved with sharp stone edge over a hundred long nights. A stone, polished by the fumbled fingers of one with no skill, but with need of memory to be held close. A scrap of pretty cast off, found flying in the wind. And the one standing would take that they held, and with a torn strip of leather, a broken vine, with hair taken from their very heads if need was must, then that they held they would bind to the Tree.

And they would stand, and silence would be their companion as memory was stored. And another would stand. Stand, and another, and stand, and another - and the Tree would gather to it the memories of the lost-forever.

And its boughs would bend with many hangings.

Then, when all were done who had need to stand, then would the gifting come. And each would give of all they had. A hug, a hand proffered and shaken, a smile, perhaps a soft and kindly word. For those were all they each had to give, and those were all none there would be given from the busy world any day save this. And if the busy world would set to feasting this day, then those there would feast. For they would smile and they would greet, and they would sit and they would talk. And above and beyond any and all - they would be _seen_.

When the day was done, as the sun passed to another year's turning, those present would pass also. Back to the long roads. Back to the streets no other would walk, and to the long dark days ahead – days dark for any bright sun of the busy world. And they would watch each one walk from the Tree, watch and store each face. In case that face was theirs to see that time, and that time the last. In case that face were next Tree's empty space, and heavied branch.

And after all who had been there were there no more, then only the Tree was left. And the branches still bowed bore their burdens - left to the passing winds and the tides of time, perhaps to the grasping hand of some passer-by ignorant of their meaning...

And the Tree was just a tree once more.

It was just a tree. A tree like any other. One more lost tree in a forgotten forest. But to those with eyes to see and ears to hear - IT BURNED.