The Word Tree

Just a strange story based loosely on a relationship I had, have gone around the houses with it and ended up with a jangled sort of poem/short story.Of sorts.

The word tree

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I raised you in silence. With no words to give you, I taught you the language of our landscape. Of mountains, forests and frozen lakes. Wind that colds the blood and hardens hearts. The soil from which we rose to return.

We of this land are forged of ice. But you, little bird, are fire.

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I look at you and see the world. What I was, I am and will be, the arc of my life in your frame. So fragile and full of youth. Brown hair tumble, cut scab knees and awkwardness in place of grace. The urge to draw you into me, safe within my bones.

You look back blush, bow and smile. Wait for nod, and here it is. Exploding gleeful, leaping hugging, you turn nimble-quick and fizz to the door. Burst from the cottage and into the light.

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I watch your feet pound the grass, flying over field to forest. Over sprawling green, under endless blue, you grow smaller and smaller to me. Break the tree line, disappear.

I turn from the door. Take my coat from the hook. Gather my tools and tread.

I step outside, and am older still.

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I work the day’s machinations alone. Old hands cramp and muscles creak, I sweat despite the cold. Progress stutter halts against earth unyielding. Hawk and cough and spit. There is much work and little space to be young. Heart heavy and chewed lip, I look towards the forest.

Where do you go, little bird?

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I’m at our door as sunlight dies. On heavy oak carved by my hand, wild flowers picked by yours. I enter and you rise, awkward legs untangle. Steaming iron pot on fire. Everything is calm. From bag upended, greens and turnips tumble onto table. We fall into familiar roles. A movement, a look, a gesture. A sanctuary of solace, a perfect place of peace.

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You peel, chop and boil. I scrub dirt from tired skin. We eat on stools by evening hearth, heat of fire and quiet room. You finish, rise retire to cot. Pull blanket over, smile goodnight.

I sit awhile all thinking fretful, fear I can’t put shape to. There’s much in you I cannot see. I want to pace with scowl and skulk, but stay sat stooled and mull. I listen to you breath.

What do you dream, little bird?

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I sink slow to slumber, then jumble headed jolt. Awake and interrupted, I look down to your cot. Eyes closed and body still, your lips slow flicker and dance. Breath shaped into form and sound, nocturnal murmurs utter. Shadows from your small mouth whisper, creep to corners and echo dark.

Your gentle breeze of sleep, now a heavy mist. Veiled figures march, soft and strange and bold. Knuckles white and shiver spine, I cannot move for fearing.

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I watch you wake in early hours, quiet now and bright eye tired. Watch you yawn and watch you move, floating lightly round the room. I drag my body up from chair. Stretch my aching frame and shudder. Night fades quick in muddled mind as if deceived by dreams.

You work with me today, we scuttle busy and prepare. I ready take my coat from hook. Gather tools. Tread.

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I keep you at my side through morning. Small body straining at hardened earth, dirt on pale white skin. I see you glance at the forest, I know you long to be free. Hair scrapes from red face. You catch my eye, smiling sweet. Nod of my head, clench of my jaw.

What do you sing, little bird?

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You leave our labour in evening light, I in dark to flowers on oak. We eat on stools carved by my hand. Blanket pulled, you sleep I sit. The fire spits and crackle warms, against my tired bones.

I wait this time and here they come. Newborn sounds from sleeping lips that live and die in moments. They fade as ghosts and haunt the room. A soft spell holds you cradle still. Crouch to cot I tremble. Ear to lips I hear the words, the ones you’ve found and hidden. Listen to secrets spilt in sleep.

I know your face so well, a canvas of changing moods. But now with notes forbidden your expressions take new meaning. I listen in wild wonder. I hear your smile, it sings to me. With ice in my blood I shiver afraid.

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I work the ground with sweat and blood. Rusty restless, your nightly whispers needle. Sounds unfamiliar let slip from sleeping lips. Each night I watch you leave this world for another. You grow smaller and smaller from me. I must keep you safe inside me. You do not know the way of things.

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I watch you wake in morning light. I see you fragile fleeting. You look back blush, and wait for nod. Burst into light. Disappear.

I take my coat from hook and follow, over sprawling green.

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You skip sliver quick through trees. I pad behind, an old wolf creeping. The forest darkens thick with chill and wheezing breath hangs heavy. You careless flutter unafraid. I too was bold in youth. Then fear put face up to my face, its breath upon my skin. I saw its darkness, heard its death. It lives in me now to surface again.

You follow a path of your making. I stumble clumsy behind. I hide as you reach a clearing, an old body behind old bark. You stand at the base of a tree. Tall and smooth it reaches to canopy. White fruit bunches in branches and leaves.

You bend spindly legs and stoop. Drop to knee and hand to earth. Bony fingers brush through dirt, sweeping leaves and rustle. Your small hands reach and grasp and lift. I watch you inspect and raise to mouth. I see you chew and swallow.

I hear you speak the secrets of the strange white fruit aloud.

What have you done, little bird?

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I return late dark and brooding. Flowers on oak, stools by hearth. Blanket and sleep and whispers.

I take my coat from hook. Hear my boots crunch icy grass. Across the field to forest, under endless black. Oak and flowers small behind me, I disappear in wooden dark.

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I follow the path you danced along. At last I cross the clearing, at last I find the tree. Above me white fruit glisten, and all around me quiet. I grip my axe in cold cramp hands. Cough and spit and brace. Iron bites the wooden flesh, and again and again I swing. Tree bark creak and white fruit tumble. Sweat cold skin and jaw tight clench. Whispers rise in wind and swirl inside my head. And again and again I swing.

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I look down at the bleeding tree. Butchered stump and white fruit crush. Fallen branches, scattered leaves. The whisper wind has fallen. A silence now I’ve never known.

Do you see, little bird?

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I reach the door, heavy heart stops at barren oak. Sudden frantic, push and step. An empty room an empty cot, and everywhere your voice. A thousand of your whispers grow louder all around me. Inside every bone, and more than I can bare. Fire dead in ashen earth, my little bird has gone.

I clamp hands useless to my ears, those that couldn’t hear. Open mouth that fails my throat, that which cannot howl. My knees give way and buckled bones, they tumble back to soil.

I die that night in between the silence and the scream.

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End

Author's Note

I know it's a little strange and awkward, and I don't know the craft of writing in any professional sense...but appreciate any comments or feedback. Thanks