Mother of Forests

Once upon a time, a young seed was picked up by a bird with a trenchant eye, a redoubtable crow, and carried by beak to a place far away from where she had first fallen to earth. The crow was scanning the world around him for something shiny to take home to his mate, as he always did, when he came across an object that shone so much that he cried out in wonder. The seed was dropped in the moment of that cry, and she fell to earth a second time, here onto an empty rock face.

She was dropped into a deep crevasse of rock, and never did see what happened to that bird with the trenchant eye, that redoubtable crow; if he obtained the object of great shininess, she never found out. Instead, she discovered that the crevasse in the rock was an opening to wonderful, rich soil. She nestled in and germinated. She allowed the powers of wind and water, earth and sun to work upon her, and soon enough, she extended her first leaf to the light above, and her first root to the darkness below. She loved them both, the light and the darkness, and needed them both, for they fed her, each in their way.

She was a tree now, she realized, and she was glad, for a tree seemed the right thing to be. She was a bit lonely for other trees; the barren rock around her kept any others from growing. But the wind was a reliable messenger, and at certain times of the year, it carried waves of pollen, which were small messages written in code from other trees. And these waves of pollen caused seeds to come forth from her.

These seeds all fell to earth on barren rock, however, and never once found soil to anchor their roots. And redoubtable crows were in short supply, it seemed, and her seeds simply lay there, exposed on the barren rock, fallen to earth with no purpose, until the wind and the water ground and scattered them.

Each autumn, the light retreated, and the tree dropped her leaves on the barren rock and drifted to sleep. Each spring, she woke and unfurled new leaves, barely sparing a downward glance at the decaying, shed glory that was last year's fashion.

Her focus was her seeds. Waves of pollen came, seeds grew and dropped, and the tree nearly wept, for it seemed no seed of hers would ever take root and grow.

Season passed after season. A spring full of buds was followed by a summer full of seeds, in turn followed by an autumn full of leaves and a winter in which to sleep. The tree gave up all hope of ever having a seed take root; the rock was impenetrable. Her seeds could find no dark place to germinate and no soil in which to sink their roots.

Centuries passed, and the tree foundered. No leaves unfurled in her upper reaches, and some of her branches became lifeless and brittle, breaking in high winds and falling to earth. The tree knew she was dying. The waves of pollen that came to her on the springtide winds no longer held any real meaning, nor gave her any feeling of purpose; there were seeds still, but not as many as there used to be.

One autumn night, a rough, wild wind blew in from far across the barren rock, and knocked the tree down; her trunk, once strong, became a ragged, half-shattered stump. A few connections remained between branches and roots, but they were narrow and reduced so far that she thought that when she went to sleep that winter, she would never wake up.

But in the spring, she was touched awake by the sun, and when the sap rose in the narrow and convoluted path between root and branches, she was so surprised that she unfurled a few verdant leaves. When the pollen waves came, a few new seeds were created, nurtured carefully with the food from the new leaves--her last new leaves, the tree knew.

Summer came, and the seeds fell to the barren rock, as they always did, and the tree thought nothing of it. She was close to death now, and dreaming of her next life already; the realities of the barren rock and the lonely life there were falling behind her.

A summer rainstorm, its wind and water combined, pushed a few of the seeds into the rock crevasse, which was no longer completely blocked by her trunk. They fell into the decaying remains of her root system, and much to the tree's distantly-felt surprise, germinated there.

The new seeds allowed the powers of wind and water, earth and sun to work upon them, and soon, they poked their three tender heads above the edge of the rock crevasse. They extended their first leaves to the light above, and their first roots to the darkness below; they loved both the light and the darkness, and needed both, for they fed the seedlings.

We are seedlings, they realized, and their old, dying mother told them, no, you are trees; soon the winter will come, and we will all go to sleep together; and when the sun turns to us again, you will awaken from your nap and make new leaves and begin to grow again. You will make new leaves each year, and some day new seeds; and because there are three of you, perhaps you can attract some young crow with a trenchant eye, some redoubtable bird, to bear your seeds far away into the world.

Wonderful, they said. Amazing. They did not think to ask why she said nothing about waking in the spring with them.

The winter came. The old tree died, and the young trees went to sleep. And, as the old tree had promised, the seedlings woke in the spring.

They stretched and budded and unfurled leaves. They looked at the decaying trunk of the old tree, and whispered among themselves: what happened to her? Will that happen to us?

The middle tree, the wisest one, guessed that it would, and that this was why trees made seeds, so that some part of themselves would continue on after they fell.

The trees grew, year after year, and their trunks crowded the crevasse of stone, and they squabbled often over light and water. But all three noticed that unfortunately, none of their seeds grew. A few would sprout in the shallow layer of loam created by the old dead tree and the generations of leaves, but the rock beneath made it impossible for a seedling to truly take root and tap into the water.

What shall we do? they asked each other.

The one closest to the rising sun said, I shall do as our mother told us, and try to attract a trenchant young bird to bear my seeds far away.

The one closest to the setting sun said, I'm going to try to produce as many leaves as possible, and build up a thick layer of loam for my seeds to fall into.

And the middle one said, We shall do both of these things, and a third thing as well. We shall reach out with our roots and crush the rocks and turn them to sand, and then our young seedlings will have purchase for their own roots, and be able to take in water and stand fast against the winds.

You are right, the others told the middle one, and they did all of these things, to some measure of success.

Those trees grew old and died, and with luck, two seedlings took their place in the crevasse and bent their souls to the same tasks; and it happened like this, over and over again, for centuries.

A thousand years later, a forest grew where once there had been only barren rock.

And a thousand years later, a young seed was picked up by a bird with a trenchant eye, a redoubtable crow, and carried by beak to a place far distant from where she had first fallen to earth. The crow was scanning the world around him for something shiny to take home to his mate, as he always did, when he came across an object that shone so much that he cried out in wonder. The seed was dropped in the moment of that cry, and she fell to earth a second time, here on a wide prairie.

And so she grew on that fertile plain, and this daughter seed, like her distant ancestors before her, in turn became the mother of forests so mighty that even a crow on wing could not see the end of them.