Tales of the Tree - In an enchanted park, in the heart of a modern city, an ancient oak whispers the tales of the ages. Listen carefully...you are invited to send us the tales you have heard, whispered on the wind.
The old oak had been planted by a young bard, newly risen to his status in the order. As he patted the last of the earth around the tender sapling's roots, he whispered a quiet but heartfelt blessing.
"May you rise straight and tall through the ages, Sacred One, and may the secrets of the world be ever kept in the rings of your life.
Time went on, as time cannot help but do, and the bard grew to be an aged Master, and passed away, to become reborn again and again. Seasons passed..and the forest changed..dying, living, changing always, but the oak remained, growing straight and strong, firmly rooted in the heart of Mother Earth, stretching his arms ever higher toward Father Sun. Storms, droughts, and fires touched him briefly, leaving scars and marks on his bark, and occasionally even in his heartwood, but he lived on, growing stronger for the trials. Even as man's numbers grew, and they encroached into the sacred places, he survived...for none who came upon him could fell him. As woodsmen approached, they would stare up at him in awe, and whisper "Certainly this tree has lived forever. I will not be the one to murder such an ancient life as this."
And so it happened that hundreds of years later, the old oak still stood, amidst the skyscrapers of modern man's cities, for even the twentieth century developers were touched by the aura of wisdom and age that the tree radiated. Planners of the city in which he stood had made him the center of a park, rather than have him removed.
One fine Beltane morning, as the old oak was rustling his leaves, sharing a private joke with the breeze, a young woman entered the park with an oak sapling. It was too early for the usual park patrons to be there, as the sun had barely risen, and so the old oak found his attention drawn to her. The breeze left in a snit, having received no answer from the oak in response to her last whispered tease, but the ancient barely noticed, for something about this visitor stirred an ancient memory in him.
The woman planted the sapling carefully, humming an old Celtic song. As she patted the soil around it's base she whispered her own blessing. "Watch and listen, Sacred One, and chronicle the ages as they pass."
She touched the leaves of the sapling delicately and quietly left the park. The old oak, astonished at the familiarity of the ritual, stirred restlessly and spoke softly to the sapling. "So then, does the world of man return to the the old ways?"
The sapling, still dazed from her transferral, replied weakly. "I'm not sure what you mean. I know nothing of the world beyond where I was grown. I came into being on a wood platform, high above the world of men, where I could easily bathe in the sun and catch the breezes, safe in a snug pot. The woman took care of me, and sang to me often. I was happy there." Her leaves drooped slightly. "I don't know why she brought me here. Perhaps I will die."
A tiny tremor shook the ground...the old oak's equivalent of a snort. "Die? I should think not! Have you no sense of what you are? You're an OAK, albeit a senseless sapling, and no ordinary oak at that, for you have been planted in a sacred grove, with a Druid's blessing, as I once was long, long ago. Why, when I am nothing but stump meat for grubs, you will still be gathering stories. Die, indeed!"
The sapling shivered as the capricious breeze came laughing by once more, tickling her. She shook her leaves in annoyance, puzzled to distraction by the old oak's words. "Stories? What kind of stories?" she asked, intrigued in spite of herself.
"All kinds," the ancient tree answered, with a subtle, proud stretch to the sky. "Happy ones...sad ones...the stories of man, and animals...and yes, even plants. You will collect them, and make them part of you..and whisper them out to the world for those who have ears to listen." He gave a soft whispery sigh. "Not that there are many of those anymore. Hardly anyone leans in to listen to trees these days." His voice reflected a sudden weariness.
"I'll listen," said the sapling, curving her trunk ever so slightly toward the old oak. "If I am to be a story tree, then I must learn to recognize a story when it comes along, I would think. Please, tell them to me."
The oak, pleased once by the sapling's williness to listen, and twice by the fact that she seemed to have forgotten about dying, gave a rustling chuckle and creaked..which was the oak equivalent of clearing the throat.
"Of course. Hmm..Let's see..Oh, yes..Here is a good one..It happened under this very branch, long, long ago..."