Trees--Chapter 1

CHAPTER I

I pity you, you ragged thing. I pity your pitiful life. Your unlucky fate. You could have been granted the job of a cuff of a coat, or a corner of a sheet, or something else of value. But no—fate induced your unfortunate self to the lowly task you now hold…the task you shall bear until your poor, threadbare life comes to its anticipated end.

I do pity the tattered old rag that is clenched tightly in my right fist, so tightly that I feel it is barely there at all—the material is so thin that my skin touches my skin on the other side of the cloth membrane. My hand hates the rag. For if it were to be thicker, I would not leave the table every day with an abundance of minute scratches from knuckles to elbows—marks that weave together into the most intricate patterns; like a sketched maze of little bumps and rises.

Monotony is the conjurer of these—such—thoughts.

It is monotony that causes me to pity the rag. It’s monotony that synchronizes every movement, every thought, of mine to the steady beat of the rag scraping across the surfaces. It’s monotony that makes me notice my shadow, upon the hot dusty cobblestones, and see the way my elbow juts outwards at the end of every scritch and every scratch. Occasionally a foot, or a pair of feet, will step across that shadow. But I hardly notice them. My back is towards the sun, which is past midpoint, and beginning its descent. I can almost sense the angle the beam of heat creates on its way to my exposed back. My thin shirt does close to nothing in shielding me from the warmth. And the heat seems to descend in waves—pulses—pulsing along with the pulses of my scrubbing.

My hand rises to wipe imaginary sweat off my hairline. Immediately I discern the change, the pause in my shadow’s movement—the synchronous jutting outwards into the air. But the rest of me holds the beat, and in less than a moment my hands are scrubbing the rusty old pots once again—the pulse resumed, and no harm done.

Suddenly a sound—a voice—pierces through my bubble of obliviousness. It’s his voice. My brother’s voice. I cannot detect fully the words being spoken—but they are followed by a bout of laughter, in which I strain to recognize his laugh; I fail; he does not join in the laughter. Undoubtedly he cracked a joke, something or other. For he has an exceptional sense of humor. But rarely he uses laughter’s drawstring—like a drawstring of a curtain—to expose himself. Laughter is so exposing.

He hates me. I wonder if he’ll ever get over it. Still in rhythm, I lean over, dip the rag into the wooden pail of soapy water, erect myself, and then resume. I don’t understand him. I don’t have the patience to understand him. Actually, that’s a lie. I can have the patience, if I have the energy to summon that patience. I just don’t have the energy.

As if taken by a sudden notion, I break the rhythm and stand up tall, my neck thankful for the respite. My eyes search for him, my brother; at last I find the place the laughter generated from. And my eyes rest on him—one particular figure a ways away. At the edge of the bustling plaza.I wonder if he’ll ever change his hair. Most everyone I’ve talked to approves of it, though. I’m alone in my opinion. I guess his hair’s not awful, though. It’s just peculiar…He’s shaved it pretty close on the sides of his head, but lets it grow freely on the top. Sometimes it hangs down almost to his chin, like a dead bird.

He is amidst a group of young men, a small group—and I recognize a few among them. The ones he tends to hang around most. I wonder if they have much influence over him. Or vice versa.

But my eyes jump back to my brother. I could identify him in an instant, even if he was hidden in a maze of people. And no—it’s not that he looks strange or is freakishly tall or freakishly short or whatnot. He looks like any average person. It’s something about him. He seems to create an individualized air around him, that can be sensed, or even almost seen. It’s inexplicable. But one needs only to see his eyes…Then they’d understand. Oh, I can place my brother's eyes, even though he is turned away—dark and defiant, and trapped—like an imprisoned wolf, waiting for the right moment to spring. His impudent nature has sometimes alarmed me, and others close to him. One can be banished from the village for even one small act of rebellion. In times where his patience grows thin, and threat like a cloud hovers over him, I want to pull him away and force him to listen to me, to listen to reason. But nothing I can do can possibly reach him. There is only one who is able to turn aside his anger, and to reach into him and draw out his real, quiet and attentive self.

And that’s Ivy, our sister.

And his name is Thrush. But to everyone else, he is known as Thrash. Thrash, the rebel. Only his two sisters call him Thrush. Ivy calls him Thrush, for she does not know Thrash. And I call him by his real name, even though I have witnessed both his personalities.

The thrush, a songbird. Forever engraved into my memory is the first time I had seen Thrush. Directly after a heated dispute, years ago, between he and I, I had sought peace in our small hut at the edge of the village. But on approach, a beautiful sound had reached my ears. It was a harp—a miniature harp, which he obtained who knows how—and the loveliest sound I had ever heard, and have ever heard, since. But when I had gingerly pushed aside the curtain of willow so that I could find the origin of the strange music, utter surprise and amazement had frozen me. For there was Thrush, playing a gorgeous melody on the instrument, and staring with brotherly love up at his younger sister. Slowly and unnoticed, I had let the willow slip from my hand and had departed from the peaceful scene. It was then I discovered that something more than the ties of siblinghood knotted Thrush and Ivy together.

Suddenly the icy touch of a hand compels me back to the present, in which I realize I’m a statue—standing here with a rag in one hand and a small pot in the other. My eyes dart to my shadow before me, and I see a figure—merely a dark shape, on the cobbles—beside my own. I whirl around. Before me is a young girl, standing barely taller than my waist.

Her tiny, rounded chin is wrinkled like the skin of a sun-kissed fruit; over which the unblemished lower lip of her small mouth is slightly curved. The furrows in her chin compliment the perfect smoothness of her cheeks—the usual paleness of which concealed by dark blotches, centered on her eyes. Her eyebrows, which are so deeply furrowed as she looks up at me, push down her long, black eyelashes; causing them to jut out like a spider’s legs when it’s squished between two fingers.

My name she blurts out, twice, from her glossy lips.

“Yes, Lay? What is wrong?” I hurriedly gather up the energy necessary for comforting a six-year-old child.

“Why didn’t you answer?” she queries. Her words are just above a whisper, and they’re dry and hoarse; the attributes of one’s voice, when accompanying tears.

“Oh—I’m sorry, Lay,” I say quickly. “What do you need, Lay? What happened?”

The child’s sniffles become more consistent. “Mummy—Mummy says they’re gonna take ‘way Grassie!”

I stand, a dripping pot in one hand and the limp rag in the other. Struggling for any words of solace, I stand there, still for a moment. But after the pause I carefully lay the things aside and kneel beside the whimpering child. Now level with her giant, shining eyes, I can see tiny sparkles pooling in them, like melted crystals.

“’Isie, what do we do?”

“Hush,” I reply, and then lean forward to embrace the child. Holding her head up against my shoulder, I fight for words. The sniffles grow louder, but at last I draw her away, and try to meet the gaze of the tear-stained face.

“Lay, remember what I told you when I first gave her to you?”

With a choke, the child nods.

“I told you that one day the They might take her away. I warned you of this, and made you promise that you would be able to accept it.” I brush away a strand of the girl’s dark hair that has glued itself into the stream of tears. “Do you understand?”

Lay shakes her head, and sputters out a question. “But—can’t you save her? You said you’d always save her.” A new burst of tears flows down the child’s cheeks.

“I told you that I’d protect her from other things. Not the They. Lay…” The child does not meet my gaze. A flurry of hopeless aggravation rises within me. The child sees me as her hero…And now here I am, doing nothing—able to do nothing—when the child needs me. “Lay…Grassie is, by far, the most beautiful, gorgeous goat in the whole village. The most perfect. And she is not a kid anymore. You need to let her go, like I warned you.”

Still the girl does not raise her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Lay.” My voice grows gentle, and is now a mere whisper. “If I could do anything to save her, you know I would. But the Elders have made their decision.” I gently lift the girl’s chin, and our eyes finally meet. “This is an honorable way for a goat to go. You do understand that, don’t you?”

A short nod.

“It means that you raised her up well. And that the Elders think that she’s the best goat out of them all. You should be happy for her—it is a very honorable task, and not many goats are worthy to fill it out.”

“But—but—Grassie’s special,” Lay whimpers. With a dirtied fist the girl wipes her eyes, leaving a streak of dirt on her damp face. Soft hiccups begin, and her eyes fight against more tears that threaten to fall.

“And that’s why they chose to take her,” I whisper. “Listen, Lay. Grassie doesn’t know what is going to happen. She won’t feel a thing. I promise you.”

The girl’s mouth opens in a question. “I know she won’t feel anything, ‘Isie. Because she’s not going to die. Why are you talking like she is going to die? ‘Isie, I want to know what is going to happen to her. Where are the They going to take her?”

I pause for a moment. But then I reply, “The They will bring her to a wonderful place, Lay. To a place so beautiful you’d think it’d only exist in dreams. A place without hunger, without sadness, and where the sun is free to shine. The They’ll take her because she is a perfect goat. And she deserves it the best out of all of ‘em.” Satisfied with my answer, I look again into the little girl’s trusting eyes. But they still are not comforted.

“But she can’t go without me!” Lay blurts out, a fresh new wave of salty tears streaking down her cheeks. The sobs return, and I strain to make out the words spat out in between.

“She needs me! ‘Member—‘member that time—when we left her outside? An’ she got—sick? An’ where’ll she get water? She can’t go to the creek by herself!” Suddenly Lay flings herself at me, eager for the comfort of my embrace. “’Isie—‘Isie—she can’t live without me. Please tell me where she’ll go. Yes, tell me how to get there. Can the They take me, too?”

I open my mouth to reply, but no words make their way out. A creeping lump rises slowly in my throat, and I frantically search for words. My eyes begin to burn, but I withhold the quenching tears, and try my best to blink them away. But I cannot blink away the wavering in my voice. “Lay, listen to me. You do not want the They to take you. One day—yes but—“ My voice breaks, and I’m left staring, distrait, over Lay’s shoulder.

Silent at last, the child leans out of my grasp to peer once again into my eyes. “I will see her again,” she says decidedly, as if some new notion has come over her. “When They take me, I will be able to see her? To see her in the wonderful place?”

I manage a weak and breaking smile, and I feel something warm trickle slowly down my cheek. I brush it away. Not yet trusting my voice, I rise, and take the girl’s hand. Such trust—such unfaltering trust, I feel in the girl’s hand—that I can lead her wherever I wish, and she will follow, unquestioning.

And as we trot along, towards the riverbank—not on the foot-trodden pathway, but our own way, through the waist-high grass—I can’t help but imagine the how delicate the tiny girl’s life really is. Her fate is as unknown and as spontaneous as a leaf picked up and thrown about in the hands of the wind. And as I struggle to shove the lump back down my throat and to quench my burning eyes with not tears but pure willpower, I look down at the tiny dark bobbing head. With her long, tear-soaked lashes, and her bright, glossy eyes. Her pudgy little hands, and the pudgy little fingers that would so often slip into my own. And I love her—as a mother would her own child. And I realize that I crave this child’s love—it makes me feel needed, and not alone.