Forbidden Whispers of the Wind and Trees

An autumn breeze kisses her skin, waking her from her revery. She rinses the plate in her hand and turns off the tap. Beyond her kitchen window lies her hidden garden, one of the last in the city.

Through a hole in her privacy fence peeks the head of a little white cat. Alert eyes scan her slightly overgrown backyard. His little pink nose twitches, searching for danger. Deciding the coast is clear it creeps in and trots the perimeter of the yard.

Its ears and tail and paws are dipped in gray, as if it ran through a dead firepit before brushing its ears back with its paws.

It plays with a string that hangs from the branch of her tree and chases a bug that escapes over the fence. After sufficiently tiring itself out, it naps in a little bed with two roots curling around it like arms holding a bushel of grass.

When the ray of sunshine keeping it warm departs, it wakes to treats on the bottom step.

The small white cat tentatively watches the street from behind a chain link fence enclosing the yard of a small white house.

His bright blue eyes search for signs of people and dogs and things unfriendly to cats like him. He knows the old white house is safe. He knows the dogs cannot get through the fence. Only he is small enough to slip through the wooden fence into the alley.

Some houses are safe. These are the houses the people do not leave very often and made with wood that is still awake.

He starts onto the shaded sidewalk, where a tiny yellow dandelion peeks between the cracks next to his ashen paw. He bats gently at it. Like him, it should not be here.

He makes it halfway into the street before he catches the presence of another thing that should not be here. It especially should not be here. Nothing that lives in the trees should be here. He has only seen something that lives in the trees once, and it had not ended well for the thing that lived in the trees. This neighborhood is unkind to things that should not be here.

The trees whispered to the things that called them home, and that was dangerous, so the trees had all been put to sleep. Some only pretended to sleep, ceasing their whispering for the safety of those that could understand.

He races back and hides himself behind a sleeping tree, closely watching the small figure that has frightened him so. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves of the tree and caresses his whiskers, whispering in his ear.

The squirrel watches with frightened eyes and rapid breath, acorn in hand, paralyzed with fear. He knows he should not be here and that he is holding something that should not be here. Acorns disappeared long ago. Trees were not supposed to be able to produce seeds anymore. He wanted to protect it with his life.

The wind stirs something in the squirrel, and he advances.

The cat retreats.

He advances again.

The cat takes a single step back. He does not run away, as he would and should, and his mother would tell him to. He is held in place by his curiosity. He flicks his tail playfully.

The squirrel’s tail twitches in response, and he inches forward again. The cat does not retreat this time. Instead, he creeps forward. They circle each other on the cool gray pavement of the sidewalk as crispy leaves scrape gently between them.

They play.

They chase each other up and down the street and around the sidewalk. The cat bats at a dried leaf before turning its attention to another, while the squirrel watches with mirth.

It is their first time encountering a friendly creature. They know to avoid the houses the people leave often and use sleeping wood. The houses with breathing wood and people that rarely left were safe. The wood that still breathed was like the rare tree that pretended to sleep. They would occasionally whisper to those that lived within.

Taking a chance, the squirrel leads the cat to his hiding place, a tree in the backyard of an abandoned house. A great maple comprised of two saplings that became interwined in their youth, fusing at the base to become one.

This tree sleeps like most other trees. In the trunk above, the squirrel has a hole, where he hides precious things. He places the acorn with the gem and shiny gold coin that has a woman on its face. The cat watches from his own branch, alert, hair standing up in the presence of so many things that should not be here. He stays, not wanting the fun to end, happy to have a friend. The squirrel leaps from branch to branch, and the cat watches, tail flicking lazily beneath it.

The next time they meet at the squirrel’s tree, and the cat leads the squirrel somewhere new to play. The squirrel follows along the sides of the several old house, past summer flowers that bloom in October though they shouldn’t, to an empty lot where a home no longer stands. The squirrel follows, hiding beneath bushes, darting up trees to make sure the way is clear, never forgetting that neither of them should be here.

The cat could be here, though the few cats that were still around are rarely seen. The dogs still antagonized the cats, and the people did not intervene. He is not one of those cats. He should not be here.

They chase each other in circles around a large slumbering stump. It was among the first of the trees to go to sleep, long chopped up and burned or turned into a house or a fence.

After a moment, the cat realizes he is only chasing himself and looks around, perplexed, sad.

The squirrel’s tiny face pops up above the edge of the stump and he chitters like laughter and the cat chirps in response.

The next time they meet, the cat leads the squirrel to his hiding place. Where he hides from the dog patrols and naps and plays freely. It is built with stone that still breathes with the earth, unaffected by the sleep that affects everything else. The house where the old lady leaves him treats.

She does not spend time in her yard, because it would draw attention to its existence. It is overgrown, a final bastion of trees and flowers that still breathe, hidden behind a privacy fence. An old fountain sits among pavers swallowed by grass and clover. A tree shades the yard, casting dappled gold onto the ground through its foliage. As the afternoon draws itself along the dappled gold will melt into a large golden pool perfect for napping in. They chase each other around the yard and drink from the water the woman left out and play in the moss covered fountain with a stone statue of a creature that is long gone, not allowed to be here.

The cat shows off his napping spot, the crook in the tree’s roots where the afternoon sun will half cover his body in light and he can almost feel the earth breathing again. Where the tree whispers to him while he sleeps, though their breath slows.

They part ways when the afternoon light turns marigold, both anxious to return for another day of play.

The woman takes to leaving out treats for the squirrel, pleased that the cat has a friend, further pleased when the squirrel moves his stash to the tree that shades her yard. She knows she cannot be their friend, because acknowledging the things that should not be here was dangerous.

When was the last time she saw a squirrel? Not since she was a child or perhaps a teen. Her neighbors are aware of her secrets, but she knows they will turn on her if they become a danger.

She watches them from her kitchen sink, her garden a perfect bubble. A kinder world than the one they live in.

Her heart aches for the orange cat and the little dog and the gray tabby she once saw in her yard. She always takes care of the creatures that find her garden, drawn to it because they could feel it breathe and because the wind whisperes bravely there. It does not sleep like the rest of the neighborhood. She knows one day it will get her in trouble and will go to sleep like the others. She knows it is her duty to keep it alive for as long as possible. Perhaps the cat can be the one to take over its care when she is gone. Or even the squirrel. She shakes her head. Tired of dreaming of a world that goes back to the way it was.

She dares not make herself known beyond leaving treats, not wanting to frighten them away.

She is content watching them from her kitchen window, smiling at the memories they recall from her near-forgotten youth, when she too had leapt from tree to tree or swam in a sparkling river or napped in a meadow under dappled sunlight.

The squirrel visits far more often than any of her other guests have before, she wonders if that means he is amongst the fugitive homeless youth or merely has neglectful parents. He comes daily some weeks.

She knows frequent exposure could prove fatal, but she is glad to have the company. When he misses his visits, worry seizes her until she sees his bushy tail among the branches of the tree despite the fact his trips are never scheduled. He always returns, with no more than three days between each visit. He has begun exploring her porch, and she thinks once that he visits as a little calico with vibrant green eyes, though she isn’t be sure.

That was her daughter’s favorite, so she writes it off as her imagination or her grief playing tricks on her. Merely a ghost haunting her garden, another life she could not save.

One day, the squirrel leads the cat to an empty lot a few blocks away. The cat is apprehensive, but the success of their previous adventures causes him to throw caution to the wind. His mom was wrong about being outside like this.

This lot has several trees that still breathe. It is a large square enclosed on three sides by fences made with sleeping wood. The cat does not like the way the fences sleep, though the trees do not seem to mind being near their sickly brothers.

Tall, vibrant green grass cushions the miniature grove, bathed in yellow sunlight that dances in lazy patterns on the ground. With imagination, one could pretend it was a complete forest.

School taught the cat that forests were no more, but they had once been dangerous places with evil creatures and constantly shifting weather and seasons.

The remaining forests slept, and the earth would surely join them soon.

Wildflowers of white and yellow and blue dance in the breeze. The cat’s tail swishes in sync with their dance with the wind. The squirrel chitters endlessly, searching for things to take back to his new hide out. He wonders if one day he might show himself fully to his new friend.

A man steps onto the balcony at the back of his home. He hates the small grove behind his home. The park service insists it be left alone though it had not seen a forbidden creature in a long time and they’d long since removed the traps. Having a breathing copse of trees so near makes him afraid, because he does not understand the whispers that come from them. He does not wish to know.

He does a double take when a branch of the large oak tree shifts out of sync with the branches dancing with the autumn wind. Even sleeping trees dance with the autumn wind, always in sync, like muscle memory buried deep inside them. Breathing trees are always in perfect sync with her.

He grabs binoculars and focuses on the exposed portions of the tree. A squirrel carrying an acorn is caught in its tunnels, and his eyebrows shoot up. It should not be here, and it certainly should not have that. He must do something.

The breeze tells the cat that something is amiss, and he knows it is time to go. He feels exposed, like he is being watched. He knows that is a bad sign. He does not know that he feels exposed because a man saw the squirrel and because the wind is telling him that. The squirrel reluctantly follows, darting up trees to ensure it is clear, excited to have found another acorn that breathes. He decides he will gift it the woman when he introduces himself to her.

The cat creeps along the low brick wall slanting with age, losing its battle with the yard it holds back. It slants from battles with rain that only it remembers, rain that came before it fell measured and on a schedule.

The cat leaps into a small diamond shaped hole cut into a fence. His heart races, watching the squirrel climb the branches of the tree. He wishes the squirrel would just follow him on foot.

The squirrel has been practicing leaping from tree to tree, an effort to stay out of sight. His increasing trips out have become increasingly risky. He’s started plotting different paths to the garden, even though exploring new parts of the neighborhood is equally risky. Which risk is worse?

The breeze whispers at him, but he ignores it. His tiny body makes a daring leap into open air from the longest branch of a tree on one side of the street to a branch of the tree whose yard the cat hides in. As the wind kisses the pads of his paws and rushes through his fur, he smiles inside. He loves this feeling. He wonders if the new grove will be a safe place for a flying squirrel to play. He thinks of the first time he leapt from a tree branch as a squirrel and the freedom he felt. He thinks of hugging his mom after. He imagines the cat’s face when he sees him as a flying squirrel. He wonders if that cat can be anything else.

A gunshot rings out, sending hidden birds scattering from the trees. The wind goes still. Horrified, the cat’s wide blue eyes watch as his friend is torn apart by buckshot. His flight cut short, daydreams silenced.

A soft wet thump is followed by the click of an acorn bouncing on the pavement. The acorn is crushed beneath the man’s boot.

The squirrel’s body is replaced by that of a young boy, no older than eight or nine years old. Holes litter his striped teal and white shirt. Red pansies blossom from them. His face is pulpy and red and littered with buckshot freckles. Sightless eyes make eye contact with he cat.

“Damn shifters,” the man grunts. “Carol! Call the department! They have a critter to collect.”

He does not see the cat, though he would not shoot him. A cat is likely to be missed by someone, and cats help keep the neighborhood free of the critters that understand the tree’s whispers.

Animal senses take over and ashen paws race to get to safety. Under porches, through lattice fences, beneath sleeping bushes. His heart feels like it is going to explode. He isn’t certain he can hold it together, but he does not want to end up like the squirrel.

His mom was right. It is dangerous to go out. He could be seriously hurt. She wasn’t exaggerating the way moms do to make you eat your vegetables.

A plate shatters in the sink when the woman looks out her window. Beneath her tree, a boy with tear-stained cheeks shakes, knees clutched desperately to his chest. She knows she will not see the squirrel again.

She takes her time making tea with peppermint leaves that still breathe. Whatever happened to the squirrel will stay with the cat forever. He will see those unseeing eyes in his sleep. He has seen the dark face of their world, learned how far the people will go to stamp out his flame.

Tea prepared, she sits down at the table. He watches her, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He sniffles and slowly stands, brushing grass off the backs of his legs. She pushes the tea towards the chair nearest her.

He flings himself into her arms. She hugs him and rubs his back. She holds him until his tears stop. She does not need to know what happened, she can guess. She heard the gunshot.

The wind whispers comforts to them.

She selfishly hopes he will still come back. Likely, he will go home and tell his mom what happened. She will scold him, but not today. Today she will comfort him. Tomorrow, she will teach him to hide his true nature. She will do what no mother should do, but any mother would do to save her child’s life.

She must protect him at all costs.

Even the cost of putting her son in a box. Telling him who he must be, showing him how to hide. He will learn to quiet the fire in his soul that begs to be let out. He will learn to ignore it, shrinking it inside him. One day, if he is lucky, the flame will go out. He will no longer understand the whispers of things that still breathe. At least he will be alive.

The old woman grieves for the flame inside the boy. She grieves for the squirrel. She grieves for the trees and her daughter. She grieves for the stolen breath of the world.