The Promise

It was the trees.

Always the trees.

There's something about sitting in their branches and feeling the breeze caress your cheek and lift your hair away from your face while the leaves whisper their secret language that you can almost understand. I grew up in nature and I always felt a kinship with it. The sun and moon, the deep thickets and open pastures, the crickets and frogs. As a child I believed that when I asked for a breeze on a hot summer day, the trees would oblige, and I'd thank them with a gentle pat or a glass of water when a drought was on. I was raised to respect nature. I'm glad of it.

I grew up on top of this mountain, surrounded by forest and a one lane road that was our only way in or out. Lived there from the time I was born until I was in my twenties and as I grew, that idea of the trees listening never left. Not really, not deep down in the child's heart where magic still exists. I still have that part of myself, buried deep. Not because I haven't grown up. I have. Been grown a long time. But I buried that part of me because I don't want the knowing. You see, I used to believe these things to be true and belief is a far cry from knowing. Once you know the truth there isn't any going back. Either you can live with it, or you can't. Sometimes living with a thing breaks a man. Sometimes it's best to pretend you don't know.

That's the only way I've been able to go on. Truth be told, you do the same thing. You know about the wars, the starvation, the disease. But you put it out of your mind because if you didn't, how could you live everyday knowing?

You couldn't.

So you don't think about it.

I don't either.

It was June of my twenty-third year. I still lived in my childhood home taking care of my grandmother, when I wasn't working in the fields or at the truck stop down the road. I knew she was close to dying. She'd made her peace with it and so had I. She was the only mother I had ever known and it just didn't feel right to leave her with strangers so close to the end. Now, don't think I felt put upon having to take care of her, it's not like that. I had my whole life ahead of me to chase down my dreams. Her time was close so I stayed. I figured I'd go to college after she passed, maybe rent out the land to a neighbor to graze their cattle. I'd keep the house though. So I could always come home. What we plan and what happens often ain't the same. I made a life here and raised my children. One day they'll hear this story. I only pray they listen.

Our family has lived on this piece of land as far back as we can trace. I even heard tales from my Great Granddaddy that we were descended from the Adena, though I don't know about that. Seems a little far-fetched. I do know that we have some Cherokee blood. They said the forest behind our house was sacred. We've always respected the tales, as we never did hunt in those woods. Oh, we hunted, but not there. People say them woods are just wrong. You know how in the middle of summer when the cicadas are buzzing about how hot it is, and the air feels as thick as soup? Well, you can go in them woods and it's like walking in a cave almost. The air is damp and cool. The canopy of the trees is so thick that not a bit of sunlight touches the ground. And it's quiet. Not the buzz of a bee or the trill of a bird can be heard. It's unnatural.

Now I grew up in them woods, used to sneak off and play there. I always felt like I could hear the trees better there in that silence. But people disappear there. Every direction you look is the same, and it's easy to get lost. I never had a problem making it home in time for supper though. For me, the way home was always just a little more open then any other path around. I always felt safe.

Until the day my Granny died.

In the days leading up to it, things got bad. She was on the morphine shots that Hospice left, and by then they told me to give her however much she wanted. I knew what that meant. I tried to ease her pain as best I could. I stayed with her, brushing her hair and feeding her soup. It's the only thing she could keep down. I spent those last days in a rocker by her bed, staring out the window while she slept. I held her hand and watched the corn grow. I gathered all the memories I could and gave her medicine when she asked.

And I waited.

You'd think that waiting was the worst thing ever. It is until they pass. I learned that with my Granddaddy five years prior.

But it wasn't.

Sometimes after a shot she'd stare out the window on the far side of the room, staring at them woods with wild eyes. Those last three days? It seemed every time she got a shot she'd get spooked. Started talking, saying the trees were coming. Telling me how the black dog was watching. Reminding me of how when she passed I needed to bury her in some family graveyard in those woods because if I didn't, they'd come. I didn't understand then. Our family was buried at the churchyard. I tried to brush it aside saying it was the medicine. See, morphine has a way of making ya see things that ain't there, or loosening your tongue about secrets you'd rather keep. I figured the things she was saying were the former, as it was mostly stories I'd heard growing up, except they were far worse. These stories terrified me.

I stared at those trees a lot then, it seemed they crept closer as the days wore on. Their shadows grabbing the hay and inching nearer. The night before she passed I was so tired that everything felt like a dream. It was nearing onto midnight when she woke me up crying. I clawed my way up from broken sleep and fumbled with the needle to fill it when she clamped down on my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. I looked up and she was pointing out the window, her eyes wide. I stroked her hair, telling her it would be alright, not really paying attention to what she was doing. I picked up the bottle and started prepping her shot when something hit the window. Well, I jumped so hard I dropped everything because when I looked outside, for just a second I saw a face looking back at me. I grabbed a flashlight sitting on the dresser and tried to see outside. I saw nothing. I figured the sleep deprivation and stress, on top of her stories, was making me see things too. I cleaned everything up, gave her the shot, and when she calmed down I asked what she'd been pointing at.

The Woman of the Woods, she'd said.

I didn't really know what she was talking about, so I settled down to try and get some rest. It was the last time I truly slept well.

That morning I woke up early with Granny still sleeping. I snuck off to make some coffee and start her a bowl of soup, making sure to get the medicine ready too. When everything was done I checked on her, turned on the baby monitor , and shoved the walkie in my pocket. Grabbing my coffee and a cigarette, I snuck out the back door. I rarely smoked but that day I needed one. She told me once that it rained on the day she was born, and it would rain the day she died. The red sky told my that weather was on its way, and I knew. I could feel the change coming. The knowledge that from this day on, every one that followed would be different. I turned the walkie on and made sure it worked before wandering out towards the woods, watching my boots grow dark from the dew sparkling like diamonds on the grass. It was a beautiful morning. And suddenly is was chilly, the ground shadowed. I looked up to see I was already at the back woods. To say I was surprised ain't saying enough, as I had walked that field enough times in my life to know I was barely halfway there. I backed up a few steps, then turned towards the house.

The trees had moved.

I could see the flowers in the window-box from where I stood. From the edge of the trees I shouldn't have been able to make out boards of the house, much less count the marigolds, I dropped my coffee cup and took off like I was being chased. Thing was, that's exactly how I felt. By the time I got to the porch I was riled up and out of breath. I put my back to the door, trying to slow my breathing while staring at the woods. The branches began to move, first on a big oak, then the maple about ten feet away from it. I could hear the leaves shaking in the breeze that only moved those two trees. It was like they were talking. And as the wind caressed my face, I heard my Grannies name whispered in my ear.

Lanola.

I reached my hand behind me and turned the knob, falling inside when the door finally opened. I scooted back, kicked the door shut with my foot, then put my back against it. I stayed that way, trying to make sense of it, until I heard Granny on the walkie.

I went to her, spending the day lying next to her and holding her hand, all the while feeling the weight of what was coming, and what I feared might be. By the time that the sun set I was a plum wore out. My mind kept going back to woods at the worst times. And all the while Granny kept going on about what was coming. At eleven she reached her hand out, took mine, and pulled me onto the bed beside her. She was more awake then she had been in weeks. She smiled, patted my hand, and then told me the story of our people as it had been told to her.

“Our people came to these mountains when the mountains were already old, trying to make a new home here, They were running from war, weak from hunger and weary from travel. They soon found they weren't alone. There were spirits in the trees. These spirits looked out on the people, seeing their worn clothing and thin bodies, and felt sorrow. When they felt the elders laying on their roots sticking out of the ground, too tired to keep walking, they shook their leaves off so soft beds could be made. When they saw the parents shiver because they gave their children what little clothing they had, the trees shook their branches off so the people could make shelters and build fires to keep them warm. When they heard the little ones crying from hunger, they told the people how to make flour from the acorn, sugar from the maple, and guided them to greens to fill their bellies. The people were grateful. They told the spirits they would honor their sacrifice and always care for them. They would never take more then the trees could give. They would be careful to not waste anything that could be used. Many generations honored the tree spirits sacrifice, but eventually they forgot. They no longer talked to the tree spirits, or brought them spring water when the rain failed to come. They began to cut more then they needed and never asked. The spirits asked why they were being dishonored. But the people could no longer hear them. All they heard was wind through the leaves. All they saw were the limbs shaking. The tree spirits grew angry, and the spirit in the largest oak tree took on the form of a woman. She walked through the village, yelling angrily.

“Come forward all who have broken your promise.

Come and say why you are killing us.

Why do you take without asking!”

The people trembled with fear and fell onto their knees. The spirit, angered by their silence, asked them again why they had broken their promise. Asked the people how they would feel if their children were cut down and burned, or left to waste away in the forest beyond. The women cried, hugging their little ones close while the men looked down with shame. They all knew they no longer kept the words of the elders in their hearts. One woman, seeing the anger in the spirits face, looked around and saw the fear on the faces of her children and her people. She walked up to the spirit.

“We heard the stories of your kind. The elders say that once you spoke to us, but we can no longer hear your words. We did not believe the tales of how you gave us shelter when we were cold, or food when hunger bit at our bellies. We did not think them to be true. I ask your forgiveness.”

The Spirit saw the honor of the woman and asked her name.

Knowing the power of a true name, the woman gave her the name from her childhood. “Fire Daisy.”

The spirit nodded. “In my tongue your name is Lanola. I am Sanika. It means Many Leaves In The Sky.” She looked around at the many men and women crying and laying on the ground, not meeting her eyes. “I see your people are afraid to look at me. Afraid to speak. They have no honor and must be punished.”

The woman looked down. “Please let me take the punishment that you would give my people. I would know that they live.”

The spirit did not speak for many minutes. The love that Lanola had for her people was great. “You do not even know the punishment.”

“It does not matter.”

The spirit nodded. “Then let it be so. Your people must leave our land, never to return. For your kind, this land will be cursed. To wander into the woods will be to end your life. Know that, and never forget. For you, Lanola, you will join us. You will become one who guards our lands from outsiders. Your children will do the same. But because you have such love for your people, your children, I will be lenient. You may make a home here, in the clearing, with your family. Your line will always live here, and you will die here. When your time has come you will become one of us. As long as you do that you may raise your family until your body fails.”

Lanola agreed, and the Sacred Promise was made. She said goodbye to her people. Her family built a home here, where this house now stands. When it begins to thunder you must take me to the woods. If you do not, if I can not make it, they will come for you.”

It was two in the morning when I heard the thunder. Granny asked for her last shot of morphine, and had me get her dressed. By the time we left the house it had begun to rain. The walk was difficult. I think I carried her most of the way. The first bolt of lightning lit up the sky before halfway to the tree line from this morning. In front of us was a woman, ten feet tall with hair that reached to the ground. I screamed, falling backwards. Before I could even come to terms with what I had seen, an arm reached around me and Granny, holding us up. I felt the fear and panic, but Granny held my hand.

“I am ready. It's alright.”

I felt her lean towards me.

“There's a journal in my nightstand. Read the story of our people. Don't break our promise. I love you.”

Then she was gone. Repeated lightning flashes, one after another, lit the field. I saw what happened next. The tall woman held Granny so that her feet touched the earth, her hair whirling about them both while wind whipped through the field. Granny started to grow taller, her body becoming thicker, her feet growing and sinking into the ground until she was gone. One final flash of lightning showed a beautiful silver birch tree standing in her place. The tall woman, the spirit, turned to me. “Do not forget your families promise.” The next moment an oak tree was there. I remembered that tree. It was the largest oak for miles around, and I used to sit in her roots and stare at the sky on lazy summer days.

I don't know how long I stood there. Eventually I turned and walked home, numb and soaked from the rain. It was about a week later while cleaning out her things that I found the notebook. I read it. I put it away. I have lived my life. I found a good man that I love. We raised three wonderful children, John, Ben, and Lanola, on this land. I've learned a lot about the promise. Each daughter inherits it from their kin.

I've kept my promise.

I'm sure Lanola will keep hers.