The Tree Remembers

Trigger Warning: Verbal abuse

I was fourteen years old when I left my mother. Or rather, when she abandoned me.

It was a wet spring morning when Mother called me to her room. I passed my father’s–no, Lord Heo’s – quarters, already bustling with servants readying his carriage for the day. Then, I softened my steps to slink by Lady Heo’s garden, as she would be on her morning walk, and she would be furious as a rabid dog if she saw me. To my surprise, she wasn’t there.

Finally, I arrived at Mother’s room. Dread had hung over me like a cloud all breakfast –-despite the honey cookies that had been served–- for today was testing day.

My week went thusly: for the first five days, I memorized a handful of books in which I would need to know for the Provincial Exams; the exams which would allow me into the Royal Academy. On the sixth, I would revise everything I had learnt and deciphered.

Today, on the seventh, Mother would pick a random verse from my books, and I would have to recite its interpretation. If I was lucky, I’d be able to return to my quarters without an incident.

Rubbing my eyes, I ran over all I had studied last night before bed. I never woke up fully rested during these days' mornings, which only worsened the anxiousness clawing at my insides. The feeling of terror reached its peak when I had finally made it to the room, and my hands hovered over the door-ring. Had I practiced enough? Would I be able to keep my calm this time? What if there had been something I’d let slip past my fingers? Should I run back and do one last quick review?

No, Mother hated it when I was late. Besides, this was good for me, or in the very least, would be good for me. If nothing else, it would drive me to study harder in the future.

Slowly, I straightened out my clothes and opened the door, bowing my head and keeping my eyes trained on the ground, “Mother? I hope you’ve slept well?”

She only said: “Haesol. Have you prepared?”

I hesitated, then answered, “I think so.” 

It was followed by a terrifying silence, and I knew I had said the wrong thing, “You’re far from confident,” Mother scoffed, “And I assume there is a reason behind it. But we must digress.”

I slowly raised my head. Mother sat in the middle of the room, her black hair slicked back into a tight bun, an austere expression on her face, and with a stack of books to her side. Most notably, a thick wooden cane was in her hand. She liked thumping it to create a beat to go along to the rhythm of her speech whenever she read to me, but in times like these, they also served as a quiet threat.

Opening one of the books beside her, she instructed coldly, “Explain to me the meaning behind ‘The stillness of the sages does not belong to them as a consequence of their skilful ability. All things are not able to disturb their minds—it is on this account that they are still.’”

Oh.

“Could you…repeat…”

Looking at me with one brow raised, she spoke it once more, and the shred of hope I had had was gone. This line was completely unfamiliar to me, and I had no idea what to say. Should I try making something up? But Mother would know. She always did. That fact, however, did not stop me from attempting to salvage the situation.

“I…it means…it means that sages are not…peaceful because they are skillful…but…uh…”

Every nerve in my body was screaming, as my two hands shook violently in front of me. And yet my head felt numb, as if it was filled with rocks. Perhaps it was, given how slow I was to respond.

A slam of the cane against the floor made me flinch so hard, I almost fell over. 

“Are you a man or a mouse? Speak louder, and with confidence!” She demanded, “From the beginning.”

“It means that sages are not peaceful because they are skilled, b-but skillful because they are peaceful!” I managed to stammer out. That…was enough, no?

My eyes flickered to hers, and I knew the answer.

“Be honest–do you understand what is coming out of your mouth?”

“Yes! Yes I do, I just need one more chance–”

“The verse means to teach that a sage is not tranquil because he is skilled in the worldly and spiritual, but rather, because he is tranquil, with control over himself, he allows himself to absorb knowledge and improve.” She sighed sharply, looking down at the ground, “Have you ever even looked at your books? Why do you even try if you’re this inept, hm? I might as well die here and now if this is what I must witness for the rest of my life!” She hollered at me, her voice bouncing off the walls and piercing my ears, “I spend every waking hour to give you food, shelter, and an education others only dream of. And yet, you spend your days doing nothing. You had honey cookies during breakfast, did you not?”

“...yes, Mother.”

“And what exactly have you done to deserve them?”

“…I’m sorry, Mother.”

Despite my best efforts, I felt tears pricking at my eyes. But that would only make her angrier, so I tried to hold them back.

I failed.

“How many times must I tell you?” Mother whispered, rubbing her temple. Her voice quickly rose as she continued, “You are illegitimate—if you don’t work twice, thrice as hard as others to silence them all with talent and diligence, you will never be anything worthwhile.” She then looked down at me– me with my swollen red eyes and a running nose and pathetic hiccups –and looked away, as if she was disgusted, “Seeing as though you sorely lack talent, the former is your only option.”

Suppressing a croak climbing up the back of my throat, I nodded, “I will do better.” 

With shaky legs, I tried to get up, but Mother held out her hand, palm down, and gestured for me to stay, “There is another matter in which I must discuss with you.” She began in a slower voice, “The Lady Heo has given birth to a son.”

Mother then met my eyes, her gaze steely as it was cold, “You know what this means.”

I did—Lady Heo was the official wife of my father, meaning her son would replace me as the heir. In turn, this meant I had no use here anymore. 

But I didn’t want to leave, “I’m…not ready—”

“Follow the foot trails to the capital– join a traveling group, lest there be tigers and bears– and once there, ask for where to take the Provincial Exams,” Mother continued, as if I had never spoken, and rose to her feet, “If you pass, then your food, lodging and education will be free of charge. If you do not, then whatever happens next will be your own fault.”

Out of desperation, I grabbed the tail of her dress, willing her to stay beside me. It might have been my vain hope, but I think she hesitated, just for a moment,

“If anyone demands a fee, ignore them. It’s a fraud. The only payment you need to make is on shelter and food.” Her gaze suddenly sharpened once more; though I wasn’t sure as to why, “If you lose all your money, don’t bother crawling back. There’s nothing I can do for you now. Understood?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then go.”

******

I was twenty when I saw her again.

That time around, I’d long since passed the provincial exams and become an official student of the Royal Academy. Everyday at daybreak, I rose for breakfast, dressed myself, attended class, read in my room and–

“Haesol!”

–waited for Riyulen to knock my door down. With a soft smile, I replied, “It’s unlocked.”

Not a second later, a boy of fourteen with ruffled hair and a book clutched to his chest entered with a squeak of the hinges, “Haesol!” he said again with a wide grin, “I need you to read something for me!”

Clicking my tongue, I gestured for him to come closer, “And I need you to wear your clothes properly,” I said lightly, adjusting his collar to its proper location and tapping him on the forehead, “Alright. Show me.”

Plopping down next to me, Riyulen began to search through his book, “Here,” he said, pointing to a line, “‘The stillness of the sages does not belong to them as a consequence of their skilful ability. All things are not able to disturb their minds—it is on this account that they are still’. What does that mean?”

“Well,” I began, mulling over how to explain, “What do you think it means?”

Riyulen shrugged, “I don’t know. That's why I’m asking you.”

I gave him a look, and he sighed, “Maybe…sages like standing still…or something?”

“Riyulen, stop being cheeky.”

“I really, really don’t know.”

After giving it some thought, I asked, “What would you call a focused man?”

“Someone who can ignore distractions?”

“Good. And what of an accomplished man?”

A grin tugged at the corner of Riyulen’s lips, “Someone with a lot of accomplishments?” 

Undeterred, I pressed on, “Who comes first? The focused or the accomplished?”

“The focused one, I think?”

“Because?”

“You need to be focused to get accomplishments.”

I cracked him a slight smile, “Do you see it now?”

Slowly, a realization dawned on him. With a giggle, Riyulen nodded fervently, “I do!” Riyulen exclaimed as he grabbed the book from my hands, “Thanks!” With that, he was scrambling towards the door. 

“Don’t rush! Walk slowly,” I called out after him, but Riyulen was already out the door and running out of sight. Letting out a chuckle, I opened my own book and began to read once more. 

But not a minute later, my door swung open once more, and Riyulen poked his head inside, “Haesol! There’s someone looking for you!”

Furrowing my brows, I slowly rose to my feet, “Who?”

He shrugged, “Not sure. Just a lady.”

When I went outside, Mother was standing there.

She was smaller than I remembered her to be, with slouched shoulders and a hunched back. Her once-black hair was now thinning and streaked with gray, and her face had more creases and folds, like an old, forgotten paper ball. In her hands was a bundle of cloth.

Her dark eyes met mine, and she smiled. For a moment I did not recognize her.

How had she made it here on her own? She wouldn’t have had the means to afford a carriage or horse, and the roads certainly would not have been kind to a woman of her age. Where had she slept when there were no inns or houses to take her for the night? On the ground? Did she even know how to start a fire?

Continuing to stare, I managed, “...Mother?”

“Son.”

What could I say? What was there to say? Only the expected response, “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes.”

So we sat down in my room, letting a suffocating silence pass over us. Drumming a finger against my knee, I desperately searched for something to say, but she spoke first.

“Have you been eating well?” For reasons unknown to me, it felt as though her voice had become softer.

That I could answer, “Very well. You?”

Mother hesitated, then nodded, “You’ve made me very proud.” She then added on, “I’ve missed you dearly, during these past years.”

Six years ago, that would’ve been the greatest compliment she could have paid me. But as of now, there was a strange hollow feeling where elation should be, “I’ve missed you too.”

Another bout of silence passed, as I pretended to pick lint off my sleeves. The corners of my mouth hurt from trying to maintain my smile, but I persisted, “I hope your journey was easy?”

“It was– I was so excited to see you, nothing could’ve damped my mood,” she replied cheerfully. 

I wasn’t quite sure what to say back, and mother seemed to notice. Lifting her bundle onto her lap, she began untying the knot holding it together, “I brought something for you.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

With a wide grin, she lifted up a small wooden bowl with a silk covering. When she unveiled it, I saw that there were a dozen or so honey cookies inside, “I remember when you used to eat them every hour. You looked so happy whenever you did,” she said with a content sigh. Placing the cookies down, she reached over to a pile of fabric, neatly folded into squares, “And I’ve sewn some handkerchiefs for you too–”

“Why are you here?”

She went still, “Why would a mother need a reason to visit her child?”

“Most mothers would not, I suppose,” I shrugged, wondering if I should finish what I’d been about to say, and deciding to, “But you’re not most mothers.”

“...you don’t hold a grudge for what happened almost a decade ago, do you?”

I pressed my mouth into a line, then tried for a smile, “Of course not. Shall I fetch tea?” With that, I propped up a knee and began to rise. But Mother held out her hand, palm down, and gestured for me to stay. It made me anxious.

She opened her mouth, and while no words came out, I still felt my shoulders tense. Sometimes, the anticipation was worse than the blow.

“You’re angry with me,” Mother said after some pause, and I caught a hint of surprise in her voice, “You resent me for making you leave.”

My mouth went dry. She was right, as she always was, but a part of me didn’t want to admit what we both knew. I couldn’t say why— just that the words stuck to my throat and didn’t move. 

Mother sighed and looked down. I thought that she might yell, but instead she spoke quieter than a mouse, “...you were my first and only child,” she began, “I was terrified that I would ruin you. That my idleness would lead you astray.”

She then smiled up at me, tears glistening in her eyes, “It was, and still is, my first time being a mother.”

The first thing that came to mind was to be a good son and comfort her. Mother had rarely smiled, let alone cried. How much had she been suffering alone, through all those years with a helpless, stupid little boy by her side? I wanted to hold her hand, let her weep on my shoulder, and tell her that what he had done had been enough. That I’d come to understand her as I grew.

But that was soon overwhelmed by a primal sort of anger. One that had been rooted deep inside me for some time.

In an instant, I was on my feet, glaring down at her, “It was your first time being a mother? It was my first time being a child! Yet that meant nothing to you!” I screamed. I don’t know how I did that– it’d been years since I’ve even raised my voice –but it sparked a fire that I couldn’t put out, “While you were terrified of leading me astray, I was terrified of you!”

Did she think she could hide behind the guise of inexperience? Did she expect me to wave away the mistakes she’d made in good faith, when she hadn't ever forgiven one of mine? Why hadn’t I ever gotten the same grace she was expecting— demanding —of me now?

It was Mother’s turn to be silent. She stared down at her hands, unmoving and unresponsive. It made it even more difficult to continue yelling, but I was far from done, “For years, I’ve been justifying everything in my head. And if it hadn’t been for Riyulen, I might’ve actually deluded myself into thinking you were a decent person!”

Before I could think twice, I kicked her gifts to the side, sending cookies and handkerchiefs flying against the walls, “I thought that it would be so, so hard not to spew insults at a little boy. That it would take everything within me to not berate him until he cried. Because why else would you have done it? But I’ve come to realize that it’s not difficult at all.” 

When she still didn’t respond, I pointed towards the door and lowered my voice, “When he’s sad, I’m worried. When he cries, I want to stroke his hair and comfort him. And when he’s scared or confused, I want to tell him that everything will be alright while holding him in my arms. But I’m not furious that he dares to feel that way! ”

With a trembling bottom lip, Mother finally spoke, “I only wanted for you to be strong.” Her voice was airy and unstable, as if she’d burst into tears at any moment, and I wished I could care more, “Strong enough to take on the world.”

The back of my throat began to burn as I croaked out, “Why did I have to be strong enough for the world at fourteen, when you weren’t even strong enough for your son at thirty-five?” Smoothing my hair back, I looked away and tried to catch my breath, “I don’t think this is good for either of us, Mother. You should–”

“I love you, Haesol.”

There it was again— the pull of sympathy. Perhaps I could apologize to her, and we’d embrace and then cry. Perhaps she’d even apologize back.

But I wanted to win against her. Just this once.

“I understand you. But I don’t forgive you.” Sharply turning around, I walked out the door, “Please leave.”