Atop of the hill

Hills and meadows, blue spring skies, cool, clean air.  The hills swirl delicately up then down, leaving what looks like the aftermath of a dream time serpents zigzagging journey over  the earth.  A perfect green covers each hill.  Long, breezy grass sways gently in whatever direction the wind blows.  Rivers flow down the hills and into small lakes as clear as glass.  The lakes glisten and shine like crystal, and single rays of sunlight bounce of their surfaces like perfect mirrors.  Toward the west where the sun sets, blue mountains stare paternally over the meadows in the distance.  A blue hue lies in front of the mountains, and they look like huge, still paintings placed from the ground up to the heavens.  Thousands of trees blend into one green mass that cover the mountains like a huge, warm blanket.

Atop one of the hills in the meadows is a tree.  A small tree, no older than eight years.  In this moment it is nothing but a tree, a fragile tree that could snap in a storm, or be kicked over by a rascal child.  A handful of leaves and branches sprout from its centre, its bark is smooth and pale, its roots weak and frail.  The tree stands alone.

The summer before was long.  Mother nature endured, but she needed help.  

A woman wonders to the top of the hill each morning and pours fresh water onto the trees dry roots.  The woman’s life has been long and hard, though in her twilight years she finds peace.

One morning, she brushes her wrinkled hands over the young bark of the tree for the last time.  She rests under the slight shade of the leaves and feels the perfect warmth of the mornings spring sun. Then, as easy and calm as the passing breeze, she dies.

Time passes.  The world around the meadows closes in.  That concrete, bland world; suffocating and grey.  for now, the meadows and its hills remain.

It is summer.  The grass is white and thirsty.  Atop one of the hills stands the tree.  It is older now, though not yet wise. It too is thirsty, and the trees memories wander backwards toward its old friend, the one who had given so much in times of less need.

In the distance, three shapes appear.  One is taller than the others and carries a rifle over its right shoulder.

‘Father?’  one of the smaller shapes asks as they reach the base of the tree. The bigger shape grunts.

‘Where did you take Mummy?’ The small shape asks. 

Three bangs erupt through the hills.  Birds scatter the blue sky, a grieving gust of wind soars through the white grass and sways the younger trees, the tree atop the hill creaks and moans sad cries into the warm summers night.

The seasons repeat.  The sky turns blue, grey, then blue again.  Leaves fall from trees in the meadow and grow back.  On the outskirts of the meadows, machines roar and decimate the land they drive over.  The mechanical wolves are circling.

The tree atop the hill is old now, perhaps as old as its friend who had awoken it all those seasons before. 

On the horizon, toward the west where the sun sets behind the giant blue mountains, the tree see’s the metal monsters.  Soon they will be too close.  Soon the land will be black and the air thick and poisoned .  The grass will no longer sway in unison and in sync with the air.  There will only be black, and the machines that push the black and drive atop of it.  The tree and all the others will fall into the ground.  They will be trampled and snapped, squashed and shredded.  The hills will be crumbled and caved in, until the machines achieved their perfectly flat, black world.  Then, the greyness will grow, like yeast bubbling in a bowl of water and salt, like a tumour growing upon an already defeated organ.  The tree atop the hill sinks its leaves in sudden sadness.

It is Autumn.  Most of the trees in the valley have shed their leaves and slept.  The air is cool and pure, light mist swims swims through the gaps between the hills and the grassland.  There is a thinness in the air that brings a type of peace.  The tree atop the hill is yet to shed a leaf.  It feels a yearning.  It is waiting.

Two shapes.  One bigger than the other.  The tall one holds something in its right hand.  A jug of water.  The shapes come closer and become vivid.  A man and his boy.

The man is tall and strong, though he wears an eye patch over his left eye and is badly scarred on his cheek.  His boy is young and safe.  He is happy.

‘You would’ve loved your grandmother and uncle.’ The man says.  He scruffs the boys head and pours some water onto the trees solid, twirling roots.  A leaf falls and gently rests upon the mans shoulder.  The man and his boy lay under the tree and take shade under the falling leaves.  The leaves look like snowflakes as they fall, dancing through the air unconsciously and beautifully as the spiral to their resting places.  The man and his boy stare toward the west, toward the blue mountains, the setting sun and the machines that dance evilly underneath it.  Soon, the two of them think, all of this will be gone.  How many places like this still existed?  These green places, these uneven, untouched, pure places.  It seems every year a new estate rises on the outskirts of the grey cities.  The machines are waging a black, flattening war.  And they are winning.

The man sighs and rests his head on the rough bark of the old tree, and apart of him feels like he might cry.  The boy burrows his head into his fathers side and rests his eyes, and then the man does cry.  Not only for his brother and his mother, or his boy who he feels such pride for, but for the tree, and all the beauty that surrounds every angle of it and the finite time that it all has left.  He rubs his hand across the coarse bark, then down to the thick, old roots of the tree.  And then, as easy and calm as the breeze that swam past him, he rested.