Roots of Fire

TW: burning

There stood a tree. An ordinary, sturdy oak tree. It shed its leaves every winter, and smiled at the pastel sunsets in summer with curved leaves that whispered to the wind in wise murmurs that only the oldest souls know of. It knew it was dying, that too many clouds had shadowed it with their smiles and anger, with their soft faces and their limbs of thunder and lightning that struck out at the tree. It stood tall and waved at the sky, saying farewell to the birds showering squirrels with leaves of copper and gold. It was ready to move on, it yearned for the freedom of death, but a deep, stubborn feeling told the tree that though death was close, the end of another unfinished story was closer. The tree sighed as thoughts began to bubble up from the depths of its memory…

Eden Stallard was 11 years old. He set his elbows on the dusty windowsill and stared out of his window at the spacious gardens and orchards his family owned. The green blades of grass stood up straight like soldiers, always perfectly trimmed and apple trees were full of snow-like blossoms that danced for an audience of daffodils and bluebells. The gardeners always made sure that not a petal was out of place. If he stretched up on his tiptoes, he could see the old oak tree that resided in a corner of the grounds, like a guardian, a protector that shielded the mansion from the outside world. The tree was very special, though Eden didn’t know why. He spent hours talking to the dark trunk, and when he did, the leaves rustled and a warm breeze stroked his face. Sometimes, though perhaps just his imagination, he thought he could hear snatches of a low laugh dancing among the roots that poked the surface. Eden loved the tree, and he had asked his dad to build a treehouse for him. However, his father was a withdrawn figure who rarely had time for his children. It was likely he hadn’t heard him, or even if he had, he had forgotten. So Eden had begun building it himself. Every afternoon, leaving his schoolwork untouched, he slipped out of his bedroom window and slid down the drainpipe. He had procured a set of gardener’s clothes months before in order to sneak across the gardens unnoticed. It was impossible to see his hard work from the house, the branches and leaves were knitted far too closely together. Once, his sister Donna had caught hid creeping away. He had told her about the treehouse, and she had warned him against continuing to work on it. If their mother found out about is misdemeanours, she would worry about him even more than she already did. Donna was 14, and loved her brother, but couldn’t bear to see the sadness and disappointment he caused their mother. He got into fights at school and argued with their father about his future. Mr Stallard, their father, wanted Eden to pursue a career in the business of making cider, a profession that was profitable and well respected. Eden, on the other hand, wanted to become a writer. He would dream up stories and doodle on his textbooks, looking at the symbols on the pages which meant little to him. His pencil was his sword, the paper his shield, his mind the home of battles, friendships and betrayals. He battled reality and the expectations of society with his vivid imagination. Today he would complete the tree house. He was determined to work until either he dropped dead or he finished, and he knew which was more likely. He was about to heave the window open when he heard his mother’s voice calling him from the living room. He rolled his eyes and bounced down the stairs, leaving sweaty fingerprints on the handrail. He tripped over the last step and tumbled over the rug, narrowly missing a row of neatly potted orchids. He stood at the door, taking a deep breath. His mother normally didn’t acknowledge his presence, and he didn’t know what to expect. He stood straighter and walked smartly into the room. His mother looked up from a tear stained piece of paper and Eden felt his shoulders slouch his hands begin to shake. As he inched closer, he saw that the piece of paper was his school report. His heart plummeted and seeped out of his soles, anchoring him to his spot on the fluffy carpet. He had failed every subject, he hadn’t turned in any assignments, his attendance was poor, he got into fights, he paid little to no attention in lessons, the list went on and on until his vision blurred and he ran out of the room, blindly tripping, stumbling, suffocating in a blanket of misery and guilt. That night, Eden darted across the orchards and ran, wanting nothing more than to talk to the tree. He hugged the tree, and whispers of reassurance echoed in his ears. He heard a leaf crackle softly behind him, and he turned quickly, wiping the tears from his eyes. He saw Donna standing there, a look of anger and disappointment in her eyes.

“That’s it. You’ve gone too far. I’m telling mother about the treehouse.” Eden inhaled sharply and grabbed her arm as she turned to face the house. “Donna, you can’t! They’ll destroy it, you know they will. Please, Donna, don’t do this to me!”

Donna looked at him with hard eyes that softened only for a second. “I’m sorry, Eden.” She ran back through the mist that swirled in a dance that mocked him and whipped him with tendrils of fog that clawed at his face numb with tears and desperation. He clambered into the treehouse for what he knew to be the last time. With trembling hands, he lit a candle and crouched over the feeble warmth as if hoping that the flickering flame would thaw the ice that clutched at his heart with iron fists. He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth, paying little attention to the little candle that was now lying on its side. The flames twisted and danced over the walls of the tree house like vines of destruction. Eden felt the warmth and immediately knew what had happened, but kept his eyes closed, curled against the trunk of his beloved tree, only letting out a scream when the flames closed on his head like a crown of liquid blood. The tree tried desperately to bat the flames away from Eden, internally screaming in agony as the wrinkles on its trunk were washed with bright death. Eden was drifting, oblivious to the shouts of his family and the wail of the fire engines. His soul tore free from its tormented host and latched onto the closest living thing: the old oak tree. The water from the hoses saved the tree, but Eden’s charred body was beyond salvation.

The tree could still feel the presence of Eden deep within its roots. It sighed, overcome with sadness. The soft crackle of leaves brought the tree back from the recesses of its memory, and the tree saw an old woman sitting, back against the trunk, as she had done every evening for many, many years.

Donna never forgave herself. For years, she could not bring herself to visit the place of her brother’s death, the same place that had brought him so much joy and his family misery. Her father had wanted to cut the tree down, but Donna could still feel her brother within the tree, or perhaps it was just her imagination. Though the old country mansion had been demolished years ago, Donna had vowed to sit with the tree every sunset for the rest of her life.

It was just Donna and the tree, facing a fading pastel sunset that glowed pink and baby blue. The grass no longer stood straight, the leaves of the tree no longer turned golden and copper. Donna could sense the life ebbing from the tree, and looked up through the maze of branches at the starlit sky. The tree took one last breath, and exhaled. The spirit of Eden rose from the roots, and the wind whispered on last time. I forgive you, Donna. The stars glowed brighter as Donna cried and smiled tears that shone with the light of a thousand apologies, and the sun set forever on the story of the tree and the little boy named Eden that became something much bigger that himself.