The Line of the Cross (part 2)

Every day the parson would come, and every day the fruit would tremble as they wanted to believe something they did not understand. They asked the tree questions it did not know the answer to. So the fruit listened, and wondered. Until the war came, and the fires burned down the church with the parson still inside, and the tree was hewn down. One fruit escaped, however, and the seed took root and grew. When it bore fruit, it tried to tell them of the parson, and teach them what he had said, but the tree did not understand, and the fruit’s memory was a jumble of half-understood whispers and engrained memories of the mother tree.

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History repeats itself, and fruit merchants would pick and sell the fruit, shipping it half-across the country as new technologies and new paths to the West opened up, farther and farther away from the rising of the sun. That line of trees spread, and the memories of trees are longer than the memories of man. So it was that one young tree was planted in a field, and thought every day of the parson, and wondered what the meaning of his words were. The tree would dream of such things, confused and twisting images in its poor little tree-mind, and every dream would be haunted by the whispers:

“We have killed love.”

The tree would ponder these things, and wanted to believe, but would pass each day in confusion and longing.

The first of March approached. The first refrains of Spring’s song could just be heard, and the earth began to wake up. The Folk walked out of their tunnels and mounds, and found the tree. The pixies squealed in delight and raced to climb its branches. Wisps and sprites flew to the top, curious.

The tree watched as the court parted, glory preceding from them as one of their wise ones came forward. She had no eyes, but could see, and she touched the wood of the tree. “This tree,” she said, “is of a line we have not seen here. There is something special in its wood, in its memory. This tree has touched Love.” She turned to her king and bowed. The Seelie Court had found its new center.

Each night that spring, the wisps and the pixies and the faeries and the elves would come and hold their court before that tree, resting in its shade and playing in its branches were no men could see. The wiser of the fey would sit and speak with the tree, learning what they could.

“Why ask me questions?” the tree asked. “I am a young tree, and some of you are old as the bones of the earth itself.”

One elderly wise fey stroked his chin, and pebbles and leaves fell from his beard. “I remember,” he said, “first opening my eyes in the mud, taking my first breath as the deluge waters subsided. And there are those who are older than I. Still, all dwarrow know that wisdom upholds the earth, and the bones of mountains and forests still remember something of the between times of the second and third days. If we hold our own young among the wise, then surely, little baby tree, we can learn something from you.” He turned, indicating an elf maid with his hand. “This lass here, we call her Middle-child, for that is what she is—there are fey elder than she, and fey younger, but no fey the same age. She is one of the youngest of the wise, but we count her among our number.”

The elf-maid bowed. She did not look away from the tree, not even as they all feasted and supped, and remained when the other faeries left. “You,” she said, “are a good tree. I believe this.”

“I have little wisdom to teach you,” the tree said.

“Who said anything about wisdom?” she replied. “I have my fill of all the wisdom I need every day. I have little friends.”

“Friend, Middle-child?”

She put her finger on her lips, shushing him. “My name is Eärdressa.”

The tree thought. “Why didn’t the other wise call you by name?”

“They do not know it,” she answered simply. And then she was gone.

She came back the next morning, holding the hand of another elf. “This is my friend,” she said, bowing politely before the tree. “You may call him Starbrow, because of the way his eyes shine.”

Starbrow smiled. “Middle-child speaks highly of you, tree.”

“And she rarely speaks at all,” said a third voice, surprising the tree. A third faerie appeared in its branches, making itself visible. “I am Laedril, friend tree.”

Eärdressa looked surprised. “Laedril?”

“What?” He shrugged. “You gave him your name. That’s good enough.”

Eärdressa looked to Starbrow. He nodded. “Laedril is right.” He turned to the tree. “Forgive me, friend. My name is Riolin. Eärdressa and Laedril are the only ones who know it, so pardon me if I’m not used to giving it out so soon. But as Laedril says, Eärdressa trusts you to know her name, and she is counted wise. Riolin I shall be.”

And so they were bound, by trust and by names, the four of them. And the three fey would come every day, when the rest of the fey were still sleeping, and rest in the tree’s branches, speaking with it and with each other of matters great and small. And the tree would ask many questions on love. Eärdressa considered it. “Tell me what you think love is,” she prompted. And the tree told its half-memories of the parson’s teaching.

“But it makes no sense to me,” the tree said.

She jumped to the ground, tracing symbols in the dirt with her finger as she thought. “It will not be real to you,” she decided, “until you do it.”

“Can I love,” the tree asked, “and not know what love is?”

“What is love?” Eärdressa asked. “What is goodness, or beauty? Are they lies, or truth? What is God? You’d think that if anyone in creation knows, it would be the faeries. But we are a curiously amoral lot. And the Folk have their own difficulties.”

The tree thought she sounded sad, but the moment passed.

The next day, they did not come. The tree began to worry.