The snaggle-toothed acha sighed, rolling her eyes. Fair Hunter couldn't believe she was telling a bedtime story- but she did have one to tell, and it was a fairly good one. At least, she liked it.
"Once there was a lonely kin. They had no tribe, no family, no friends. They had once been a proud hunter; a brave warrior who looked over the land with ferocity in their heart. At one time, they had had many admirers; lovers, adjutants, sycophants, followers. Once they had power, and they wielded it haughtily; their eyes were hard, their laughter cruel. But time changes these things; it softens the heart and humbles the body, and soon enough the kin’s followers faded into obscurity. The kin was alone, and in their loneliness they were discontent. They yearned for somebody to approach; but pride is the last to go, and the kin was too proud to reach out. At first, they commanded the kin of the swamp to attend them, but the kin laughed, for who was this weak creature to order them about? Then the kin commanded the creatures of the swamp, but no animal, not even the smallest beetle or the meekest mouse, would respond. In desperation, the kin commanded a sapling to befriend them- and the sapling stayed, for it was rooted to the ground.
At first the kin reveled in their delusion; “Behold!” they cried, parading around the sapling. “This mighty tree obeys my commands! See how it meets my desires!” For days and nights, the kin shouted their triumph to the heavens, basking in the warmth of their own glory.
But then the sapling began to dwindle. It wasn’t the strongest sapling; it was young and green and fragile, and the kin became furious. It shouted at the sapling. “Tree! I command you to get well!”
But the sapling’s leaves curled.
“Tree! You must grow strong!”
But the sapling’s bark withered.
“Tree! I beg of you, become tall!”
But the dry leaves began to fall.
The kin panicked; would nothing truly obey their commands? Not knowing what to do, they stared into the swamp, hope gone from their eyes, their face a cold mask of despair- for if not even a plant would obey them, then what good were they? They had nothing- no children, no family, no friends. Nothing to care for them. They would die alone- and in that realization, a snap of steely resolve formed. Surely they would not die alone, for they had the tree. They would force the tree to obey them. Trees did not have a choice whether they grew or not; they would grow in response to water and light.
From the northern borders of the swamp, the kin brought clean water, fresh and cool from the mountains.
The tree seemed straighter.
From the western edge, mulched cypress bark.
The tree seemed greener.
From the southern bogs, thick, rich peat - said to be the best around.
From the sea’s sandy shore- nothing. The kin knew that nothing with salt would save the tree. They would shed no tears of frustration nor of anger, for what good would that do? The tree would not obey tears. It would not respect them.
The tree would respect the kin’s will to keep it alive.
But the tree was not yet truly a tree; it was a sapling, green and pliable. The kin was impatient, but could do nothing about its slow growth other than keep it fed and watered. In the summer, the kin kept the tree’s roots wet. In the fall, the kin swept away the fallen leaves. In the winter, the kin kept the tree’s roots warm with mulch and peat and shooed hungry creatures away. In the spring, the kin picked bugs from the delicate green leaves- and then summer came and the kin repeated these things. Every day, the kin commanded the tree to grow big and strong and tall, so that all would see how they ordered nature- and the tree complied, so what choice does a tree have in whether or not it grows? The tree grew, of course. It was not always smooth- the kin often shouted at the tree when they felt it was too small and weak. How could it waste their hard work? Did it not recognize their effort? It was their creation, and it would obey them.
But eventually, the kin only said these things, then whispered them, then thought them, then forgot them. It was pointless to yell at a tree.
Every night, the kin laid down near the tree and dreamed of it. The kin dreamed that the tree was the tallest in the swamp; that all who saw it marveled at its beauty, and that rumors flew about its blossoms and its fruit. The kin smiled at these dreams of prosperity, never imagining that perhaps they were shared- trees, of course, cannot dream.
And so the cycle continued. The sapling grew taller and broader and taller and broader, and the kin grew grayer and slower and grayer and slower, but never really noticed. They still did all the work of maintaining the tree- perhaps for the first time doing real work themselves- and gradually, their pride slipped away. They no longer commanded the tree to grow; after all, what choice does a tree have in whether or not it grows? A tree grows as nature leads it, but a kin can help- and that was what they were doing. Helping.
Then one night, there was a great storm. The old kin was helpless to do anything about the tree; they were weak and aged, their eyes rheumy and their knees stiff. They were forced to take shelter in a cave, and in the morning, they awoke to face desolation. The tree had been struck by lightning and while it had not fallen, it was scarred and ugly. Branches- huge leafy boughs- had fallen to the ground. It looked as though it was in pain, and the kin knew that trees didn’t do well when they lost their branches.
For the first time, the kin wept. They could feel their heart breaking. It groaned, like old timber in the wind, and the kin crashed to the ground at the foot of the tree. “Oh tree! I don’t know if I can do anything more for you! Oh what a fool I was to love a tree as I did,” they whimpered; a pitiful sound for a pitiful old kin. They wept and cried and sighed and died; no, the kin did not get up from that spot ever again.
But their greatest fear did not come to pass, for they did not die alone. The fallen branch rose to their feet, shaking the bark from their gnarled horns; the tree’s soul was a kin, a renewed, young creature. They were a proud hunter; a brave warrior who looked over the land with gentleness and love in their heart. A tree, of course, has no choice as to how it grows. But when a soul is nurtured with love, perhaps it doesn’t matter.
The tree somberly heaped earth over its parent’s body. It was a final gift; the kin’s curled, withered, husk would nourish the tree. In time, the tree grew back to health and beauty. Its blossoms and fruit were a marvel, and its leafy shade enveloped hundreds of kin. The tree developed many admirers; lovers who met beneath its branches, warriors who found something peaceful in its shade, poets that were inspired by its beauty, guides who used it as a milepost. Tribes rested, families played, and friends spoke beneath it; “Someone loved this tree,” they said. “Someone cared for it.” And somewhere, no matter where they were at the time, the tree smiled and nodded- nobody would ever truly know how right they were."
She paused, reflecting and musing. There was something deep about the story, something beautiful- perhaps it wasn't the best bedtime story after al-
Or... wait, was that snoring? Perhaps it was. It was a fairly long story, after all. Curling up, Hunter dreamed that night of trees and branches and the cool green light of a dappled forest- and of trees that woke and walked and loved.
