There is a glade in a forest and in its centre there is a tree so ancient it no longer resembles a tree. Where this is, is unimportant, for this isn't about place; it isn't even about time. It’s about worship.
A wolf killed a boy one day, a long, long time ago, and a tree was planted in the place where blood spilled- in memoriam- a hardy sapling that defied conditions and climate (and the uncaring foraging of wild boar) to grow tall and strong. The world burned around it, until all life had fled, and yet it held on in the wastes. Time marched onward and vegetation returned, forest again surrounded it and now it is so ancient it no longer resembles a tree.
All those who lived in the time before the burning are gone, and those that came after cannot know, and thus the tale of the wolf and the boy and the sapling that defied all has no bearing and is forgotten.
And yet they remember. Every soul that enters the glade is told the tale and every offering placed amid gnarled roots is homage to memory.
It’s the tree, if you seek a definitive answer; it doesn’t speak with words and yet it has voice.
All trees do. I feel it every time I am in the presence of a giant, whether of age or size, and wish I could hear also. We should respect these giants and nurture the saplings for tomorrow...for then we won’t be forgotten either.
