... a change of style; a short story ...
The centre of the forest was a special place, far enough off the beaten track to keep all but the most inquisitive at bay. It was here that the grandest and oldest of the oak trees stood, mostly unobserved by human eyes, but familiar to the birds and wildlife who knew it as a place of safety.
I had on rare occasions been there and seen the grandeur of this tree, its great girth and wide-spread branches. Youth and vigour were long gone, the splendid majesty of its full-grown canopy had enjoyed many years of maturity, and now old age was upon it. It held a place in my heart.
Walking at the fringes of the forest one quiet day, I heard a sudden agonised tearing of wood from wood, something between a scream and a groan, a giving up and a letting go, distant yet clearly heard right across the forest. I stopped and listened, feeling the impact in my soul.
A tree breaking, for sure, but which? There was something that compelled me go and find out, to bear witness. As I neared the heart of the forest I found the old oak. A full third of it lay broken on the ground, a raw wound splitting the trunk almost to the ground.
Why at this particular moment its strength had failed, I do not know, yet the weight of its enormous branches could no longer be borne and in a moment split and crashed to the ground.
Was this the last gasp of old age, a sign of something rotten within? Was it the work of some tiny insect horde, eating away the strength of the core? I did not know. But I knew that sometimes from old wounds new growth and vigour could spring. So was it a necessary letting go, a precursor to new growth, enabling new shoots to bud once the wound was healed?
Was it screaming in rage, defeated? Or was this a strategic withdrawal to preserve a future? Death pangs, or the beginning of new life?
For various reasons I never returned to the centre of the forest, so I do not know what became of that oak. I do not know ... but I wonder.
Yet that tree and its scream remain lodged in my mind, leaving an open question. Is old age and death the end, or the beginnings of new life? We hear the cry and see the wounds, the wreckage of old age, but what is yet to come is unknown, unseen. I do not know ... but I hope.
