The fire crackled sharply as Rosie went to sit down in the armchair where she always sat. The chair’s cushion was blue, robin’s egg-shell blue, paired with dark cherry wood, expertly carved. Engravings of birds and trees swirled around the wood.
Something was different today. I felt it strongly. Rosie didn’t seem to notice my uneasiness. She seemed on higher energy than usual, waltzing around the room in an energetic daze. “Lily, why don’t you make a pot of tea? Use up some of that ginger root I found.” Rosie called from her chair.
I eagerly paced to the kitchen. More than grateful to latch onto something to keep my hands busy. The aroma of ginger and cinnamon wafted from the boiled water. A drizzle of dark honey in the water, a spoon to stir it.
Rosie began to talk, and immediately, a story spilled out—one I had already heard a hundred times. Her voice carried like slow sap, moving smoothly and sweetly through a tree—through the room. I kept stirring the tea, watching the deep amber colour seep from the cinnamon stick.
I arrived early today after barely sleeping last night. I woke up antsy and stressed, with a thunderous and obtrusive inner voice telling me to get to Rosie’s immediately. I had thought that it was my intuition warning me that something was wrong with her. But when I showed up, out of breath and with my heart pounding, she opened the door with a warm smile and a face that looked like it had been expecting me, even though I was five hours early.
Her voice now sounded muffled, words overlapping in my mind; it must have been from the lack of sleep. I shook my head a bit, trying to snap out of it. I usually listened to Rosie’s stories with an intensity that I never had with anything else. But today, my mind felt frazzled and unfocused. I watched Rosie rocking in her chair, golden words rising from her mouth as if she were singing a song, the flames from the fire dancing with the cadence of her voice, her soul tumbling out effortlessly.
Stories of Rosie had circulated throughout our town for as long as I could remember. There were tales about a crazy old lady with green skin who lived deep in the woods. But she was more of a bedtime myth our parents would use to scare us about being out after dark: “The green old witch would chop us up and boil us to eat.” But no one actually believed she was real; the old green witch was just a story—until she wasn’t.
I found her—accidentally. I had just turned thirteen and was on a walk to find my favourite mushrooms that only lived deep in the forest. I found her gardening outside a small wooden cabin, with smoke coming out of her chimney. I had stopped walking, frozen in place with fear, surprise, or awe; I didn’t quite know. She turned to me and smiled so kindly that I looked behind me to see if she was greeting someone else. But no, she stood up and walked over to me. And I knew, in that moment, that my life would never look the same.
When I met Rosie, years ago now, I was the first tree person she had seen in a long, long time. She looked like she had come straight out of the stories our grandparents spoke about- of the folk with green skin and golden hair who spoke to the trees. Only some of our oldest elders in town had sworn to have seen one when they were children. But as the elders died, their stories faded into myth. And our people did not have time for myths anymore. Life had become too fast-paced. Even a moment’s rest would leave you behind. Human progression and greed had overtaken our small town, and a great emptiness had cascaded over everything, deepening into a profoundly lonely slumber.
My skin wasn’t green like Rosie’s, and my hair wasn’t golden, but when she walked over to me that first day, she greeted me like I was her family. Tears were falling from her eyes when she said, “Have you woken up my child?” Soundlessly, something deep inside of me cried out; I suddenly felt like weeping in the arms of this strange woman I didn’t know. I looked at her, speechless, the pounding of my heart filling my ears. She didn’t say anything, and retreated back to her cabin and hastily returned with a tray of mint tea and ginger cookies. We settled under the most enormous apple tree I had ever seen. Our backs leaned against the thick trunk as I peered up into the twisted branches brimming with pale blossoms that blushed down upon us. We sat there in silence for a long time. We sipped our tea and nibbled the cookies while listening to the bees buzzing and the robins singing. There are no words to describe how I felt. The closest description would be the feeling of coming home and setting sail all at once.
A routine quickly followed between us. Every Sunday, I would hike an hour and a half into the woods to meet at Rosie’s cabin. I told no one, not even my parents. Rosie told me that this was vital if we were to continue meeting.
We spent most of our days walking, gardening, and reading. But above all, we would talk, and Rosie would tell stories. She would tell stories of lightness, adventure, and culture—a fathomless ache not only in me but also in her. Of a world I knew so little but longed so deeply for. For a world she knew so intimately- now gone except from within her. It was all so sad yet beautiful, like how Rosie was herself. Her once-soft sage-coloured skin had darkened into something more profound, like the deep hue of an evergreen tree. The golden hair she used to let grow long and wild was now held in a low, thick bun, the colour of snow. It was in her eyes, though, that struck an unavoidably intimate chord. They made you want to weep or cry out in joy. The tree folk were known for having eyes that told a thousand stories in one look, making even the strongest stutter at the sight of. But Rosie’s eyes held something even more. They held not just beauty but deep pain—a pain she understood and accepted. The type of pain that creates the most boundless elements of beauty.
I looked at Rosie now; her eyes were closed. Her long, slender fingers tapped a beat on the arm of her wooden chair, and a quiet hum escaped her lips—a tune I knew well but didn’t know how or why. I let the song wash over me. It was light but also melancholic. Held together with a particular resolution. A tingling sensation cascaded over my entire body. Lighting me up until it felt like I was glowing. Pulsating like a firefly.
“Rosie,” I said, so quietly I didn’t expect her to hear. My small voice sounded strange, like it wasn’t mine.
She stopped humming and opened her eyes to look at me. A buzzing filled the air. Seconds drenched in honey that lay in the bottom of the teacup.
“Well, I guess it’s about time. Wouldn’t you say?” She said firmly, with tender surrender, and stood up. “Come now, Lily. This story will be told where it is meant to be told: among the trees.”
Rosie then wrapped herself in her light pink shawl and placed her feet in her tall brown boots. I remained behind the counter, my hand still holding the spoon to stir the tea, my chest vibrating with something mixed between terror, anticipation and wonder.
Rosie paused at the door and turned around to me, “Well, are you coming or what?” Pinching myself, I dropped the spoon, grabbed my coat, and followed her out the door.
…
Rosie walked for a long time. I trailed behind her. But she was moving fast. Too fast. Not running, but gliding. My breath was getting haggard, trying to keep up.
She stopped abruptly when I finally thought of calling out that I needed a break. I nearly toppled into her. Panting, I looked around at where we were; I had been so focused on Rosie’s back that I hadn’t kept track of anything.
I let out a sharp intake of breath as I took in the surroundings. Rosie turned around, raising her eyebrows in an inquisitive and knowing arch.
I didn’t recognize where we were. It was like we were in a different forest. The air was noticeably different. It felt deeper, more ancient, steeped in something that had been around longer than any language I could comprehend.
She began walking again, but this time, more slowly, her long strides skimming among the tall trees. She seemed different—more full of life, more light.
“This is where I will tell you my story, child. And not just a story but my story. And these – these are the most powerful ones of all.” Rosie’s voice came out so utterly transparent. It had transformed from slow honey to a serene chorus of something otherworldly. She turned to look at me. “I will spare you most of the details; we don’t have time for those. But you must listen very carefully. And not just with your ears.” She stepped towards me and placed her hand on my heart. Already, it felt like her words were creating a new cavity in my chest. Trickling down my throat and creating an expanse so enigmatic I had to force myself not to turn around and run away. Something was beginning. Something was ending. I surrendered, suddenly flooded with the most freeing sense of defeat. So let it begin. So let it end.
Rosie started to talk.
…
My mother and father raised me quietly. That is not to say much, though; the tree folk are known for being quiet and reserved. However, my parents rarely used words; they spent their days doing their daily tasks. My mother was a gatherer, and my father was a climber. They were dutiful and respected but not very well known. They did not have many friends, spending their free time with each other or their trees. I spent most of my early years on my mother’s back, accompanying her on her journeys to gather the plants and herbs needed for medicine in our village. My father would wait for us on our return, his strong arms greeting us gently.
I was the most ordinary child. Forgettable, even. Some would call me the little chameleon, as I was rarely seen, even when I was right in front of you. Blending into the background, invisible to everyone except for the trees.
I spent my days absorbing people and their ways, the trees, the earth, the bugs and birds, the sunlight that fed us, and the rain that cleansed us. The worlds I was creating and expanding inside me were boundless.
By my fifth year of life, the comfort and safety of early childhood was nearing its end. We were told that something of the most tremendous significance would occur soon, and to succeed, we must find our tree. I was frightened, but not entirely. The energy of the trees encompassed me so potently, and I could feel that potency growing stronger. I was ready, even excited, for what was to come.
The six of us who were born in the village that year were taken in the middle of the night, blindfolded, and dropped into a land we did not know, separated even from each other. The trees swept us away into different realms, where time and reality blurred.
…
Rosie went quiet. Her steps among the looming trees faltered. She turned to me, her eyes finding mine.
“Once those years were up, we would be returned to our own realm. But not always. More often than not, a child would never return. It was up to fate. And fate, being the tree folk’s most sanctified belief, was a rule upheld.” She turned back to the trees, so I could only see the silhouette of her face peering into a time only she could see.
“It does not matter in this story what happened in those years. Only three of us were found. I was the last.” The frown on her mouth edged into a smile. “But I found her, my tree. And my, was she glorious.”
…
My tree was named Sequoia. She was strong and ancient, with roots that ran deep and far. She was full of wisdom but also possessed a gentle lightness. Sequoia was a mother tree, the leader of a forest. She stood 150 feet tall and had soft, wrinkled auburn bark with feathery green needles that arced toward the sky.
Sequoia and I spoke about many things, especially in those first years when we were getting to know each other. When speaking with a tree, you are not using words, but feeling. And to communicate by feeling, you learn, is the truest form of connection. Words could never suffice for a relationship so deeply embedded.
You eventually learned that despite all the ways we were all made up of different things, we were equally made up of the same things. It was the same stardust that made all of us, and that meant something. We all lived on the same planet; we all relied on the same sun, water and soil. And so it was common sense to live in partnership. How much simpler life would be if we felt a little bit more about beings other than ourselves. Life would never be easy for any being, but simplicity is often where the profound nature of everything can be realized. Sequoia taught me that.
From the age of seven to twelve, I ran. And ran and ran and ran. Through the trees, up the trees. I loved it—the feeling of freedom. My golden hair flying behind me, my lungs aching. But the time for running free and wild was almost over. I was turning thirteen, which in our village meant that the tasks we would spend our lives doing would soon be placed upon us.
Similar to when I was five, before the finding of our trees, I was not overly scared or nervous. I only wanted a simple life with Sequoia and my parents. Perhaps one day, I would find someone to have a child with to show them the wonders of life. I didn’t care much about what task I would receive, except for one: the life-bringer. It was the most crucial role of all. A life bringer hadn’t been chosen for over 400 years, and the current one had grown weary. The trees whispered to us that someone would be selected soon.
A new life-bringer could only be trained by the previous one and chosen only by the trees and no one else. Only they shared the secrets of the birth of our folk with the trees. Births did not happen often in our village. They were incredibly sacred events. The entire village would be called to retreat to their trees and were only allowed to rejoin once the outcome of the birth was determined. The birth occurred within the mother’s tree. The only beings permitted to be present were the mother, the life-bringer, and the tree.
Without a chosen life-bringer, our family, the trees, would be strangers to us. And without our understanding of the language of the trees, a lifebringer could never be chosen. Everything works in a circle.
To be chosen as a life-bringer is exhilarating and terribly lonely. They lived lifespans similar to those of the trees. If some were to call our folk the cousins of the trees, they would call the life bringers the children of the trees.
And so it must not be forgotten that a life full of deep pain and beauty lay ahead of whoever was chosen. Back then, I shuddered even at the thought of it. I prayed for any life but that one.
…
Rosie then stopped before a tree and looked up towards its crown. The tree’s bark was leathery and soft, and her leaves were feathery and light green. Her trunk was the size of a small cabin. I held my breath. Could this be?
“This is Sequoia,” Rosie said quietly, emotion thick in her voice. “And we are going to climb her.”
Rosie then started to climb. In a way I had never seen anyone climb a tree. It was both beautiful and strange— graceful and quick. I followed, shuffling my way up, trying not to look down or slip. However, climbing Sequoia felt different. For some reason, it felt as though she was helping me, showing me the best branches to grab and giving me a lift as I heaved myself up.
I finally reached the top and, surprisingly, didn’t see Rosie. I looked down to the ground. She must have fallen. As panic rose in my throat, I heard—no, I felt—the tree telling me to look.
Look. Child, open your eyes. I breathed in slowly and out. A life force I couldn’t explain, buzzing so strongly in my ears and throughout my body.
I closed my eyes and put my palm on Sequoia. I opened my eyes, and there, in front of me, was a door. I reached out for the handle. I pulled, and there sat Rosie, in her living room, sitting in her blue rocking chair, smiling at me.
“And so you have found your tree. And I have found my life bringer.” She breathed out.
Realization sank into my chest. I had known it all along, hadn’t I?
“But-but I never wanted this-” Tears brimmed in my eyes. Her words about wanting any other life but this one played across my mind.
“When we strip back the layers of bark, child, you’ll find that what we truly want and must do are the same.” She stood up from her chair and walked over to me. “The tree’s wisdom is inside all of us.” She reached forward and cupped her hand to my cheek. “All we have to do is be still for a moment and feel.”