A poem by Kat in response to Emily's This Tree Is Not Like The Others
The clay soil has hardened as it dried. It catches under my nails,
chipping and breaking them as I dig. The skin of my fingers catch on the
rocks and debris hidden in amongst the soil. I imagine my blood being
kneaded into the displaced clay, an offering to the earth I’m going to
join with. If I could still feel my fingers, I’m sure they’d be bruised.
The song of the trees turned violent when I’d tried to use a stick to
break through the clay. The soft breeze rattled the leaves until the
trees seemed to shake with their anger. I can feel their anger pulse
through my blood.
The sun will rise, soon. The humans will come. The weapon must be hidden.
I
dig harder. My arms burn from the exertion. The song grows louder close
to dawn, as the trees pass on their final messages safe from human
ears. I can understand them now. They offer warnings, tell each other
where the nearest humans are hiding. They send their spiders out for
reconnaissance.
They don’t know that word. My life, my work,
mean nothing to the trees. The words I spent years forcing into my
vocabulary mean nothing to the trees. They’re just harsh, guttural
sounds. They understand the weapon though.
Back when the trees
were new, the humans tried to shoot them. The trees remember, they share
their stories in their songs so that every one of them knows to be wary
of the metal and plastic beside me. I sing them my plan, my voice
nowhere near their beauty. It’s still harsh, more growls than trills. It
seems disrespectful, like butchering their language, but their replies
assure me that they understand.
The birds are waking as I drop
the assault rifle into its burial plot. The trees sing their approval. I
can feel the change. My limbs move more slowly as I pile clay over the
gun, my breathing slowly shifting from the human panting of overwork
into the high pitched sigh of the trees.
I will never finish
covering the gun with clay. Someone could stumble upon it, could use it
against us. I cannot let them. The trees tell me to stand over the gun,
to join with the earth and let my transformation contain the threat.
It
seems fitting to let my new life stand on the body of my old one. I
straighten my spine, adopt the parade rest pose, and watch the sun rise.
*
The iPod won’t last much longer, but I let the music
drown out the whispering of the trees. I don’t want to hear them. Not
today. If there are spiders coming for me, I don’t want to know that,
either.
It takes an age to dig the hole deep enough to fit her
body. If my Dad was here, he’d tell me that I don’t have time for the
pomp and ceremony. I stopped her become a tree, I don’t owe her any more
than that. Just throw her in the dirt and run back to the fortress.
He’s been gone too long. He’s easy enough to ignore.
I
can’t help cranking ‘No Stone’ by Paul McDermott as I fill in the
makeshift grave. The soldier-postured tree shades me as I sprinkle some
of the clay, letting my voice join with the crickets, and the whispering
of the trees as I say my goodbyes.
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