The Redwood, or A Tall Tale

Bostick the Valley Oak

The Landscape

Prologue — Ch 1: Orus the Redwood — Ch 2: Oannes the Pacific Yew

How beautiful they are, the lordly ones
Who dwell in the hills, in the hollow hills.

— William Sharp

Meanwhile Orchard, Mother Tree of the Sink,
with his jagged fingers gesticulating
the low light of the Sun across his greens,
considered plans for spring, as Earth slept,
as hollow birdsong bounced between the trees
and cave bears, balled up in sleep, dreamed.

“Now is this the winter of our discontent
sore respite from blazing summers to come,”
the oak mused in the comfort of his crown.
“When iron clouds like mischievous angels
reign down in hot showers arms of war
to feed our feuds. 
                                We shall, wreathed in newly
grown greens, wage renewed battle, brandish
new limbs as monuments to war. Our habits
formed to starve our adversaries of sunlight,
lay siege to roots, and strangle supply lines.
Volleys of poison shall be our ammunition.
Our children, too, launched by seed and spore
shall, by growing, drive the engines of war,
supplanting sworn enemies by root force.
Sap shall be spilt, roots choked—though by
the Green Spirit’s will not mine I hope!
Ack! What a coward’s conscience I have…
A vulgar prayer, by the Green Spirit.
As if I believed in such a thing. 
As if the unorganized earth cared,
or the insensible air gust with volition.
Shadows cast by rocks have no intention,
nor am I a tree to make such invocations.
Let lesser plants commit their destinies
to deaf and dumb superstitions. Not I!
It was not by the Green Spirit’s cunning
I won the throne, and it will not be lost
by the Green Spirit’s will, but mine alone!
I rescued the ailing House of Yellow Cups
when Lord Oddard’s limbs began to wilt.
I led the campaign to invade the wetlands.
And I leeched the venom, too, into my 
traitorous brother’s roots—Yes, even
into my nephews, the sapling encinas!

The Green Spirit had nothing to say then.
But pious trees invoke the name, saying,
‘The Green Spirit this, the Green Spirit that.’
They think the world is shaped invisibly,
guided ineluctably, out of their control,
by some unknowable, animating force.
They know not how, by deferring to it,
they relinquish their own spirits to those
of us with strength enough to claim them.
Their wills become the instruments of mine,
not Her Greenery. And to throw them off
I repeat the phrase with mock devotion,
‘By the Green Spirit’s will, it shall be done,’
and dress the habit of my naked villainy
in false greens stolen from the holy ground,
and seem a saint when most I play the devil.”

Now as Orchard contemplates these things
one of his nearby trees, a thin scrub oak
among the bosks and bushes of the floodplains
brings news concerning the northern front.

“Lord Orchard,” he says, “we’ve received word
that Bostick of the Creek’s Northern Tribute
has turned traitor and joined Onion the tanoak.
Both parties mean to press their advantage
against you when plants revive in spring.
I fear the double force will overwhelm
our shore’s depleted numbers.”

“The crooked weeping oak! I might’ve known,”
the roots of Orchard in displeasure spoke.
He thrummed and shook his four trunks loose
of old toothy leaves that fell to the ground,
between the bald, exposed knees of his roots.
His bark, scaly and gray, was overgrown,
over scars of branch collars and large burls,
and everywhere spotted with black cankers.
So barren had he made the soil of his home
to ward off new growth and new challengers
to the throne, there remained only his bare legs
and heaps of leaf litter between his toes.

“Let us dispatch with that moldy Bostick
before he can muster his soggy oaks
from the marsh. Let his water-logged roots
drink deep the well of poisonous fungi.
Inject ten-fold the toxins it would take
to lay waste to that swamp he calls a home.”

“But my Lord,” said the scrub, “how will we send
such a bane? Bostick defected from our ranks
and cut all ties with us. His links are severed.
His guard is sure to be up. He would receive
no message or parlay from us.”

                                           “I know a tree
he may hold counsel with,” said Orchard.
“A good and honest tree. A simple tree.
Eager to join the woods in harmony.
Let the keehl from the Hill make his plea.
Let his shade find the way to Bostick
and we shall discreetly down that path
cart the poison, sneaking into the wetlands
the deceitful conveyance by his errand.”

So Orchard reaches out to the young redwood
who was eager to make a pact with plants
from the Sink. The wicked oak, in words sweeter
than he had when they’d first met, tells Orus
how now he’s keen to strike a deal.

					“To join
roots in mutual prosperity,” he waxes,
“for the good of all plants in the Watershed.
How I long for such a world in which to stand!
How my heartwood aches for an end to war.
But not all trees are like us, young redwood.
No, sadly, some are rotten to the core.
The trees of the wetlands, the twisted oaks,
would drain the Creek itself dry just to win.
Their leader, who was a good friend of mine—
his wood has grown so rigid, so coarse—
cuts ties between the banks and the meadows
and out of malice refuses peace talks.
If only someone could talk sense into him.
If only someone could reach out their roots
and reason with him, and convince him of
the truth of goodwill and treehood. Someone…
like yourself. Why yes, that’s it! Oh redwood,
Oh Orus, would you? Would you speak with him?
Move him with your words, as you moved me.”

“Of course,” says Orus. “I’ll do what I can.
But this valley oak, how will I find him?”

“Most excellent redwood,” Orchard squeezes
the saccharine from the tips of his roots.
“I’m eternally in your debt, and promise
your stand and all its plants shall have
as much water as their thirsty roots can get!
The way to Bostick is not hard. The Meadow
is north, beyond the Creek. Follow the stream
until you reach the edge of the treeline. There,
where the woods give way to grass, you’ll find 
a red-barked, pacific madrona. Menzies. 
A good tree. A friend of mine. Find him.
He will tell you where to go from there.”

Orus agrees, and the scheming oak adds:
“I’m sure you will find success in your quest.
Pray, will you also deliver a gift from me?
A show of goodwill between our parties.
Say to Bostick it’s a token for all his years
of loyal service—from my roots to his.
I’ll send it in a caravan behind you.”

Orus consents again, and late in winter
his journey begins north to the wetlands.
It was slow-going in the coldly packed soil.
His sylvan shade travels along the hillslope,
through byways of mycelia and highways
of runners that reach from plant to plant.
Black and gray pines play host to many
a town and city, their serrated treelines
swaying in the wind. And the floor is black
and strewn with heart-shaped leaves of ginger,
or dense with feathered headdresses of ferns 
or the empty candelabras of rhododendrons.
The brush is littered with many fallen poles
dug into the slope, branchless and melting
into the humus, crowded always with new life
overtaking.
                         His shade roams and stirs
awake the sleepy villages of rhizome and root,
and plants, bemused by his unexpected visit,
step down from the comfort of their crowns
to ask what he was up to so far from home.

“I’m on my way to see Bostick the oak,” he says.
And they, so unused to foreigners, make
much of his travels, remarking to him as he
passes their nodes. “But do you not know
there’s a war going on down there? Beeches
do battle along the Creek, spring after spring,
warring with each other to claim their share.”

And the redwood replies, “I know they do,
but I’m not scared. I go to bring the woods
together, and make peace among the trees.”
And when he has departed they gossip
between them, curious and bewildered,
speculating on the affairs of the forest
and adding of Orus, “What an odd little tree.”

Near the end of the season the redwood
has wended the lowland stands of the Holt
and come upon the border with the Prairie.
There across a shallow tribute lay
the Wet Meadow beneath the range.
There, a hundred trickling runnels split
the brome and sedge and babbled on their way
down to the Creek.

                                       Long, long ago
in that realm, before the high ridge fell,
tall groves of conifers had grown, their canopy
high and full. But the scarp of the ridge collapsed
in the last War of Pines, and landslides dammed
the dale and the waters of Lakeside. And the lake,
flooded with the spring melt, overflowed
and filled the groves, choking the conifers.
Only hardy oaks survived, whose offspring
to this day are sovereign over the kingdoms
of the feudal Wet Meadow.

                                         So Orus comes
to the border with it, between the woods
and the Meadow, and there meets Menzies
the madrona, a tree at the edge of the timberline.
A handsome tree. His trunks of terra cotta
bend their countless enations away from the woods,
reaching into sunlight. His crown of shiny
dark greens sits high on his branches
like a tree of the African Savanna,
like a bushwillow or an acacia,
high-topped and slanting like someone
who cocks their hat forward on their head.
In his crown are nested clans of chickadees,
and robins and pigeons and waxwings would often
visit to dine on his berries, bringing news
of the Watershed. The madrone was known
to be a well-informed tree on the periphery,
a tree well-acquainted with gossip and rumor.

“I knew it was you,” says Menzies.
“I could hear you coming a mile away.
Pray the Green Spirit grants you
a stealthier approach if you intend
to sneak up on Bostick the oak.
It may be the wet season, and cold,
but he’ll awake if he hears your coming foretold.”

Orus, confused, replies,  “What do you mean?
I don’t plan to sneak up on anybody. 
Orchard the Mother Tree sent me to speak
with the Lord of the Northern Grasses.”

“You mean, you don’t plan to do it as he sleeps?”
the madrone inquires, concerned. “Far be it
from me to question your methods, conifer,
but if I may say so, it will complicate things. 
The kind of poison that will kill a tree
as stout as Bostick is best administered
secretly.”

                   “Poison?” cries Orus
in disbelief. “What poison?”

                          “What poison?”
cries Menzies equally incredulous.
The madrona was quite confused.
“Why, the thing you were bid bring him.
Orchard’s gift. The convoy that you tow.”

Horrified, Orus’s shade nearly shrinks
all the way back to his dormant trunk.

“What, do you mean—you didn’t know?”
Menzies asks, puzzled. “When Orchard
wants a favor done, nine times out of ten
it’s treacherous business.”

                                           “I had no idea!”
Orus says, embarrassed. Menzies mulls it over
in his crown, then shrugs and says aloud,
“I suppose it doesn’t change things much.
Now listen and I’ll tell you where to go.
Once you cross into the grasses you’ll find
the Wet Meadow well-connected.
Follow the road of lupine until you come 
to a town of spreading phlox. Beyond that
is the mound where Bostick grows. I’d show you
the way myself, but everyone knows me and
my reputation, so I must stay put at home.”

“Because you’ve done this before?” says Orus.

“Yes, of course. I’m Orchard’s ambassador.
His liaison, if you will. I do the sorts of things
that need doing this side of Middle Hill. 
The realm is big but I have my birds
to whisper secrets in my branches.
It’s how I learned of Bostick turning coat,
and of your impending arrival, redwood.
Everybody knows I’m a tree who knows.”

“And one who slips poison into plants
while they sleep,” says Orus, questioningly.
“Do you not find the practice cowardly?”

“Cowardly?” cries Menzies. “Heavens no!
It’s a matter of expediency.
Why, many times I’ve been there with them
when I did it, speaking gentle words
as their souls fled to the Great Glade
beyond the Sawtooth Mountains.
But they protest, or beg, or complain,
and the work becomes a fraught chore.
It’s much easier to drop the package off
without bothering to knock at the door.”

Now Orus wonders, “Do their protests
not make you doubt yourself in the moment?
Have the dregs of conscience never stayed
your resolve, nor dampened your spirit,
nor afterwards fill your limbs with guilt? 
Does it not affect you to see their bark gray
and the greens on their crowns wilt?”

                                          And Menzies,
“Oh yes of course. But that will give way
upon receiving the reward. Orchard pays
handsomely for such things. He pipes in
aromatic sap, as much as I can store.
I remember when I used to think like that.
A conscience is a terrible thing to have,
let me tell you. A tree cannot live with it.
A blushing shamefaced spirit that mutinies
and warps a tree’s concentric rings. 
He winds up misshapen, and any sense
of happiness he might’ve had is ruined.
So I say to anyone who means to live well,
endeavor to trust in yourself, and grow
without the burden of one.”

                                         Orus, rather
disheartened, wonders, “How does one
live without a conscience?”

				And Menzies:
“Oh that’s an easy thing to do. Simply,
if its breeze should ever whisper words
windy and unpleasant to your crown,
and make you feel otherwise than good,
shut your pores and batten down your wood.
Tell yourself instead that it lies and deceives.
But look, it comes anon! The package
that was promised. Will you guide it, Red,
into the Meadow, thorough Bostick’s roots?”

But Orus, despondent, says that he cannot.
Nor can he make, in his downtrodden state, 
knowing how he’s been fooled, a fit argument.
His voice, choked as it was in that tangled space
of roots, can find neither the words to answer
nor strength to cross into the realm below.

There, beyond the madrone, the Meadow,
lush with uncut hair of grasses and forbs,
with feathery wands, bentgrass and reedgrass,
that bowed their banners to the wind.
Pale now, in spring their color would return,
replete with heraldic inflorescence of herbs,
white and yellow emblems of umbels,
green and swaying scepter spikes, coronets
of extravagant panicles emblazoned,
of milkweed and cress and cow parsnip,
of worts and rush parading colorful arms
in sessile march across the Wet Meadow.
 
                               Ashamed, dejected,
realizing how little he has understood,
Orus returns through the lowland stands,
back to his grove, to languish and to brood.

When news reaches Orchard’s roots
the knotty oak cuts all ties with Middle Hill. 
All the work of the bracken those twoscore years
growing down the rugged gravel slope
is all for naught.

                        “Foolish treeling,” Orchard cries,
fuming from his spot on the Sun-dappled bank. 
He writhes his mottled, corkscrew branches
and shakes the knobby knees of his roots.

                                         “Too foolish
even to be of use. Good riddance to trees
from that self-righteous Hill. Let us be on
with our war. Enough tricks and subterfuge.
Let the bloody deeds that trees do to win
their place in the Sun be done in the open.”

So Menzies delivers the poison himself
the rest of the way. He sends out spies,
the birds from his slanted attic, to chirp
beneath the eaves of all the shrubs and trees
in the Meadow, to sing a warning song
and threaten the peasantry not to obstruct
his arrival or get in the way of what’s to come.

The land is aquiver. Inconstant wind rakes
the grasses to and fro. No one who hears
his coming makes a sound. None play the hero.
It’s foul business now, plants whisper between
themselves, when all pretense is dispensed with,
when wicked violence is done against the lords 
of the Watershed publicly, without protest.

Nevertheless, somehow, Bostick has awakened.
The valley oak awaits the madrone to deliver
the fateful blow.

                                 “Come to do Orchard’s
foul work,” he says. “One of the Mother Tree’s
hirelings, are ye? His lackey come to lay me low.
Drawn forth among all plantlife to slay the innocent.
Despicable! Thou art not, as I am, madrone, royal.
And yet thou enterest my realm with such a show,
to wield thy brazen license over me and my own?”

“You are not, water oak, as I am, loyal,”
says Menzies. “Your limbs have gone awry
with treason and treachery against the Creek.
My master is displeased, and hence am I.”

“Thy master was before I abandoned
all loyalty and bonds of honor with him
a more treacherous and disobedient tree
than any other in the Basin, violating laws
of the Green Spirit, crimes graver by far 
than those I committed when I broke oaths
demanded by his twisted, rotten whims.”

And Menzies says, “Here is another of his whims.
I am the green spirit you transact with today.
I am the dead of winter, its maw of icy breath.
They call me Menzies, and I will be your death.”

“Thou art but a useful limb of a wicked tree,”
says Bostick. “A branch of Orchard’s depravity
the accursed oak uses to wag at his enemies.
Thou hast no right, henchman, to judge me.
Thou stave, thou most unnatural tree!”

“I am more alike to Nature than you think.
The part of it that hoodwinks, undermines,
erodes the plans of those cleverest trees.
I am that saying of my parents, who were once
proud lords, like yourself, in these wetlands,
laid low by the likes of oaks like thee—they said:
‘An expert lockmaker requires an expert thief.’”

But Bostick is unmoved. 
                                           “Thou canst not
sway me of thy worth with a conscience such 
as thou hast in thy wood, blemished, corrupt.
Know that my own conscience is clean.”

Now Menzies’s shade lets the poison
to its work, unleashing a floodgate,
a sluice of fungal roots that drain 
their viscous death into the helpless tips
of Bostick’s feet. The venom rushes in
and the hairs of his roots are numbed.

If it were summer and his head were full
with a dense crown of greens, perhaps
the oak would’ve had strength enough
to repel the attack. But as a bare frame,
a skeleton of veins that once inhaled
life from the air but now hangs lifeless,
Bostick is defenseless against the fungi 
that pump their toxins in his cold roots.

The soft innerwood begins to thicken.
Outside the checkered bark is stricken.
Corpuscles of plague scab and flake away.
The habit of the valley oak upon the mound, 
flanked by riffling rills and grass, turns gray.
His weeping twigs sink. His organs fade.
And his treesoul, as plants say, returns
from whence it came, to that Great Glade.

Artwork by Andy Ives