The Redwood, or A Tall Tale

Oannes the Pacific Yew

The Landscape

Prologue — Ch 1: Orus the Redwood

Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
—Yeats

Sunny are the banks of the Sink
that lie along the pooling-riffling Creek.
The Sun’s light is broken on the floor
by stag-horned crowns of oak whose crooked arms
and tutting fingers cannot catch all its wealth.
Live oak and white and black and valley oak
clutching whorled greens and bearded moss,
plaited with scales, adorned in honors of lichen.
Octopus roots breaking the subsoil.
Their habits confounding as hieroglyphs.
The significance of their petrified postures
invisible to our brief spans of time.

Between them stand gray towers of tanoaks
and white alders. Below the treeline, thickets
of berry shrubs, salmon and huckle and elder
and gooseberry, and oceanspray and nettle,
and skunk cabbage and cattail, and stalks
of orchids and yellow monkey flowers.
A mosaic populace of plants, many
who lose their leaves and go to sleep in fall.
Riparian plants of all shapes and cycles
girding the floodplains of the Creek,
drinking from its softened beds, reaching
hooked arms over its life-giving stream.

So Orus joined his grove to the closest bank
of the Creek, where north and south tributes
converge in one course that rushes west
through the prairielands, and empties into
the Sea’s maw its spring and alpine waters.
There he held counsel with the Mother Tree,
a grizzled canyon live oak named Orchard,
a tree beset with troubles, plagued with
factious tribes of plants east and west.

Orchard’s habit, four stubby trunks
that split and held their twisting crown aloft—
branching into myriad arthritic hands
that bore sparse bouquets of toothy leaves—
looked as tortured as a hunchback stamped
with the punishments of sore misfortune
that cracked and arched his many backs
until his body splayed ope for all to see.

Orus made his brief plea to the live oak,
asking through a channel of tangled roots
that water might be siphoned to his grove
for the Hill was parched and in great need of it.
He spoke with eloquence and modesty
beyond his age, but Orchard was unmoved.

“What artless voice have I lent the audience
of my roots to?” cried the oak.
                                             Earth shook
and trembled round for plants to hear.
“What fruit unripened on the vine begs
my aid? I hear the innocent cry of a whelp,
a child’s burdensome helplessness, bringing
no offering in return but his begging.
A redwood, no less! From that windy Hill
that calls itself the center of our Watershed.
Many seasons have passed since a voice
from Middle Hill has bothered calling out
to the Creek. Not since old Plantagenet
lost his hold on the Sink and the banks
broke out in civil war. Not since the houses
of Yellow Cup and Brown Cup were formed,
our two cadet branches splitting the woods
into warring East and West Creek factions,
vying for the throne of the Mother Tree
whose hollow crown I wear upon my head.
Of what help has Middle Hill been to us?
It was trees from your land who lost the treeship.
The crimes of Hammett hang on your trunk!
The crimes committed on the Northern Ridge.
Who would trust a tree from Middle Hill?
Who would give fresh water freely to such
self-absorbed plants? I would sooner uproot
myself, would sooner throw myself down
than give aid to the likes of you, keehl.”

The forest grew lively, bristling in the
river breeze, their roots and crowns aquiver
with intrigue.

                   So long had they been at odds
with trees on the west bank of the Creek,
with the Brown Cups and their Lord Onion,
a round and cunning tanoak who claimed
to be the rightful Mother Tree of the Sink.
So long had both sides fought a bitter feud,
a war of plant succession, with each side
gaining some, then losing some other ground.
Prolonged trench war fought across the Creek,
with seeds carried by the drifting air, dropped
behind enemy lines that, over centuries,
claiming parcels on the shore, creeping inland,
sowed confusion and strife among themselves
and made the Creek in spring a dangerous place
to be.

                  Then Orus replied: “Great oak,
humbly I make my request before yourself
and all riparian trees of the Sink. I know
the woods are not well. I know the Watershed
is divided, and our stands stand disconnected.
The tallest trees in my grove do not answer.
They seem to live only in their crowns
and cannot hear our calls, or refuse them.
That’s why we built this road and joined ours
to yours, because plantlife thrives together,
and together we can work to end our woes.
I don’t know the trees of whom you speak
who planted this enmity between us.
They were before my time. I knew them not.
But make a pact with me, not with them.
Not with ghosts. The things plants do before us
should not determine our habits, nor block
the neighborly roots of ours from linking.
They should not deter us from new bonds,
new communities that, by their linking,
undo old wrongs with honest compact.
Give us some water from your riverbed
and, in time, you’ll find us equal to the gift.”

Now Orchard thought to himself awhile,
in the privacy of his crown where thoughts 
are secreted. “The treeling’s more naive
than even I supposed! Mewling about
unity and fraternity of trees.
He must be no taller than a shrub
to believe in such ridiculous things.
Or… or he’s more clever than I realize.
New alliances and new bonds disguise 
old crimes and old wrongs. Has he run
afoul of his allies, and seeks new ones?
Does he play the upright tree for sympathy?
I might use him to my own advantage.
The Green Spirit knows how much flora
I’ve made use of and then discarded.
How many bonds I most wickedly cut…”

Then Orchard spoke through his roots:

                                                  “Redwood, 
I will know you, and from where you come.
Although you think it not worth knowing,
the things plants do do not end with them.
The sins of our forebears are alive with us,
housed in seeds that grow long after their limbs,
petrified, are ashed in fire, or windthrown.
They poison us and turn the wood rotten.
So I will know what kind of plant you are.
How ringed with age. Of what composition
your soil consists. I will know whether
hardwood or softwood girds your pith.
Nearer the river stands a wise yew tree.
Oannes, my advisor. Speak with him.
He will know what you are. He will test you.
If I find his report to my liking
you and I will have further to discuss.”

So Orus went to speak to the wise yew.
For many days his shade, his sylvan sprite,
continued through the fungal nets woven
through the bank.
 
                           It was late in spring then.
The air was humid and thick with pollen,
and the bustling roots underneath threw
Orus into confusion. Lost among
mineral highways and dens of rumor,
of plants at war devising and scheming.
Tenuous were the ties of community,
for who trusted their neighbor’s loyalty
when, years later, they might switch sides
and cede the land to enemy seeds?

And everywhere his spirit went there was
gossip of rebellion and conspiracy,
Until at last, along the cool edges
of the bank, where water laps and smoothes
the pebbles of the bar, he met the wise
Oannes, advisor to the Mother Tree.

An old pacific yew, Oannes had lived
many centuries, and knew many things.
His habit, like two long hands extending
in supplication to the river god, reaching
out over the rushing stream, as if waiting
to receive the leaping salmon that leapt
into the wide, flat palms of his trunks.
His bark was smooth as ebony, with many
chartaceous scrolls of peeling red, with
oyster mushrooms crowding his balconies.

Oannes the Teacher, many called him,
though his roots no longer reached as wide
as they had before, and his voice no longer
carried into the roots of plants at war.
But Orchard kept him in his retinue
because he was wise and unambitious.
He had lived many centuries and knew
many things, and he saw clearly into
the heartwood of trees.

			Now Orus explained
to Oannes how and why he’d come,
how Orchard said he should be tested,
and Oannes, with firmly rooted voice
and deep-feeling root hairs that vibrated
into Orus’s shade, replied:

“And what kind of tree are ye, redwood?
For what purpose have ye led plants down
the Middle Hill to the warring floodplains?
Have ye come for conquest and the glory
of yer grove? To sound yer name from afar
like a warcry, with armies marching down
the foothills? Did ye reach yer roots to ours
to plant yer plants in victory across
the troubled towns of our riverine realm?
Seek ye to exploit us? To speak like
a friend, make generous, false promises,
and from under our crowns rob the earth
like a baron? 
                          I warn ye there’s naught
worth having here that will not cost ye more
than its fair price, for plants so long at war
win diminishing gains, until they hold
the spoils of the floor in terror and blight.
Such has it been since old Plantagenet,
the gold-leafed chinkapin, lost his crown.”

The oyster mushrooms on Oannes dipped
their bells to hear mention of the chinkapin.

“I was but a young tree when he fell,
after the power of the Mother Trees
was forsaken, after their influence
over the weather and the woods was taken
in punishment by the Great Green for our sins.
The Creek dried and sank beneath the bar.
And Old Plantagenet, impotent, fearful
of uprising, abolished the Potlatches,
declaring all successors to the throne
should be his offspring, no longer chosen
by the will of plants but descended from
one tree alone, from the line of himself.
How well that went! How like a mouse
who, pursued at night by two owls,
narrowly escapes the talons of one
only to be ensnared by the other.
Plants rebelled and cast him from the soil,
uprooting the once honorable limbs
that delusion had withered and hollowed.
Since then, how many trees claim to be
his heir? How many risen and fallen have
greedily staked their share of the Creek,
Yellow Cup and Brown Cup alike, sprawling
out their roots in bitter warfare, embattled,
all the while hoping to satisfy their desires
at the expense of all, until their foul reigns
end in violence, and dishonored Earth 
will not keep them, and they fall.”

Lost in reminiscence, plants around
the yew slouched, grew sullen. Sunlight
bright and diffuse through the low canopy
gave to the floor the air of a dreamy bower,
as though sprites and fairies glided in gold
over the undergrowth. Then Oannes
tuned his roots again to Orus, and spoke:

“Are ye another one of these tall standing,
hollow trees that craves abundant light?
To live in the light of the Sun alone
and worship its gifts deliriously,
and delirious, care naught but for
its edifying light upon yer leaves?
I’ve met many trees like that. All of them
have fallen down or they turn, day by day,
to snags, their woodrot rotten to the pith.
Are ye like to such trees in that habit?”

The yew’s words reached deep underground
and resonated the shade of Orus, and he:

“In truth, I resemble none of those trees.
Though I’ve not met enough to know for sure.
I come on behalf of my friends, the ferns
and sorrel and flowering plants of my stand.
Our soil is parched, and tall pines above
ignore our cries for aid. Our entreaties
are met with silence on Middle Hill,
so I’ve come to the Sink seeking help.
Water is what I need for my grove.
What I can offer in return is goodwill
and lasting alliance between our lands.
An oath of plants to grow together and
flourish for as long as plants to that oath
stay true. Know I will honor it always,
come fire or flood, desolation or plague.
I hide no other motives in my crown,
not yet full enough to house such designs
for I’m not yet so far up from the ground.”

“Not far up indeed,” said wise Oannes.
“Nor politic enough to be a Mother Tree.
Nor tall enough yet to speak on behalf
of others, nor oath make, nor bond seal.
In what alliances, then, can ye deal?”

Orus replied, “In friendship and goodwill.
In truth I only saw my friends and I in need,
crowded as we are on the forest floor,
with not enough space, nor enough water,
and thought it might as well be me
who makes the effort on their behalf,
and because I thought it might work and
other plants around me seemed to agree.
In truth I wasn’t sure what would come.
But now that I’m here, I’m willing to do
whatever it takes, to strike whatever deal
will satisfy my stand and yours mutually.”

Oannes the yew said: “Whatever it takes?
Do ye know all the ways that might be?
Though ye sound like an honest good tree,
I feel the maiden green of yer leaves.
Ye flail with pliant trunk in the breeze.
What ye seek requires sturdier resolve.
But if that earnest will in ye strengthen and
straighten thy young bole, ye may yet stand
among the tallest and make yer case.”

At this Orus exclaimed, “Oh wise old yew
that’s exactly what I want! Make my case
to the woods for the good of all. I want
all flora to prosper, all fauna to thrive.
If we can make a pact between us,
to help each other in any way that we can,
I know we could uplift every stand,
every grove and bank in the land.”

A smile creased the bark of Oannes.
The cuffs of his peeling red bark curled.

“Perhaps, redwood, ye will,” he said.
“But how do ye suppose ye will proceed?
The way is not so straight as it seems.
There are many mischievous, unhappy trees
who would use ye for their ends, would make
a wasteland of yer woods and call it a home.
Will ye offer pacts indiscriminately?
Will ye not discern the bad from the good,
and not refuse to commit harms that others
out of malevolence and ignorance would?
Driven like wraiths in thrall to wandering,
unburdening themselves however they please.
Likewise in ourselves are there those passions
that, left unchecked, would warp our habits
and bend our natures to their inveterate wills.
Vice that corrupts the woods, erodes the roots.
They beset the soul, and the woods, with ills.
Will ye face such trials and not be bent?”

And Orus, excited by what the Teacher said,
answered quickly, and with zeal, “I’ve no idea!
How does one discern the bad from the good?
How does one tell what’s real in this neck of the woods?
Will you teach me, great yew? I know you are
a wise old tree, and I don’t have a clue
where to begin. Will you teach me, please?”

“Perhaps, In time, young redwood. But ye
are not yet tall enough to see the forest
for the trees. One day yer spirit will soar
beyond yer body, as yer mind travels
through the aetherous fields of earth.
Gliding on the plane of the Green Spirit,
ye will see the whole shape of our woods
as they appear to the mountains from their
summits. Then to thee the whole Watershed
will be clear, from the top of Mount Sumeg
to the mouth of the Creek that empties
into the Sea.

		Until then, plant thyself
firmly in the soil. Fix the foundations
of thy woody home, so when the time comes 
to leave it, ye will find it unshaken,
a bastion, a haven, upon your return.
Bring the disparate organs of yer body
into harmony with one another.
Roots to anchor and mine for minerals.
Pipelines of xylem and phloem to carry
life-giving water and sweet-smelling sap.
Branches to scaffold, buds affixed to leaves,
those engines that harness the Holy Sun,
that angle and aim our greens to breathe.
Bolster yer walls with spring and summerwood
to safeguard from the boring of beetles
and stab of hungry birds. Lift up yer crown
and around it draw an apron of bark
to buttress the ravenous fires that steal
life from plants, and make ashes of their hearts.

Above all, know thy neighbors, redwood.
The trees their manner of habit and speech.
The shrubs the pains they take for their pleasure.
The bear, the elk, the rodent, the bird, the newt,
how each one takes and gives by turns. If ye
learn reciprocity, and learn it at yer leisure,
yer spirit will be as the Great Green’s,
and yer habit the habit of Nature.

But be wary of things too good to be true.
Our Mother Tree of the Sink dresses his speech
in pretty words. With his roots he makes
many contrary pacts with plantlife
in circuitous and confounding webs,
and will just as soon cut the messy threads
before the ignorant parties have grown wise.
He alone remains privy to his plans.
Be not so eager to entangle yerself with 
such trees before ye know their hearts
or ye may fashion the chains of yer own
imprisonment. Then, bound to another’s
vision of the woods, ye would unwittingly
serve their ends by their spiteful intent.”

Orus listened to the yew speak long
into autumn, until the ground grew cold
and the voices of the Earth fell away.
Plants  in those months spoke less. Quieter,
without strength as in the warmer seasons
they had, in pathways of mycelia threading
the forest floor together, they kept mostly
to themselves, or kept to the company
of their nearest neighbors. It was a time
for reflection and for the preparation
of things to come. A time for setting in order
and for the planning of great labors.

artwork by Andy Ives