The Fox & The Pine

Once, not long ago, did Noble, the red fox, walk into, as per usual, the forest beyond the Far Hill—the East Far Hills, not the Northern Far Hills (for those are in the Darkened territory). Twice, most recently, the red fox, rather ignobly, careened over, as if chased, the canopied earth, knocking fern and budding leaf asunder. Thrice, since last week, has Noble, guileful and vexed, carved into, mercilessly so, his signature, and curdled, without regard, the once virgin soil into a vagrant’s sea. 

Brier and bush could not deter so wild a beast, for he was wild unto himself—perhaps he ran to escape, or perhaps he ran to find. Whichever it was, it was was always on his heel and always on his mind.

Stream and River could not comprehend, though they, in pace, ran too—perhaps he ran over his banks, or perhaps he ran to see what was left behind. Whichever it was, it was always like chaos yet somehow confined. 

There was, in this forest, but one who, though pining alone, might could brighten and understand the chase; and on this, though foggy and wet, particular day, Noble met, in helpless decay, an unsearched grandeur, a wilting frame. She was ghastly yet great, grounded but aloof, like yet unalike—for her alone had he stopped, for her alone was he stayed.

“Why have you stopped? To look at me? To stand before my stature and gaze upon my tragedy?”

“Of what tragedy do you speak? That you—a Pine among an Ocean of Oaks—stand alone? That you must intermingle in a land not your own? That you must share the space above while everyone knows you poison the soil below?

“All land belongs to us trees. And the sky is not shared, it is taken by the one who reaches greedily. But no, this is not the source of all my misery.”

“What then, if not difference or indifference, is your cause to wilt? What is it within the bark that causes your needles to be spilt?”

“I have a disease that I cannot dispel. An unease that I cannot seem to repel. I am not appeased by the way that I smell. In fact, I am ceaselessly sick and unable to get well. I am allergic to me—allergic to myself.”

“Ha! This is misery indeed! You must hate being derived from such unfortunate seed! Why not fall over and die, and end this divergency?

“Hate myself?! Never!” Cried the Pine. “The love I’ve for my self cannot be severed. But I would like, from sap to needle, to escape this condition, to one day be delivered.”

“How can this be? How can you be rid of all that makes you ill, if you cannot die to self, if to fell is not your will? And you cannot run as I do, so how could you find freedom from the root, freedom from the poison in every strain of chlorophyll?”

“One must take axe to tree and remove all the oaks who block the wind. Then allergies will be carried away and all my sicknesses end.”

“Surely there’s other ways than to kill all your mighty friends. I’m sure if you nicely asked they would open the sky and bend.”

“Do not worry to make the Oaken stilled—they will not die for they live on once they have been milled. Maybe living not in the heavens, but as pews in the local church; maybe not rooted in soil, but as a bridge to connect the earth.”

Once, not long ago, did Noble, the red fox, walk into, axe in hand, the forest beyond the Far Hill—the East Far Hills, not the Northern Far Hills (though the Darkened territory seems to be not quite as dark as before). Twice, most recently, the red fox, rather ignobly, careened over, as if possessed, the canopied earth, knocking fern and budding leaf asunder. Thrice, since last week, has Noble, guileful and vexed, carved into, mercilessly so, his signature, and curdled, without regard, the once virgin soil into a vagrant’s sea…all for the pine in the middle, who pined for growing vacancy.

Noble slaughtered wildly the generations of trees, and took to mill time’s lovely work of crafting wooded seed. And he, calloused-pawed, fashioned with gusto, though tired from work,  a home to live, gabled and decadent, with the now-horizontal forest—each branch and trunk now framing or furnishing.

And now, in the East Far Hills, stands a single home, a single fox, a single evergreen.

“Do you feel better” said fox to tree. “Out my window I see the wind within your hands and your dance of jubilee.”

“I am not better, no, not one single degree.”

“Are you lonely now that you’ve no one to wave to? My house a shelter for me yet headstone to you? Are your allergies better, or are you still split in two?”

“I am lonely, but so was I before; and I’m glad to stand alone, among the hills a victor. My dance, as you put it, is but sneezing o’er and o’er, for the wind’s not taken my ills, the wind is not my cure. But I’ve an idea, of this be assured, take your axe and hue a hole in the middle of my trunk. Then run to Stream or River and stand upon the mud. Gather in pitcher, glass after glass, water to the brim and then stand up; pour their essence into my heart, until there is no water between the hills that runs. Then all my pain might be undone, as the essence of freedom washes out the muck.”

“Why not wait for Raincloud to pass above and sing? Why bore a hole; it seems like greater sting? And I cannot drain the hills of the life the river brings, I’ve eaten the forest to bring about your selfish healing means.”

“If you won’t do this for me then do it for your self, for you and I are the same.”

“How can you say this? You are tall as tree, but I am free, untamed. You can grow in single place, but I can chase the rain. We are not alike in any regard, we share not a name.”

“Oh but we do, most Noble of the land! You and I have build our lives upon unsteady sands. I allergic from my pollen, you from dirty bones; I have set the roots, you have cast the stones. Our main unalike is I know I sicken myself, yet you run upon the earth from the call you seek to quell. Open your eyes and see indeed, you are as allergic to you as I am to me.”

“No!” Shouted Noble, turning his head from giant. “I do not fall beneath the blood in my veins, and I am not overcome by my failings or my stains.”

“But you do fall beneath the blood in your veins! For though you can ignore your shortcomings you cannot escape their weight. Your blood carries both good and bad, but morality is not your pain; it is the fear you have of self that has made you sick and made its claim! You run to and fro claiming all the ground as your open home, yet you have no den and you are not your own.”

In a fit of rage, fox rebelled, and took axe to hand, swing and swing to topple the claim that somehow he was sick. The screams of tree haunt the hill, and resound aloud in felling death. At final rear the tree cried out, “oh great indeed the illness of your chest!” The iron flew, dismembered bark, and the tree fell at wounded knee, there upon the open ground came final breath, came final plea (speech), 

“You’ve done it fox! You’ve found the cure! I now can lay in rest. To stop the poison in the bones is to drink the cup of death.”

Out of breath, with weapon in hand, fox fashioned from the log, an assortment of belongings in an attempt to belong. 3 cups he made, turned and filled with hope. 2 thrones to claim the authority and declare his autonomy’s scope. 1 dagger made from the crown of the pine, and there, on oaken porch, with knife at his side, Noble reigned in fury over the forest now a plain.

Indebted now, this kingdom, though rotting, would find, if only, a reimbursement, to the dirt, for the rent the Tramp and Tree had failed to pay. What could be mustered to compensate the raging decay, what amount could justify the murdersome splay and reassure the once fertile soil now baked by sun into muted clay? But its voice was not dry yet.

Atop this earth Fox roamed in vexation, “Is it better to be allergic to myself or live in a land of accusation? I am not the pine, yet somehow i’m enslaved, no oaks at my border yet wildly encased. How can I mute the tone befuddled, betwixt, debased and not be buried beneath the grief above the ground beneath me’s raised?!

From afar the wind blew and carried with it a melody, but not one he normally heard, one which crept above eerily. His sonnet rose, and rising deafened the dawn; out of the west came a feathered beast, prolonging his heightened cacophony.

“It’s been ages since I’ve been this far, for the great forest has for ages stood, but I had heard word of a being who had taken his hollow axe to plant it on creeping foot. Perhaps you’ve heard of me, friend, I once was famous among this phantomed wood. I am Supplier, the great condor who brought the seed that grew where these giants once stood.”

“I’ve not heard of you, though I’m sure your fame is great. I fear I have laid barren your work and wiped clean the estate, I hear the soil call out for me to make right this graceless mistake.”

“History oft repeats itself, but I fear I have not the original seed, no fruit from oaken host to hide beneath your feet. But, careening into this mistake is opportunity, for I have back home afar a new vain of offspring; but this pip is not so simple, and its price not so cheap. When it comes to life not only does it give you food but brings also understanding; sprouting from the ground both nourishment and meaning. I see you have a crown and nice it would look, docked upon my brow and declaring my dirty surgery.

“Take it for all I care. If this seed is truly magical it seems like reasonable fare.”

“Till the ground and scar the earth, make right a soil prepared; in days to come I’ll fill from sky a fallen seed for the dirt to bear.” With that, Supplier turned and continued back from land he would repair, taking with him the song he brought yet its haunting still stilling the air.

Once, not long ago, did Noble, the red fox, walk into, as per usual, the plain beyond his porch—in the East Far Hills, not the Northern Far Hills (for those are in the Darkened territory). Twice, most recently, the red fox, rather lonely, tilled up, as if chased, the naked earth, burying fallen leaf asunder. Thrice, since last week, has Noble, guileful and vexed, carved into, mercilessly so, his signature, and curdled, without regard, the once virgin soil into a vagrant’s sea.

As he worked with grief and grit the earth yielded its reply, along with it all the words  ceased from clouds to friends to sky. Moving from his home and pressing out to the farthest reach, Noble tilled the ground and ground his teeth, waiting for the supply.

Until.

Above the horizon a cacophony came, notes familiar yet still uneasy. Darkening the sky and crescendoing toward, a choir of birds, an army without sword; twisting and turning like heated decay, flying with fury and crazed accord. Crossing the heavens they poured out on earth a song and a seed apiece, a liturgy of one accord. As quickly as the seed from skyward fell they turned to the west to return no more. Then alone above the Supplier hovered, shouting to Noble, “We have delivered! We have restored! May this seed usher in your vast reward!” Away he flew, to the west to return no more.

Days passed and the plants grew, higher every day. Weeks passed and the plants knew,  the land and all its shame.

“Noble!” They called, beckoning the beast. “We require water to survive this raging heat and hateful sun. “Fill us now or you’ll never know the fruit we bear and the words we have of growing wisdom.” So quickly fox ran, with the three cups he turned, and raced to the river—his running victim. Standing on her banks he stole her vaults, one glass at a time, draining the kingdom. 

Pass after pass he watered the earth until the river ran dry in its hollow casket. But the fullness of the river was not enough, for all around him the crop screamed out accusational racket. “You oh fox are a murdering slump! Killer of the land and answerer to none.” Thousands upon thousands of stalks ran their pitch, all describing Noble’s ills, each and every which. That which had promised him food and understanding was now revealing his stench. 

Seeking to flee from their terrible claims, fox tried to run to the Northern Far hills, but the crops that had been dropped had sprung up a maze. Now lost in his creation and his creation’s past, he turned left and then right, left and right, left and right but changed not was the gaze. Unable to find his exit, he succumbed to their vocal blaze, and matched their need in a holey display. He dug and dug to make a well, foot after foot, dust to dust, a well to quash the quell. 

After much digging the accusations grew dim, and sitting in the hole Noble stopped to rest. Across from him in the walled packed earth, sat vertebrae and skull of a similar guest. Twas bone of his bone, fur of his fur, a fox of the forest who had run before.

There they sat both longing for each other’s estate, talking of life and all of the ways they would destroy and create were all to be right. Skull said “You must return, they call your name.”

“This time don’t till the soil. I’ve seen a lot of dirt. Bear through the jury, and don’t listen to the birds.” 

Noble resurfaced and walked among the grain, then sat upon his porch and watched the hostile plain. Slowly their voice returned to the dust from which it came, and silence stood upon the ground where grain and tree and fox were slain. 

Raincloud passed one afternoon and washed away a little grief; the tilled soil now a settling scar, and the heat began to fade. 

Until.

Below the horizon a symphony came, notes familiar and increasingly easy. Reaching to the sky and crescendoing toward, a choir of oaks, an army without sword.