The Tree of Life and Death

Apple tree

The tree sits on the crest of a hill, a solitary thick brown line dividing the shadowy blue horizon. Lush foliage spills out like an emerald green wig, pulled over its bare brown trunk. Its gnarled roots are like the tentacles of a wooden octopus, thrashing violently in a desperate attempt to escape the cold damp earth. A sheath of coarse bark protects the trunk from the elements’ fury, the blistering sun and torrential rains launching vain assaults on its impenetrable exterior. It stares stoically into the distance, a silent sentinel watching over the rolling hills.

1
An eternity stretches out in front of me, as I stand at the base of this tree, my little arms extending towards the red fruits that lie tantalizingly out of reach. The blood red orbs adorn the tree like a thousand Christmas baubles, each glistening softly in the cold afternoon light. I leap up several times, but they are impossibly far away from my outstretched fingertips.

A pair of strong arms lifts me up towards the heavens, so high that I can almost pluck the watery sun out from the marshmallow clouds. I gaze in wonder at the fruits surrounding me, eyes finally resting upon two of the finest apples. I reach out, enveloping their fragile ruby shells with my tiny hands, and wrench them free from the tree's stubborn grasp.

Our laughter tinkles in harmony with the whispering spring breeze, each fruit bleeding sweet refreshment unto our parched lips. I gaze up at my dad, smiling the way only five-year-olds can, without a burden in the world. My hand is snugly ensconced in my dad's large, callused grip, as I fall into a dreamy slumber beneath the tree's watchful gaze.

2
She is alone with me, and I've never felt so at home. We sprawl in the shade, the green grass tickling my exposed skin. I am utterly bewitched by her beauty and intelligence, and could spend an entire day just watching her sleep. We stare out into the endless blue ocean of air, admiring the timeless clouds swirling around in lazy circles. I lean over and kiss her, the taste of her lips an echo of the apple I consumed fifteen years ago, at this very spot. She smells fresh and sunny, as I playfully nip her nose and laugh.

Inevitably, autumn encroaches, a harbinger that signals an end to springtime romance and bliss. Fiery cascades of dying leaves float through the pallid air onto the brown earth. Each leaf slowly withers, turning from orange to brown to black, an endless march towards their destiny, slowly decaying in their unmarked graves. The apples have long fallen from their great heights onto the unyielding ground, shrivelled and decomposing into soft piles of cloyingly sweet rot. I pick up one and hurl it at her retreating back, a dark figure outlined against the setting sun.

3
I was married, but not in love, lived in a tiny house that wasn't a home, and endured a life lacking in wealth and in happiness. "Let there be fine furniture," my wife decreed, and so here I was, slaying an ancient monument of nature in order to please her.

Violent convulsions wrack my body as the chainsaw starts, a growling mechanical monster created for the sole purpose of destruction. I bring its whirring edge to bear against the trees solid trunk, metal slowly slicing through wooden flesh. The tree shrieks in agony as the cold blade sends splinters hurtling towards my body, deflected by the thick coat of protective clothing I prepared in advance. Premeditated murder of an old friend, with a mandatory sentence of lifelong guilt and self recrimination.

Finally, as cold steel triumphs over warm wood, the tree gives a final groan and keels over, landing with resounding thump on the soft earth. His dead body lies forlornly, the onset of rigor mortis turning his body rigid and cold. Sticky rivers of sweat streaming from my pores mixes with my solitary tear, and I cannot tell which is saltier as they descend into my gaping mouth. I take a deep breath, inhaling the last traces of oxygen expelled from his leaves.

I desecrate the corpse with a hacksaw, shaving off his rough skin with sandpaper, carving out spindly chocolate brown legs and a smooth table surface designed to bear the burden of my coffee, newspapers, and tired feet. I drive cold steel nails through his palms, sundering his soul as I join his body parts with tenuous artificial links of unfeeling metal. My wife begrudgingly parts with a few words of praise at my craftsmanship, smugly revelling in the fact that it was her idea in the first place. And so his lifeless body is the centrepiece of my living room, a grotesque wooden abomination that fills the room with a faint scent of apples, a constant reminder of the murder of a childhood friend.


4.
My hair is the color of dirty snow, lying in restless piles on the frozen floor. The wind gnaws through my clothes, the exact same ones I wore a decade ago as I committed my crime. The cold seems to consume my entire body as I stumble up the hill, and I wonder if it is the chill of winter, or the numbness emanating from within my heart. All that remains is the severed stump, a tabletop for squirrels and passing wood sprites when I am out of sight. I sigh and reminisce about better times, of springs filled with sweet joy and laughter, of lazy summers spent asleep under the tree, and of dying leaves tracing lines down my skin in autumn. I remember the marriage of convenience, a simple ceremony held beneath your outstretched branches, almost as if you were bestowing a silent blessing on our union.

My wife has been dead for a year now. On a night similar to this, Death himself entered my home and plunged his sharpened sickle into the pulsating heart residing within her corpulent body. When I awoke the next morning, I found her body to be as cold as the linoleum floor she lay on, face frozen in a terrifying visage of torment and agony.

That night, I lie down and stare at the shadows lurking in the ceiling corner. I feel my heart pounding, breath coming in short gasps, as though I am sprinting towards the finishing line of a race. Rivulets of sweat escape my pores, flowing down my flushed skin as I start the shiver violently. The surroundings begin to blur, reality fading rapidly out of focus. My eyelids slide shut like gigantic marble epithets, never to open again.

I am buried in accordance to my will, next to the stump of the old apple tree sitting forlornly at the edge of the world. The roots seem to embrace my remains, cradling me snugly in a wooden coffin for all eternity. My meagre possessions are sold, paying a man to ensure that my final wish is fulfilled.


5.
The young green shoot bursts forth from the damp earth above my corpse, hungrily devouring the sunlight, gulping down copious amounts of fresh rainwater to satiate its thirst. Two years pass, as the gardener stops by monthly to ensure the sapling’s steady growth. Soon, the tree is self-sufficient.

Seasons pass in a flurry of sun and snow, and the tree stretches upwards, a Jacob's ladder ascending into the heavens. And so they stand, one tall tree towering over an ancient tree stump, a magnificent monument to life, death, and everything in between.

End.