Trees are on My Mind

A flash fiction piece inspired by Earth Day and forest guardians

Today, I’m sharing with you some flash cli-fi I wrote this morning as part of the Macabre Monday prompt. This short fiction is inspired very, very loosely by the Hākuturi from Māori mythology. Earth Day is almost here (tomorrow) so I’ve been researching protectors of nature for the next few Monster of the Week entries. The Hākuturi is one of the guardian spirits I came across in that research.

The Hākuturi are forest guardians or faeries from New Zealand. They can take on the appearance of birds or insects. They are said to be the offspring of Tāne-mahuta, Māori god of the forest. These faeries protect the forest, specifically trees. You must have their permission or show them proper respect before cutting down a tree.

The most famous story involving the Hākuturi is about Rātā (a hero character) trying to avenge and bury his father who had been murdered by an ogre. He needs a canoe to retrieve his father’s bones. So, he cuts down a tree but forgets to say the proper incantations. So, each morning when he returns to build his canoe, the tree is standing again. He discovers that the Hākuturi are rebuilding the tree each night because he has insulted Tāne-mahuta by not performing the proper rituals first. Rātā makes amends and the Hākuturi build him a canoe.

The lesson of this story is that even if you believe that your need to chop down a tree is urgent, you must be mindful and take the time to show your proper respect to the forest before cutting it down. In a modern setting this could be applied to the way in which humans justify time-and-time again that they can cut down ancient, sacred trees because of their short-term needs. Many old myths are filled with valuable lessons that can be applied to today’s sustainability and protecting our natural world.

Please enjoy this flash fiction very loosely inspired by these forest guardians.

Fell

Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash

Clumps of green spherical husks bow the low-hanging branches of the reserve’s black walnut trees, one cluster brushing the long grass near the path that leads me deeper into the small valley. A half hour later at the valley’s lowest point, I step through a dense thicket, moss growing on the larger rocks along the path. The air is fifteen degrees cooler than it was at the entrance, the ground always a bit damp when the rest of the reserve is hot and dry. At the center of this clearing is the largest and oldest walnut tree in the reserve. I gently lay my sweaty hand on its dark, furrowed bark. My breathing slows as the wind rustles the leaves above, and the scent of citrus and pine tickle my nostrils. Shadows dance under the canopy that blocks out the midday sun. Humming from a nearby beehive burrows into my mind, attempting to unravel my resolve.

I whisper my excuses to the tree, knowing they are not enough, and remove my hand from the bark, feeling the loss of connection more acutely than most days. I pull my ax from its sheath, and the bees stop humming and the breeze dies. A few crows flutter through the branches above, squawking. My head jerks up and I take a few steps back. The birds find a new perch, shaking the leaves. They finally become still again. I release my breath and grip the handle of my ax tighter.

I swing, and the blade penetrates the bark with a chop that vibrates my arms in a way that feels like I struck my own bone. I look down to check for a gash, but there is nothing but the unmarked flesh of my trembling arms, holding onto the handle. The blade is buried deep in the bark, and I’m paralyzed. The thought of ripping the blade from the tree’s trunk make my stomach flip and knees wobble.

My family needs the wood, or we’ll lose our business, our house, followed by everything else if we end up on the streets. We’ll only take what we need. Others take so much which is why I’m here in the first place… still, these trees are sacred, protected, off limits.

I steel my gaze, harden my heart, and rip the blade from the bark; a chunk of it plucks off and drops to the ground next to my boot. I swallow down the rising bile. I swing and whack the bark again and again. Each time, the nerves in my arms scream as if I’m slashing my own flesh. Tears roll down my cheeks as I chop and howl. Again, two birds flutter above, then two more, and two more, each pair a new species, peering down to pity the rabid animal I’ve become. The birds grow to become legion, weighing the elder tree’s branches, watching and condemning.

My ax flies toward the tree’s now gaping wound and lands with a crack. One black bird performs a precise and calculated stoop as the other birds watch. Its talons slice my arms, and it pecks at my cheek, just missing my eye. Another bird follows then another, each a different species, each taking bits of my flesh with their visit. Screaming, I attempt to flee but there’s nowhere that a bird is not waiting to slash and peck. Blood drips down my arms, cheeks and chest as I finally drop to my knees, arms over my face, leaving the ax buried in the tree’s bark. I peek out from behind my mangled flesh and see that the cut in the tree is healing, closing up. With the last few gashes to my own flesh, the ax falls out of the trunk, landing with a thud as the bark grows back entirely. I whisper a prayer as the only human witness to this ghastly miracle. I anxiously anticipate the next attack as the wings and leaves rustle above. Looking up, I see the birds peering down from the branches, something human-like about their faces, radiating a power as old as the forest, one that will fight back. The humming of the bees returns and becomes louder and louder. I heed their final warning and stumble back into the thicket, leaving my ax and blood behind.

This story takes place in one of my favorite places to walk. I truly hope that it has these types of guardians.

I will be at Los Angeles Times Festival of the Books this week. It’s a free event on USC’s campus. Please stop by. We’ll have plenty of books and comics at our tent. I’d love to meet you in person! Let me know if you read the newsletter, and I’ll have a little extra something for you.