Dave and I went for a walk to the old oak that stands in the woods near our home. Dave calls her “The Old Woman of the Woods.” She’s been there since 20 years prior to the Civil War, and I’m sure she’s seen and heard a lot in her time. As I rested my hand on her trunk, several images flashed into my mind. When I came back inside, I felt the urge to write and here’s the story that came… in the Old Woman of the Woods’ own words:
I stood that night in darkness black. Nothing could be seen in all directions. The wind howled relentlessly shoving, twisting my branches, dislodging my leaves. The air thick, muggy, hot — smelled of what was to come. My entire frame seemed to tremble with a warning vibration. I could not tell if I was sending it into the earth or whether the earth was sending it to me. Perhaps both – a simultaneous dread and foreboding. A screaming warning to run, flee, seek shelter.
I envied the squirrels, raccoons, rabbits, possums, insects, birds, and deer who scurried for shelter at the first hint of rain. If I had had legs, I would have run. If I had wings, I would have taken flight. I would have hidden myself somewhere. Although I am not sure where, since I was the tallest, largest living thing on the hill.
Within minutes the thick damp air seemed to coalesce into droplets, first one, then another, then another pelted my leaves. Each droplet sent a tingle up my smaller limbs, to the large ones, into my trunk and down my roots.
Those scattered drops gave way to a deluge of water which soon saturated my leaves and limbs and drizzled down my trunk. My leaves fell to the earth and I mourned the untimely demise of my foliage. Summer had not given way to fall. My leaves should have remained with me and not lie dying on the ground.
That is when the rumbling started. It sounded like the cannon fire I’d heard countless seasons before. Loud, booming. A flash lit up the darkness and for a few seconds, one could see the meadow beyond me, the grey clouds, my fellow trees and foliage at my trunk. The vines seemed to cling tighter with fright as the darkness returned in an instant.
A few minutes followed with only the hum of the wind and the swoosh of the rain. Then it happened.
I felt it before it arrived. My bark felt as if it were being pulled up and out. If I had had hair like the humans who occasionally tethered their horses at my trunk, those hairs would have stood on end. The sap within me sizzled. A scorching heat struck through my core, lighting me up, frying my bark, splitting the base of my trunk. Night became day, but not the beautiful rays of sunshine which fed and nourished me. No, this day lasted only seconds, yet the effects remain, scarring me to this day.
The gaping chasm you now touch at the base of my trunk is a reminder of that night – a night I never wish to relive – when night became day and fire descended from the sky. I could not run. I could not hide. I stood there, enduring it, sending my warning into the earth that every living thing that had legs should run, hide, seek shelter.
Only the rain came to my rescue, saturating my burning limbs and torso until eventually the fire died out.
