Short Story 2: The Golden Age of the Yew

 It was in a first week of June when the pollen of all the great oaks fell. 

“It had been a cold winter;” Yew thought. “And an even colder spring.” Yew remembered the last summer after a cold spring had been worryingly hot. Or perhaps it was the summer before.  Each year that went by became harder and harder to tell apart. Yew looked down at the pollen that carpeted the ground, dirt, and grass and thought it looked like the whole of the Earth had become yellow worm corpses.

The pollen’s fall had summoned all to the conclave; as had always been as such since even before Yew had learned of remembering and forgetting.  The Tree-Runners spoke first as was their right. Black ones; grey ones; red and brown ones all spoke for their nations, but the ghostly whites ones were the most regarded. The black ones were more common in the North Lands and the red ones more across the water, Yew had often recalled. The white ones lived in the trees and clearings around the great dry lake next to the stone river that had once been a true river.

Next the Masked Ones spoke on behalf of all the lesser nations as well as for themselves. They told of all the hungry and the scarcity of forage.  After, the Long Striders spoke of their hungry babies and of their long-dead great heroes. Yew heard the oration as it had always seemed to be. The great hero who banished the darkness from the night; of the one who built the tall houses; and of the one who cast the stone rivers over the valley and let his children cross safely over. You had known these rivers, houses, and the light for many years.

The White Feathers and the Black Feathers spoke. Likewise, the Dog Killer did, but his voice was unknown to the others and his speech went into the air and ceased to be as soon as it ended.  Willow and Maple each spoke. Their sonorous voices were beautiful to hear but the words could not be known. Lavender spoke of that time when the world was not yet old and of the time after when it was young again.

And then Yew spoke. And you heard the words of your voice but they were not your words. There were words of lives lived and times yet to come. The mornings and twilights. The times that could never end and the times that could never be. All of the world you saw was blurry. The world you heard was muted. The world you tasted was faintly bitter. The world you smelled was unfamiliar. The world you felt recoiled from your touch.  Yew closed your mouth and remembered again. The moment that was your past and was always another’s future. You remembered your future was once another’s past.  And that perfect shining world that the Tree-Climbers, the Black Feathers, and all the rest had lost, was the cataclysm for you once as well. The wind sung and it was done.

Yew and all the rest left the conclave and returned to the end of the world and saw it come back to life. You saw a golden age that would soon come to ruin and you saw the ruins of the Yew’s golden age.