
Wooden Heart
Martin RepaThe wind carried a multitude of small dandelion parachuters. In the cloud of seeds, no one noticed a modest acorn from the Summer Oak. Its designation was Oakie 265777, but everyone simply called it... Oakie.
I landed perfectly, a feat met with admiring exclamations from the Dandelion Flyers still floating in the air. Those who had already landed, however, had a different take. Their cries and wails seemed a little out of place to me, after all, a forest isn’t a place for lamentation. Many suspected that I was a seasoned jumper since I landed among the roots instead of on the crown, unlike their unfortunate cases. Their cursing grew louder and more vulgar. Thankfully, they irritated the wind as well, so it blew them further away. I settled nicely into the soft soil, dusted off a scraped root, and surrendered to my thoughts. Inwardly, I thanked the Elder Oak of Ages, who whispered wise words every night for life in the forest. Back home in the Oak Grove, these whispers were heeded not just by young seeds, sprouts, leaves, and oak branches but also by other trees and shrubs.
At last, I could live my own life, the one I had dreamed of so many times. Marvelous! I was free, and the future lay wide open. Gone were the bickering branches, the giggling leaves, and the boasting young seeds. I was alone with my dreams, dreams that had ripened within me as I counted stars in the night sky, listened to the moon’s tales, or heard stories from the breeze of distant lands. They had thrived with each sunny day, anticipating a bright future. I had hoped to drift longer and see more of the world, but the acorn assigned to me must have been a bit lazy and clearly afraid of heights. So, we landed not far from my native grove.
Still, I wouldn’t let first impressions ruin my mood. I quickly planted myself and turned my attention to my surroundings. I couldn’t have landed better. Rich black soil, plenty of moisture, and no pests in sight. I didn’t see any other trees either, so it seemed I would be alone here. This was my chance to reflect on the musings that had long pursued me. Oaks are natural thinkers, distinct from the less contemplative Alder, the foolish Hornbeam, or the utterly dim-witted Thuja. Even among thoughtful Oaks, I was one of the most reflective. My ponderings about forest management, nursery planting, and deforestation receded into the background, making way for a question I couldn’t answer: What was my purpose in the vast expanse of life called Flora?
My train of thought was abruptly interrupted by an itch in my belly, which quickly turned into a dull ache. When it passed, I felt a surge of excitement. I was full of yearnings, which confused me. The Oak of Ages had never whispered that desire could make one burst. But that’s exactly what I felt.
"Ahhh," something was forcing its way out of my backside. I wasn’t far off in thinking it might be my first sprout. I decided to call it Sprout the First. On one hand, I was slightly annoyed that I wouldn’t have time to devote myself to my weighty thoughts, but on the other, I was glad to have a companion. However, Sprout the First didn’t share my joy. Its unpleasant, even arrogant expression was followed by a long inhalation, and without a word, it burrowed into the ground. What a sprout! Not even a greeting, just straight underground. I returned to my reflections, feeling an influx of new energy.
"But... what..." my crown began to ache. This couldn’t be happening. My crown cracked, and another sprout emerged. This one was much chattier. After some light-hearted introductory questions, it began critiquing me and my inner self. Though it wasn’t flattering, I found it amusing. It looked ridiculous, smeared with some kind of slime. I had a feeling we’d have a lot of fun together. For now, I ignored it, as it was blinding me with its glow. We’d talk in the evening.
I averted my gaze and noticed something moving nearby. A seedling about thirty leaves away... a Birch. Yes, it was a birch, and not just any birch. To us oaks, birches are extraordinary. They have an air of the exotic, originating from Siberian tundras. However, they are often haughty and domineering. I hoped this one wouldn’t be.
It seems to be just a samara of the Silver Birch. I tried whispering something to her, but my voice wasn’t developed enough yet, so I scolded both Sprouts and withdrew into myself.
Oakie grew steadily. The sprouts turned into twigs, and the twigs into branches. He became a magnificent Oak, full of strength and everything these trees represent. His roots were firm and tenacious, capable of piercing even the toughest soil. His trunk was long, broad, and straight. Many woodpeckers and borers dulled their beaks and teeth on it. Crowning all this was his glorious, sprawling canopy, which often surpassed even the Ash trees in both size and fragility, qualities for which they are renowned. Yet the most beautiful thing about Oakie wasn’t his imposing stature. It was the wisdom of the oaks, preserved through generations and inherited from his father. The kindness inherited from his mother, Water. The tenderness gifted by his godparents, the Sun and the Moon. And the prudence embedded in the advice of his uncle, the Breeze. Perhaps it was this prudence that kept him from acting on the longing that had been growing in his heart for countless rings.
The Birch grew as well. Oakie learned that her name was Birchie 265777, though everyone in the forest simply called her Birchie. One forest clearing, two magnificent trees. It was idyllic. They grew up together, surviving long winters as the mighty oak shielded the fragile birch from the northern winds. Together they endured the harsh summer heat, with his canopy blocking the sharp sunbeams and his long roots ensuring sufficient moisture for the one he cherished more than himself. Together they danced to the rhythm of the wind’s samba. They bloomed together; they shed their leaves together. All these things united them... and yet, they also kept them apart. Oakie grew increasingly silent. This was strange because the entire clearing, and indeed the entire forest, knew him as a cheerful and lively soul.
Yes, I used to have such a demeanor. I knew my cheerfulness was largely because of Birchie. It wasn’t forced humour, it simply flowed from me. I would juggle nests full of baby birds, drop a branch on a hunter, or pelt small rodents with acorns, making nearly the entire forest laugh. Even her. She would gently rustle her delicate branches, her white bark glowing beautifully. Each day, I grew fonder of her.
At first, I scolded myself.
“Oakie, don’t be silly. You’ve got both male and female organs.” But looking at her, I was ready to take the difficult path of a botanical outlier and perhaps become the first tree to find a partner. And this partner wouldn’t even be of my species, family, or even my homeland. Others in the forest would have to come to terms with it, especially the nosy rose bushes, always preaching family purity. Other than occasionally throwing a few thorns our way, they hadn’t done anything significant yet. Birchie, however, was truly worth it.
She had slender, graceful proportions. Her white bark, delicately lined with fine grooves, evoked the most primal instincts. Her beautiful lower northern part, densely covered with mosses and lichens. Her alluring, slightly sticky, pinkish stigmas, enticing not only insects. And her inner self was just as remarkable. Besides hosting a charming pair of chickadees, Birchie possessed pride, bravery tempered by shyness, accompanied by a flirtatious sparkle. She smelled divine, after all, birch extract is used in shampoos. She was always well-groomed. Whether it was tennis with a frantic parakeet or golf with a mole, she would often adorn herself with light makeup made from tiny mushrooms. If she wanted to cheer me up, she would use puffball mushrooms that would burst with every smile. When we attended the evening forest ball, she decorated her trunk with large fungi, and all her leaves stood tall, causing all my acorns to do the same.
She had a sense of fashion, too. I particularly loved her spring collections. Her crown adorned with a wreath of her own samaras, a blooming face, and a fresh white dress. Against the vibrant greenery of the clearing, she looked incredibly romantic. The sap in my trunk flowed much faster, even seeping out at times. I was sticky almost constantly.
She also had a great sense of humour. Every winter, when we were bare, she would claim it was the latest trend. Even in winter, she was stunning, wearing a snowy cap and a white scarf. All I had to do was move closer and...
And that was Oakie’s problem. He never even touched Birchie. He wanted to, desperately, but he was scared and shy. The problem was the distance.
Sometimes their tips would briefly touch in a playful gust of wind, but it was only for a fleeting moment. She would blush white and pull away, while he would swell with acorns and almost always faint. Occasionally, he considered closing the distance between them. He remembered the Oak of Ages once whispering about strange walking trees that could move in search of water, called Mangroves. However, no one in the clearing had ever heard of them, so the idea gradually faded.
One overcast afternoon, the southern wind brought two new and notable inhabitants to the clearing.
Now I know it was meant to be a test of my feelings for Birchie. They were Hedera Helix, whom we called Ivy, and Sequoia sempervirens, the mammoth tree. I called them Ivy and Mammoth. Both had that southern temperament, effortlessly captivating the attention of the forest’s other residents. Mammoth quickly became the forest’s main sex symbol. He was enormous, and frankly, everything about him was oversized. He thrived on the fact that everyone could only admire his lower parts, which, I must admit, were beyond imagination. His roots were at least three times the size of mine. I took some solace in the fact that, unlike me, his trunk was full of roughness and knots. But I was wrong, everyone began claiming it was incredibly sexy.
No one could see his crown because it was so high. I barely remembered it, as Mammoth grew like he was drinking pure water. The forest only enjoyed the view of his crown for one ring of growth. As impressive as his physical attributes were, his charm and ability to influence others were even greater. He instantly had friends and connections everywhere. Somehow, though, I never became one of his friends. Perhaps he sensed that while part of me admired him, another part resented him.
It’s interesting because we trees rarely hate anyone unless they hurt us directly. My hatred for Mammoth stemmed from jealousy. It was impossible to ignore that Birchie wasn’t indifferent to him. She still spent plenty of time with me, but it felt more out of courtesy. The playful, enthusiastic interactions we once shared were gone. I often caught her looking pensive, even sad. Something was bothering her, but at the time, I didn’t know what. Back then, I blamed Mammoth. I decided to find a way to get rid of him. But how?
Those who had once hesitated to oppose me due to my size now lost their inhibitions. Mammoth stirred everyone against me. It wasn’t just the rose bushes anymore. Using his connections, he convinced the woodpecker council to peck me relentlessly. What angered me even more was his influence over the beaver council, which voted for actions against me. The next few growth rings were challenging.
I caught Birchie flirting with him more than once, blatantly, in broad daylight, without a hint of shame. I was furious. I felt utterly alone.
Unexpectedly, a helping hand, or rather, tendril, came from Ivy. Ivy wasn’t particularly attractive. She didn’t have a proper trunk or crown, just a tangle of leaves. But she compensated for her lack of physical appeal with flexibility, agility in whispering, wit, and above all, an overwhelming allure. Her splits and stretches awakened all my acorns, and my body experienced what could only be described as a "chestnut effect," where every branch, sprout, and leaf stretched to its fullest, tingling with sensation. Ivy, dear Ivy.
I began to breathe and live again. When you envision a future with someone, life feels worth living. Foolishly, I thought Ivy had replaced Birchie on the throne of my heart. My life started to revolve around Ivy. I enjoyed her tickling as she climbed me, seeking the best spot in the sunlight.
I forgot the scent of birch.
I stopped noticing the real world. I deluded myself into thinking I was happy with Ivy. I didn’t see Mammoth’s advances toward Birchie or how she rejected him while casting reproachful glances our way. Nor did I notice Ivy’s occasional longing looks at Mammoth. I was blind. Back then.
My hatred for Mammoth faded, and my feelings for Birchie turned into a mix of unease and nostalgia. There had been something between us, but birches are proud, and I was blind.
Even Mammoth’s attitude toward me began to shift. He was convinced I no longer cared for Birchie and, more importantly, that I had won Ivy. He even explained the advantages of having connections everywhere.
It pleased me to regain my popularity, but it bothered me that Birchie didn’t share that sentiment.
I was content with Ivy. Occasionally, her suggestions annoyed me, like renaming myself Hedera or signing over some land to her. I failed to notice how she was gradually stealing more and more of my sunlight.
In moments of weakness, I remembered the warnings whispered by the Oak of Ages about protecting oneself from dangerous ivy. But I would wave a branch and let gloomy thoughts drift away from my crown. I wanted to have fun instead, and since the beavers had become my friends, I encouraged them to target the nearby hunter’s lodge. Occasionally, Birchie’s sad gaze interrupted my joy. Mammoth had intensified his romantic advances toward her. It pained me, perhaps even hurt, but my relationship with Ivy and the remnants of my bruised pride as a tree kept me from stepping in. I couldn’t admit to myself that I had never told Birchie how I felt, and she was too proud to make the first move.
Mammoth grew more irritable and aggressive, while Ivy became increasingly domineering and possessive. What had happened to our peaceful clearing?
I had gained the admiration of those who didn’t matter and lost the one who mattered most. How complicated life in Flora can be. You look forward to something for countless growth rings, dream about it, imagine what it will be like. You lie down and rise with thoughts of it. Then something, or someone, comes along, and you trade it all for the glitter of false friendship or a hollow relationship. No, it can’t end like this. I’ve known Birchie since she was just a samara, and I want to keep knowing her.
Lately, I’ve been arguing more with Ivy over sunlight, and Mammoth’s crude jokes no longer amuse anyone in the forest. The forest has fallen eerily quiet.
Terrifying stories about humans building a highway circulate. Crows screech warnings about an angry forester whose lodge was dismantled by beavers. Ivy grows more nervous by the day, insisting she’ll be the first to be uprooted. Her panic grates on me. Mammoth has become entirely self-absorbed, focusing only on his own growth. His crown blocks even more light, and no one knows what will happen next. Only Birchie remains calm in her radiant beauty.
I glance at hysterical Ivy, now leafless and resembling a bundle of nerves. There’s no comparison to Birchie. But I am the architect of my fate.
Ivy has been choking me more than ever lately. How did I once find her grip appealing? Her hold is undeniably strong, but for now, I can still breathe, get enough sunlight, and stay relatively comfortable. My leaves complain of losing light and warmth, while my roots grumble about stolen moisture. She’s growing stronger while I wither more and more. I don’t resist. I deserve this.
The foreboding of doom forces me into final reflection. Oaks live 400 to 600 years, with some, like the Oak of Ages, reaching 2,000 years. My 120 years feel like a drop in the ocean of time.
I’ve thought about leaving many times, certain that I don’t want to stay here alone. Birches live much shorter lives, and the thought of spending a lifetime with someone only for them to leave is unbearable.
My brooding is interrupted by a glance from Birchie. I sense no reproach in her gaze. For the first time, I understand just how well I know her. The energy radiating from her seems to breathe life back into me, to turn back time and restore all that has faded. Her gaze is full of forgiveness, compassion, and tenderness. She caresses me, nuzzles my crown, and whispers words of joy.
But I also feel the cold grip of Ivy’s deadly embrace. The gentler Birchie’s gaze, the tighter Ivy’s hold. I know who will win this battle.
Memories begin to surface from the darkness. Nights full of stars and dreams, a perfect landing on the clearing, childhood, adolescence. These memories are filled with both sadness and joy. In all of them, there is Birchie, the one I have loved and still love. Yes, I love her.
The grip is unbearable. With my last strength, I stretch a branch toward Birchie. We touch, and... I know this is our final moment.
Ivy hisses angrily. The grass rustles mournfully. From the distant Oak Grove comes the lament of farewell from the oaks. A final touch, a last glance, and the whispered words I should have shouted long ago:
"I love you, Birchie! I always have, and I always will!"
The fatal embrace allows no more words. My thoughts spiral rapidly into a dark abyss.
It’s a frosty late-autumn morning. Forester Gondáš sets out on his usual walk. Today, he plans to find a good tree for a new lodge. On his rounds, he stumbles upon a very peculiar clearing. Complete silence. No birds, no rustling.
Gondáš was just about to leave, unwilling to disturb the sacredness of the place, when his eyes fell upon a very tall tree. Although it was completely entwined and overgrown with Ivy, it was still recognizable as a rare Sequoia.
Not far from the Sequoia, something else caught his attention: two dead trees intertwined by their branches, a dark oak and a gray birch. To Gondáš, their union carried a sense of mysticism. In the connection of two such different trees, he saw a profound symbolism.
The Sequoia was chosen as a replacement for the destroyed lodge. Gondáš crafted a beautiful cabin from it and turned it into a tourist attraction. He showcased it until he was beaten up by Greenpeace activists. The Ivy became a centerpiece in Gondáš’s winter garden at his forester’s lodge. In this way, it was indirectly sentenced to a life in a glass cage, where it had plenty of moisture but would never again feel the touch of sunlight or a gentle breeze.
Above the quiet Dúbrava forest, a bare cliff now stands, crowned by a castle built by people.
The castle offers a stunning view, but tourists come for something more. The castle boasts an entrance gate shrouded in a beautiful legend. The gate is crafted from sturdy oak wood, with its edges adorned by strips of birch twigs. It symbolizes both an obstacle and a connection, the bond between oak and birch, strength and fragility, man and woman.
It is no wonder that an infusion of birch and oak bark has healing properties and is a key ingredient in a love potion. And the legend? It tells of a love that conquers even time.
The story goes that if, on a clear night, you place your ear against the gate, you’ll hear a faint whisper. It is the whisper of two lovers, rewarded with eternal love. The legend also offers a lesson: sometimes, it is better to sever roots, take a step forward, and live life without worrying about others.
And that whisper? Each of us has the chance to hear it. All it takes is to place a listening heart...
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