Beside a whispering stream in the clearing of an ancient forest, a small seedling struggled to put out its first shoots.
Over the seasons it thrust higher towards the canopy and the sun blazing overhead, reaching out its leaves to catch the life-giving light.
And so the seedling flourished, growing thicker and taller with every passing season.
Reaching its first ring-time, the seedling mingled its anima with its neighbour’s, learning how best to place the wrinkles and furrows growing on its bark to catch the gentle breezes. By doing so the tree could sing, in the hope of attracting a passing sprite. For it is this symbiotic relationship between plant and sprite that keeps all trees growing tall, straight and true.
In its seventh ring-time the young sapling was startled when the tree that had seeded it, gave out a mighty groan. The oak crashed to the ground, tearing a gaping hole in the canopy, flooding the young sapling with a burst of light.
Moving its furrows to catch the breeze, the sapling sang a sad melody for the fallen giant, which quickly turned to one of happiness that it could now grow unrestricted.
That night, as the trees drooped their leaves, making ready for sunset, a storm formed high over the mountains, sweeping down with such force that its winds battered every living thing sheltering in the forest.
Howling and moaning, the tempest screamed around the trunks, rattling branches and tearing tender leaves from where they slept as it filled the forest with its terrifying wails. The trees bent and flexed, gripping the soil tightly with their roots.
The sapling, young and supple, and not yet aware of the danger, gloried in the storm, bending and swaying its graceful trunk, singing defiantly as the tempest shook its branches.
But then the wind gusted so hard the sapling was torn from the ground.
Buffeted across the forest floor, crashing from one hard trunk to another, its leaves were ripped away and its tender roots crushed and bruised.
Caught in the raging wind the terrified sapling could do little more than huddle into its innermost core, wondering whether the torment would ever end or if this was the last night of its short life.
The storm showed no mercy that black moon, continuing to pound the young sapling from place to place, passing it from one strong eddy to another, until the battered plant was finally driven deep into a crevasse between two rocky outcrops.
Shaken and torn, the young sapling managed to push its roots into the stony barren soil, knowing how lucky it had been to escape such fury alive.
* * *
The seasons flowed one upon another and the young sapling grew into a sturdy tree, its ring-time now fifteen.
The tree strived to reach the sunlight shining down the cleft in the rocks, yearning to feel warmth on its leaves - not just the dull reflection that reached it.
Where it was damaged by the storm, the tree’s trunk had become twisted and bent, growing into a thick canker that caused it much misery.
And so the tree struggled upwards from the darkness, taking many twists and turns, until at last the very tips of its branches finally reached out into the forest above.
The bright beauty of the forest brought such a longing to the tree’s heartwood that it sang a song - so mournful, so doleful - that a passing sprite, drawn by such sadness, settled onto the tips of its trembling branches.
“Why so sad?” the tree-sprite asked.
The question flowed into the tree’s awareness and its leaves curled in shame. “I am not as the other trees,” it answered. “I am ugly. It is good that I am hidden away down here in the deep darkness.”
Settling on the canker, the sprite began replacing the twisted rotting wood with fresh new growth, using her own spirit to do so.
The sprite worked hard, driven by the tree’s deep unhappiness, until after many ring times, she had completed her task.
It was the tree’s fortieth-ring time and it now stood straight and tall, branches proudly reaching towards the sky, it’s song, strong and happy.
The tree knew it owed the sprite a debt it could never repay.
“Come sprite,” it sang. “Come out and tell the forest what miracles you have done.”
But the tree’s entreaties were greeted with a deep silence.
The tree cast about in a frenzy, trying to find the sprite, calling to it on the wind, its song loud and half-crazed.
Finally the tree found the dying sprite lying between its roots, her energy spent, her anima holding on by the tiniest thread.
The tree sent down a sucker and gently picked her up, cradling the dimming light in its trembling branches, holding her towards the sunset that she had loved so much.
As darkness fell, the sprite was wafted away on a gentle breeze and the tree howled its guilty rage at the moon.
From that day forth the tree grew more twisted and bitter. Its anger growing stronger with each new season.
Its songs - no longer attractive - repelled the passing sprites. The crevasse quickly filled with wrinkled, twisted branches and the tree itself turned as black as the blackest night.
The tree finally died on its sixtieth ring, still young by forest standards. And now, above the crevasse, where once a bright sun had brought such beauty and happiness, hangs a twisted dark cloud.
A black tear, not yet shed.