The Tree

The tree was everything. It was where we lived, where we played, where we worked, and where we died. It was where we were born, where we hunted, where we loved, and where we prayed. It was extensive. I wouldn't describe it as without end. We had explored beyond the tree. We could go down the surface, or we could reach the furthest ends of its branches, where they rested on the tops of the other trees in the forest, but we could never choose to live there. The branches of the tree were big enough to provide for our entire city and more. When branches fell, we went to the surface to gather them and use them. Each branch was so enormous, it could easily provide for months. If we were desperate, we could cut down a small tree from the forest below, but that hardly ever happened. The tree was our home, and as much as possible, we preferred to allow it to nourish us. The fields to the north and the mountains to the south, while beautiful in their own way, weren't home. This was the opinion of the elders, and their elders before them, and their elders before them. If I'm honest, it was my opinion as well. I'd been on a trip to see the mountains, once, and they were quite the sight to behold, but they didn't quite match our tree. Someday I planned on seeing the northern plains, but I was sure it would be a similar case.

This wasn't the opinion of everyone. While our woodworking was beautiful and intricate, some longed for more. They gave speeches of the metals and ores in the mountains. They claimed that these could provide sturdier structures, could be combined with our woodworking for new sorts of beauty, and could allow us to have conveniences never before dreamed of. They claimed that fire would become more easily contained, and less dangerous.

We didn't really take them seriously. There was no need to. They were talking about the things of fiction- things which would never come to be. Eventually, a fairly large group of them set out to the mountains, claiming that they'd be back with all the metal they could carry to show us how useful it was. Nobody cared. We weren't sad to see them go, or angry, or happy. It was their choice. It wasn't the safest idea in the world, but not really the most dangerous either. They'd come back eventually, we were sure.

And they did. Several months later, they arrived with new tools and equipment, and heaps of metal ore which they claimed could be melted and molded into any shape we wanted. That was when the city split. Some were all in favor of giving it a try, while others wanted nothing to do with it. I was included in the latter. Our tree provided for us. When branches fell, they grew back, ever nourishing us and giving anything we needed. The metal in the ground would run out. It was unreliable. Their methods for molding it, when not properly executed, were dangerous. And they ignored our tree, our woodworking, our elders, our history, and our tools. They wanted to use pieces of metal for bracing on our houses. They wanted to build fire pits in common gathering pits, and little metal cages on our torches. It was too much. They couldn't be allowed to destroy our home. So we took our torches, our most dangerous weapons, and surrounded their workshop. They wouldn't be allowed to persist. Their actions affected us all. Metal must be banned. They tried to hide inside their workshop like the cowards they were, but it didn't matter. We would get to them eventually.

And then someone threw their torch. It landed on the roof of their workshop. Their metal roof turned red, but didn't burn. The leaves above it did. It was mere seconds before the entire canopy above our heads was ablaze. Our squad of firefighters tried to put it out, but were unable. And the tree was abandoned.

Some refused to flee. We assume that they died in the flames. The rest of us went down to the forest floor, and went north. We ran, scattered, until we reached the plains, and could do nothing but stare and sob as the forest burned.

Years passed. We now live on the plains, in houses made of the very metal that destroyed us. We hate it, and we remember. But one day, we will plant the forest again. Though the miners may try to stop us, they will be unable to keep us from reclaiming our home.