The Mother Tree

The planet was alone, covered with seeds beneath the surface of the dirt. When it rained for the first time, the planet became lush with life. But it was a single seed that gave birth to creatures that we now know as flesh and blood. One seed in particular, alone from the others, grew into a plant. And then a tree. This tree grew to enormous heights, reaching far into the clouds. Its branches covered the sky, creating shade for miles, but, as if with caring arms, left enough space for the sun to shine on the life below. Its branches eventually bloomed full of flowers, fruits, and nuts. Some of the flowers that bloomed had birds of every color fly out of them, as they scattered the contents of the tree across the sky. One day, as it rained, creatures came from the mud along with more life. Creatures of every kind, and eventually, the first humans. The humans worshiped the tree, calling it the Mother Tree. But as society and cities grew, so did humanity’s greed. As they consumed the resources provided by the tree, they began to run out. They wanted more fruit, more materials. But rather than search for more that were spread throughout the land, their desperation made them flock back to the tree. Why search high and low when the Mother Tree was full of abundance? They found out that its bark could heal, and could make weapons stronger, and even allow access to magical and supernatural abilities.

Humanity thought to itself: why let this glorious trove of wonder go to waste? At first, they only took a little. They took some branches and leaves that were made into wands and medicine, giving them magic and increased lifespan. They made footholds to climb up towards its peaks to take fruits and vegetables rather than wait for them to fall to the ground. They began chopping more of the bigger branches to make more houses. Eventually, they populated enough where they ran out of resources again. In desperation, they came to the tree in droves and skinned it like a hunted animal, scraping its bark for magic parchment, picked its leaves and food to sustain themselves, and chopped its branches for homes and magic. It seemed the tree gave birth to not only life, but selfishness.

As they took the last of its leaves and food, the sky turned dark and struck lightning below, as the world itself seemed to weep in anger. The lightning eventually struck the tree itself, over and over, as if to say: “You’ve had enough. You will hurt me no more. I will give you no more. You will survive without my love.” As lightning struck the tree over and over again, rain came from above as if the world was crying.

Falling branches fell from the sky from the lightning strikes, falling on other trees in the area as they all tumbled down together like fallen corpses, like family members coming together in a final breath. Animals fled, running in fear and disarray as more humans walked past them, snapping twigs beneath their feet as they walked and continued the slaughter.

The tree finally shriveled and died. The humans dispersed and went back to their villages, cities, and kingdoms. They ate with their families, continued to populate and build. They supplemented themselves with the last of the tree’s bounty, and made use of every morsel they could. Devoid of empathy. Not out of malice, but forgetting the tree’s importance, and seeing merely a stationary object in a forest. Just another resource to help humanity thrive. Eventually, everyone forgot the tree. Where the tree lay, its place was a withered forest, and monsters rose from the dirt at the base of the dead tree.

Seasons passed by, and a small farm in the plains had been made not far from where the tree had died. It was a simple farm that was filled with wheat. Being not far from where the tree was, the farmers there were badgered by crows, as if haunting them. The farmers decided to make a scarecrow from the straw of their wheat. They took branches from the fallen forest and first crafted a cross. Then they crafted a frame shaped like a person and put clothes on it. There wasn’t much more wood for them to grab, so the scarecrow was a bit shorter than normal. They put a red flannel shirt on its frame with black shorts and brown boots. They stitched a smile on its face, along with two red buttons for eyes. They thought that perhaps the color red would cause caution in the crows. They finished it with a leather hat to complete its look, hiding its burlap face from the sky. After stuffing it with additional straw and branches, they had hoped it would look real enough to deter the crows. But it did not. The crows cawed and cooed, as if continuing to mock the farmers, now using their scarecrow as a post. After months of harassment, the family could not take it anymore, and sold their farm to another family. But the crows stayed, badgering anyone who tried to make a living off the land near the withered Mother Tree. Sale after sale, trade after trade, the farm and its surrounding land would get passed from one family to the next until enough rumors had spread, and the farm, the land, and the scarecrow were completely abandoned. As time waned, the scarecrow’s smile faded and sank into a frown.

Decades had passed, and the farm was a shell of its former self, but the forest nearby was once again lush with life, but with dangerous creatures, as if to prevent trespassers. One day, a woman came to the farm. The crows tried to peck at her, but she didn’t seem to mind. She stared at the scarecrow with saddened eyes and wiped some dust off its face. “Poor thing...left all alone,” she said before heading to the house.

Day after day, she tended to the scarecrow, making sure its body was fine. She talked every day to the scarecrow, revealing she was lonely as well. She remembered when her grandma told her about the Mother Tree, and how many try to forget to hide their sins and their shame. She used medicine from the earth, rather than the remains of the tree. Many didn’t want her concoctions, deeming her a witch by a society that scorned her for not fitting in. Occasionally, travelers and adventurers would stop by for medicine upon rumors, but it was a rather quiet life. Each day, the woman would bestow a kindness to the scarecrow. She would find its hat if it flew off after a windy day, or wash its clothes and put them back on if they became too dirty from birds. She even gave it a name: “Charlie.”

One day, after months had passed, she smiled at Charlie. “You probably wonder why I talk to you every day. Maybe because I really am crazy. Maybe because I don’t trust anyone else. But it’s nice to talk without fear. But I do wonder if you were made from branches from the Mother Tree. If you are, you’re probably the last remnant of a history that wasn’t made for profit, even if you were just made to scare off some bothersome crows.” She chuckled to herself and tapped his hat and proceeded to go back to her chores. More time passed, and eventually the woman met a traveler who would come to see her often. He met her once a week, and the traveler did so dutifully for over a year, and the two became close. They slowly got to know each other during that time and fell in love. He was just as peculiar as her, seeming completely immune to the crows' harassment. Even the man started talking to the scarecrow, telling it jokes and making himself laugh, even if the scarecrow didn’t.

The crows eventually left after several years on the day of the couple's birth. Several generations had passed, and their bloodline continued on that farm. The woman had made sure to make it a tradition that the scarecrow was taken care of. Children would make flower crowns for the scarecrow, adorning it with colorful roses; visitors would come by and sit around a fire and talk to each other near it. Two crows would occasionally circle by and perch on the scarecrow's hat and arm when people weren’t around, as if to keep it company.

The farm became vibrant with life and laughter, and it was refurbished and started a family business for medicine. As years went by, repeated customers would look at the scarecrow, noticing a smile they hadn’t noticed before. One that felt genuine.