The Half Tree

The strange tree grew on the slope of a great expressionist mountain of iron gray stones and pure snow. It looked like half of a tree, regardless of the path you took to approach it. The northern view showed limbs and leaves vanishing into the west; the southern view suggested branches and flowers smoking into the east. And yet, if one embraced its trunk or climbed it, one found that it was whole, that nothing was lost. Not far from the tree lived an old man who cared for it. One morning, as he walked to the tree with his axe and kindling, a visitor stopped him to ask about the tree. “The half tree,” said the old man, “is an enigma. One half of the world recognizes its medicinal benefits, but instead of buying or cultivating its fruit, they harvest grapefruits and oranges and boil them to try to obtain the unique chemicals only found in this tree, chemicals never to be found in oranges, grapefruits or any other fruit. The other half of humanity harvests the medicine from this tree, refines it, packages it and sells it, but discourages people from taking it and denies its benefits. It is a tree of contention.” The visitor shook her head in disbelief and asked, “Where is the rest of the tree?” The old man shrugged and whispered, “The only place it can be.”

The Paleovespa

The golden light of the syrup glowed all around the shadowed form of the insect, whose one partially raised leg seemed to indicate an aspiration or an afterthought. The other wasp drew near to the congealed fire burning in the damp sand below the coastal pine. It is time to depart, it said. Time is running out. It is timeless here, the other said, and beautiful beyond belief. That is only the pain or the asphyxiation speaking, the concerned wasp remarked. I will telegraph for help. That would be a waste of time, said the trapped wasp, because the signals no longer exist. I do not follow, said the wasp outside. The signals exist—they always have. No, the trapped wasp insisted. Only this golden twilight has ever existed. Nobody and nothing else. I do not need anything and certainly not from you. What have I done? the wasp outside demanded. Nothing, said the wasp in the syrup. That is not true, the other argued. I have built our paper houses, I have hunted and stolen honey with the others. I see no evidence of that, said the wasp in the syrup. I am surrounded by a veritable hoard of honey, and what do you have? You are not swimming in honey, the one outside protested. That is some sort of pine sap, and if you do not leave you will perish. I will call for help. I do not need your help, the trapped wasp insisted. And I will have no more of your hypocrisy. There is nothing out there that I need; there is nobody to call. I have found the ultimate honey, a golden twilight of purity and clarity. Do not abuse me or my honey. Come now, the other wasp desperately cried, come with me. There I s a bear carcass not far from here. It has a giant hive of dripping honeycombs. It will brighten our eyes and strengthen our limbs and wings, and we will have plenty of bees to chase. Silence almost filled the forest. Only the wings and legs of the wasp outside flickered. The sound of the sea brushed through the dark branches. There is no bear, said the other wasp weakly. Only I have the ambrosia. You have nothing; you have become nothing. The raised leg jerked one last time. The mournful wasp walked around the hardening sap, examining the crisp outlines of the shadow within. An older wasp arrived to call him back to the bear carcass. What has he become? the wasp asked his elder. Priceless, the old wasp replied.

The Animals

The fox is red. It burns like a flame in the black wood. It pricks its ears to listen to the mountain streams and wolves. It makes a labyrinth of pawprints to confuse the hunters. It glories in its cunning. It glories in being a fox. The deer is white. It glistens like wind through the veils of brown leaves. It raises one hoof to investigate. Its antlers rise like wet tree branches. It glories in its silence. It glories in being a deer. The bear is blond. It rumbles like autumn thunder by the shore of the lake. It claws the cool water in search of pearlescent fish. It licks the honey from a fallen hive. It glories in its mass and weight. It glories in being a bear. The man is pale and bluish, like frost, like a hurrican lantern, like the rope by which he hangs from the oak tree, casting a dark shadow on the mountain road.

The Drifting Clouds

In the south, there were lovely trees, stone bridges spanning limpid blue rivers, and fields of flowers, fields and fields of sunflowers, hyacinths, lavender, wild roses, cosmos, poppies, and lilies. The chronicler had dreamed of these fields for years and was disappointed when he was sent on his first assignment there, for the earth was brown, the flowers were dead, and the sluggish rivers ran in hideous shades of ash or silt. Only the clouds remained beautiful, vanilla clouds of such texture and shape that one could just lie in the grass and daydream forever. At various crossroads, the king’s men were counting the passings clouds, recording the numbers and types of clouds. It was odd that a dry land should be blessed with such beautiful cirrus and cumulus and even the odd nimbostratus. The clouds were a steady caravan coming from the mountain of winds nearby. The chronicler ventured to this mountain and climbed it. On the summit, he found the king and his royal kitemakers launching enormous cloud-shaped kites and montgolfiers. When the chronicler asked about the king’s men on the plain, the king walked over and kicked him off of cliff. Then the king returned to his leisurely viewing of the launched clouds through his golden spyglass. The clouds were beautiful.

The Scrawny Mackerel

In the north, they eat golden ammonia fish, black creosote eels, and mercurial prawns. Clouds are chimercal; water and stone is chemical. They sleep on gravel, and bandage their own wounds. They mine the endless snow and rain, and sometimes summer butterflies. They smoke their straw. In the northern seas, the oarsmen tell the tale of the scrawny mackerel. The mackerel lost its friends and family at a young age, and found it difficult to survive in the black waters. It went to a distant shore and met a marlin. It asked the marlin some questions about sea life. The marlin explained that the world was always eating itself. One had to beware of lying flora and destructive minerals. One was forever caught between the two. The marlin began to talk and to talk, weaving tale after tale to illustrate his points until the mackerel fell asleep. Suddenly the marlin swallowed it whole. Inside the belly of the marlin, the scrawny mackerel woke up in a dark, rosy twilight of brine and acid. It was not the end though. It would have to eat its way out of the eating. 

The Far Fields

Once upon a time, a paleontologist and a monk would often encounter one another in the great far fields of stars and night trees. Sometimes, the monk would be on his knees, praying. At other times, the paleontologist would be on his knees, chiselling out stones or fossils by the light of a lantern or torch. One evening, they met as they were both walking from opposite directions of the road through the fields. Our lives are very similar, said the paleontologist. We spend a lot of time on our knees. Perhaps there is something like prayer in my work. That’s possible, said the monk. Perhaps when I pray, I am also examining stones and fossils in a different way. And in one sense, we are both communing with our friends. The paleontologist especially liked this last statement as he rubbed a trilobite in his palm. Then he asked whether they were praying or studying the same things. On your knees, you encounter what is up front and close, said the monk. On my knees, I meet what is behind and beyond. One is the reason for the other. The paleontologist was not yet convinced, but he took the monk by the arm and said, Let us walk together. The night is beautiful and it is true.

The Commentary

The monk struck the novice each time he answered poorly, although the novice had been there for ten years, had read a thousand books, and could recite and solve the most complex riddles. Washing his hands with well water, the monk told the novice to read the book of nature before ever presuming to speak or act again. The novice went into the wilderness and lived among beasts and birds. When he returned, the monk asked him what he had heard. The novice answered. It is good to be a stone, for the river washes over it, the reeds cannot choke it, the birds and beasts most often cannot break it, and if they should, one stone becomes other smaller stones, who bathe in rain, sun and wind and wait with the earth in silence and strength. They drove the man and his commentary into permanent exile, but not long after, their monastery burned to the ground, and many monks went up in flames.