Saltered States
by Bruce Salter
EN ROUTE TO, CA—(Weekly Hubris)—4/19/10—There was once a great forest, ancient and proud, spreading like a mighty green blanket across the landscape as far as one could see. Creatures of every kind inhabited its sparkling glens and shady depths; for so vast and rich was this forest that all who lived there could find someplace to be content. Millions of trees of every type intertwined their roots and branches, blending their myriad green and brown hues together to give the forest substance, beauty and, most important, a soul.
Individually, these trees thought little, their cognitive abilities being rudimentary at best, but they possessed a collective awareness and wisdom far surpassing that of any single creature, no matter how crafty or sly. The spirit of the forest was a palpable thing, however static or unimaginative it might seem to be. If it could not be touched it could undoubtedly be felt.
In a remote corner of the forest, there was one tree that was quite different from the rest. This was the dreaming tree.
From the time it was a young sapling, the dreaming tree never really fit in. Distancing itself as best it could from the rest of the forest, it chose to spend its time immersed in wild and fantastic dreamscapes that were considered vulgar and impractical by its more refined brethren.
As a result, the dreaming tree developed quite uniquely. Years of poetic fancy and romantic reverie had caused it to grow in ways that can only be called eccentric. Its roots were like great brown serpents that seemed constantly to undulate in and out of the soil for yards around, and its mighty limbs coiled out at impossible angles, twisting with a sinuous (and sensuous) intelligence. Its leaves were nearly opalescent, and fluttered even when there was no breeze to move them.
It was a tree unlike any other, and the denizens of the great forest gave it a wide berth.
On a particularly warm and beautiful spring morning, young Eric and his even younger sister, Erin, happened upon the dreaming tree while exploring the forest. They had often been warned by their grandfather not to venture too deeply into the dark wood, which came right up to the edge of their small farm, but they were naturally curious children and, feeling especially adventurous this day, had wandered farther than ever before.
At first, they didn’t know what to make of the strange tree. It stood apart from the other trees, in an open area that was like an island of sunlight in the almost solid sea of mist and shadow surrounding it. No creatures approached this clearing—even the birds refused to nest in the tree’s boughs or perch in its branches—and, as a result, a breathless silence enveloped everything around. But stranger yet was the tree itself. There was a sense of constant motion about it. Its limbs and roots appeared to flex and pulse in rhythm with its dancing leaves, and the air around it seemed charged with electricity.
Unsure what to think of such odd vegetation, Eric cautiously approached the dreaming tree. As he got closer and was able to focus on individual branches and leaves, he found that they were not really moving at all. They were as static as those of the surrounding trees. But as soon as he relaxed his concentration, the tree leapt to life, churning and rippling in an almost joyous agitation. “This must be magic,” he thought, but he was not afraid.
Turning to his sister, who was standing in the tall grass a few yards off, transfixed with delight by the marvelous vision, he motioned for her to join him under the quivering boughs and, in an instant, she was at his side, staring up in wide-eyed wonder.
They slowly neared the twisting, variegated trunk, which was emanating a deep organic hum but, as they came within reach, Erin paused and drew back. Eric, however, was completely captivated. With bold determination he reached out and threw his arms around the dreaming tree. The next thing he knew he was on his back staring at the sky, his head throbbing and his ears buzzing. He had been thrown a least 20 feet from the tree, landing roughly on the hard ground, disoriented but physically unharmed.
After spending several minutes collecting himself, Eric climbed to his feet, dusted himself off and looked around the clearing for his sister. She was peeking out from behind a large elm some distance away, too afraid to move. He waved and called out, assuring her that is was safe to come out and, after much persuasion (for she was a timid little thing), she scrambled from the shadows and began running to him.
But, as she drew closer Eric noticed something very odd about his little sister. Her appearance had somehow changed. She had a coarse, common look to her now. He had never realized it before, but she was really quite unattractive.
Regarding her tiny pig eyes and overly fleshly cheeks, he started feeling an absolute revulsion towards her. He could picture how she would look in ten, 20, 50 years, how her broad features would thicken and sag, and it made him almost physically ill. When she began to speak, her intonation was flat and grating, her ample lips spitting out the words like they were so much rancid cheese. He had never imagined he had such a crude and vulgar troll for a sister, and the shock of this realization was quite distressing.
Turning away, for he could no longer stand to look at her, Eric straightened his shoulders and, without looking back, walked rapidly into the thick green arms of the waiting forest. Erin watched her brother disappear into the rising mist, standing motionless for the longest time as the warm breeze swept the curls from her face and evening approached. She, too, had witnessed a striking transformation. There was something different about Eric’s eyes, something very far away, and it was obvious, even to her young mind, that such a great distance could never be bridged.
When the shadows began to lengthen with the setting sun, Erin made her way back home, fearful, for the first time in her short life, of the future.
The dreaming tree, now a great black silhouette against the orange-red sky, greeted the swiftly appearing stars with a leafy smile, anxiously waiting to be bathed once again in the light of the full moon.
In the weeks and years ahead, Erin often explored the woods in solitary reverie, looking for something she could neither explain nor define, until her eyes finally turned gray and lost their light. She never re-found the dreaming tree, or saw her brother again.
“There is no memory with less satisfaction in it than the memory of some temptation we resisted.” —by James Branch Cabell
