Woman of the Wood

Contest entry: The picture as prompt.

Do dogs, cats, horses have a spirit, a consciousness? Do plants, trees? They don’t, why not? We don’t know where our consciousness lies. We can’t find it in the brain, or anywhere else. Yet, we think/know we have a consciousness and awareness of our self and our environment. Plants follow the sun, withdraw from fire, can trap insects, why can’t they have a spirit[1].

Still not convinced, let me relate the experience of Robbie Butler. I’ll try to be as faithful as I can. We were in O’Tooles. We were on our third Irish and water. It had been a long week.

“Did I tell you about what happened to me when I was a mere lad?” asked Robbie.

I raised my glass. “Yes, many times.”

He cocked his head. “About the wood spirit?”

“Wood nymph?” I offered.

Robby shook his head. “No, a wood spirit. Something which lives within a tree. A tree spirit.”

I laughed, raising my glass to him. “Is this better than your little people, your leprechauns?”

“You English heathen. No, it’s not about the little people. It’s about trees. Trees are alive, you know.”

I nodded. “Yes, this I know. Go ahead, tell me your story. Were you drinking at the time?”

He raised his hand as though he were taking an oath. “Sober as a judge. Now, I did have a bit of a dram to cut the dust. I had been walking all day.”

I nodded, bidding him to continue.

“I was hiking through Europe after taking my finals at Trinity. I was in the Pyrenees about to pass into Spain from France. I was a little tired, having walked all day. There was a nice copse of trees, I’m guessing Sycamores bidding me to take a nap. I accepted their hospitality. I fell asleep.”

“It was the chopping which woke me up. As I straightened up, I could see a woodsman through the trees. He was dressed as a gypsy or some such. He had a red headscarf and a blue tunic with loose trousers.” Robby laughed. “He was an ugly brute. He carried an axe and torch. It was dusk with night fast approaching, but a mite early for a torch. He was attacking a beautiful silver elm. Can trees be beautiful?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

“Good, because you won’t believe the rest if you don’t.”

“Rest of what?”

He snorted. “Rest of the story.” He raised his glass. “Should we get another?”

“How long is the story?”

He raised his glass so our waitress could see. She was only a table away, and we are good customers.

“Another, if you will, my sweet?” Robby nodded to me. “You?”

I shook my head.

Robby closed his eyes and shook his head. “How did the English ever conquer the world? Just one, Maggie. Be a good girl and make it quick. I have a tongue which needs lubricating.”

I looked at my glass, half full of diluted Irish. I bid him continue.

“Without fortification?”

I nodded. “Without fortification.”

He shrugged. “Well, this rogue was both burning and chopping on this beautiful tree. Now, this tree was surrounded by bigger, older trees. It was like it was a little brother or sister, or some such. It was as though the older trees were protecting the younger.” He looked away. “I guess that is the way of things, the older protecting the younger and as the younger get older, they protect the elders.”

I nodded.

He leaned in. He was about to whisper something when Maggie came with his drink. He pulled back and took his drink from Maggie’s hand. “Not a moment too soon, my beauty. Not a moment too soon.” He drank half of it. “Ahhh…,” then he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Yes, where was I?”

“He had just chopped down the little tree.”

“Not little exactly, just not as big as the others. Well, then it happened. As the gypsy, or wood cutter stood over the tree a sharp breeze came through the forest, the trees. It caught a branch of one of the bigger trees, which knocked the wood cutter down. He didn’t get up.”

“Justice,” I smiled, raising my glass.

“It was that, it was.” He leaned in. “Here is the weird part.”

“Weird?”

“Aye, weird. I would’ve sworn some gas or vapor rose from the fallen tree. As it swirled, it took on the form of a beautiful woman, a girl really, but in every respect a woman. The tree, which clubbed the woodcutter, seemed to take the woman in his arms, his branches. Then another gust of wind whisked her away. She was there, then she was gone.” He pulled back and finished his drink.

“What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing until something told me to douse the torch, hide the axe and pull the woodcutter from the trees and hide him in a hollow, off the side of the road. I had no sooner begun covering him with leaves than another wind came up shaking the trees. It was a blizzard of leaves — old ones, new ones, large ones, small ones. The woodcutter was buried under a mountain of leaves. They told me to leave. I did, and not a moment too soon. I could hear voices calling for Etienne, Etienne. I ran as fast and as far as I could.”

“Then what?”

“Then what, what?” he asked, letting the last few drops fall on his tongue.

“That’s it?”

He nodded, grinning. “That’s it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Though wee Maggie could be the spitting image of the Woman of the Wood.”

I turned to look at Maggie. If a tree had to have an image, a consciousness, Maggie’s would not be a bad image to have.

Note: I cheated. I read Abraham Merritt’s story. Not same, but it did give me ideas. http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks06/0602041h.html

[1] Conscious, Annaka Harris, 2019, Harper.