“Recount. Remember.”

The tree remembered. And it recounted.

It had witnessed many things over the years. But all of these things bled into one another. The passing of the seasons. Worms and moles digging amongst its roots. Bugs crawling up its trunk. Squirrels and birds dancing amongst its branches. Deer walking past it, deeper into the sheltered woods it called home.

A footpath ran nearby it as well, marking the boundary between the end of the forest and the beginning of a small prairie that gave way to suburbs.

The footpath saw some traffic now and then. The tree saw many people over the years. Some on bikes, some with dogs, some alone, and some with groups.

One day, the tree witnessed one such group, a trio of teenage boys, slowly cycling by on bikes, and it promised to be a sight like any other.

Except one of the boys pointed at it.

“We should carve our names on that tree!”

This was not actually new for the tree. One could find plenty of carvings on its bark, some old and faded, some relatively fresh. Some manmade, and most by animals.

Thus, it wasn’t surprising when the boy immediately got off his bike and began to trudge towards it, followed by the second.

But the third did not follow, glaring after them.

“Stop guys! We shouldn’t do that!”

The second boy slowed down at that, but the first reached the tree and pulled out a pocketknife.

“What are you doing?” the third boy demanded, jumping off his bike and jogging up to the first, who had already begun carving.

“I told you, I’m carving our names in.”

“But you are hurting the tree!”

“The tree doesn’t have feelings man, chill out. It’s just a piece of wood.”

“It’s not a piece of wood. It’s life, and life is sacred! You should stop!”

Yet the protesting boy, glaring and blustering, didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He just stood by, clenching and unclenching them as the first boy finished carving “Tom.”

“Dude, are you high? It’s just a tree. Here,” he said, handing the second boy the pocket knife.

The second boy shrugged and began carving as well. The third boy’s mouth dropped.

“Not you too Harry!”

“Dude, Tom’s right. And anyway, it’s not like a few scratches are going to hurt the tree.”

“Imagine if I said that about scratching my name into your back! How would that make you feel?”

“Mike, it’s not the same. I can feel pain. The tree can’t.”

“But how do you know that?”

“Because a tree doesn’t have a nervous system.”

“Just because it doesn’t have a system like ours, doesn’t mean it can’t feel! A tree’s branches lean towards the sunlight! And its roots can sense and reach towards water! It has to feel somehow to do that!”

“The tree doesn’t lean away when we scratch it,” Tom rebutted.

“It does! You just can’t see it because it moves slowly!”

Harry finished carving his name and gave the knife back to Tom. Tom turned towards Mike and offered the knife.

“What? Are you kidding me? No! I refuse to carve an innocent tree!”

“Dude, can you hear yourself? You sound like a crazy hippie,” Tom said.

“Yeah, c’mon Mike. There’s no harm,” Harry added.

“I’m not a hippie! I just understand and wouldn’t want to do to others what I wouldn’t want done to me.”

“Seriously man? Is it just going to be me and Harry on the tree then?”

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“Yes!”

“But aren’t you our friend?”

“I don’t have to carve my name into the flesh of a living creature like some barbarian to prove our friendship! That’s just stupid and proves nothing.”

“Man, you’re such a…”

The tree had witnessed arguments before, but honestly, it hadn’t witnessed any in regards to itself. Sure, the squirrels and birds sometimes fought for the best branches, but never on its behalf.

Yet for all of Mike’s posturing, he had still let the other two boys carve into its bark. In the end, he hadn’t been able to protect the tree. Not that the carving was much worse than the family of woodpeckers that visited its branches frequently. All would be well.

However, this argument was rather normal compared to the flash of green light that suddenly engulfed the trio of boys. A wave of energy flowed out, and the tree felt a sense of invigoration and call to growth.

But that feeling, along with the light, disappeared as quickly as it had come. The surroundings were quiet. The boys were gone.

The tree had witnessed many things over the years. Almost all of them bled into one another. But this one did not.

Thus, the tree waited for the next shock to arrive.

Yet it did not.

The seconds passed like usual, compiling into minutes. A familiar couple passed by, walking their dog. The couple shrugged at the sight of the boys’ bikes. The dog sniffed at the tree, as it had many times in the last few years and peed on it before following after the couple.

The minutes passed like usual, compiling into hours. The sun lazily sank to the horizon. Various sorts of people walked the footpath, all normal. At most, they stopped to observe the bikes, before moving on. Various sorts of animals passed on and around the tree, all normal. The most curious of them, a squirrel, poked at one of the bikes. It fell over with a crash, frightening the squirrel a terrible deal, sending it up the tree and vanishing into the canopy. 

The hours passed like usual, compiling into a couple of days.

Finally, something new broke the monotony, though nothing too extraordinary.

A couple of police officers, writing down the serial numbers of the bikes.

As the minutes ticked, more officers came, with dogs, investigators, and equipment. The area around the tree was cordoned off.

The area immediately in front of the tree was most studied, where the three boys last stood. They took pictures of their footprints in the mud, and especially the carved names in the tree. They collected the pocketknife that had apparently been left behind, taking it for evidence.

Long hours passed. The dogs were circled around the entire area, trying to find a lead, but no scent could be found except for back the way the boys had come cycling. Tents were erected over the area, blocking it from the elements. The bikes were intensely searched for fingerprints.

More hours passed into days. Days into weeks.

The tent and tape had been removed. Almost everything was back to normal. Even the bikes were gone.

But once it had all been removed, the tree found itself new visitors.

Parents of the school boys. They searched around the tree and beyond.

“Tom!”

“Harry!”

“Michael!”

The names were called out often around the tree, laced with sobs, fear, denial, and anger. The parents would call out, and search far out, until the tree could no longer hear them.

Yet the search happened often, again and again.

One of the parents, a middle-aged man, bowed before the tree regularly.

“Please, spirit of the forest. Please tell me where my son has gone.”

The man persisted daily in his asking. Even when the searching stopped. Even when a small memorial was made in front of the tree in remembrance of the supposedly dead boys.

The weeks passed into months. Winter struck the land with snow and the air with cold.

Few people walked the footpath at this time of year. Few animals tarried around without good reason.

The family members of the lost boys came rarely. The father who had prayed came most often. However, he had stopped praying weeks ago.

The months passed into years.

All of them now mostly bleeding and blending into one another.

But the tree never forgot the green flash. It never forgot the disappearance.

It simply waited.

~

Ten years passed.

And on a morning like any other, on the empty ground before the tree, the very same green flash greeted it. Another surge of energy spread in a wave, once more with a sense of vitality and growth.

Though this time, it brought someone rather than took away.

A man cloaked in leafy vines stood in the empty space.

“Prepare to protect.”

The command resonated from the man into all of his surroundings, including the tree.

Rather than a simple feeling as before, a raging energy of growth spread through its body. Its bark hardened, its wood condensed, its leaves sharpened, its limbs and roots lengthened.

It felt every minute twitch in the air, every vibration in the earth, waiting for any sign of danger. It prepared to leap to the defense of the man, nay, the Steward, for what else could he be?

It could feel the Steward reach through its senses and beyond, through to the whole forest, seeking and searching.

Yet with a flex of the Steward’s will, the forest tensed and froze when his eyes landed on the memorial before the tree.

The tree waited in stillness.

The Steward ever so slightly relaxed, and the tree and the forest followed suit.

He walked forward, up to the memorial, and knelt before it.

“Tom ____. Harry _____.” He traced and read aloud.

“Michael Varinski,” he added, barely audible.

He hesitantly looked over his shoulder, his eyes falling on the footpath and the prairie and suburbia beyond.

His breathing grew erratic and the tree instantly moved to support and shelter him, new roots and branches extending with the promise of protection.

The Steward eased his breathing and laid his hand on the tree.

“Recount. Remember.”

~

The tree hovered protectively as the Steward finished receiving the memories with heaving sobs.

“I’m home,” he choked.

The Steward knelt before the memorial for some minutes longer, steadying his breath.

“I hope I’m home,” he said seriously.

The tree withdrew its branches and roots, letting the Steward stand and turn to walk away. However, after a few steps, he stopped and gazed upon the tree. 

Thanks to you. Be at peace. Be fruitful.

Though the tree had already bloomed only months ago, a new wave of energy spread through its limbs and buds burst from its branches with the promise of new seeds and new life.

The tree gazed with reverence as the Steward walked onto the footpath and back the way he had come over ten years ago.