A Tale in the Wind

By Wendy Mills

That particular summer’s morning was no different to any other, yet for Bwang, Esteemed Keeper of the Roots of the Tree which links Heaven and Earth, it became the greatest upheaval of his life. For once it had nothing to do with the Roots; it was two humans, Bushmen from the South of the Continent, who should not have been there and who certainly should not have known where the Tree was located!

Thus begins a fearful quest to bring healing and hope where it is most needed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Mills
• Release date: Jul 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916305748

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Bwang, Keeper of the Roots, lay stretched out on a branch. It was the finest summer’s morning yet. The sharp, hot rays of the sun shot through the dense foliage to light up in patches the darkest, thickest forest on the Continent. If he was agile, which indeed he was, and extremely careful, that too, then he could stretch his entire body from one end of the branch to the other. That way, at least five parts of him would be warmed by the sun. Better still, if he moved his head just slightly to the left, then a delicious berry would occasionally fall neatly into his willing, waiting mouth.

Thus, Bwang delighted to while away the morning, if not the entire day. Perhaps? He hoped the Roots had heard the little ‘perhaps?’ at the end of his unspoken wish. They had been very peaceable of late, even considerate. Had the sun got to them too, he wondered. He deigned to peep over his shoulder to look down into the great tangled mass of brown below. It was hard to tell one Root from the other at this distance. Besides, only the Tree knew exactly who was who amongst that slumbering mangle. Yes, a hot, twisted knot they looked from up here.

But the delectable, all too precious silence wouldn’t last long. He knew that. Soon one of them was bound to complain that his neighbour was pinching him, or they’d start some silly argument about which Root was the longest, when only the Tree knew that, and She would never disclose the answer. Only the Tree knew which of them went furthest and deepest into the richest and darkest earth in the world, to send water into Her needy, long, unendingly long veins. And She would never tell because that would cause an uproar of anger and jealousy among them all. They’d revolt! They’d sulk! They’d stop working! And he, Bwang, would have to spend all his time comforting and cajoling and caressing. No! It wouldn’t do! He and the Tree had an unspoken agreement on the matter. He gazed dreamily into Her darksome green depths, into greens that harboured a magic of their own, for they changed from moment to moment: from emerald to sage to soft olive, as the light changed from dawn to dusk to dawn.

Of course, it was not to be. He was not to have his wish of a quiet summer’s day. And the Roots had nothing to do with it. For once in his life, they had nothing to do with what became the greatest disturbance he’d ever experienced in his many baboon years as their Keeper.

He had just spat out a berry pip, when he heard an unfamiliar crackling of twigs and a scraping and scuffling of leaves. It was unfamiliar because he knew the sounds, the hoof-falls, the cries, the wails, the leaps, even the breathing of all the animals and birds who lived in and at the base of the Tree. He frowned and listened again. These were human footfalls, he thought. He’d heard about humans. Yes. Definitely human footfalls. Surely not! Not here!

The human footfalls, which indeed they were, came nearer and nearer and then they stopped. There was a leaden silence. Bwang slowly lifted his head. He looked down the length of his long, stretched out grey-brown body and between his prehensile toed feet, and there before him, gazing intently at him, were two human beings. The silence continued to hang like a thundercloud between them. Then there was a sudden sharp intake of breath. Like a jolt it flew about the three of them. Who was that? Was it himself, Bwang wondered, looking around him with a mere flick of his black eyes and a jerk of his shoulders? Did he breathe like that?

Well, he had never seen human beings before, but he knew what they were. Until now, human beings had had no idea that the Tree was located here. They knew in their dreams about the Tree. Oh, yes. He had been told that all over the world the Tree appeared in their dreams. And in their stories too, they had a vague sense of where She could be. But that was all. And now, on this calm and peaceful summer’s day, here before him, were two human beings. What on earth was he to do? He took a quick, sidelong glance down at the Roots. He sincerely hoped they were still asleep. They wouldn’t like it at all. It would knot them up even more.

He decided to move into a more commanding position. He felt a bit silly lying stretched out along the branch, looking at them through his feet. He curled his long tail back, gathered his legs under him, lifted his grey self into a crouch and frowned down the length of his long, black nose at the two humans.

The one was an old man, with grizzled hair that seemed to grasp tightly to a wrinkled black head. The lines across his face were deep and told of much time on Earth. His eyes were like dark still pools, filled with mystery and a hidden warming at the centre. Although he was small, his body was wiry, clearly carrying within it an inner strength. He rested a hand lightly on the narrow shoulder of a young man who was of a lighter shade of brown, the colour of a sun-ripened walnut. His hair was pitch-black and lay in short ringlets around a wide clear forehead and high cheekbones. He was taller than the old man, with rounded muscles that shone smoothly in the dappled shade. His eyes were bright and sparkling and they curved upwards in a perpetual smile. His face was unlined, for he was young and, as yet, untested in the ways of the world. Each had a bow and arrow slung over their backs and a leather pouch at one side; each wore only a loin cloth around thin hips and a loose piece of hide over one shoulder; and each had bare feet. Only the young man carried something more: a bag of animal hide attached to a leather thong that hung across his opposite shoulder and in front of his chest.

These must be the people of the South, Bushmen, thought Bwang. He had heard about them from the Tree. Long, long ago they had ranged and roamed, hunted and fished far and wide over the Continent. But that was the time of the Great Emptiness when the few who called themselves human had left their tracks across the open land spaces. Now there were not many of these Southern peoples left. Content to live on very little, a few simple belongings were all they carried with them: a bow and arrow; fire sticks; a bag for fruits and roots; a pouch with paints, dyes and painting sticks for their rock paintings; and that was all. Yes, She had told him all about their rock paintings. She loved them deeply for their rock paintings.

Bwang marvelled again and again. So, these were the first humans, the first artists and dreamers, the first storytellers, who lived so close to the Earth that She seemed to speak to them. They understood Her every movement.

By now, the silence had been so long that Bwang feared it would go on forever. He sunk his chin into his chest and pondered the tip of his nose shyly, wondering what on earth he should say.

At last, the old man took matters into his own hands. He stepped forward and bowed deeply, saying, ‘We are from the South. We have travelled long in search of the Tree. This is the Great Tree linking Heaven and Earth, is it not?’

Bwang shook from top to tail. He covered his eyes with one hand. He looked away, first behind him and then down at the Roots and then up above, into the dark branches of the Tree; anywhere but at those penetrating black eyes, those wise old man’s eyes that seemed to bore their way into him, pulling out the answer, whether he liked it or not.

Finally, he looked back at the old man helplessly and nodded. ‘Yes, this is the Tree linking Heaven and Earth. And you shouldn’t be here at all! She only appears in dreams and stories.’

‘I know,’ said the old man simply.

‘Can you imagine if everyone of your kind decided to find Her?’ whined Bwang. He knew he was beginning to sound fretful. And he hated sounding like that. It made him seem small in his own eyes, cowardly even. Which he was not! Anyone who could keep the Roots in order was not cowardly. But any minute he knew he would start hopping about on the branch in frenzy, baring his yellowed teeth in anger and fear. He hated doing those things too, but sometimes it just came over him and he couldn’t stop. And sure enough, true to his baboon-self, he began to hop about and to bare his teeth and to chatter wildly. ‘Can you imagine if everyone of your kind decided to see what it was all about? To see what went on at the top?’ he shrieked, clutching his fingers and then burying his face inside an armpit.

The old Bushman caressed the end of Bwang’s tail. ‘I have heard tell of the tried and tested Keeper of the Roots,’ he whispered softly.

Bwang pulled his face up instantly. He looked at the old man and smiled and all of a sudden, at the old man’s touch, the worry began to subside; like some hot, wet, extra skin, it just began to peel away from him and he looked again and again at the two human beings.

CHAPTER TWO

With an instinct borne of a lifetime lived close to the voices of the Earth, the old man spoke in a low sing-song so as not to disturb the Roots, ‘I am Xia, dreamer, rock painter and storyteller of my people. This is my youngest son, Zo. We have crossed vast deserts, dark jungles, swamps, great grasslands and huge unending lakes. We have walked through mists and rain and hailstorms, through heat and dust, through distance and height, through much joy and pain, in search of the Tree.’

‘But why have you come?’ interrupted Bwang.

‘No other human being has ever come before. Not in my lifetime.’

‘Perhaps they have tried and failed,’ replied Xia.

‘Well, now that you have succeeded, why are you here?’

Xia sighed. Then he turned his back on Bwang and his son. He picked his way carefully between the giant Roots, taking care not to touch any of them, and walked to the edge of the mossy glade that eons ago had formed itself around the Tree. Beyond, lay impenetrable forestland, infested with wild animals of every kind, and beyond that, vast open grassland.

Back in his village, he would go up into the mountain, where he would watch, watch and listen, until he felt himself blend into the natural world about him of which he was but a part. He would listen to the birds, to their shrieks of panic and songs of happiness. He would watch the animals, the different ways they moved and listen to their cries of pain or fear, to their bellows of warning and their croonings of joy. Descending, he would lie by the river and listen to its sounds: to the roaring of its falls, to its trembling in the wind, to its murmur under a summer sun. He would listen to the trees, groaning in the winter storm, swaying in the spring gales and rustling through the summer breezes. And when he lay down by the roots of a plant, he could hear their creaks and sighs, hear the dry plant sucking up water and see its gratitude as its drooping stems straightened into the sun. And he learnt to give words to those sounds, so that the birds and animals, the trees and their roots, the river itself, would seem to speak to him. If he listened, listened, the very rocks and stones would speak. He would paint what he saw and heard on the rocks and cave walls, in black and brown ochre, in yellows and reds, and Nature would live in his touch. And when he sat, in silence, by the fire at night, he would hear Her sufferings, and weep, as Her tales were carried on the wind. Now, Xia’s dark eyes gazed ahead, seeing all but seeing nothing – for his mind had cast itself back and back and back, to the first time the Tree had come to him. At last, he returned to the others and spoke.

‘The Tree came to me some years ago. I carry that day with me, as fresh as water from a spring. I was standing before a clear rock face of the palest pink and brown sandstone – the most perfect space upon which to paint the most delicate gazelle I had dreamed of the night before. As I began to work at the slender legs of the buck, they suddenly, of their own accord it seemed, sprouted branches and then leaves and even roots. I was horrified that my painting sticks and dyes, even my own hand, should have done such a thing beyond my control. I wiped the surface of the rock clean and began again. This time my hand trembled a little as I worked. The next painting was of a magnificent snake in rich yellow ochre and black with a touch of green, the like of which I had seen that day beneath a rock. But when I began to draw the forked tongue, it suddenly became a huge branch reaching out across the rock, covered in waxy leaves and red berries. I fell back from the rock face in amazement. I tried again and again – one animal after another – but each time a rich, dark bark formed and then a mass of roots and then a tree.

‘And it was as if something had pulled me downwards into the Earth and then lifted me as high as the highest cliff that brushed the Sky. By dusk of that day, as the horizon became fringed with gold, I lay back panting with exhaustion and my body glistened with sweat. All my artistry had been wrested from me and my soul had been drained of all laughter and joy.’

Xia stopped. For even now, he could not forget that day without a shudder passing through his wizened frame. His son stretched out a hand to squeeze his father’s shoulder. Xia smiled and continued, ‘In the intervening years the Tree appeared often – sometimes in my paintings, sometimes in my stories, sometimes in my dreams. And always I felt an inexpressible sadness, as though the combined weight of both the Earth and the Sky were upon me.

‘The last time the Tree appeared it was while I was out tracking buck for food for my small clan. I remember that it was dawn and there was a faint mist in the air. I found myself amidst a small outcrop of rocks. There below me, under an acacia tree, was a young female. Unaware of my presence, she stood, quietly nibbling at the leaves of the tree. I lifted my bow, carefully took aim, and released my arrow. With a zing that sliced the air and shattered the silence of the morning, the arrow missed the animal and pierced the bark of the tree beside it. And a cry of such anguish came from the tree. It