The Memory Tree

A micro story about Sylence: Where the trees remember in a language the people forgot.

In the middle of a town, in the middle of a forest, sat an old woman and an ancient tree. Elara, the wise old Whimsy, ran her wrinkled fingers over the faded symbols etched on the trunk.

Memoria, the wise old Willow, had the important job of listening to remember. Listening to the wind. Listening to the birds. Listening to the humans. The essence of what was heard was made visible as runes on the bark of her belly. An image of a snowflake held the story of the 10-year blizzard. A bouquet of butterflies preserved the lineage of all the town’s Whimsies. A seedling, the origin tale of Memoria and the town. For centuries she proudly performed this duty.

But: No new memories had been captured for the last 70 years.

And: Those that were, were close to being no more.

Sylence, this now modern old town, had turned its ears upside down. No longer did it heed the ground. Humans were born and wed and then led siloed community lives. They only heard human sounds. The people seemed to lead happy lives. They passed from day to day without a thought for the world around them along the way. The firepit where stories grew…had grown cold. All the people were locked in their own homes. Their own heads.

Even so, Memoria still listened. Although those lives buzzed with a cacophony of sounds, none of them made memories. They burst into being. Then they were immediately forgotten. Events and ideas tossed into an endless river of “on to the next thing.”

Memoria, weary from the sonic silence and the pruning of purpose, was tired. Branches bowed. Crestfallen crown. The Age of Communion was coming to a close.

Elara had kept company with Memoria through all of her long years. Many a mark she had seen born in her youth. And, even during the long quiet of the last 7 decades, she strengthened the existing memories by simply remembering. She would place her hand on a rune and relive that time, good and bad alike. All the steps along a path are worth noticing. Each important. Each a paving stone from there to here.

This day, Whimsy and Willow both embraced their fading. Elara watched, bewildered yet resigned, as mark after mark disappeared. Until only one mark was left. The symbol of the three interlocked circles. It held the pact between human, animal, and earth. That, too, would soon be no more.

The ability to hear and be heard would be lost.

She placed her hand on the circles. She was transported to the initial forging. Images, now mostly shadow, of the joining of the hands: child, raccoon, ivy. The echoes of the Agreement swam through her mind, then pooled in her eyes. Tears swam through the canyons of her cheeks, landing with a splash on Memoria’s roots.

A wave of nausea washed over the Whimsy. The pace of her heart doubled. The demon pain that had been plaguing her the past week flared in her chest, sending its numb fingers down her left arm. The memory was gone.

Elara dropped her hands to her lap and laid her forehead on the now smooth surface.

“Goodbye, old friend. Light and love hold you. Perhaps you will still remember me. Even if no one will hear.”

Once, twice, and then no more did that Whimsy’s heart beat.

All was silent in Sylence. Memoria mourned. And then she slept a deep sleep of nothing.

Until…

A baby began to cry. It was alone, cradled in the roots of the wise old Willow. For so long it called out with its tiny newborn lungs that finally Memoria stirred from the still slumber. Forgetting that Sylence was now silent, Memoria whispered:

“Hushhhhh.”

And so he did.

Many thanks!

Thank you for reading this, my first micro story about Sylence!

A whole world is brewing in this noggin, and I look forward to sharing snapshots of it with you as they come into focus.

Bunches of love,
Mimi Whimsy

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