Kevan Smith - The Tree

Daniel twitched just slightly as he sat waiting for her.  She was a bit late having to finish her chores on the family station.  Penrose was the largest property in the area for her family had been in this region since the mid-30s.  It had grown decidedly since her grandfather first posted as his squat with only a handful of sheep and sheer bloody-mindedness.

His people had been here forever but the family spoke about how their grandfather had been a breaker on cattle properties around the area.  He was known for his never-ending hard work and almost uncanny horse sense.  It was said the moment he stroked the wither or laid his head on the muzzle they were massive puppies for him.  Danny was proud of his heritage as they progressed through both local and native groups since the settlers drifted into the east coast.

He wandered back to when he first saw her in her stiff white dress and red sash bow around the middle.  He didn’t like wearing those tight high tops with a leather belt holding his shirt inside his scratchy knee pants but Granny insisted when she dragged him to the Sunday meetings.  But, today, he stopped shuffling and fidgeting when he saw her.  It was like the sun had fallen on her face just so he could see her.  She was singing in the front row, loudly and ever so slightly off key, but he didn’t hear that, he only saw the glow.  He dribbled slightly through his gaping mouth.

It took him weeks of manipulation and planning to be leaning uncaringly casual by the girl’s school gate when she skipped out.  She stopped and so did his heartbeat. He can’t remember what she said or what she did but he did remember the ringing in his ears as they talked and walked and talked all the way to her property.

“Hello sleepyhead” she giggled as she stooped down to touch his arm gently.  He bolted up wincing; his body shuddering from his wounded arm.  The Crimea had kissed him goodbye with lasting memories.

“Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier.  I know you just got off the train last night; thank you for your message.  Let’s sit under our tree.  See, she has grown since last time.  The drought gave over to a good bit of rain, almost broke the banks but our lovely shade stood strong for us.  She knows you were coming home.  She told me whenever I came here for our shade and comfort.”

Danny beamed, just hearing her voice, seeing her face drowned out the raging, bloodied, screaming torsos and explosions, always explosions.  They laid down under their shady she-oak on her blanket.  She wrapped him in her arms comforting him, kissing his forehead.  He nuzzled her neck as bombs exploded in his head but far away on the horizon.  He shuddered and whimpered a bit, holding her closer; holding onto his life as he did over there, every time over there. 

She lay with her soldier boy to comfort him, to keep the bombs from crashing too close; from blowing him to pieces. 

They met every day under their tree.  The oak whispered to him quietly in the wind giving him strength and solace.  Every day nursing him, comforting him.  Every day she came to him; every day she could get away; every day he was not in hospital or bed or hell.

Time, explosions and that far-off heavy haze drifted around him.  He tried; he tried so hard but the explosions continued; the torsos danced macabre gyrations around him.  Finally, he danced with them.

The boy grew and knew the enormous she-oak as his ‘daddy-tree’.  Below its bows and shading branches the grave was maintained every other week.  She came down, first with the cradle, then with the rosy, bouncy toddler.  The boy grew strong and proud.  He and his mother spent time together and in harmony tending the grave of their loved one, feeling comfort with him under the coolness of the Casuarina Whistling Tree.  The years graced him tall, strong and proud.  His hair was jet black and curly; his eyes would pierce souls and melt hearts.  He often sat silently, in pensive soliloquy; a referential honour for his father as he talked with him, finding comfort in hugging the giant trunk.

The years passed like a spinning top as the she-oak stood strong and brave, whispering to flocks of parrots, lizards, many insects and generations of black cockatoos.  Sheep nibbled on the low branches and rested under her giant boughs for shade over many drought times; to keep dry from the raging storms; big winds and gushing floods. 

The shire grew to a sizable inland town and, after World War II, saw the popular spot surrounding the she-oak on the riverbank as a reason to designate it as a rest and picnic area.  The Penrose Estate was approached and so commissioned the land and family graveyard for public recreation.  Now everyone could use the river bank area for gatherings and public events. 

The graveyard was maintained with community commitment.  A number of the Penrose family, over the years, had been interned under the venerable she-oak to celebrate with her; their stories and her life.

Today she stands proud and sombre, overseeing her family, her town, her world.  She speaks to them through the wind, a whispering only heard by soft hearts and quiet minds, so they may hear the tales of the ages and secrets of the past.

(923 words)