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Story number 2 of 50 completed, here is it:

The Goddess Song

In the Old Times, before man invented metal tools, bows and arrows, paper planes, car washes and mortgage protection insurance, there were gods and giants, talking animals and elven sprites, creatures seen only in the dancing shadows cast by the firelight or in the whispering forests where the sun dare not enter. They lived in the deep caves of the imagination, they washed in the pools of fear and fantasy and were summoned and nourished by stern parental warnings and midnight stories.

On the edge of a clear blue sea in a warm, sunny place stands a tree with no name, waiting to sing. Michael had known the tree since he was young. It sat on its own at the bottom of his garden, its curved trunk a question mark on which Michael would perch as soon as he could climb, thinking big thoughts, asking bigger questions and humming to himself. Sometimes he imagined the tree was humming along.

Many gods and goddesses held sway over the ancient lands, but we will turn our eyes and ears to the mischievous goddess of the trees, that one over there, the impish impresario singing to the seeds of her children, singing the spirit song to give them life. See how she caresses each tiny one in her ageless palm. Her delicate fingers carefully pick one out and place it on the tip of a finger, holding it close to her emerald eyes. In that moment there is silence.

As Michael grew and his thoughts grew with him, his humming turned to singing as he sat in the tree. Far away from the critical ears and mocking laughter of other children, he would let his voice drift up to the tips of the highest leaves, take off and soar around the garden to join the choir of birds in the other trees.

After the silence there is a breath, a long drawing in of the tones surrounding the goddess – the twinkling notes of the clear light sparkling on a dew soaked leaf, the deep resonance of the rock face beside a thundering waterfall, the rich aroma of a lavender field ready for harvest. She captures a feeling here, a touch there, breathes it into the seed, and it becomes life. She gasps in delight.

Grandfather’s workshop was where Michael spent the rest of his free time, watching in fascination as the old man turned table legs and banister rails on his lathe and carved intricate patterns that played in and around the grain of the wood. His grandfather would teach him to listen in reverence as the spirit of each tree spoke to him and guided his hands.

For each seed she chooses a different song. She revels in every new spirit breathed, knowing that with each life given her own is one breath closer to death. For not all gods are eternal and her time is nearly over. As the number of seeds dwindles in her palm, a tear forms in her eye. At first she wipes it away, chiding herself for her sadness, but as she picks the next seed the tear forms again. She leaves it to trace a path down her cheek.

He and his grandfather once puzzled over the name of the tree that sat at the bottom of the garden, but it made Michael feel uncomfortable to talk about his tree as an ‘it’. Something told him the tree was a ‘she’ and really he should be talking to her about it, or at least singing to her. He felt a warm flush on his cheek.

Finally, there is only one seed left. By now the tears are filling the goddess’s eyes as she mourns her imminent end. She raises her hand up to look closer at the last seed and a momentary look of puzzlement crosses her face, as if she doesn’t recognise this child. She has no name for this one. The runt of the litter.

Michael was a fast learner in the workshop. He would first hold each piece of timber close to his chest as if to match its heartbeat with his own. Then he would study the grain careful, running his fingers around curve and knot like a tentative lover. Finally he would lift it to his ear like his grandfather taught him, so he could sing the song while he cut and carved, always listening for each turn of the melody.

She holds the nameless seed for an eternity. She remembers all of her children. She sees their past and future, sees them land on the soil back through time in the first garden, then split and push out the whisker of a root, growing from sapling to tree, bearing fruit, giving birth to more seeds which become copses, woods and forests. She breathes faster as her mind pushes forward through their lives, sees them grow old and die to feed the earth, or be harvested for tools and dwellings and furniture and…

Time moved quickly in that warm, sunny place. Michael became a man and took over his grandfather’s business. His voice grew strong and mellow like mahogany. He would still sit in his nameless tree to question and sing, but found himself longing for an instrument to accompany him, as if the tree was willing him to new harmonies.

…and instruments. Fiddles, drums, pianos, mandolins, whistles, guitars. The goddess smiles as she thinks of the tunes her children will play. She looks again at the final nameless seed in her hand and sees that it will not live long. Its future is in one seedless tree.  Her tears well up again and her shoulders shake in huge sobs, this time for the child who will have no name and no children of its own.

He began to visit music shops to try out instruments, revelling in the proliferation of wood around him. Each instrument sang to him, but it was the guitar that sang the sweetest. He hired one at first, a bright cedar-bodied beauty so he could learn to play, practising in each work break perched in the tree. As he improved he learned to build his own instruments, trying different woods for body, neck and fingerboard, always searching for the perfect tone.

In a moment of recklessness she breathes all of her own song into the seed, and sends it to a warm, sunny climate on the edge of a clear blue sea. In that moment the goddess is gone.

Michael was drawn more and more to his tree to listen and sing. Every day he heard the tree’s tune louder and louder until he could ignore her message no more. Singing a sad melody he chopped her down, his tears falling into the heart of the tree. The years passed as her felled timber mellowed and he practised long, sitting on the roots he had carved into a seat looking out to sea.

On the edge of a clear blue sea in a warm, sunny place stands a tree with no name, waiting to sing.

He builds the guitar carefully, hears a song in the timber he has never known before, and after he finishes he begins to play. Michael and the goddess sing of all that she was, of all the spirits of all the trees in all the world.  And when it is done, he holds her close.