The Keeper

         “Come sit by gramps an’ let me tell you ‘bout some things that old oak has seen,” the wrinkled, old man offered as he eased his creaking bones into the rickety rocker and braced his feet on the gnarled porch rail. The Traveler slouched against a wobbly corner post. Unasked questions skittered behind his gaze, demanding answers.

         A pair of younglings peered around the corner of the lop-sided door frame. Their eyes sparkled in anticipation of a story. They nudged and shushed each other in an attempt to remain unnoticed. A stealthy grin tweaked the hidden corners of the old man’s mouth.

         The afternoon sun dropped low and bathed the land in sunset greens and golds. The chittering arguments of bird families settling in for the night scampered along the dry evening breeze.

         “I’ve been here longer than any man,” the old man said, “but that old oak’s been standing since the dawn of time.” The Traveler leaned forward and strained to catch every word. “She still talks to me some days,” the old man muttered.

         “What?” the Traveler asked.

         “These days, not many know how to hear tree-speak, but I hear. She talks, oh, yes she does.”

         Twigs and leaves on the old oak rustled and whispered in agreement.

         The younglings inched forward and huddled against the rough hewn log wall behind the old man’s chair. They listened with rapt attention, but whether they heard the old man or the old oak the Traveler didn’t know.

         “I’ve heard of such a thing, but where I come from it’s only spoken of as legend,” he said.

         “Yep, she talks to those who listen. Many a tale she has to tell: of wars and wizards, of great behemoths lumbering across the land, of the birth of man and all his foolishness, of endless skies and birds of every color, not these silly creatures we hear now, no . . ., birds who could sing the gods from the heavens and stop the wind to listen. Oh, the tales she has to tell.

         “But who listens any more? These younglings try. They hear so little. Too new to be patient enough, silent enough.” He reached down and twined his fingers, deformed with joint disease, through the blond curls of the youngling girl. She signed and leaned into his touch. “They may learn in time.”

         He let the silence dangle with the unasked question, “Will there be enough time for them to learn?”

         The Traveler waited. His breath held in check. This is it! His mind cried. It has to be! But how do I woo them? How do I convince them that I mean no harm? Is there still enough time?

         The bird conversations quieted, yet the leaves and twigs moved in agitation more than the quiet breeze warranted.

         Can she hear me? the Traveler wondered.

         “May I?” he asked gesturing toward the ancient oak.

         The old man looked up with a slight scowl.

         “May I touch her?” The younglings gasped at the audacity of his question.

         “You’re askin’ me?” the old man snapped. “It’s her you should be askin’, not me!”

         “I…I …I th …thought you were her Keeper,” the Traveler stammered.

         “Aye. Maybe so. Maybe not. Still it’s her you should be askin’.”

         The Traveler stepped away from the porch rail. A slight trembling un-steadied his steps as he moved toward the ancient tree.

         Branches dipped and swayed toward him, reaching. Fear slowed his pace.
"I can do this,” he whispered. “I can. . .” He halted. This isn’t the right way. A tiny voice nudged at the edge of his consciousness. He stepped forward again.

         Branches snapped as if agitated. Leaves slapped and fluttered with the movement.

         The Traveler stopped again. This isn’t the right way. The voice whispered once more.

         He paused. “What is?” he whispered back.

         He felt the stares of the younglings and the old man piercing his back. He waited.

         Time slowed. So did the agitated movement of the old oak.

         He waited, silent, still as a statue.

         Impulsively he opened his heart and soul to the old tree. He pled for her touch, welcomed her, offered himself to her.

         Blazing images flooded his mind. Then all went black.