'Growth' - a beautiful and original story by Kezia P - Year 9

An introduction to a character is how a story usually starts. Well. Hello. That is me. I am that character. What I am about to tell you could be called many things. Maybe an autobiography, maybe a collection of experiences, maybe simply things I witnessed. I like tale. Sounds like something a nymph would be in, perhaps living in a forest. That’s how my story started anyway. Without the nymph of course. And yes, that is right, I lived in a forest. That is where you find most trees after all.

Many things happened in my sapling years. I do not remember them all as my memory fades on with time, transforming those memories to mere flickers in my mind like wind whistling through my branches, never staying long enough to reminisce, yet leaving me with strange feelings, traces of emotions. I suppose that is the real reason I decided to write this. So as not to forget. One final shed of everything I know, before my trunk gives way to a new tree.

Well enough of that chatter, I must begin before I forget them entirely! My first spring. The months of my first growth. I sat through those in the forest, swaying in unison with my kind – happy, content. Occasionally a young lord would trot by, hair swept to the side and riding proudly on a fine horse, but mostly the only life I saw was that of the nearby townsfolk, peasants I believe they were referred to as, and also the wildlife of course. There was one family in particular that often visited the deeper realms of the forest, close to my spot. Two human saplings and a fully grown man. Each day he would rest his brow upon theirs before whispering something in their ear and leaving the way he came. The children would smile, waving their branches at him and then would play about. This was the bit that I always enjoyed. It was nice hearing the echoes of laughter float around the forest, carefree and happy. But one day the laughter stopped. The echoes grew still, and the shrieks heard were simply that of the birds. They just didn’t return. It was then, many a year into my life, that the chopping began.

As the summers passed, I had begun noticing many a man wandering through our territory, sat slumped upon clopping horses pulling covered carts, painted like my skin, holding cylinders, shaped and painted like me, the old-fashioned version of a mannequin if you will. It was not until one cold autumn that I realized it was not paint. And from that moment on, I feared my life. The crowds around me thinned, day by day, year by year. Friend after friend was cut down, leaving just the remnants of a stump to tell their tale. One day I woke up, looked around me. I was alone. I believe this happened around the time that Man referred to as the 1600s. Numbers always confused me though. I could be wrong.

As you can probably imagine, that sent me into a bit of a shock. Quite a large one actually. So large that I fell into a deep empty sleep. A coping mechanism of trees, particularly common to my brethren as we grow for an exceptionally long time so have to do something with our lives, even if that something may be considered rather boring to those who can move about. It was a strange sleep, filled with monsters, fairies and creatures of the like. When I eventually awoke, around two hundred odd years later, it was almost as if I had stayed in the dream, for I was surrounded in such a different world. Noise shot from all around me: crying, shouting, men with flakes of my kind shoving them to others’ faces: “Read all about it!” echoing to me from across the street. I felt like I would throw up. If I could.

It was around that time that I first witnessed violence from one human to another. It had never struck me as something to expect from man and therefore left me quite dazed. Why would two of the same species fight for no reason? It made no logical sense to me. The victim was a young man, darker skinned than the folk I regularly saw passing and dressed in slightly less fashionable attire. He sat at my trunk, an apple in his hand and his shoulders sagged, all tension lost from his body. I believe he was about to bite into the apple when suddenly something was screamed from behind us and he dropped it, panic splayed across his face. I remember him trying to stand, hands shaking and fumbling at my roots for something to grip onto. They didn’t give him time. The three men beat him again and again as he fought to catch his breath before eventually leaving, grins splattered across their smug faces as his body lay limp at my roots, blood trickling down his chin. The apple sat a few feet away. Untouched.

I later learnt that violence is not uncommon in the human community and is triggered by a number of reasons, not just the racial discrimination that I had witnessed. Though that did not stop it from confusing me even today. Not long after that I encountered violence once more, only this time to me. At some point during my deep sleep my spot and the surrounding area of my growth was transformed into a mini park of sorts, sitting beside a cobbled street and overlooking a little village. Being visited by locals was a regular occurrence for me and one that I cherished deeply, for it filled me with utter joy to see the humans, fully grown and otherwise, enjoying mine and the rest of natures company. At least it did before the night I was vandalized.  After that I was unsure. You see, one night I was contemplating life when I heard the sound of footsteps approaching and loud voices, slurred and laughing. A group of about ten men approached, all holding bottles that contained varying amounts of a darkish liquid, hard to see what with the lack of light. Suddenly, one of the men hurled his bottle at me, causing a wave of laughs amongst the others. They did not care about the liquid running down my bark or the glass wedged into my trunk. Another bottle was thrown. Then another. Then another. All followed suit, hysterical with giggles, until not one bottle was left clutched in their hands. My roots were covered in a carpet of glass shards and I was thoroughly stained with the strong-smelling substance that had once been inside the bottles. I felt woozy and disoriented but most of all disgusted. Disgusted at the awful behavior of these men, reeking of drink. Disgusted at their lack of self-control. Disgusted at the way these humans held themselves. Then they threw a match. The world went dark.

Once again, my natural instincts kicked in. By that I mean I fell into another deep sleep, just over two hundred years and filled with dreams alike that of my first. I awoke wiser, taller and though I was scarred by the burns of that night, I felt stronger, rejuvenated. However, I was once more tossed into a new world, surrounded by alien objects. Even the humans themselves looked different. Gone were the suits and top hats, the dirty aprons. Now they wore t-shirts, skirts, shorts and caps. Cars seemed to be no novelty, honking and beeping as they whizzed past me, music flowing through open windows and oh the colours! I saw reds, blues, greens and even a few yellows, quite unlike the blacks and greys I had grown accustomed to. As I witnessed all of this, I felt the most peculiar feeling wash over me. I was truly happy, excited for the future, my branches aching to watch the world go by as I grow old, as I gained more experiences, saw more things. I was no longer the sapling in the woods, giddy with joy at every sound I heard. I had grown.