Tiny was the
smallest pine tree in the forest. The other trees stood straight-trunked and
tall, like soldiers on parade, while he grew stunted and slightly crooked.
“They won’t
even bother cutting you down, Tiny,” the majestic pine on his left sneered.
“They’ll make
fine furniture from me,” another said with lofty supremacy. “You’ll probably be
chopped up for firewood.”
“Don’t listen
to them,” whispered the white dove who rested on Tiny’s highest branch. “Everything
on this earth has been placed here for a reason. You just have to await your
destiny.”
The timber
workers moved in the next day with their heavy earth moving equipment. The
ground vibrated under the wheels of the yellow monsters as they gouged an access
path through the forest. Whining chainsaws woke the slumbering mountainside,
sending frenzied birds into flight.
Giant trees
plummeted earthward all around him. Day after day without respite, Tiny’s
companions were felled, until he was the only tree left in a sea of utter
devastation.
I’m too short and puny even for wood chipping.
Eventually
seedlings would be planted to replace the majestic giants that had fallen. The
cycle of planting, growing, and cutting down the trees once they matured would
continue.
It was lonesome
being the only tree left. The birds had not returned because their sanctuary
had been violated. Even the little white dove had deserted him.
The hot
Australian sun beat down cruelly, a fierce inferno that wilted Tiny’s needles
and robbed him of strength now there were no giant branches to shade him. The
once moist earth gradually turned hard, and cracks opened up in the ground
exposing his roots. Tree stumps and splintered branches were left strewn
around, white and grotesque, like bones bleaching in the sun.
No moment of triumph for me. I’m going to slowly
wither and die, without having served any purpose at all.
A man with a
sack trudged along picking up pine cones and pieces of wood. Tiny barely
reached the shoulders of this tall young man, whose hair was long and unruly.
His beard was scraggly and unkempt. His blue eyes were traumatized; his face
lined and weary.
“Ah, you’ll
make a good fire for me little tree.” The man’s hands trembled. “Lieutenant Steven
Godfrey at your service. Well, that’s who I used to be.” He gave an exaggerated
bow. “The nights are mighty cold up here in the mountains when a man’s on his
own and cannot sleep.”
The axe was
wielded with something akin to desperation, and soon Tiny felt himself toppling
to the earth just as his friends had done. He was picked up and slung across
the man’s shoulders, then was bumped and jigged along as the man called Steven
climbed higher up the mountain. Ragged ledges, like scarred battlements, towered
above them. Brooding, lonely and isolated.
“No-one
bothers me out here, little tree. I don’t have to conform to standards set by
people who haven’t been to hell and back as I have.” He let out a shuddering
breath. “Only veterans like me understand that a car backfiring gives me the
shakes and chills me to the bone. Getting drunk helps me forget what an IED can
do to a soldier. Takes the rancid odor of burnt flesh and blood out of my
nostrils. Stops me from seeing my men dying every time I close my eyes. Hearing
their screams.”
They finally
came to Steven’s mean little shack built from packing cases and old sheets of
tin. A piece of canvas covered the doorway and Steven dumped Tiny on the ground,
and shouldered his way inside.
The area near
the shack was littered with beer bottles and cans. Cigarette butts were ground
into the dust. This was a hideout from the world, where a man could farewell
civilization for as long as he wanted.
Around the
shack, tall and aloof, gum trees grew, while the only relief from the
green/grey vista were the yellow daisies nodding to each other in the breeze. The
once pristine beauty of their surroundings was spoilt only by the mess left by
this human.
Steven came
outside after a time, staggering slightly and swigging from a bottle. He kicked
Tiny, and cursed virulently when his foot connected with the hard trunk instead
of the soft branches.
“Do you know
what day it is?” Steven slurred. “Christmas Eve. My mother used to always
decorate a tree for us when we were kids.”
He struggled
to push the pine tree into a standing position. “She probably thinks I’m dead.”
Great
shuddering sobs were suddenly wrenched from his body, and he collapsed to the
ground, writhing as if in agony.
“I couldn’t
go back to her like this little pine tree. Not with the nightmares and fits of
rage that can only be eased by drinking myself into oblivion. Her brave soldier
son who returned from battle is no more.”
He wiped the
tears from his eyes. “No victory marches for me. Like a thief in the dark they
smuggled me back in the dead of night, gave me a de-briefing and a medical
examination before discharging me from the army with PTSD. Setting me loose in
a hostile environment that didn’t care or understand what I’d been through.”
Will the soldiers now fighting in Afghanistan fare any
better than us when they return home? I doubt it.
Bitterness
overwhelmed him. “The Government deserted us veterans, the public reviled us,
until all there was left for those of us returning from Iraq, was to leave the
human race behind. It’s kinder for my mother to think I’m dead, than for her to
know how low I’ve sunk.”
Steven
stumbled to his feet and savagely wrenched a handful of daisies out of the
ground. He twisted them around the branches of the pine tree in angry, jerky
movements.
After a time
the rage drained out of him. He became calmer, his decorations more carefully
arranged. He lit a candle and attached it to the top branch, and the flame
burned brightly. A beacon to light the way for someone who had strayed and
wanted to go back home. Perhaps he wasn’t a lost cause after all.
“Not as fancy
as the ones we used to decorate,” Steven mused. “No fairy lights, either, but
you’ll do. In the morning I’ll clean myself up, come down from the mountain,
and contact my mother to wish her a Merry Christmas.”
Tiny saw a sudden,
determined thrust to Steven’s jaw.
“One day
soon, little tree, maybe I might even be able to rejoin the human race again.”
Tiny suddenly
felt very tall because just as the white dove had foretold, there had been a
reason for him to be different from the rest of the pine trees.
The melting
wax dribbled on to his foliage, solidified then hung like diamonds in the
starlight, and Tiny realized that adorned only with the jewels from nature, he
was more beautiful than the most magnificent of trees.
When the
first crimson rays of the sun chased away the night shadows, and it was
Christmas day, the man would prepare for his long journey back to civilization.
Tiny was satisfied that his job was done.
“Merry
Christmas Lieutenant Steven Godfrey.”
The
End
My Western Christmas novella - Cowboy Christmas
Will a miracle Christmas baby unite two tortured souls, or
will it forever keep them apart.
Margaret’s
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