A Glimpse of Green

A Glimpse of Green

Over a hundred years ago, the trees in the Onby forest began to grow back grey. ‘Cut a tree, plant a tree,’ it was said in the nearby towns, keep the forest alive as it gave fuel for fires and materials for building, repay its kindness in kind. But each new copy was duller than the last, until great stripes of plant life centering on the areas populated by humans had been leached of all color, faded entirely to monochromy.

Now, not a green leaf grew within the twenty square miles of the forest, and the people of Onby had forgotten that the color once covered the land around them. The gray slowly infested the towns as well, as more and more rich brown wood was replaced by dull logs, more barrels, more rope, and all fruits and vegetables became colorless. The berries on the bushes lost their reds and purples, and dyed clothes became scarce. Even the animals, as the colorless food moved up the chain, dulled over time, so that now Onby’s meats had only a tint of red, their leathers darkening only to a sandy tan no matter how much oil was applied.

The young children of Onby didn’t know the world was ever different, and their grandparents were too ashamed to tell them. This is why, as young Yban ba Kylab of the village Helby in Onby, only ten years old, walked past a walled garden, he stopped to look in amazement at what peaked out over the white bricks. The smallest hint of green, the leaves of a tree–usually well pruned–grown just enough to breach the protective barrier. Had someone painted a tree? he wondered. And with what? Good paint was so hard to find, after all. He had been taught not to climb over strange walls, of course, but this oddity superseded that rule in Yban’s mind, and he quickly scaled the bricks, the mortar almost entirely gone between each layer, dropping down into the backyard of an unknown stranger with a green tree.

The tree was even more curious up close. Yban ran his hands over bark of dark brown, rough and strong under his fingers, unlike the papery white covering most trees in the nearby forest had. The leaves drooped down far enough for him to reach up and touch one; it felt the same as the leaves he was used to–more sturdy, perhaps–but the slightly translucent leaf was nearly glowing with green, the veins standing out darker than the rest, the sun visible through the leaf as he held it up. And the berries! This tree was heavy with them, bunches of berries bright red pulling the branches closer to the ground. What dyes could be made with berries so rich in color! The grass under his feet suddenly looked dull and lifeless in its bleached, sandy coloring, the bushes growing against the wall indecent in their monotone gray.

Yban would have stood all day under that tree, staring up at the leaves, until the setting sun and his hunger would have eventually forced him to return home, but from behind him, Yban heard the sudden slam of a door. He whirled around to see an old woman walking stiffly but quickly across the yard toward him.

“What are you doing young man?” the woman yelled, and Yban tried to make a quick getaway, but he noticed now that the insides of the wall were much better maintained than the outsides had been; the mortar lay flush with the brick, and there were hardly even any rough spots where he might find purchase to push himself up to the top. Trapped, he turned to look guiltily at the owner of the small house whose garden he found himself within.

“I–I saw your tree–” he said, his voice small. “I just wanted a look–”

The woman’s face didn’t soften an inch, if a face that deeply lined could even soften, but when she spoke again it was with less anger in her voice, at least.

“I see. Didn’t your parents teach you not to trespass?”

“Y-yes,” Yban said. “But I’d never seen a tree that color before. How did you get it to do that?”

He had been wrong. Suddenly, her face was not only understanding, but wistful, almost mournful. “I don’t suppose you have, at that.”

“It can’t be paint, it would’ve come off on my hands,” he said, trying to take advantage of his captor’s new gentler tone.

“No, it’s not paint. What’s your name?”

“Yban ba Kylab.”

She bowed her head slightly in official greeting. “I am Elebore bi Tineb,” she said, and sighed. “I suppose discussing it isn’t officially outlawed yet.”

“Discussing what?” Yban asked, suddenly excited at the idea of illegal trees.

“Come inside,” Elebore said, and let Yban in through her back door. The house was as small and humble as it looked from the outside, but inside it was full of wonders. Bowls and plates of deep, dark wood were stacked neatly on the counter. Placemats and napkins of bright red, patterned with stripes of green, covered the simple table. Vivid paintings filled the walls, scenes full of green trees and red berries drawn in an amateur but homely hand on rough squares of canvas.

Elebore saw Yban staring. “All from that tree,” she said in a solemn voice. “Come, sit. I shall tell you the story of my tree of green.”

Yban sat eagerly, all fears about breaking into strangers’ homes forgotten, and Elebore sat across the table and began her story.

“Hundreds of years ago, our forests grew as green as my tree, as green as those paintings–everything had color, for very little in nature is gray without a very good reason. And we humans had the best of intentions; when we began to cut down the trees for our own use, we planted new ones, replacing the forest as we used it up. But innovation bred shortcuts. We learned how to plant cuttings of existing trees, taking branches and putting them directly into the ground. A smart idea, in theory, as these propagated trees would grow so much faster and more reliably! But over the decades, these trees–merely copied rather than grown–began to lose their color. Now, there isn’t a branch in the Onby forest which was grown from a seed, and the trees we do have only rarely even give seeds anymore.”

“What is a seed?” Yban asked, and Elebore’s face sagged–she had looked old before, of course, but Yban thought that he could see a hundred years in that face, now. She turned to retrieve a bowl from the counter and set it between them. The dark wooden bowl was filled with red berries, the berries from the tree outside. Elebore took one in her fingers and sliced it open with a fingernail, juice dripping down into the bowl. She pushed around the innards of the berry until she found a small black pip.

“This is a seed, Yban. All plants are supposed to have them, although many these days do not. They can be many shapes and sizes, but when planted–by human hands or by nature’s wiles–they will sometimes grow a new plant. It is the way plants spread themselves.”

“Why don’t we plant some then?” Yban asked.

Elebore smiled a sad smile. “I wish it were that simple. Only one in thousands of seeds planted the natural way will become an adult tree. And what do you think most humans would do if they saw a tree like mine growing in the forest? They would cut it down immediately and process it for resources.”

Yban frowned, and looked at the bowl and the berries. “You use yours for wood and berries. And how did you get a tree if they’re so hard to grow?”

“This tree has been alive since before the grayness started, Yban,” Elebore said, and Yban stared. “Yes, trees can live to be very old indeed. To keep it alive and keep it secret, I and my ancestors before me have trimmed it carefully, using only what must be removed for its health and its safety. And this is how we should be using the trees! Do what is best for a forest, and you will get enough to live on in return, without razing it to the ground. We have thousands of seeds stored away.”

“Give me some,” Yban said, resolute and serious. “I’ll plant them.”

“It wouldn’t do any good.”

“I go out into the forest more than my parents ever do! I can bring my friends here to see your tree, and then they’ll want to help me! We’ll choose a secret place, and by the time the grown ups know we have been planting trees, we’ll be old enough to stop them from cutting them down!”

Elebore opened her mouth to shoot Yban down again, but something stopped her. She stared in silence at Yban for long enough that the child grew a little uncomfortable, before finally speaking again. “Yes. Yes, Yban, I think that’s a very good idea.”

She stood and with a short, “Stay here,” she stomped out of the house. Yban spent the minutes before she returned admiring her paintings, imagining what a forest like that would be like in real life. Imagining himself as the bringer of such a forest. Finally, Elebore returned, with a small bag in her hands.

“I have no heirs,” she said. “I had given up hope that my tree would live for much longer. But perhaps I can pass this secret along to more than just a single heir. Maybe it’s time to recruit a generation.” She opened the bag, and within were hundreds of little black seeds.

Yban took the bag with exaggerated reverence. He glanced out the window to get one more glimpse of green, before standing and bowing to Elebore. “I’ll treat them well,” he said, before stowing the seeds away in a pocket and nearly running back home to find his friends.