Connection

I was simply ‘grass,’ and my friends were just ‘trees’—no personal names, no distinctions.

We natural things have to take what’s given to us; no questions asked. There was no communication with the humans. They couldn’t get into the Connection.

Until Paisley Mae came along and changed our insignificant lives. She gave us names, and Connected and communicated like no one else. Now I am Abalina. Sure, that’s fancy, but it’s a name.

She moved here just a few months ago, she and the rest of the small McGilroy family. Messages began coming from the trees near the house: “People are here looking at the house,” or, “there are large vans in the driveway.”

Like I said, she Connected almost immediately. Her twin older sisters, Stella Rose and Rory Grace, couldn’t care less about us, if we even existed to them.

But, Paisley, she understood.

“Warning. Young human female approaching.” That was what the trees told me one day. I wondered what was going on. The girl sat on the grass among the violets. Then she began to name us.

She looked at the pink sprayed-redbud. “Liepa,” she said.

And then the red maple, “Aruna.”

She named the dogwood Genevieve.

The violets were Violetta.

She looked at me, the grass, and asked, “Are you all one plant, or are there multiple of you?”

“I am the main family. There are a few others, though,” I told her through the Connection.

“Well, then you are named Abalina.”

Paisley looked up at the giant oak. “And you are Agatha.”

Then she glanced around and announced, “You all live at Valenheim from now on.”

She sat and talked with us about various things. She asked about the Connection, how it worked, and how far could we could communicate.

It is a wonderful thing to be part of the Connection. But there are things that we would rather not hear.

Most trees are calm and friendly, but we are Connected with all—we cannot pick or choose.

We try to block out the thoughts of our mutual enemy, the ground ivy.

If a plant or tree dies, we feel it.

We can feel the distant pain of our fellow plants, even from many miles away.

It can be hard.

But Paisley Mae made it better.

We loved her reddish-brown hair, her dark blue eyes, her delicate face, the ever-present freckles. Her voice was calm but filled with a determination unusual for girls of fourteen. She would sing many songs for us, but her favorite went something like this:

“Oh, the birds in the tree, in the tree, in the tree;

Oh, the birds in the tree, they sing happily.

Out in the woods, just you and me;

There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”

“Oh, the trees all around, all around, all around;

Oh, the trees all around, they make not a sound.

Out in the woods, I won’t be found;

Oh, here I’m no longer homeward bound.”

“Oh, here in the woods, in the woods, in the woods;

Oh, here in the woods, I wish I could.

Out here in the woods, just you and me;

There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”

But no matter how happily she talked and how joyfully she sang, there was always a glint of sadness in her eyes.

One day, while watching the playful antics of the squirrels, Agatha asked her, “Why do you always seem sad?”

You could see the pain on her pale face as she answered slowly, “My life has not been all that easy. My—my mother and little brother died a long time ago. And our family never stays in one place for much time. I can’t make many friends—and not just because of that. I’m worn out very quickly, so I can’t play much.”

She abruptly changed the subject. “This is such nice weather, isn’t it? There’s nothing like sitting in the sun on a cool day.”

Things continued without any particularly notable happenings, until Paisley asked, “Can you tell me about the magic? How does it work?”

“Well, it can be used by anybody,” replied the dogwood, Genevieve, “with even a moderate strength of mind, as long as you know how to. The language that is used is the only one we can speak out loud, not because we aren’t allowed to, though. First you must learn Valodian.”

So Paisley learned our language, and many hours were spent outside at Valenheim. She would say, “Uguns—fire; ūdens—water; zeme—earth; vējš—air; ledus—ice,” over and over again till she had it memorized. She mastered the basic elements, repeating the cycle over and over again.

She would concentrate on a leaf, whisper the word, and it would (eventually) burst into flame.

A ripple would form on a puddle of water.

A small puff of wind would rustle in the grass.

A small mountain of dirt would form at her command.

But Paisley always liked the ice best.

A small crystalline sliver grew in her hand. Frost would creep over a violaceous flower, turning it a silvery mauve.

She loved the look of the first frost on a grass stem, and the first sprinkling of snow on Aruna’s purple leaves. She couldn’t use the power for long because it tired her quickly. But it was a wonderful pastime during the cold days, and the fire was especially helpful.

Things were wonderful that season, the days slipping by all too quickly, though nobody was disappointed when the warm weather arrived.

The spring was beautiful. Genevieve and Liepa were blanketed with white and pink flowers. The scent of honeysuckle wafted on the fresh breeze. The grass was engulfed in purple masses of violets, and wild strawberries ran wild, enticing with the promise of dew-jeweled berries later on in the season.

Paisley Mae’s eyes sparkled as harmless fire danced over grass. A sudden gust of wind ignited more flames, but she quickly got it under control.

“That almost got away from me,” Paisley laughed as the wind fluffed her russet hair. “You should probably move on to something else,” said Aruna as her branches waved more and more.

“Yes, I agree. Mainīt!” said Paisley. She played with the wind, easing it into swirls and waves until she went inside for the night. That day was the best of all.

Paisley became more pale and tired, and she didn’t sing or laugh as much. There was a shadow over all of us. She began to come less and less until one day she didn’t come at all. We never saw Paisley again. It was hard not to see her blue eyes and windblown hair. It was hard to not have a person to talk to all the time. We always remember her. It was worth it, that year, because the Connection was healed.