Cradled Amongst the RootsJ.M. Cyrus
2900 words The youth knelt beside their mother in the garden, harvesting vegetables together. Organic treasures emerged from the clumpy loam. A little early, but all the more splendid for it. "Put them at the other end of the basket, please," their mother, Lynne, said, as the youth pulled a handful of radishes free, their pink bodies swelled like jewels. Their child shook free the clods of dirt, their brow in its permanent minor frown of concentration, lips tightened into a line. Lynne almost teased them in her usual way, commenting on the way their earnest expression could unknit the world, but something stopped her. She merely looked at them fondly, grateful for their company. "All done," she said, brushing her hands together. "Could you take them to the root boxes in the shed?" Lynne watched as the thirteen-year-old, tall for their age, lifted the basket and braced it against themselves, walking towards the shed to the side of the house. They had to lean to one side to counter the basket's weight, their body curving and sinuous. The mother closed her eyes for a moment to the sunshine, tilting her head to the blue canopy of the sky. She opened her eyes and watched the few lazy, fluffy clouds. She fancied she could feel the faint pressure of approaching rain. With the clunk of the shed's door, she looked back at her child. They were closing the door, gritting their teeth against the stiff bolt. A few strands of hair escaped the ribbon and were lifted by the breeze. They liked to wear their hair long, even though they were ambivalent about anything else to do with girlhood. Or boyhood, for that matter. They straightened after coaxing the bolt into place, and paused, facing the forest uphill. The shed was close to the northern corner of the garden, and their house was on the edge of the already small village. One could see the green city of trees quite clearly from here. The teen’s frown became a little more pronounced as they faced the rising slope of green. The mother approached and put her hand on their shoulder. "Come inside, Ilanu. Let's go wash up." "I can hear their whispers, Mama, but not their words." "I know, Sapling, I know. It's best to listen to the garden instead, rather than worry about the old trees. Did the sweet peas tell you anything today?" Lynne glanced at the forest as she shepherded Ilanu inside, Ilanu recounting tales of starlight seeds and morning dew patterns. 
Later, Ilanu sat at the kitchen window with a book on their lap. Their skin purred beneath their clean tunic. Lynne had briskly dried them with soft flannel in the kitchen firelight after a warm bath. Their hair hung in damp coils beneath their ears. The book lay open, but they looked at the darkening landscape, their eyes on the darker shadows of forest. They could not hear the garden whispers from inside the house. The thick walls and closed windows shut out the susurration. But, the potted plants muttered to themselves from their window ledge pots, the violets murmuring theories. “Ilanu? You’ve paused. Please continue,” Lynne interrupted Ilanu's window watching, stirring a pot on the stove. Ilanu sighed and resumed reading aloud. 
In the morning, Ilanu felt the still-so-new dull ache in their pelvis. They were supposed to go with their mother to the market that day, but Ilanu felt fragile and flushed, as if their life force were draining from them. Their mother left them with a kiss. “I'll be back by mid-afternoon. Practise your reading if you can, but rest. Don’t leave the garden if you go out of the house.” “I want to talk to the honeysuckle, they said they’d have gossip today.” “That sounds nice.” Lynne left and Ilanu dozed. By late morning Ilanu felt a little better. They wrapped themself in a shawl, and opened the front door to the sun-drenched world beyond. Late spring, with ropes of breeze plaiting together warm and cool. Ilanu stood on the front step for a few minutes with their eyes closed, letting the sunshine solidify their outline. Garden sounds washed over them. The rustling foliage, the songbirds, the tiny insects, and the multifarious, chatting, whispering voices combined into a maelstrom of life, penetrating through their ears to fill their body with strength. The drifting perfume from the flowers filled any residual gaps. When Ilanu felt they were suitably bathed in garden, they approached the sweet peas. The sweet peas’s voices were high pitched, their speech fast, words overlapping and flowing together. They spoke of many things, continually flipping their focus between breezes, beans, bird trails and rabbits, always with a tendency to fluster. Ilanu sat and let herself be carried along, becoming ever more rooted in the present. Next, they went to the honeysuckle. They always loved their gossiping songs, stories laughingly recounted in voices like thousands of chiming bells. The honeysuckle grew in an embracing mass by the front gate, and Ilanu had to pass a ceanothus tree on the way. Now late spring, it proudly displayed its bright blue flowers, whilst also carpeting the floor beneath it with tiny indigo petal flecks. Ilanu took care when walking over them, receiving a few drifting blooms in their hair as they walked. As they passed, Ilanu heard the ceanothus’s rumbling voice. Though they were only a few years older than Ilanu, they spoke like an old man, with a deep voice, trembling and subject to rumbling rambles. Perhaps it was Ilanu’s fragile state, their bones feeling like string and their skin held together by sunshine, but they heard more than just aimless streams in the usually nonsensical speech. They stopped to listen. “Dark and warm… When the stars bathe you and the moon held its face all gibbous… Warm and dark… I wish to hold and protect you… I remember when you were small… Skin to sprinkle petals on… Precious, precarious, delicate jewels cradled in my roots… I want to keep you safe, my love…. Beneath the earth, she sleeps… The flowers wept like the trees and she… I hold her…. She cried so… Butterflies flap like a wish fulfilled… Earth watered with tears… Salt for me and for the sea… I hold her… Love, my love, my love.” Tears gathered in Ilanu’s eyes but they were not sure why. The screaming cry of a hawk made them turn, and Ilanu watched it fly over the forest. The breeze rippled their tops like fields of wheat. Almost whispers almost carried on the breeze. Ilanu felt a chill and headed back into the house, leaving the honeysuckle for another day. They retreated back into their bubble inside. 
After their mother returned, bearing sweet hand pies like treasures, and the house became full again, Ilanu brought up the speech with her mother. “The ceanothus spoke to me today.” “Is that right?” “Yes, he said he had something in his roots.” Ilanu watched their mother’s face and saw Lynne's lips thin as her expression stilled. Ilanu knew their mother well and could see Lynne was exerting a significant degree of self-control. A private expression flickered across Lynne's face like falling leaves that Ilanu had rarely seen her make. They did not know what it meant. After a long moment, Lynne spoke, saying, “Be wary of what the plants tell you, Ilanu.” Ilanu wanted to know more but did not ask. 
A couple of weeks later the ceanothus tree began to look unwell. It started on one branch, then it spread to more, until a third of the tree bore grey, shrivelled leaves, and the bark had become white and peeling. “It’s caterpillars on the roots, Missus,” their neighbour said as he chatted over their garden gate. “You’ll hafta dig in to pour clay vinegar water on 'em.” Ilanu watched their mother smile and thank him with an expression that did not reach her eyes. When she turned away from him, she had the same expression the youth had seen when Ilanu had brought up the ceanothus’s rambling speech. They hadn’t had the courage to bring it up again, and the ceanothus hadn’t mentioned it again. That evening, Lynne told Ilanu to stay in the house whilst she dealt with the tree. “But he'll call!” Ilanu said, concerned for their friend, “I need to be there to comfort him!” “He'll be fine,” the mother answered. And so Ilanu buried themself under her bed covers, like the tree would have wished his roots to be, and tried not to imagine they could hear the tree call out for reassurance, rescue and solace. 
That night, when their mother was sleeping with deep, snuffling breaths, Ilanu left their bed. They stood on the doorstep again, looking out at the night garden, relishing a moment of the resplendent display they were rarely able to enjoy. The plants, mostly sleeping, some murmuring in their slumbers or snoring, possessed a faint glow like the memory of sunlight. It outlined the garden and sparkled for Ilanu. They approached the ceanothus tree and he greeted them with whimpering relief. His whispers sounded more sensible than he had in a long time, shock and urgency yanking him from his slow reveries. "Are my roots alright? They feel like threads. How will they protect like this? Is she alright? Will my roots dissolve into nothing and leave her unprotected?" Ilanu sat beneath him, their knees on the replaced soil. They tried to comfort him. They pressed their palms against his trunk and hummed a lullaby. "Please check," he said. "Please check my roots. They need to be checked. She needs to be checked." Ilanu did not know what else to do. He was so distressed, and he asked with such desperation. So, they obeyed. They dug their hands beneath the dried blue petals, into the loosened soil and removed handfuls, searching and feeling for his roots. As they dug, they felt him calm. Their fingers brushed roots thicker than their fingers, the smell of vinegar filling their nostrils. "They're fine. Your roots are there," Ilanu said, looking at the luminous stems beneath the dark earth. Their coiled shapes were like limbs, and they felt their own bones relax into the ground. He calmed and began to return to his usual nonsensical speech. “Strong hands beneath the ground in my roots… They were much thinner then, I was so young and strong and virile… So much time in season… Want… Dark…. Hot… Hot tears… Time to dig… With the song of the blackbird early in the morning it happened… Cold dark earth that was thick and heavy… The frost wasn't here yet… The grass was watered with salt water… The taste of tears… She missed her so… Unjust… Unfair… He left, he left, he left… The forest offered her… The forest promised one… Arms like linden branches and hair like willow leaves… One from many… Different, not replace… But they cry, they cry, they cry… She wanted to let her visit… Green leaves and green arms…. They just want to say hello… They know she is better… So much love… So much longing… Time flows like rain… Dandelion seed wishes…” He hummed between his words, and Ilanu listened. They stroked his trunk and let their fingers wander over his roots, trying to comfort and calm him. Their fingers brushed something else. They thought it a stone, a large, smooth, rounded stone. They felt around it, but it was larger than the stones they usually found in their garden. Larger than their fists together. They scraped and brushed the earth from it, and pulled it out. It was a skull. A tiny, human skull. The forehead was large, there would have been plenty of growing to do and lots of future thoughts. The breeze wrapping Ilanu turned cold, their head hurt and a high-pitched ringing filled their ears so strongly they could taste it. They looked up at the ceanothus tree and he whispered. "It was so small and so loved but they, he, they left… And she, she cried so much… Earth breaking… Hot tears… The forest heard, called, spoke… She followed them… You came back, so small… We love, we love, we love…" Ilanu shifted to look at the forest. It sat, waiting and watching. In its shadowy ripples one could see the memory of daytime, multi-tonal greens shifting in a tousling breeze like a green sea. The ceanothus was unaware of their tumult. He resumed muttering about the stars, his voice slowing as he tired. Ilanu put the skull back into the ground, replacing it in its hollow, covering it with a dusting of earth, but leaving the hole unreplaced. They stood. With a muddied robe and dirt-caked hands, they left the garden and walked towards the forest. The path was lit by the glowing plant light. Ilanu navigated by grass by bracken by tree by shrub. An owl called, loud and haunting. They stopped about twenty metres away from the forest edge. They resisted entering the liminal space of the forest shadows, something holding them back on more solid ground. The voices of the forest were old and slow. Ilanu listened. “With the flexing of the branches, the breeze blows through my leaves, the squirrel sleeps, there are nuts in my roots, there will be rain, did you see the beetles fly, I felt an ant train walk, the woodpecker made such noise today.” The mutters shifted, turning towards her, incorporating her into their natural chatter. “The owl calls and someone comes. The grass moves in the breeze. It stands, they visit, they have not yet come here. The starlight lights us all. Someone stands there, beyond our roots and our canopies. The topsoil is dry. Without root or leaf, but still somebody, here. Time passes and seasons speak. It is not yet time for return. Saplings grow and flowers bloom. Early wood is so green and supple, and small.” Ilanu listened to the old voices of the forest, and though the earth was solid beneath their legs, and the breeze kept them tethered to the land, hot, steady tears trickled down their face and fell from their jaw. Realisations shifted like germinating seeds. The breeze was not roots. The ground was beneath them. The horizon lightened, a dark grey-blue from the midnight black. The first chorus of the birds began. Ilanu remembered Lynne teaching them how to isolate each bird, and followed the cascade of the blackbird’s song. There was a change in the long grass. The sound of stems being ruffled by the breeze changed to the sound caused by a body moving through them, the shift coming from behind Ilanu. Lynne sat beside them on the grass, shuffling close. Ilanu sniffed and wiped their face with a dirty hand. “You must have questions,” Lynne asked. The youth nodded. The silence of their voice was loud. Lynne did not push them, but put her arm around the youth’s shoulder and together they watched the sky change colour, and the birds fly over the forest. The trees were silent, had been silent since Lynne arrived. They looked at the forest. “Did you hear them speak?” Ilanu asked. “Only once,” Lynne answered. “Tell me what happened.” Lynne took a breath. Her breath hitched on her third word, but she continued regardless, tears falling as she embraced Ilanu. “My child was strong and beautiful. But that didn’t stop the illness from claiming, from winning. Being so little, I buried them in the garden beneath the tree. I cried and prayed to the heavens, feeling like my bones would break with grief. The trees answered, telling me to come into the forest. I did. “The forest was dark, but I remember their voices being so calm. They somehow said exactly what I needed to hear. They said they had taken pity on me and my plight, and they planted a seed in my belly, bringing it to fruition even as I sat in their mossy shadows, my tears barely dried. I gave birth again there, and they gave me acorns and nuts to give me strength.” She paused. Her hands rubbed warmth into Ilanu’s arms. “You were glorious. So strong. So loud. With your green eyes even at birth, and your freckles over your shoulders like fallen leaves. I fell in love ever more deeply with every breath.” Her voice hitched a little more, as she brought herself to the end of the tale. “They told me there would come a time when you would want to return. You were to be raised by me, you would be my child, but your time amongst people would end. I resisted thinking of it, even when you spoke to the garden. But deep down I always knew there would come a time when you would want to return to the forest to grow your own roots.” The landscape echoed with the story, the breeze taking words and unspoken wishes into unseen patterns that orbited the two people. Ilanu thought of their home, the garden, the village, and their mother. They looked at the forest as it lightened, at its shadows, its leaves, its roots, its animals and its mysterious ways, and sighed. They leaned up and kissed their mother’s cheek, mixing their tears together. “Not yet,” they whispered. “I will not go in yet.” And by the light of the dawn, Ilanu and Lynne walked home. Ilanu glanced back at the forest only once. |
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J.M. Cyrus
JM Cyrus writes speculative fiction. With a BA in Classical Studies, an MA in Reception Theory, and currently studying for an MFA in Creative Writing, she enjoys finding new worlds, looking at how she found them, and working out how to show them to you. She has work published in magazines, anthologies and online, in venues such as Inner Worlds, Black Cat Weekly and Luna Station Quarterly. See the full list at her website and say hello at jmcyrus.carrd.co/#works.
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