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The Farmer and the Tree Spirit

There was once a farmer who had the reputation of being the hardest working in his valley. He was the most careful in his preparation of his fields; the most conscientious of his crops. Indeed, so concerned was he with the quality of his work that he would re-plough any furrow not straight enough, and so close was his attention of his crop's progress, that they dared not to grow straight and high.

One day the farmer was called to the valley's ruling council, an assembly of austere elders who watched over the valley with close scrutiny. Although the farmer was confident that the standard of his work was above and beyond that of his peers, the strength of his desire for the council's good opinion was matched equally with the rarity with which it was given, and he walked to the council's chamber with a great nervousness.

"Ah!" cried the council's imposing spokesman when the farmer entered. "Welcome, little brother, to the inner sanctum of your world. You are this day privileged to be brought before the eldest of the elders - who would speak to you. But first, what do you have to say for yourself?!"

The farmer was surprised by the question, he did not expect to have to explain himself without specified reason. "Er," he mumbled, feeling smaller than he ever had before. "I... I would wish to say that I hope my work is to the council's satisfaction and I-"

"To our satisfaction!" boomed the spokesman. "Is it to your satisfaction?"

"Well, sir, I... feel I can always do better but I-"

"Indeed," stated council spokesman cutting him off, as if no longer interested in what the man had to say. "Well, to the business in hand." The spokesman turned to the oldest member of the council. "Very Elder Brother, are you ready for this young man?"

The oldest of the council members nodded slowly and turned to the farmer. "We live in a world where farming is the most important of professions. Whether we are blessed with the best workers is not something I would discuss openly, but it has come to our notice that you are the most dedicated of our men. For that reason we have decided that you will take over the responsibility of the Jones Field."

The farmer was shocked: the Jones Field was the first field a visitor would see upon entering the valley, and for that reason it was vital that its lines were the most perfect; that its crops grew the highest; that no weeds at all should be allowed. He was amazed that it would come to him and, momentarily, allowed himself a spark of joy.

"This is, of course, a great investment of trust that we are placing in you. You must not let us-" the elder corrected himself, "...the valley down."

The farmer quickly assured them he would not; that he would do better than his best for them, and the valley. The council listened but briefly before the spokesman again launched himself in another dialogue of how great an honour it was and how perfect it needed to be and so on, and on.

And on.

Indeed, by the time the farmer was ushered out, he felt more as if he had been criticised for future failings than honoured for past successes. But undeterred, he went that very day to his own fields, fields which would now be cared for by his sons, collected his equipment, and set off for the Jones Field.

The farmer worked hard on the field for a week, getting it ready for planting. He ran his horse back and forth time and time again, getting the furrows straighter than they had ever been - he even abandoned his plough and went over the field again with his own shovel to ensure all was as perfect as it could be. And when the crops started to grow he walked their rows every day, hoeing and weeding, watering and pruning, caring for it as if his very life depended on it.

However, despite all the time and devotion he put into his work, he was no happier. It was almost as if the more he invested in the field, the more it wanted of him. Every morning he would rush down the narrow lanes of the valley the moment dawn broke; every night he would drag himself back long after dusk. To his family he became a stranger, not longer seen in the daylight, no longer heard in the dark.

Then one morning the farmer had to go the local market to buy supplies. It pained him to miss a whole day from his precious field, so on the way back he took the long detour that was necessary to visit it. As he came around the bend in the road he froze, staring in horror - there, right in the middle of the field was a small tree. The farmer rushed down the lane and out into the field. He was sure it must be some joke; that some jealous neighbour had stuck it there, possibly in a large tub to make it look as if planted. But when he reached it, breathless and hot, he saw the tree's trunk rising from the ground no differently from a sapling planted almost a decade before. Truly, its trunk was as thick as his thigh.

The farmer sank on his knees with despair; if the council should hear of this, wo, even see it, he would lose all the respect he had earned, all his value - all he was. More, he would probably be cast out of the valley. Tears of fear and panic filled his eyes as he thought of this, and he grabbed the trunk with both his hands, pulling pathetically and vainly in his hysteria.

Spent and exhausted, he dropped back to the ground, sobbing with distress at the corruption of his legacy. Finally, aware that night was falling fast he pulled himself together and hurried home - planning to return before dawn with his horse and rip the tree from the ground.

But that night, tossing beside his wife, the farmer had a dream.

In his dream he was working as normal in his still perfect field, when he heard a shout and looked up. There sitting in the branches of a tree was a small boy.

"Who are you?" said the farmer getting up from the ground. "Is this your tree?"

"Yes," replied the boy, with a playful grin. "I am the spirit of this tree, and I watch over and protect its growth. But in truth we are your's too, for you planted us."

The farmer frowned, in his dream he was protected from the fearful constraints that besieged him in the physical world, and his sleeping mind sought only to understand the mystery now before him. "I could not have planted this tree," he said. "It is many seasons old and I have been here but a short month."

"True, you have," said the tree spirit, swinging upside-down from a branch. "But time is not a constant. When a seed is planted with as much devotion, will, beseechment, and love, as this one was, it takes little time to grow."

The farmer scratched his head. "Strange that I do not remember."

"Strange? Not so," said the boy-spirit, dropping to the ground and running around him. "For this is part of our purpose. What you have planted is a special tree - for this tree will help you to remember. We will bear you fruit, and each time you eat one you will learn more and more of what you have forgotten."

He tugged on the back of the farmers shirt, making the man try to catch him. "My fruit will teach you how to play, how to laugh at yourself." He skipped away, then stopped and stuck his head through his own legs to add: "...and others when necessary." He dropped forward into a series of forward rolls, chatting away as he did. "We will help you remember what you really need," he called. "And what you truly want. You life will be blessed with wisdom, humour, and most of all peace. That is, after all, what you most wanted, what you most asked for."

"But I don't remember asking for anything, nor forgetting anything for that matter."

"Evidently," the tree spirit said lightly, and with small hop he disappeared through a tiny door in the side of the sapling's trunk.

"How curious," said the farmer.

"What is?" said his wife's sleepy voice beside him.

The farmer sat up in bed and looked at her. "What?" he said.

"You said 'how curious', and I said 'what is'."

"Did I," he said. "I don't remember."

"Evidently," his wife replied, and went back to sleep before he could say another word.
Shaking his head the farmer tried to remember the dream. It had seemed important. It was something about a tree... a tree!

"Ahhh!" the farmer leaped out of bed and started rushing around the bedroom.

"Good God, what on earth's the matter now?" said his wife in a grumpy voice as she was yet again woken.

"The tree, the TREE!" cried the farmer. "I must get rid of it!"

"Sounds more like you're out of it," she replied from under the covers. But the words fell on empty space. The farmer was already rushing down the stairs and out into the early dawn.

He stood panting by the tree. It seemed bigger than it had the day before. He raised his axe, but, just as he was about to start cutting he noticed the fruit - the biggest fattest looking apples he'd ever seen. Slowly he lowered the axe and reached out to taste one, then stopped. It seemed wrong to him, to eat the tree's fruit before cutting it down. He raised the axe again.

An apple fell on the ground.

The farmer stooped and picked it up so that in one hand he held the apple, and in the other the axe. For the life of him he didn't know what to do. He sat down. He leant back against the tree and looked at them both.

And then he fell asleep.

"What are you doing?" said the little boy-spirit excitedly, obviously cross. "Do you think this tree, that I, came here by accident? I'm working hard to create, nurture, and grow this lovely tree for you, and you go waving that axe around like some sort of madman!"

"It's the council you see, they won't like you growing in the middle of this field," said the farmer.

"The council, the council! " The tree-spirit cried, jumping up and down. "Don't listen to the council, they want to destroy my kind!" Then his voice dropped to a conspirator's whisper and he gave the farmer a wily smile. "But we won't let them, you and I, will we? We will challenge them in their very heart, in this field that is so important to them."

But the farmer only wrung his hands. "Why have you come now?" he asked. "Why start your war when its my head the council will call for?"

"Ah, I had to wait until you came, you see," the spirit said in a low whisper. "You agreed to help me, to protect me and my tree, you see. I need you!"

The farmer shook his head. "Why don't I remember any of this?"

The tree-spirit looked at him tutting. "That council," he said crossly. "No wonder you're in such a state if you're letting the council run your life."

"But I have to - they're important. What they think matters," replied the farmer. Then added with sudden concern, "you're not going to destroy them are you?"

The little spirit was taken aback. "Destroy them!?" he said with a gasp. "Of course not! Don't you know who the council really are?"

The farmer shrugged. "The elders?"

"Eat the fruit!," said the tree spirit. "That will sort out the council for you! And stop waving that axe about - it's giving me goosebumps!" And with that, he was gone again.

The farmer woke up.

In his lap was the axe and the apple.

He sat for a while, thinking. He knew he'd been dreaming and he tried again to remember what it was. Something, he thought, to do with a small boy, his fruit, and... the council!

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