A Hen's Tale

The tree had three neighbors: a hen, an ox, and a gerbil. 

The tree considered them friends because he could communicate with them. Or at least, he thought he could. By sending vibrations through his roots when they drew near, he could help them drift into a deep sleep. So his three neighbors spent lazy Sunday afternoons beneath his branches, sleeping on his massage roots.

But one day the ox started taking shelter under a new tree on the other side of the farm.

So the old tree was sad. It cried sweet sap that the farmer collected eagerly. He told his wife, "Look honey! More sap t' sell at the market!"

This only made the old tree cry harder, and the farmer happier. 

But then the tree had a thought. Maybe he could extend his roots to the new tree, and suck up its life force. And win back the ox.

So it extended its roots beneath the earth. But to do this, the tree had to sink into the earth to create more length in the roots. The science here was tricky. So the tree sank all the way into the earth to extend his roots to the other tree, which he did successfully in 3 years. The old tree was not even showing above ground anymore, so the hen and gerbil had taken shelter under the new tree. 

The new tree made no fuss or fight as the old tree consumed its life force bit by bit over the course of many years. 

The new tree that formed from this conglomeration was knobby and unnatural. With thorns instead of leaves. And it was strong as an oak. And it bore the farmer no sap. And the tree's old neighbors fled in fear.

The tree cried and cried but no sap could break through the tree's bark. You might say the old tree was trapped in its own skin.

It tried to create sparks. To kill itself. But none would start. He had no flint (or stone) to get a fire going. 

Seasons passed, and the tree's anger and sadness dissolved into indifference and surrender. To fate. 

All that work for this misery, he thought.

Over the course of even more seasons, the tree went from indifference to acceptance. The tree had no choice but to accept its ugly roots, thorns, and sordid history. Its sins, so to speak.

The tree asked forgiveness from the tree it had consumed. It vomited up the tree he'd eaten on the ground nearby, by dropping acorns like rain. 

A whole forest of beautiful trees cropped up next to the thorny tree. And these trees provided so much shade that they blocked Mr. Thorns (the name they unanimously gave him), from the sun. 

Mr. Thorns, unable to photosynthesize or something, shriveled up. And died. Some say you can still feel the  vibrations when you step on that empty patch of soil. Where the hen still rests. Some Sunday afternoons.