Martyne’s steps felt lighter than usual as he made his way down the hill, taking the very path he and his dear Velenya had once walked so long ago. The memory of her hit him with full force, as it always did when he walked this path. The sound of the day’s powerful winds rustling through the leaves felt like a mournful dirge to him.
Martyne tightened his grip on the rope he‘d brought as he tried to control his emotions. He lifted his gaze and tried to be grateful for what he actually had. Nothing lost. Not today. Still, the emptiness plagued him, even after all these years. The apple he had brought remained uneaten, his appetite absent.
“When will this sadness leave me?”, he thought to himself. Velenya had been gone for more than seventeen years, yet the memory of her did not fade, even though nearly everything else had.
Today was his most important day of the year. It was their wedding day, at the very height of the year’s Expression celebrations, a time of creativity, dreams, imagination and hope. Today was the longest day of the year, marking the slow but inevitable advance of autumn and the Exchange.
There had been a time, way back, where Martyne thought that he had understood the meaning of these traditions. Back when he had someone to share his dreams with, and that someone shared hers with him. Now, only memories remained, and this was his day to honour them. Perhaps later he would attend the children’s Dream Drawing. He wasn’t certain if he’d go, but he’d brought the crayons just in case. If he didn’t end up going, he would likely just spend the entire day by her tree. Only time would tell.
Martyne glanced at the rope he was holding. It was of the same kind that he had used for the last seventeen years. The sturdy red hemp rope resembled the bright autumn colours that would soon arrive. Velenya had told him where she wished to be buried. She never mentioned where she wanted her memorial tree to grow. She never had the chance, for she was gone too soon. So, Martyne had to choose her resting place, and he could think of no better spot than the place they’d first met.
As Martyne approached her tree, he felt a sense of unease. Something was amiss. At first, he could not determine what it was. As he came closer, he realised there was a person sitting in front of the tree. His heart skipped a beat.
“Velenya?” he whispered as a flicker of hope ignited within him.
He quickly dismissed the thought, realising how ridiculous it was. As much as it pained him, he brushed that spark of hopeful delusion aside, and took stock of the situation, his heart beating loudly in his chest.
Someone was sitting by the foot of her tree—a young boy. Martyne didn’t recognise him. He didn’t look like a Lifetender, and the broken glider on the forest floor told Martyne that the boy must be one of the Wingfolk.
Something was terribly wrong. The tree did not look like it was supposed to. The ropes of last year’s Expression had been disturbed. Someone had climbed the tree, defiling the ornaments. On some branches, the rope was hanging loose in the wind, like the last dead leaves that clung on even in the cold dark of winter. It was a disaster.
The old man’s eyes fixed on the boy, who looked at him with an expression of surprise, rope in hand. Fury, like one he hadn’t felt since Velenya’s passing, began to well up inside him. The boy had broken a branch off the tree, and Martyne neither knew or cared why he did it.
“What in Nova Thera’s grace do you think you are doing, boy!?”
The sheer force of the anger in Martyne’s voice caused the child to wince, looking ever so small against the tree’s roots. Rather pitiable, really. Though Martyne had no pity to spend on the one who had so harmed Velenya’s oak.
He contemplated turning the boy in. Dragging him back to The Tree, handing him over and having him punished. The voices of reason and empathy were muffled, drowned by the overwhelming fury in his veins. Martyne would have him punished alright. He would teach the whelp the meaning of consequences. He clenched his fists, calloused by years of hard toil, and marched toward the boy, the latter timidly stammering words he didn’t care to hear or listen to.
It was at this moment that a voice called out to him, “Stop, Martyne!” He stopped dead in his tracks. He listened for the voice, for it hadn’t been the boy. Martyne looked around and lowered his hands, bewildered by what had just happened. There was nobody else there.
Now trembling, the young boy picked himself up from the dirt and waited nervously, fear evident in his eyes. Martyne was suddenly unsure of how to handle his conflicting emotions, as reason was slowly beginning to chip away at his initial outrage. The moments dragged by at a snail’s pace.
“What is your name?” He tried to soften his voice and relax his stance, but the boy’s fear didn’t ease. Now that he’d calmed down, it pained Martyne to see how he’d frightened the poor lad.
“Rickgart”, the boy finally replied. “Most call me Rick.”
Silence fell over the clearing. It was empty as usual, with the exception of this scared child. He looked famished, like he hadn’t eaten indays. He was probably lost. The last vestiges of Martyne’s fury wilted away.
“What are you doing here?” Martyne finally broke the silence. It hadn’t occurred to him, but it was strange to see one of their younglings in such a state. “Where are your kin?”
The boy, still afraid, didn’t answer him, but instead said “Forgive me elder, I didn’t mean any harm. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”
“Nevermind that.” Martyne said, trying to reassure the boy. “I’ll explain in time, but I promise you’re not in danger. I won’t hurt you.”
The boy looked at him and the doubt in his eyes cut at Martyne, though he knew he only had himself to blame. He could hardly fault the lad for distrusting him.
“Well… I’m… lost, I guess… My glider broke in bad weather, I don’t know where my band is.”
“How long have you been out here?”
“A few days… Maybe five, I’ve lost count.”
The old man was unsure how to proceed. He certainly wasn’t young or spry enough to track down people that could fly. As he stood there pondering the matter, his thoughts were interrupted.
“I know what the Martyne I knew would do.”
It was that voice again, the same one that had snapped him out of his blind rage earlier. This time, it sounded calmer, almost gentle. Soft as a memory and full of grace. The gentle reminder was all he needed to figure out what to do. How to set things right again.
“I’m not going to hurt you”, Martyne reassured him. “Do you know the meaning of these ropes?” he asked, gesturing to the tree and the pieces the boy had taken.
Rick stared at him and shook his head, indicating his ignorance.
Martyne sat down in front of the tree and gestured for Rickgart to join him. When Rickgart came close, he offered him the apple. “Your people are custodians of stories, allow me to share this tree’s story with you.”
The boy hesitantly sat down next to the old man. “Once, there was a woman named Velenya. She and I met here, many years ago. We shared a life together, until one day, when I woke up to a world without her.”
He paused, putting considerable effort into maintaining his composure.
“I buried her here, along with the acorn that grew into this oak. Every year, I come here to mark the tree with these ropes, as a request that the tree be left alone.”
The boy looked at the rope in his hand, visibly distressed. Martyne put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t you worry, I have already forgiven you.” He then withdrew his hand and continued, “I come here every year to replace the decaying strands, and to reunite with her, in what small way I can. Under normal circumstances, what you have done would be a crime, but I don’t fault you. You didn’t know, you just want to get back to your loved ones.”
Martyne handed Rickgart the brand-new rope he’d brought.
“Take this. Mend your glider.”
“Really?” stammered the boy.
“All I ask is that you remember to treasure those dear to you. One day, they will no longer be there. One day, they will no longer be able to hear how much you love them.”
Rickgart accepted the rope with a respectful bow, and then set to work repairing his broken wings. Martyne watched as the glider was restored to its once-lost glory.
“That should do.” the boy claimed, his tone mostly confident, but that confidence quickly disappeared. “But, I haven’t found any good cliffs here.”
Martyne considered the situation. He was certainly no expert on gliders, so he tried to recall all the stories he’d heard of the Wingfolk over the years, to help him conjure up an idea. Then, he had one.
“Tell me Rickgart, if we had a good wind, would you be able to take off from the crown of Velenya’s oak?”
The boy looked stunned, needing a moment before he could respond. “I… think so. But, can I really?”
Martyne stood up, then hunched down by the tree, hands held together. “You can. Here, I’ll help you. It’s got to be tricky to climb while lugging that glider around.”
Rickgart got up and, with Martyne’s help, climbed the oak with great care, making sure not to break any more of its branches. After a while, he reached the treetop, and made his way towards the edge facing the wind. He strapped the glider to his back, looked down and said a simple but heartfelt “Thank you.” Then, when the moment was right, he leapt into the wind. A mighty gust took hold of him, carrying Rickgart into the sky.
Martyne watched him disappear, then sat down to rest in the shade of Velenya’s tree. He sat in her silent company for hours, listening to the wind as it meandered in different directions and watching the sun wander along its course, until he saw something peculiar in the amber evening sky. A cluster of dots drew closer, gradually descending as they approached. His aged eyes struggled to make out what exactly he was looking at.
Moments later, the answer revealed itself to him—it was a band of Wingfolk and their gliders and, at the very head of the formation, a little boy waving at him. Martyne waved back with a smile, knowing Velenya would’ve been overjoyed to know that her oak had helped save a life and mend a family. A tear welled up in the corner of his eye as Martyne whispered to the oak, “Thank you, my dear Velenya, for bringing out the best in me. You always did.”