| Subject: Does anyone like my story so far? Its enclosed inside. |
Author:
Gretta
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Date Posted: 17:23:53 02/11/02 Mon
Long ago, in that fabled desert Land, a majestic tree grew on an ancient hill overlooking the village of Shachor. This tree was as elegant in her wisdom as the long silver leaves that framed her alabaster bough. She listened serenely to the villagers' questions and hopes when they sought solace on her warm hill, and gave counsel to the king in his regal affairs. Through her graceful dreams, the silver tree outpoured charity and inspiration, and in this blessed the village with good fortune.
The farms of Shachor grew fertile and proud. Their strong livestock commanded high prices in the marketplace. The royal treasury flourished with taxes, and the king was known far and wide for his gracious judgement. It was rumored through the land that this charmed tree was in fact Hac'mah ha-Zarok, the Silver Wisdom as told of in mystical scrolls.
As the people of Shachor prospered, though, greed and selfishness filled them much like thick weeds overtake delicate tendrils. Complacent in their wealth and power, the villagers no longer sought Zarok. The sun will not venture where there is no joy. And so rain fell where it had not before, weeping gently down her trunk.
The only visitor now to Zarok was a scrawny young girl born in the shadow of the hill. Shira tended the home of her three brothers, Hiram the Hacker, Anoch the Addled, and Tipshi the Tipsy. While her brothers were not cruel to Shira, they were not the opposite either. Every day, she fertilized the farm and plumpened the livestock, tended to their market stand and cooked three meals. Meanwhile, her oldest brother, Hiram, whittled his latest bow and arrow. Simple-minded Anoch emptied buckets of water into the stream by their cottage, hoping to fill his area the fullest. The youngest brother, Tipshi, lay in the fields and stared dreamily into the sky at the images in the clouds.
After her chores, while the men drank their profits into the night, Shira raced up to the silver tree as fast as her knobby knees could. She would stroke Zarok's smooth trunk, and play with the shimmery tresses of her branches, so unlike her own weathered skin and knotty hair. In the dark, Shira cradled herself in roots crooked like a mother's arms. She could not remember her parents, nor a time before she loved this glorious tree.
Time passed like a cold wind as the kingdom and its subjects became corrupt from their treasures. The tree began to churn with nightmares. Her branches grew twisted, color lackluster, and her imagination was bleak. Shira spent her nights massaging the tree's gnarled bark, a numb fearful sensation tugging at her own body, as delicate leaves crumbled like pieces of her heart.
As Zarok withered, so did the fortunes of the village below. The king, longing for his lucky tree, consulted the elders of Shachor, who in turn studied their magic books, and talking tapestries, and the silver puddles that collected in their dark cave. Finally, in the secret volumes of the Sophic Gamerra, the oldest wizard found a passage that foretold the tree's fate.
The remedy that can save your Silver Tree,
Has no eyes but can clearly see.
It flows through the body and touches the soul.
When three becomes one, Zarok will be whole.
As to the nature of this sustenance, the royal scholars could not concede. "Three magic acorns," declared a wizened warlock. "The charm is her seed." A long-toothed sorcerer argued, "A potion that fills her hollowed trunk is what will feed." The crookedest witch cackled, "You fools. To a three-headed herb will this ailment heed." Delared the king firmly, as the princess nodded in earnest, "A hero is what we need."
And so, the king sent an edict through the land for the hero who could decipher this riddle and cure Hac'mah ha-Zarok. The reward was half of the kingdom and his daughterÕs hand in marriage. Penalty for failure was banishment, for the king was not in the habit of having his hopes dashed.
The promise of riches and fame - and a beautiful princess - cannot be denied. But whereas years before the villagers would have rallied, now all were too selfish to challenge this quest. "Why risk my possessions for what I cannot see," they murmured. "I'd rather keep one than risk it for three."
Shira alone understood the riddle. The soil on which Zarok sat had lost its nutrients because of her sadness; the water that fed her had turned muddy from rain; and the warm current of the sun had disappeared. If the purest of these three elements could be found, the tree would be whole.
Shira told her brothers over breakfast the next morning, "We must go into the land, and bring back the richest soil, the freshest water, and the warmest air." The brothers took the cause immediately. "Think of the power we shall gain!" crowed Hiram, fingering his sharpest sword. Anoch said with simple conviction, "Yes, and the fortunes and fame." Tipshi dreamed gainfully, "And the love of the princess that I shall claim."
And though these men cared not about the tree, each determined to one corner of the land outside Shachor. When Shira prepared to go along, as kid sisters are want to do, her brothers chided her. "Who will tend the farm and the animals and the cottage and the business when we are away adventuring?"
"As if you do that when you're here," thought Shira. After her brothers had set out from the village, she filled the feed trowels one last time, plucked the ripest vegetables from the fields, put a coin basket at their market stand, and began her journey to save the tree Zarok.
Hiram the Horrible strode voraciously towards the mountains. "Surely the soil needed is a silver grain of earth." When the mountains saw his sharp shovel and large sacks, they cried out, "Do not unearth our precious seed, as we give of ourselves for you to feed." But Hiram did not listen. Wherever he saw a rich vein of soil, he dug up the land, picking out the most shiny of minerals and discarding the rest in clumps and heaps. Then he laid fire to the mountains, so no other quest-seeker could benefit from his work.
Shira happened upon the mountains and saw the destruction wrought by her oldest brother. She scooped up handfuls of the dirt, and mourned the earth. A faint cry arose, and Shira looked down to see a charred pebble on a mound. The pebble cried out, "Do not unearth my precious seed, as I give of myself for you to feed." Shira spared the pebble, picked it up, placed it in her pouch, and as there was nothing in the mountains left pristine for her to search, she continued on her path.
Meanwhile, Anoch the Addled had had gone towards the ocean. "The fresh water I seek trickles like little hands at work." When the waves saw this man's funnel and buckets, they cried out, "Do not empty our precious seed, as we give of ourselves for you to feed." But Anoch did not hear. He emptied the ocean
to filter pure water from the dirty, causing floods across the land.
Shira came upon the dry valley and mourned the destruction wrought by her middle brother, trickling water through her fingers. She heard a hoarse cry and realized that she had stepped in a puddle that had once been part of the vast ocean. The puddle cried out, "Do not empty my precious seed, as I give of myself for you to feed." Shira scooped up the puddle so that she could return and fill back up the ocean.
Tipshi the Tipsy had gone in a third direction, with the resolution to climb the mantle of the sky. "Sun streams from the sky like warm tears of relief." When the clouds saw his ascent, they cried out, "Do not uncoil our precious seed, as we give of ourselves for you to feed." But Tipshi did not notice. He chased down the stars and ripped apart the clouds in order to gather the perfect currents from the sun.
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