The First Mother

The fine grain of the bowl I held—carved from my great-grandfather’s wood—shone with the oils I gently rubbed into it each day. Mother served my last meal delicately inside it. Tomorrow it would be filled with blood. Tomorrow I would swallow my seed.

“Abigail,” Father said in his oaken voice, shuffling across the dirt floor of the hut, his feet already going to root, dragging and dropping clumps of earth with each step. Too soon, I thought. He was too young, but no one chose their own rooting time. “Have you chosen a seed yet?”

“I’m going to choose one today.”

Mother clucked, her xylophone tongue ringing out. She shook her head, loosing one leaf that fell to the floor. I didn’t comment that Father had yet to pick his spot. I knew where I would get my seed. From Great-Grandmother.

I lay awash in the tidal play of shadow and light her leaves cast across me, the morning mists long burned away as the sun rose. The undulating dance of the maple seed cut through shafts of morning light as it drifted down towards me, alighting as if placed with care on my chest. This was the one.

“Thank you, Great-Grandmother.”

Knife to wrist, I held my breath. The hot-cold bite of blade on flesh sent a shiver through me as surging blood ebbed and flowed into the bowl. I felt the pounding of my heart in my ears. Hot resin, carefully poured, sealed the wound. I clenched my teeth against the pain, sweat making tiny ripples of the candlelight in the deep sanguine of my blood as it slid off my nose. I drank deeply—of blood, and of seed.

All had gathered for the ceremony, their hands heavy upon me. Those who could not reach placed their bark rough palms on others in the circle. I felt the thrumming chorus of humming in my lungs. My first night as a true part of the grove. Would I dream of leaves, of sun baking my bark, entangling my scent with the harmony of the forest?

The crashing of a tree woke all in the village. A flurry of sparks reached up towards the stars, casting ominous shadows across my bedroom. Father refused to flee, using his great leafy hands to fling water from the brook onto nearby trees, Mother stubbornly at his side.

Clutching small, sweaty palms, I led the children away as the hissing cracks of burning greenwood carried us into the dark. My parents’ shadows painted giant, moving silhouettes on the trunks ahead as we ran, their forms somehow disjointed and sinister. I did not turn back as I heard screaming.

“Mother.”

All of the adults had stayed; their roots ran too deep. The silence of mother’s voice as it crackled to an end hung in the air, dragging at me.

I would be the first great mother in our new forest. Tears streaked my face, and I tasted the sweetness of them.