|
By Jun Terra
His potted trees were no more
than a foot high, but they resembled their bigger relatives in the
gardens, parks and forests, from their trunks to their crowns. When
he chose them from the hundreds of saplings in the nursery, they had
latin names on their tags such as: acer palmatum, dissectum
atropurpureum, quercus rubrus, fagus aurea pendula, betulus
fastigiata, castanea sativa, populus nigra italica, In time, as they
began to flourish in their pots and develop their own individual
traits which he recognized, the little boy gave each of his trees
their own personal names, for, sonorous as they were, the latin
names were too general, too scientific and too impersonal. He wanted
to give them names that either suited their developing traits, or
something meaningful too him alone and to no one else.
He called the oak tree, Roughie,
because its leaves were saw-toothed and rough to touch. The purple
beech, with its majestic form and a melancholy beauty, he called
Kashiwagi. Lila, he thought was the right name for the Japanese
maple whose lacy leaves trailed like a veil in the balmy breeze.
He named the ash tree whose
branches he had twisted into snaky coils, Naga. The fig, with its
gnarled trunk and the oldest among his trees, he called Karuna. He
named the flowering cherry: Maya. In spring, pink and purple
blossoms covered every inch of its branches making it quite the most
beautiful of trees; in no time at all it would cast off its blossoms
and become as unremarkable as any street corner tree. Was its
beauty, so vivid only a while ago, a mere illusion? the boy mused.
These trees were sturdy northern
types, used to the cold and the fickleness of seasons. But he also
had some tropical ones he put out in the garden only in summer. He
grew them from seed and saw them through their various stages of
growth. There was Ado, the avocado from South Africa, Hanshan the
mango from Pakistan, and Ava, the guava from Brazil.
They all lived together in a
bright part of the garden. When they were mere seedlings with few
branches, the boy used to take them out, a few at a time, for a day
out in the park. He carried them in a plastic bag, taking care their
leaves did not get crumpled or torn. laid them out on the grass and
watched them bask in the sunshine.
He took care of them as best he
could, with enthusiasm and love and they responded by growing
vigorous shoots and healthy leaves. Karuna, the fig tree even bore
fruit when the summer was warm. He would stroke their leaves, and
the green ones turned greener while the red ones glowed like
sunrise. He soon noted how the trees lived and responded to the
demands of the seasons. For instance, in winter, when the northern
trees went into a state of semi-dormancy after having shed their
leaves, he knew this was the time to trim their branches so that the
buds could get distributed evenly the following spring. Their sleep
was deceptive for although they needed water only occasionally,
their roots grew most vigorously during this sleep. It was also the
time when he could pull them out, expose their roots for their
annual prune to make space within the confines of the pot for the
young growth.
During severe winters, when
snowfall was heavy and drifts piled into hillocks threatening to
bury the trees, the boy would take them into a shed. To counteract
sharp frost, he would cover the pots with dry leaves. When snow
melted, he would take them out again for some air. He knew that they
needed the envigorating air to make them sturdy.
If the winters were mild, many of
the trees in the garden would get the wrong signals and pass them on
to the little trees in the pots who developed their buds a little
too soon. Then if the weather took a sudden turn, the plump buds
would wither and the poor little trees had to use their reserve
energy to develop replacements. To avoid this the boy kept a close
watch on the sudden changes.
When rains came, he would see to
it that they got just enough soaking and no more. There was always
the chance of waterlogging, putting their roots in danger of
drowning and rotting. So he placed them under a transparent roof
that kept the rain out and allowed light from the sky.
Then there were the biting winds
that swept mercilessly from the north and early morning frost that
scorched the edges of the leaves and froze the growing buds. He
covered them with a clear plastic sheet and put the pots on top of
dead leaves to lessen the cold from the ground and the air.
Mild winters may be welcomed by
human beings but to the plants in the garden, it meant a reprieve
for the various pests that plague the buds and young leaves in early
spring. Although severe winters do not completely purge these pests,
they retard their development so that the plant buds get a headstart
and are no longer tender when the larvae and eggs begin to hatch.
It was always a race for time. If
the insects that had slept all winter long, awoke much earlier than
bud had become leaf, they deposited their eggs on the tenderest of
shoots, and sucked the sap and goodness out of them. If the spring
was too wet, fungi developed around the tender young leaves and
branches. Young life competed with life, and those that had an
advantage of early awakening tried to stifle the late bloomers.
A type of fungus colony
resembling sugar puffs or cotton balls and powdery white sometimes
covered the underpart of the leaves, closing their pores and
preventing them from breathing. They also prospered around year’s
first growth of branches, drying them up. Maya and Lila were
particularly vulnerable to this powdery mildew. It was not too
difficult to get rid of them. It was sometimes a simple matter of
wiping them off with soapy water. For persistently pernicious ones,
the boy used drastic measures such as amputation and fungicidal
sprays which the trees did not enjoy at all. The chemical smell of
the fungicides lingered in the garden.
The passage through the seasons
was strewn with unpredictable perils. In summer caterpillars and
bugs would menace the leaves. Through experience the boy got to know
the various species, their unique ways of feeding, and their
favorite leaves. The bigger trees could stand them, but he made sure
he weeded them out of his potted trees.
There was a species of purple
ones that spun a silken tent over the leaves they have chosen so
that they could eat them privately and in safety. Such artistry did
not impress the magpies which found them succulent; nor Kashiwagi
whose leaves were a preferred delicacy of theses caterpillars. What
the birds by-passed, the boy picked, freeing the leaves of their
silken binds. Art was no guarantee for survival in the garden.
There was a small moth
caterpillar that wore an ermine coat. Its daintiness belied its
voracity. A large buff yellow-brown one that sometimes abseiled from
one of the big trees in the garden could devastate giant trees such
as oaks and lime when there is a colony let alone tiny trees in
pots. One, alone, could make short work of the little trees.
The green hawkeyed moth with
smooth skin, red spots and a flashy horn on one tip, was a rampant
eater. Fortunately the birds were not deterred by its mock armory
and is considered a gourmet niblet among the sparrows and finches.
Yellow and black looper moths and their cousins that crawled from
the other plants in the garden, all, provided the birds with wriggly
feasts—but they were a constant menace to the trees.
Caterpillars aside, there were
various beetles. A small green blue and brown beetle that ate only
the leaves green bits in between the veins, reducing them into
skeletons, much like leaves pressed between the pages of a book.
Roughie and Maya were particularly vulnerable to the depredations of
this beetle.
One morning, some of Maya’s
youngest leaves had uneven tears around the edges. A close look
revealed a beetle that eats by cutting semi-circular holes on the
edge of the leaves. It does not do much harm because it avoids the
central rib. However, it makes the leaves susceptible to various
infections. More dangerous is the chafer beetle that deposits its
grubs on the soil over winter and if snow and cold do not cleanse
them off, they eat the roots. The boy found out the benefit of
pulling his trees out of their pots for inspection during winter so
he could remove the grubs.
As if the insects were not enough
to contend with, the trees were plagued with diseases. The lack or
excess of certain nutrients led to unwanted conditions. Sometimes
Roughie’s leaves turned yellow or had deep scarlet tints although
it was not yet autumn. Experience taught him that Roughie needed
some nitrogen in the soil. Lack of potash scorched the edges of
Naga’s leaves making them look bedraggled. He got to know these
various signs. If they got browning between the veins, they lacked
magnesium; if yellow, they needed irons. The boy kept a supply of
these nutrients in powder form and dispensed them as needed.
He wondered how trees and plants
in the wild survived at all. But then, in the wild they had more
choices, a wider area in which to grow responses, a greater variety
of interacting conditions. His potted trees lived in circumscribed
conditions within the pot, so that their capacity to respond was
also limited He therefore supplemented their diet with the necessary
nutrients.
Diseases have a way of
manifesting themselves physically either in their most alluring or
terrifying forms. If the branches and leaves die back, this is
either a result of chancre or water logging. A kind of fungal or
viral attack prompts growths like birds nest clumps or witches broom
on the trunks and branches. There is no cure to this except to
amputate the branch.
There are various galls caused by
irritation from aphids and other pests; swellings that looked like
red, orange and brown buds on the branches. Clumps of dense white
tufts of wooly coating on the underside of the leaf, induced these
galls. Maya had buds that opened up with jagged edges as though they
had been blasted from inside by tiny grenades. Hanshan was prone to
leaf curling and yellowing.
But the little trees were tough.
In the course of the seasons, they warded off pests, diseases and
everything that came their way—chilling winds, frost, and
drought—true, not without help from the boy, but generally on
their own. They also recruited the aid of ladybugs, birds and the
other trees in the garden.
Overall, the little trees were
sturdy and did not mind their roots being confined in pots. Their
seasons became the little boy’s seasons and the rhythm of their
growth became part of the rhythm of his days.
The Song of the Gander
When he spoke to them, which he
often did, he imagined they answered him. One day while he was
rubbing some redundant buds from Karuna, the fig tree, he heard a
soft, tiny voice, like the flapping of a dragonfly’s wings,
saying: “Take care, you might rub off a fruiting bud.” The voice
did not come from Karuna, so he looked around. He heard the voice
again. It was Lila, the Japanese maple’s voice.
Plants and trees have been known
to exhibit visible and measurable reactions. He had once heard from
the conversations of adults that trees in the park attacked by
pests, insects or worms, released chemicals into the air, to warn
other trees, who, in their own self defense, churned their sap to
produce their own anti-pest chemicals. Even within a tree, leaves
warn the other branches, so that before the insects reach those that
have not been infested, they have already produced toxins. It was
most likely that the big trees in the garden showered the little
trees with anti-pest toxins to coax them to produce their own.
He had heard stories of green
vegetables fainting and becoming limp just before they are cut or
put into boiling water. Scientific tests, attaching
electro-sensitive pads to vegetable prior to cooking, showed their
nervous reactions in graphs, proving their sentience.
The boy was not at all surprised
when the trees spoke to him. He had, after all, been very attentive
to them and there was no reason why they should not trust him. He
knew in his heart that sooner or later he would hear them speak.
Kashiwagi’s voice sounded like a melancholy bamboo flute, and the
guava spoke in a gravelly voice. In a short space of time, he
recognized all their voices. Lila’s was as delicate as the tracery
of her leaves. Maya’s voice was evanescent, ever changing in tone
and color. Karuna’s had the gravity and the measured voice of a
sage. Avo had a creamy, rich voice; and Roughie’s was like the
surface of its leaves, raspy, like someone who had a permanent sore
throat.
He always spoke to them whenever
he went to the garden to clear them of dead leaves, water them or
give them food. The trees thanked him. He told them of his days at
school, and the drudgery of waiting for the end of the day so he
could rush back to the garden.
“Would you like to hear one of
the poems I learnt at school today? he asked them one afternoon.
“Oh please,” they said in unison. He stood in front of them, as
he would before his classmates at school, then he cleared his
throat. Not a leaf fluttered.
“I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair”
(1)
There was a suspenseful silence
minutes after he had finished the poem, followed by an excited
shaking of leaves in appreciation and applause: “That was
beautiful,” they said.
“But I’ve never had a nest of
robins in my hair,” said Lila, coquettishly, giggling shyly.
“You’re too small, that’s why,” said Ava. “More like a
nest of bugs,” said Roughie. “Now, now,” Karuna said,
“don’t be unkind. But on second thought, it is true, isn’t
it?” “Can you imagine a pigeon nesting on Maya?, she’d be
crushed!, added Hanshan. And they all laughed. “ Could you recite
us some more poems, please,” asked Kashiwagi. The boy obliged,
saying: “You know, you are my most appreciative audience. Here is
one you’d love:”
“Nothing is as beautiful as
spring-
when weeds, in wheels, shoot long
and lovely and lush;
...What is all this juice and all
this joy
A strain of the earth’s sweet
being in the Beginning” (2)
“And what about this. I am sure
you are familiar with this one:
Look, the buds shoot up with a
tingle
In the early morning chill” (3)
“But how could the poet have
known what we feel?” asked Lila. “Because they have a keen
eye,” said Naga. “And they are full of love for all things,”
added the wise Karuna. Always forthright, Lila said to the boy:
“You are full of love, you must be a poet.” making the boy
embarrassed. When he had recovered he said, “I have a confession
to make. I am not a very good pupil. During lessons, instead of
listening to my teacher. I scribble poems in my special notebook. I
do not know if are good enough and I am not yet ready to recite them
to you. One day I will.”
Word had spread in the garden
about the poetry recitals.
The ancient sycamore who stooped
to listen scattered semaphores in the air. Robins and blue tits
congregated at a discreet distance, listened, sometimes moving their
heads from side to side to the rhythm of the words. Song thrushes,
starlings and finches interrupted their singing and even the wood
pigeons stopped their constant cooing. Bees sat on Karuna’s ample
leaves which he rocked gently.
By now, even the birds were
requesting more poems. Although the boy could not understand their
language, Lila, who was always friendly with the ones that regularly
came to pick off caterpillars, bugs and lice from their leaves,
interpreted their chirping.
One sweetly sad poem brought
tears to a robin’s eyes:
“who knows in winter
if springtime we shall ever see;
Wait not for blossoms
But take the budding spray
and wear it on your brow.” (4)
The ancient sycamore applauded
the next one with a gentle creaking of branches that had seen
seasons come and go like the breeze:
“spring shines on ruined walls.
And tender sprigs
trembling in the cold
But spring is not
the spring of old.”(5)
Although young in years, the
little trees understood what the sycamore felt. Each season was
never the same: each one was unique. A certain fall of light on the
paving stones, a certain chill in the air, a resonant blueness in
the sky—all these could never be repeated. Every moment that
brought them joy or sadness and passed, was gone, never to come
back.
“You try to reach
The source of former joys
Icy precipices, windy cliffs
....Nebulous lights
Of houses on the mountainside
The path is now obscured
By the descending mist of years
Sudden winds rustle the leaves of
trees
Even their echo
Is now beyond the reach of ears.
(6)
Even if they had never wandered
from the seclusion of the garden, the trees knew what mountains,
cliffs and precipices were. There were migratory birds that nested
in the big trees in summer and flew over continents and seas towards
the end of autumn. When they came back in spring, they regaled the
trees with stories of their wanderings, of mountains whose tips
pierced the clouds and almost touched the sky. Some of these were
always shawled with snow. Other peaks were no more than bare crags
buffeted by bleak winds, and sometimes tumbled down in tumultuous
avalanches on the valleys below. There were oceans without horizons
over which albatrosses with a wingspan of twelve feet tirelessly
flew, hardly ever resting, and where giant ships floundered in
mountain-high waves; great dark forests harboring an unfathomable
richness of life and giant trees that could dwarf the ancient
sycamore.
Lila always waited anxiously for
these seasonal migrants, especially the ganders whose clarion songs
not only heralded the coming of spring but contained secret
meanings. They sounded no more than piercing honks to the unattuned
ear, but to Lila and Karuna, Hanshan and Kashiwagi, and all the
trees and creatures who yielded without complaint or questioning to
the laws of eternal cycle and change, they were subtle songs full of
unspeakable and inexplicable mysteries.
To be continued
|
