The Short Sycamore

The morning mist off of the ocean always hit him first. His leaves stayed lush green, and his roots never died of thirst. The other trees were jealous of his favorable position near the edge of the cliff, so between the short sycamore and the other trees there formed a rift. Even the common sticker bush that grew alongside the old pine shunned him. The short sycamore was shunned all over, from the western lake to the eastern rim. Summers came, warm winds would blow, winters came with their rain and snow.

The short sycamore sat by the edge of the cliff all alone, in three short years only two quarters had he grown. The old pine grew taller and the common sticker bush, too. The short sycamore tried his best to grow. He pulled at his roots and stretched his leaves to the sky, but nothing worked and his spirits stayed low. All of the other trees mocked his efforts at trying to grow, all of the trees and even the common sticker bush chuckled together as their laughter echoed throughout the meadow.

One night, as all of the taller trees slept, the short sycamore heard a noise coming from behind them and wondered what it could be. He tried to stretch his roots to their full length, throwing his leaves high into the sky to see. But the other trees, even the common sticker bush, were taller than him now and they allowed him no view. It was not until he smelled the smoke and felt the heat that he no longer doubted what he knew.

The short sycamore saw the fire rise high above the old, tall pine and the other taller trees. He watched as each tree was brought down, one by one, to their knees. Just then the fire noticed the short sycamore by the cliff and began to creep its way over the stones like a fiery net. But the ocean sent a damp, cool breeze over the edge, making all of the stones wet. The flames cursed and spat their anger as they were put out by the morning mist. The fire was made into smoke, no matter how hard it tried to resist.

When the morning sun appeared, the short sycamore saw that all of the trees were destroyed as the smoke cleared. Broken limbs and trunks were blackened and soot-stained. Only the dirt beneath their roots covered with ash remained. The short sycamore looked around and noticed that his leaves were wet and his roots firmly set. He sighed and waited, but no remarks came from the annihilated.

The short sycamore was happy in the silence. He mourned the tall trees and the sticker bush that was destroyed by the fire. Fourteen-and-a-half days later he noticed that his trunk was longer and that his leaves reached up into the sky, higher. And at the same time, he also noticed hundreds of brightly colored green sprouts shooting out of the black ground. Giggles, goos, and gaas by the hundreds filled his leaves with a joyous new sound.

Now taller, the no longer short sycamore’s leaves sprayed the tiny sprouts with cool, wet dampness from the mists off of the ocean. And at that very instant, a wild idea ran through his head, an intriguing notion. The sycamore promised to be a good friend to them, unlike the ones that came before them were with him.

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