Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Cʜᴇʀʀʏʙᴀʀᴋ Oᴀᴋ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 13

300 years ago.

A singular seed found an area of dented ground. A soft spot in the Earth— watered and cared for by the clouds above.

Nestled comfortably in its bed of humus and leaves— it sprouted. Growing larger and larger as time passed to decades— entire centuries told by the rings it grew inside.

It saw what we call history, and what itself saw as passing time. Countless Sunsets reached forth and bathed its leaves, hundreds of nights it saw through in the bitter cold and rain.

Even once humanity sunk their claws into the land its roots held together, it stood forever unmoving— forevermore it would stand.

Walking through them all, each and every trunk older than planes and cars and civilisation as it is now. Unfathomable in ordinary minds, but so ordinary to its own.

Something that could stand for this long, still blooming in the spring, still sleeping in the winter— something such as this. Did we even really deserve it? To see a monument we overlook too easily, a test of time slipped through our fingers, nothing more than a witness that had no mouth, a curator that had no eyes.

Time didn't change them. They were still the same as they were, centuries ago— only older now.

Darker, approaching the end of time in their eyes. Their last Sunsets upon them, the burn of a horizon beckoning, calling to them, inviting them to fall, to create something new from the same old routine they always revisited.

Wouldn't that be nice?

For a duty to come to an end, after slaving under the Sun for so long.

At least in the twilight, they would be given some peace of mind. A chance to rest, for now, then continue.

Russia weaved in between them— thinking all the time. Traipsing through the museum of wood surrounding him. Looking for something, anything he hadn't seen before. A ruby in the dirt, amongst the colosseum rising towards the Heavens.

There was a breeze in the air, a little wisp of a wind, but it wasn't at all heavy. It blew through the twigs and branches, rustling in the wind as if playing a kind of off-key melody. A lullaby in the Moonlight— the only semblance of a torch he had with him, coupled with the afterglow of your lighthouse, way back at the cliffs.

He hadn't wanted to go home with you. He had too much on his mind— that little questionnaire you gave him got his mind thinking, and he had a feeling he wouldn't have enjoyed sitting in bed after, thinking of all the things he chose to say, and what he chose not to.

He thought this might quell his internal monologue, and hand him some peace of mind.

In a way it did.

Surrounded by a life form that had no way to acknowledge him— a being that couldn't judge, nor ask why he was still awake at a time such as this.

He liked that about the great outdoors. It was the only place where no one could really see him. He liked this island, it was steadily growing on him. But he was still struggling to get used to the fact that everyone knew more about him than he did them.