Birgitta the Nun

Part 18 - A Pine and a Fir II

"So you really don't have a clue about the war in Europe?" the pine finally continued, its trunk again squeaking slightly, as if shifting its weight.

"I know as much as you do," the fir replied. "We have the same source of information, remember? It's not like I sneak away when you're asleep, and read the newspaper."

The abbess didn't understand. What were they talking about? Europe? These trees sure did know a great deal about the world for being stuck in one place all their lives.

"But you DO have an opinion," the pine persisted, "even if you don't have any facts?"

"No, I don't."

"Well—I would think, to start with—" The pine again cleared its throat before continuing, "that it's quite unfair to say that it's war in Europe, when it's actually only in a very small part of the continent." The voice of the pine sounded content. It seemed to taste its clever conclusion once more as it muttered, "Why yes, rather unfair, indeed."

"But YOU said it was war in Europe, not me," the voice of the fir seemed anything but content.

"You see, you DO have an opinion."

"Was that an opinion?" the abbess wondered.

"It wasn't an opinion," the fir replied. "Stop nagging me!" The fir tried to turn its back on the pine, like so many times before, but its heavy roots wouldn't let it, of course. Then, after some silence, "I simply like to be alone with my thoughts, that's all."

"What thoughts?" the pine eagerly picked up.

"I don't know—it's not like I record them or anything. It's just nice to simply be."

There was a pause in the chatter of the trees. The abbess again wondered what was going on up there, above her head, and tried to get a glimpse of the treetops. She raised herself on one arm and stretched her neck. The pine seemed to be pondering, and the fir looked as if it had dozed off. Yes, that's what it looked like to the abbess. But that was just nonsense. Nothing was going on with the trees, especially no conversation about Europe—and the abbess obviously was in need of some heavy sleep. She put her head back on her pillow and relaxed.

"What are you thinking about right now?" the pine suddenly said, rousing both the abbess and the fir.

"I wish you would be quiet," the fir replied.

"I wish you would make sense," the abbess thought.

"No, but what were you thinking before that?" the pine continued.

The fir didn't answer, but asked a question in return, "Suppose I were to be chopped down, and taken away—what would you do?"

"I don't know—" the pine hesitated. "That's kind of morbid isn't it?"

"Well, suppose I am chopped down already," the fir continued, "that you're all alone, and haven't got anyone to talk to."

The abbess started.

"What a thing to say," the pine choked on its words. It gasped for breath and quivered all over its old trunk. It was quite a spectacle, yes, quite a bit of a drama. Then the gasps of the pine turned into sobs.

The abbess turned her ears towards the fir, waiting for a decent reply.

"I'm sorry," the fir sighed. "It's just that—conversation is nice and all—but maybe once a year or so. Yes, that's probably enough."

"You know," the sobbing pine replied, "you'll probably have to eat your own words. Maybe they WILL chop you down, and make a Christmas tree out of you. You know, they're gonna dress you in baubles, and put a star on top—"

"Now who's being morbid?" the fir muttered.

"And maybe they'll even dance around you," the pine continued, all worked up.

The abbess frowned.

"I'm too tall to be a Christmas tree—"

"Oh no—they'll put you in a square somewhere. There's room alright. You won't get away that easy."

The fir didn't answer and the pine fell silent.

They didn't talk for some time - for ages if you ask the pine; for just a brief moment if you ask the fir; for a quarter of an hour if you ask the abbess - before the pine came up with a new question:

"So—do you have kids?" it sounded cheerful again.

"I don't know," the fir replied in a gloom. "I grow a lot of cones, but who knows what's become of them?"

"You see that little youngster over there?" The pine indicated a small conifer. "The one by the road? I think that one might be mine—it looks a bit like me, don't you think?"

"They all do—"

"No they don't," the pine cut off and once more seemed worked up. "That birch doesn't look like me. And that stupid bush, whatever it is, certainly doesn't look anything like me."

"You know what I mean," the fir replied in a low and tired voice.

"No, I don't actually," the pine raised its voice. "Sometimes I think you're just being obnoxious."

"No I'm not," the fir sighed. "I simply don't follow you, that's all. You're very quick, even witty if you like—"

"Do you think we're related?" the pine said after a pause, completely changing the subject.

"Don't be stupid," the fir replied.

"But think about it—we're really close, not just physically, but emotionally too. We're even the same height—we could be siblings for all I know."

"What," the fir replied, indignant, "just because we've both got needles and cones?"

"Well—maybe not siblings, but cousins."

The abbess was curious but the fir didn't reply further. Silence fell around the trees and for a while it seemed a perfectly normal grove. The abbess forgot her curiosity and started dozing off, ready to get some sleep.

"You know, we're lucky to be evergreens," the fir suddenly said, surprising both the pine and the abbess. "Imagine the agony in shedding your leaves every year!"

The statement was direct and all gloominess and irony was gone.

The pine glared at the fir, as if not believing the comment. Then retorted, "We shed our cones—and that kind of hurts. A lot!"

"That's true, but still—" the fir continued in a sing-song voice, "I was just trying to make conversation. We've been standing here for a hundred years now you know, and you kind of run out of things to talk about—"

But the nun was fast asleep. The conifers swayed silently over her head as she gave a weak snore, this night dreaming about nothing at all.