In my house my mother stands, skin of bark, muscles of wood, hair of weeping cherry branch.
But she was not always this way.
It is often said that the Dryad or Epimeliad is bound to her tree. This is true, but never as extreme as the bond a Hamadryad has with her tree. Some Hamadryads are part of their tree, rooted and unable to move. Others are made of flesh as warm and soft as any woman's, and they dwell inside their tree.
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My mother, was the latter. In the hollow of an abnormally large weeping cherry that was her own. The hollow itself was not very big, but she had enough room to sit, sleep, and take her meals. Over the course of her young life she had polished the walls smooth with little bits of stone that birds would drop. She had bathed her walls in the oil extracted from cherry pits until they shone and gleamed. A carpenter could not have done better even with superior tools.
She baited fire flies with cherry juice for light in the night. My mother, she had a lot of time on her hands.
She was quite lonely. Her tree stood in the middle of a wild orchard of cherry trees, all born from her fallen seeds that had rolled away, been taken by animals or blown away in the wind. They provided protection to her, but also obscured her. Only a few others knew her, and while they would visit on occasion, she was still alone in her small hollow.
With little to do but polish her walls, and grind her seeds for oil. She taught herself how to manipulate wood, and would hand craft wooden tools and wares to trade with other nymphs for commodities as they passed by.
My mother could not leave to hunt, so she ate what came to her. Fortunately, many small critters were lured to her by her sweet fruits. She killed only what she needed to survive comfortably. However for every squirrel,
rabbit, rat, and bird she ate, she gave shelter to a dozen more, and they provided her with a small bit of company.
Overtime, Some brought seeds with them in their droppings, which grew into edible vegetation that also fed my mother when they grew in small sunny spots where sunlight could get through. Her knives were only made of wood, but they were sharp enough to complete the tasks of harvesting and preparing her modest food.
My mother had no fire to cook with. Wood nymphs are born with a basic fear of fire. She ate her meat raw after it bled clean, and hung in her branches for a few days to soften.
I remember my mother with cherry red hair, that hung in braids well below her rump. I remember her bright blue eyes that she passed on to me. I remember her body, that her lean and modest diet kept fit. Her skin was like porcelain, so rarely did it see sunlight. I remember scars on her wrists that ran as deep as rivers. I did not think of it much as a child, but in hindsight I realize that her solitary life and her never changing diet took it's toll on her soul. But unless she had an axe, there would be no escape from this life for her.
I know not how old she was when things changed for her (she had no need for keeping track) but by her telling it came on a night of extremely cold winds, and heavy snow. It arrived early and left even the animals little time to prepare for it. My mother was hastily weaving dry grass between the branches of her branch woven door to keep out the winds before she began her sleep through the winter; a season that provided her with even less to eat or do.
But as she leaned out to shut her door she hear footsteps and the sounds of teeth chattering. Coming her way she saw a Satyr, covered in snow and ice. Satyrs rarely wear clothes, even in the cold winter but this winter had been especially cruel to even those with Fur. He had seen the tall tree and hoped he could find shelter from the cold winds near it within the orchard, and perhaps dry fallen branches to warm himself.
That is where she met my father, on her doorstep. She said he was so covered in snow that at first she thought him to have white fur. But after he build his fire (that made her very nervous) she was surprised to see his fur was black as night. My mother had never seen a more handsome Satyr, (but then had she ever seen a male in the whole of her life?) Desperate for company she invited him into her cozy hollow. "At least until the snow passes."
He took her up on her offer, I do not know that he had a choice, for her tree was warm even without fire. They talked, he told her stories of the world outside. The hollow grew even warmer with the warmth of two bodies inside. Throughout the winter things even became "so hot" that the door had to be let open on occasion.
It was a long winter, and the snows did not let up until late spring. I believe my mother thought my father might stay indefinitely, but as soon as the snow melted he was on his way. He apologized to her, for he knew how alone she was, but explained how he had no choice to leave. He was not an idle creature and had to be on his way. But as he parted he told her that he hoped he had left something with her, so she would not be lonely any longer.
My mother wept so much that all she could do was cry and sleep. She often felt ill, and could not take food. But by midsummer her grief and illnesses eased and she noticed a swelling in her tummy. My father had left her, but not alone. He had given her life long unconditional love, he had left her with me.
I was born a year to the day of my father's arrival. She remembers, because we both came on the cusp where Scorpio and Saggitarius meet. Unlike winters before my father, this one had also been filled with joy and companionship. I slept beside my mother in her bed, she provided me all I needed at her breast.
Having children of my own I know that I was her greatest joy and her world, but perhaps more so than most. I was all that she had. That spring a plum seedling grew beside her, and by the next spring it was a sapling. Growing as fast and as strong as I was.
But as soon as I could walk I was not content to spend my day inside the hollow of a tree. Much to the distress of my mother, I was quick to learn to slip away. She worried for my safety, or that I might get lost. Sso fearful that I had inherited my father's wanderlust, she prayed to the Gods for someone to help her.
It was not long before help came. Both of my nurses were Epimeliads. one was charged for looking after goats and sheep. She brought milk goats, and mutton with her to help feed me. She brought wool to help keep me clothed.
The other was a from mountains and had mastered the ways of caring for the bees, on which all life depended upon. She kept us supplied with honey to reward me when I was good. Both my nurses recognized me as an Epimeliad, as I was born of fruit and free to roam. They taught me the ways.
They could not stay with us forever, though. Once I had learned my lessons about behaving, how to care for myself and my mother, they were off. But I was left with a gift. A kid, who was half Satyr and smarter than most, abandoned by her mother. She helped me name her Mabelle, as in a distant land the name meant "loveable." I was charged with her care, my first calling as an Epimeliad and she became my best friend and a comfort to my mother. For as long as she could hear Maebelle, she knew I was not far behind.
One of my mother's deepest fears did come true, for a time I did have the wander lust of my father, and was most unhappy about being bound to a radius around my tree. I wonder what an insult this must have been to her, barely able to take a step out from the hollow.
In caring for the orchards I learned to take cuttings from my tree, and how to grow them in a pot. This gave me much more freedom, and by the time I had seen 16 winters I was so restless, that when a band of revelers passed through I ran away with them, pot strapped to my back. I did not say goodbye, because I knew I was breaking her heart.
What happened in the many years after are my own story, but I can credit my mother's resourcefulness and ways to my survival. Slaughtering animals, and eating my meat raw, served me well with my new Maenad friends (who receive such ill reputations with about tearing live animals and children into pieces! Who ever wants to eat a child?We break animal's necks before the tearing.)
One of the many things I hoped to find in my travels, was the place my mother called home. The people my mother called our people. Because she was not born in the Isles, but planted there and left. I do not know why. The fertile soil and nature magic of the Isles made her tree grow too tall and her roots too deep to move. So in the Isles, she stayed.
While I was away I was certain to experience everything I could, so when I did return home one day I could entertain my mother with stories as a token of forgiveness for leaving her. Eventually I had no choice to return home to my true tree, and the centaur I had fallen in love with took me there.
When we arrived, farmers had plowed the lands and moved into the area. The wild orchard was thriving, but no longer wild. The ones that did not grow in straight lines were culled, and the others pruned for the forcing of fruit. It was sad, but not nearly as sad as what was in the center of the orchard.
My mother's tree stood no more than the height of her hollow. Which had become a storage hole for the arborists that worked in the orchard. The beautiful sheen of her walls were gone, and by first glance, so was she
But Eaken, who was taller than I with the eyes of a scout saw something several meters away, and bid me to come look.
Under the shelter and obfuscation of two pines, a tree strongly resembling a woman stood. She overlooked a river I once caught fish in with traps, while I played in the clay soil. Beyond the river, were more woods, and a carpet of blue bells Maebelle and I used to frolic in. My mother had never seen this place, but knew it well. I told her all about it in my younger days.
These woods where this woman-tree stood was also at risk of being culled. My Eaken, ever resourceful and always brave devised a plan to carefully dig out her roots. He wrapped them in wet burlap, and slowly we transplanted her to the island we were to call home. My tree, which had managed to survive the culling we took as well, and we replanted them both home with us.
There are many odd things about the way I found my mother, and I still have so many questions. In my mind, I had always imagined that she bolted from her tree in a panic, looking for me in that special spot of mine fearing the worst when I disappeared, rendering her body to wood.
But my husband disagrees. He says she is positioned as if she is dancing, free as the wind. Perhaps my mother's long imprisonment ended in her first and final run, and as wood transformed her body and put her into a deep torpid state, she was also enrapt in freedom.
I named my daughter for her, hoping that her name will live on, running around the isles, in perfect freedom.
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