There is a tree. A tree I know I’ve seen before, perhaps in my childhood, on holiday somewhere, or maybe in a dream. A tree by a wide river, that leans out from the bank and hangs its languorous boughs over the dark currents below. It’s wrapped in ribbons, lanterns, electric cables and fairy lights. The ephemera of many lifetimes. Birds of every kind perch in its branches and an a to z of critters hurry across its surface or burrow deep into the comfort of its flesh. At its base, worn and torn plastic grass circles around its elephant feet. Cobbles that try to path around it are buckled and broken by snaking roots and defiant knuckles.
“Do you remember this tree?” I say, lifting my hand from the bed to point up at the leaves that vibrate and dance above us.
“This tree?” She says, looking up from her phone and glancing first at the plastic tubes and crisp hospital linen, then once around the room. “Sure. It’s beautiful.”
She doesn’t sound sure. After another obliging look around, she squeezes my hand to squish away the moment, perhaps to hurt the death that makes slow, deliberate advances within me, or to push back the tears that are inseparable from her words these days.
She’s right though, it is beautiful. As beautiful as I remember, but this doesn’t feel like memory. More than a nostalgic daydream, more than a medicated hallucination or otherworldly vision, this tree is right here, spreading out above me as much as it ever has. Perhaps I’m here too, it’s hard to say, but I feel like I probably am.
“Am I here, now?” I ask.
A dove sitting on a branch nearby turns and nods at me.
“Yes, you are here,” they say.
A cicada scuttles past and gives me a little cicada wink followed by an affectionate cicada salute. They don’t speak, maybe cicadas don’t, but I understand them completely.
“Hey friend, of course you’re here,” they’re saying.
The cicada makes to hurry off, but stops mid-stride before turning almost reluctantly and coming a little closer.
“You were always here, you just got distracted.” They say, their mouth moving now as I hear the words. “But that’s ok, we had plenty to do anyway. How have you been?”
“I’ve lived a whole life since.”
“For sure, me too. How was it?”
I have to think about this. I have to think about it a lot. The cicada glances at the dove, then after a few minutes shrugs a cicada shrug and starts to walk away.
“No, wait!” I call out and they shuffle back a little.
“I think maybe I wasted it.” I feel my eyes tear up as I say this out loud for the first time.
The dove hops one branch down to join the cicada and they both stare at me with expectation, and perhaps something that looks a little like compassion. Love, even. Cicada love. Dove love.
“So many things I should’ve done, I never did, and I spent so much time doing things that, now that I think about it, didn’t matter that much after all. Most of my friends drifted away over time, I don’t really have any now, but they always stayed in my thoughts. I wish I’d told them that. I never told them that I still thought about them, even though I never called.”
I have tears fogging my eyes and overflowing onto my cheeks, and when I wipe them away I see that a spider has joined the dove and the cicada. They rest their spider face in the cradle of their front legs, smile back at me and listen intently.
“There was a time when I felt like I knew what I was doing,” I go on. “A time when I felt I had a purpose, but I lost that somehow along the way. Somewhere. Now, I can’t even remember what purpose it was, I just remember the feeling of having it, and of losing it. I’ve been afraid ever since. A little empty. Like walking in the pitch black, trying not to fall, just getting by from one unknown step to the next. Day after day, until now.”
I stop talking, a little surprised at the words that have tumbled unexpectedly out of me.
The cicada steps a little closer.
“When I was young, the sound of my wings rubbing together was beautiful. It was famous amongst all cicadas. ‘Heavens Harp’ they called me. Every night I would climb to the highest branch in this tree and make the most beautiful sound I could, for as long as I could. I loved knowing that everyone was listening to me, enraptured by my song. I was ‘Heavens Harp’, everybody knew my name. But I rubbed my wings together so much that I didn’t hear my babies crying.”
The cicada looks down at the ground and turns around a little so that I can see their back. There’s nothing there, just two little stumps that quiver a little as they fade in and out of the dappled light that ripples down from above.
“Only when I’d rubbed them clean away did I finally hear them, but then I couldn’t fly back. I had to watch from here as they grew up and eventually flew away without me."
They turn back towards me and brush a little dust from their eyes.
"They didn't say goodbye.”
I stare at the cicada a little lost for words and for a moment the sound of the leaves whispering in the breeze is everything.
“I’m so sorry,” I offer eventually. “I’m sure they love you and know you didn’t mean to leave them.”
The cicada shrugs their disbelief back at me, with a half-hearted smile of gratitude. We all stand in silence for a moment as the sounds of the river sloshing past fill the void.
“Perhaps my children are the one thing I did get right,” I say as the thought enters my head. “I was determined that they would feel loved without condition. Seen. Supported. I think I achieved at least that. We’ve had many laughs and adventures together over the years.”
As I think about this, I glance up through the branches as the sunlight finds its way through the foliage and blinds me momentarily. I shield my eyes and drop my gaze to where she’s sitting, still tapping away on her phone, a broad smile on her face, and I realise with a start that I’m up in the tree now. Not high up, but high enough to make me exhale loudly at my unexpected altitude.
“Woah, what’s happening?”
I wobble so much I almost fall off the branch and I break a couple of finger nails as I scratch hold of the bark.
“It’s ok. It’s ok. Relax.”
It’s the dove, walking closer to me as they speak with a soothing voice. Cooing. Lulling me. They’re much bigger than I thought and when they reach me they spread their wings and wrap them tightly around me. My head sinks into the soft feathers of their breast. I nuzzle deep into the bliss of it. My eyes feel impossibly heavy, like the welcome arrival of sleep after an all-nighter. It’s warm here and smells of honeysuckle.
“It’s ok.” The dove whispers softly into the warm embrace where they hold me. “Anyway, all that doesn’t sound like such a waste. It sounds to me like you learned a lot.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking up from the down and into their eyes. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
“No suppose about it,” they say, and squeeze me a little tighter with their wings.
“I hate to interrupt,” interrupts the spider. “But we really need to go.”
“Go where?” I ask, speaking my words into the down as I nuzzle further in.
The dove relaxes their embrace and steps back a little. I look down through the branches as they do, only now she’s not on her phone, she’s hunched over the bed, her arms thrown up around my shoulders as her own shudder as she sobs. I try to move my arms to wrap them around her, waken my fingers to softly weave through the knots in her hair, but nothing’s working.
I glance back at the dove, the cicada and then the spider in turn, but no one speaks. They wait for me in silence. We wait for what seems like hours, as I watch the scene below us. Me not asking the question that I already know the answer to. Them waiting for me to accept it.
“Come,” says the spider eventually. “We need to climb.”
“I don’t want to go,” I say, my eyes constantly returning for one last look.
“I know,” they reply softly.
I let my fingers twitch a few times, an irresistible need to check and double check that it’s not a mistake. Or perhaps just hoping for one last touch.
I hate leaving her alone like this.
“Where are we going?” I ask, not taking my eyes off her.
“Up, of course.”
I glance over at the spider and then up through the branches above.
“Up?”
“Up.”
I want to look back down, but the inevitability of our situation lands on me like I’ve always known it, and looking back hurts now, so instead I fix my gaze firmly on the spider.
“Come on then.” I sound almost cross.
It doesn’t bother the spider though, who immediately starts to crawl upwards at an impressive speed. I follow after them, climbing up through tier after tier of branches, a little freaked out by my own agility. As we climb, I notice that the spider, spider sized when we first met, now looks like my equal.
“Are you getting big, or am I getting small?”
The spider stops for a moment and looks me up and down, then raises a couple of legs in turn to inspect them.
“I don’t know.” They say with a thoughtful voice and a little upturned shrug of their legs.
This makes me laugh, really laugh loud, which makes the spider laugh too, and before we know it we’re both roaring in uncontrollable hysterics. Spiders have an intoxicating, giggling laugh. You wouldn’t think it, but they really do.
When we finally settle again, I look back down through the branches for the first time since we began climbing. We’re high, but I can still make her out in the splinters of a view. I glance a little further out over the river.
“Where does it go?” I ask.
“The river?” Nowhere.”
“Nowhere? Then what is it?”
The spider looks at me for a moment, then drops their gaze back down to the rolling waters.
“I don’t want to say.”
“Why not?”
They don’t answer, staring at the water below for a while longer, before idly brushing a few bits of loose bark from the branch.
“Why not?” I ask again.
They look back at me crossly.
“Because no one believes me any more, that’s why not.”
“Oh. I’ll believe you, I promise. Just say.”
The spider ignores me.
“Pleeease.”
“Love,” they say softly, without looking up.
“What?”
“It’s love,” they say more boldly now, looking over at me with defiance.
“Love?”
“There, look!” They shout, raising their front legs again to point at me. “I can see it in your face. I knew it!”
“Wait, wait,” I gesture at them to be calm, not stopping a little laugh from coming into my voice for some unknown reason. “You’re right, it does make me wince a little, I don’t know why, it really shouldn’t, but I do believe you. I promise.”
We sit quietly for a minute, both staring down at the river of love that flows silently beneath us.
“Love.” I say softly.
“Stop now,” says the spider, and begins climbing again without another word.
I go to speak, but think better of it and instead follow quickly behind.
We climb and we climb, and the higher we go the smaller I become, until the spider is much bigger than me and it’s all I can do to keep up.
When I’m about to call out to say I can’t possibly climb this fast anymore, the spider stops, glances down at me and scuttles a little way out along a slender branch.
“Here,” they say triumphantly as I catch up.
“Here, what?” I ask, but before the spider can answer a butterfly lands silently next to us on the branch, the landing pulse of their wings sending a little blast of warm air into my face.
They flex their wings above their body a few times, and the spider and I both marvel at the flashes of scarlet and sapphire, silver and gold that radiate in mesmerising, awe inspiring waves of colour each time they do.
“Hello,” I say finally, sounding a little awe struck.
“Butterflies don’t speak, silly,” the spider whispers to me, raising one leg to secret their mouth. “You just need to climb on.”
“Oh, right.”
I take a few cautious steps towards the butterfly, who waits patiently, before grabbing hold of the soft hair on their body and hauling myself onto their back. I’m about to turn to the spider, when the butterfly launches into the air with one huge flap of their wings and we’re out of the tree. I yell out “goodbye”, but before the reply comes we’re already swooping up and away, the wind in my ears and the growing distance muting any answer.
Out from the cover of the tree’s branches, the warm and vibrant sun beats down on us as the butterfly flits and dances through the air. The sun feels gloriously warm on my back and as I lean into the butterfly’s cushioned body, my drowsiness overcomes me again and I drift into a sort of half doze.
“We do speak, actually,” the butterfly’s voice wakes me with a start.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, maybe a millisecond, maybe an hour.
“Oh, right,” I say, sitting up a little.
“I just don’t speak to spiders.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like them.”
“Oh. That one was very nice actually,” I say, trying to peer around their wings to get a better view of who I’m speaking to.
After waiting for a minute or so and realising that our conversation is over, I shrug and glance down beneath us to see where we are. There’s nothing to see, just an endless stretch of white.
“Where are we?” I call out again.
“The desert.”
“Where are we going?”
“There!” Says the butterfly with excitement, as if they’ve just spotted something amazing in all this whiteness, and dives down abruptly, floating me momentarily off their back so I have to grapple frantically to stop from falling off.
We land with barely a sound, just the gentle hiss of sand shifting under our downdraft. Then it’s silent.
I look around and spot a small pool of crystal clear water just a few feet from us. It’s so still it almost looks like a mirror, lying discarded in the middle of nowhere. Only the dark ring of wet sand around it, and a few flowering succulents sticking up from the ground, give away its wateriness.
“It’s for you,” the butterfly announces after watching me for a while.
“For me?”
“Yes, of course.”
I slide down from their back and step quickly through the hot sand to reach the cooler ground at its edges.
“What do I do with it?” I ask, skimming my fingers across the surface.
“You dive into it.”
“Oh, right. Where does it go?”
“Back to the river, I think.”
“You think?”
The butterfly tilts its head a little at my question.
“Butterflies don’t swim.”
It’s not a very satisfying answer, but I can’t really argue with it.
I’m about to ask another question, when I spot her in the haze of desert and sunshine behind the butterfly. She’s sat up now, gently brushing the hair away from my eyes and speaking softly to me.
“I can still see her,” I say loudly as I point her out.
The butterfly turns to look for a moment, then turns back.
“Yes, you will for a while, but most choose to let it fade eventually.”
“Choose?”
“Well, you don’t have to, but it gets confusing if you don’t.”
The butterfly points back towards the pool.
“You need to get in. It won’t stay for long.”
I look back down at the water.
“What happens if I don't?”
“Then you’ll just stay here.”
I scan around us again. It’s beautiful, and she’s here of course, but it’s also very bleak, and now that I think about it, blisteringly hot. The water in the pool feels increasingly delicious against my fingertips.
I sit down on the bank and let my feet and legs ease into the cool water. It feels sublime.
“I’m not sure I can dive,” I say apologetically. “Will this do?”
“Yes, it’ll do.”
The butterfly doesn’t take their eyes off me. I get the feeling that they’re not going to leave until I’m in.
“Will I see you again?” I ask as I slide down a little further, trying to talk away the awkwardness of my slow progress and their intense staring.
“Of course,” the butterfly smiles back, warming up their wings with two slow beats.
I shuffle a little deeper, letting my hips and waist go under and then, without a warning, without another word from either of us, a current just below the surface grips me tightly and I spiral downwards at speed.
I feel panic at first and reach out to grab towards the surface and sides, but there’s nothing to hold on to and I race deeper and deeper. Soon the fear fades and becomes something different, something more like exhilaration. She fades too. First her image and then even the idea of her. Her face, her laugh, her love. I’m next, my body slowly dissolving into the water and my sense of me unravelling until it never was. Fading. Fading, but not fading away, fading inwards. Inwards towards something I always knew was there, but could never speak. Fading into a million voices and into one. Into everything there is and nothing at all. Into this powerful and irresistible torrent of bliss.
Illustration by Andrea Maxwell
Sublime - I know exactly what this is.