The Willow Tree

I stretch my branches gracefully, embracing the aromatic breeze that spins through me. For the past millennium I have embraced that breeze, along with the other willow trees that surround me. Just like every other plant in the Incomparable Gardens.

And, like every breeze, this one is a gossip.

Normally, I turn my mind away from the wind, not choosing to hear the mindless babble of words.

But today, I hear interesting news.

'Did you hear?' the breeze whispers. 'Dawn, Noon, and Dusk died. Sunday needs new ones.'

Hmmm. The death of three Denizens, superior ones no less. That's odd.

Summoning the deep, earthy voice of a tree, I ask, "Has the position been replaced?"

'Not quite,' the giddy wind says. 'Sunday's looking.'

Before I can ask any other questions, the breeze is off, looking to share its news with others.

I sigh, my long limbs brushing the ground. The Denizens were always so busy, never stopping to breathe deep, extend their feet into the ground, enjoy the earth.

Only Sunday did that. And because of it, I respected him.

I frown, my current thoughts interrupted by another: The gardeners should be watering us right now. Where were they?

As if to answer my questions, I hear footsteps in the distance.

But these footsteps… they vibrate throughout the earth, the soil suddenly squirming with life.

These are Sunday's footsteps.

He walks through the grove of trees, his Key firmly in his hand. I feel the warmth of it deep in my trunk, where the streams of sap seem to glow and shiver.

Next to him are two lesser Denizens, both with green skin. They look like trees.

Sunday points the Key at me. He speaks, but so softly I do not hear it.

An intense pain shoots throughout me. I cringe, feeling as though explosions are wracking my body.

And then, I am blinded by light. Shimmering, unforgiving light.

I feel my roots shrinking.

My perception of the earth grows dimmer. I grasp for it, but my harmony with the land is gone now.

I take my first shaky step with my feet. My toes are the slightest bit green, like moss that decorates a tree.

My silver tongue extends out of my mouth ever so slightly.

"Master."

The deep commanding voice of Sunday answers me.

"Noon."

I am free.