The Journey to Eternity — Chapter Two — The Guardian of the Tree

The Journey to Eternity · A serialized book by Nurit Rozenblat

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Chapter Two — The Guardian of the Tree

I stood on the shore and looked at the tree towering over the forest.

The Tree of Eternity.

The name alone stirred my curiosity, but before I could ask another question, I felt a slight weakness in my legs.

Only then did I notice how tired I was.

The sun had already been low when I set out for my walk in the orchard, and since then I did not know how much time had passed. My body, however, was not particularly interested in questions about time and other worlds. It demanded what it needed.

I sat down on the sand.

My feet ached from walking, my throat was dry, and in my stomach a feeling of hunger awakened and grew stronger. I tried to remember when I had last eaten.

Suddenly I longed for something simple and familiar. A glass of cold water, a slice of bread, even an apple.

I looked around me.

The shore was empty. The sea stretched to the horizon, and behind me lay a forest I did not know. I saw no house, no orderly path, no sign of human presence.

The bird still stood on the branch above me.

"Is there water here to drink?" I asked.

"There is."

"And food?"

"That too."

I waited for her to continue.

"Where?"

"Inside the forest."

I looked between the trees. The light filtering through them was weakening.

Until that moment I had been so busy with what I had discovered that I had not stopped to think about the possibility that I would have to spend the night here.

I did not know what animals lived on the island, whether the weather changed at night, or whether the place was safe at all.

I felt a slight pressure in my chest.

Not a great, paralyzing fear. A quiet fear, the kind that begins with one small question and immediately gives birth to several more.

What if I don't find water?

What if I get lost?

And what if I cannot return?

I placed my palms on the sand and breathed slowly.

I knew this feeling. The body recognizes a possibility of danger before the mind manages to decide whether it is real. The pulse quickens, the muscles tense, the breathing changes.

Sometimes fear guards us. Sometimes it warns us of something that does not exist.

But how can one tell the two apart in a place one does not know?

"You are afraid," said the bird.

"A little."

"Of what?"

I looked at her.

"I don't know what is here. I am tired, hungry and thirsty, and I have no idea where I will spend the night. I think I have good reasons to be concerned."

"You have reasons to be careful," she replied. "There is no necessity for caution to turn into fear."

"Easy to say when you have wings."

The bird did not answer.

I looked at my sand-covered feet. They had carried me all this way, and now I felt every muscle that had strained.

I thought how little attention we give the body when it functions as we expect it to. We remember it when it hurts, when it is hungry, when it tires. As if only at the moment it stops serving us quietly do we notice its presence.

But perhaps there is something important in that.

Hunger reminds us to nourish ourselves. Thirst reminds us of the need for water. Tiredness asks for rest. And fear asks us to pay attention.

Are all of these limitations of the body, or are they part of its wisdom?

I rose slowly and shook the sand from my clothes.

"I need to find water before dark."

The bird spread her wings.

"Come."

I followed her into the forest.

The ground changed beneath my feet. The soft sand gave way to a layer of leaves and roots, and the air grew cooler. I heard insects among the bushes and the calls of birds I could not identify.

After a few minutes I felt the dryness in my throat again. I swallowed, but there was almost no saliva.

My tongue stuck to the palate, and my lips grew dry. The thought of water took over everything else.

It was strange to me that a short while ago I had been occupied with questions about eternal life, and now all I wanted was to drink.

And perhaps there was nothing strange in it.

After all, as long as I live inside a body, its needs are also my needs. I cannot separate them just because my thoughts are busy with greater things.

A short while later I heard flowing water.

I quickened my steps.

Between the trees a small stream appeared. The water flowed over pale stones and collected in a shallow pool.

I knelt beside it and reached out a hand.

The water was cold.

I was about to drink, but I stopped.

"May one drink from it?" I asked the bird.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"These waters are fit to drink."

I filled my palms and drank.

The water was so clear and cold that I felt its way down my throat. I drank again, this time more slowly.

I closed my eyes.

The feeling of dryness weakened, and with it part of the tension that had built up in me.

I had never thought that a few sips of water could awaken such gratitude in me.

I washed my face and sat on a stone beside the stream.

I looked at the flowing water.

"There is something interesting about thirst," I said.

The bird landed on a branch above me.

"What is it?"

"As long as we are not thirsty, water is a given. But the moment we lack it, almost nothing else matters."

"And what do you learn from that?"

"That perhaps we do not truly feel the value of things until we experience their absence."

"And must one lose a thing in order to recognize its value?"

I thought for a moment.

"No. But apparently one must learn to notice it while it is present."

The bird was silent.

I raised my gaze to the treetops.

Perhaps one of the body's greatest gifts is the ability to feel the difference. Between hunger and satiety, between pain and relief, between cold and warmth, between effort and rest.

Would we know how to appreciate comfort if we had never known discomfort?

And if one day I no longer needed water, food or sleep, would I feel their absence?

The thought stirred a small sadness in me that I had not expected.

Until now I had seen eternal life as a chance to gain time. Suddenly I understood that perhaps it also holds the possibility of losing experiences that have been part of me since I was born.

My stomach made a faint sound.

I placed a hand on it.

The hunger had not disappeared.

"I think it is time to find something to eat."

The bird rose again.

"Continue on the path beside the water."

I walked along the stream.

The farther I advanced, the taller the trees grew. Between the branches I saw fruits I did not know, some red, others purple, and some almost transparent.

I did not dare pick from them.

I knew that not every beautiful fruit is a fruit one may eat.

After a while I noticed a low tree bearing round yellow fruits. They reminded me of small pears, and their scent was sweet.

I approached it.

"Are these fit to eat?" I asked.

The bird stood on a nearby branch.

"Yes."

I picked one of them.

The peel was thin, and the fruit was heavy relative to its size. I opened it carefully with my fingers. Inside was soft, pale flesh, and at its center small seeds.

I tasted a little.

The taste reminded me of a combination of pear and fig, with a slight tartness.

I ate another bite.

The hunger made me feel the taste with special intensity. The sweetness, the texture, the juice released in my mouth.

I ate slowly, until I finished the fruit.

I felt my body gradually calm.

And then I noticed something.

I was not alone.

Between the trees, not far from me, stood a figure.

At first I thought it was a tree trunk of a strange shape. It was tall and narrow, and its color blended into the shades of the forest.

But then it moved.

I immediately set down the fruit I was holding.

The figure stepped into the light.

I could not determine whether it was a person.

It had two arms and two legs, but its body looked as though it were made of thin layers of wood, leaves and light. Its face was smooth, almost without features, and only its eyes appeared clear.

They were deep and dark, and at their center moved tiny points of light.

I felt my pulse quicken.

This time it was not only fear of the unknown.

Before me stood a living creature, or at least something that appeared alive, and I did not know what it wanted from me.

I stepped back half a step.

The figure stopped.

The bird landed on a branch between us.

"You have no reason to fear," she said.

"Who is that?" I asked quietly.

"One of the guardians of the tree."

I looked at the figure.

"The Tree of Eternity?"

"Yes."

The being came a little closer, then stopped again.

There was no aggression in its movements. It moved slowly, almost carefully, as if it too were examining me.

"Does he understand us?" I asked.

"Yes," the bird replied. "But he does not need words in order to understand."

The being raised one of its hands.

Instead of ordinary fingers it had thin extensions that split at their ends, like young branches.

It placed its hand on the trunk of the tree beside it.

For a moment a faint light passed from the trunk into its arm.

I watched the movement.

"Is he part of the tree?"

"He is connected to it."

"As the roots are connected to the earth?"

"In a certain sense."

The being turned its head toward me.

I felt it was examining me, but not as a person examines another person. Its gaze did not linger on my face or my clothes. I had the feeling it perceived something I cannot see in myself.

I placed a hand on my chest.

My heart was still beating fast.

I wondered whether it could feel my fear.

And then I heard a voice.

Not in my ears.

It appeared within my thoughts, clear and quiet, as if someone had phrased inside me a sentence I had not thought myself.

"Your body asks for rest."

I raised my head in alarm.

"Are you speaking to me?"

The being did not open its mouth.

"I perceive what your body tells."

I looked at the bird.

"Did you hear that too?"

"Yes."

I turned my gaze back to the being.

"How do you know I am tired?"

"Because you carry your tiredness in every movement."

I looked at myself.

At the shoulders that drooped slightly, at the legs that strained to carry me, at the breathing that had not yet returned to its usual rhythm.

"You simply see that?"

"I see what you feel, even when you do not notice it."

The words stirred my curiosity.

"And what else do you see?"

The being was silent for a moment.

"Your wish to continue, and your wish to return."

I felt a small pang in my heart.

It was right.

I wanted to reach the tree. I wanted to understand this place and its meaning. But part of me longed just as much to return home, to my bed, to the familiar sounds and the simple knowledge that I am in a safe place.

"These two wishes can exist together," I said.

"Yes."

"Then why does it feel as if I must choose between them?"

"Because your body asks for safety, and your consciousness asks to know."

I looked at him.

"And you think they oppose each other?"

"No. They both wish to protect you, in different ways."

The words touched me.

I thought of all the times I had tried to overcome tiredness, ignore fear or postpone a simple need because I was busy with something that seemed more important.

Perhaps the body does not hinder us from living as we wish.

Perhaps it reminds us that we are alive.

The being stepped closer.

This time I did not retreat.

"What is your role here?" I asked.

"To guard the tree, and those who come to it."

"To guard it from whom?"

"From whoever would seek to take what he does not understand."

I looked in the direction where I knew the tree stood, beyond the forest.

"You mean its fruits?"

"Them too."

"And what will happen to whoever eats of them?"

The being looked at me for a long time.

"He will stop depending on what you know as life inside a body."

I felt a slight chill pass through me, despite the warm air.

"Meaning, he will die?"

"No."

"Then his body will disappear?"

"The body will complete its role."

I was silent.

The words were simple, but their meaning was too great for me to accept at once.

I looked at my hands.

A short while ago they had held the cold water from the stream. Then they had peeled a fruit and brought it to my mouth. They had felt the tree bark, the sand and the air.

This body was the only way I knew the world.

"And if the body completes its role," I asked at last, "what will remain of me?"

The being came a little closer to me.

"That is the question you must learn to ask."

"But I am asking it now."

"Now you ask it from the fear of losing what you know. One day you will be able to ask it from the understanding of what you are."

I looked at him.

I did not know whether his words were meant to calm me or to prepare me for something that would be hard to accept.

"And if I discover I do not want to give up my body?"

"You will not have to."

"And if I want to?"

"Then the choice will be yours."

I felt relief.

Not because I understood what awaited me, but because the possibility of choosing remained in my hands.

The being turned its head toward the path.

"Night is approaching. You need rest."

Only then did I notice that the light between the trees had weakened.

The tiredness returned to me all at once. My eyelids grew heavy, and my legs ached.

I wanted to sit.

More than that, I wanted to lie down and close my eyes.

The being began to advance along the path.

The bird rose and flew after it.

I followed them.

After a few minutes we reached a place where the trees opened and formed a small clearing. At its center stood a low structure of pale stone, its roof covered with vegetation.

The opening was wide, and inside I saw a raised surface covered with a soft cloth.

Beside it stood a bowl of water and several fruits.

The being stopped by the entrance.

"Here you may rest."

I went inside.

The place was simple, clean and quiet. The air was pleasant, and on the surface lay another cloth that looked like a blanket.

I placed my hand on it.

It was soft and warm.

"Who prepared this place?" I asked.

"It was prepared for whoever needs it."

I sat down.

For the first time since I arrived on the island, I felt I could let go a little.

The bird landed on the sill of the opening.

"Tomorrow you may continue to the tree," she said.

I looked at her.

"And what will I find there?"

"You do not yet know what to look for."

I did not argue.

I was too tired, and perhaps I also understood she was right.

I lay down on the surface and covered myself with the cloth.

My body sank slowly into the rest. I felt the muscles relax, the breathing grow deeper and the pulse return to a calm rhythm.

I listened to it.

Every beat was a reminder that I am still here, inside my body.

Suddenly I thought how wondrous this thing is. The heart keeps beating even when I do not think of it. The lungs keep breathing. Countless actions take place within me without my needing to ask anything of them.

We call this life, but how many of us stop to think about what truly allows it to exist?

I closed my eyes.

I thought of the possibility that one day I would no longer need sleep, water or food. That I would not feel hunger, pain or tiredness.

Until that evening I would have thought it a great gift.

Now I was no longer sure.

Because if I do not feel thirst, will I be able to feel again the pleasure of drinking water?

If I do not tire, will I know the taste of rest?

And if I do not fear losing my life, will I know how to value it to the same degree?

I had no answers.

But for the first time I understood that the choice of eternal life is not only a choice to go on living.

It may also be a choice to part from the only way in which I have learned, until today, to feel life.

Through my half-closed eyelids I saw the figure of the guardian of the tree standing in the opening.

He did not move.

For a moment I wondered whether he too needs rest, whether he knows hunger or thirst, and whether he has ever felt fear.

I wanted to ask him.

But the tiredness overcame me.

A moment before I fell asleep I heard his voice again within my thoughts.

"Do not hurry to give up a thing before you have learned to recognize its value."

And then I fell asleep.

I did not know whether tomorrow I would approach the Tree of Eternity.

But on that night, in a world where the possibility of living without end had been promised to me, I was grateful for something far simpler.

For the possibility of closing my eyes and sleeping.

End of Chapter Two

↑ Book index  ·  עברית  ·  ← Chapter One — The Encounter  ·  Chapter Three — The River That Does Not Stop →