The Weeping Willow Tree

By James Sterner

 

I

On nights when fireflies drifted around like

The will-o-wisps my grandfather told me

About, I’d ride through the park on my bike

Til I came to the weeping willow tree.

The tree was old—how old I didn’t know,

But in my imagination, it seemed

As old as time itself, and it would grow

Long after I was dead. I dreamed

Of cutting into the trunk of the tree:

A black hole of deeper and deeper rings

That never seemed to end. But I could see

That deep within the darkness there were things--

Wet squirming shapes that wanted to get out.

Then I’d wake up. On sunsets in the park

While riding home, I’d sometimes change my route

So I could see it, waiting in the dark.

And I waited too, while all the world slept,

Half-thinking the tree also was awake.

But all was silent while the willow wept

Its leafy tears in streams into the lake.

For years, I’d follow that routine. I’d ride

Until I came to the lakeshore, the strange

Tree waiting there, its secrets locked inside,

Unknown. Until the day there came a change.

 

II

My grandfather was old, his skin like ice

So clear and cold that the hospital staff

Would think him dead, until at the precise

Time they checked his pulse, he’d let loose a laugh

That wasn’t quite a laugh, but more a smirk

Made audible and simply said, “not yet.”

And so, the staff would go back to their work.

“He’ll act the same tomorrow night I’ll bet.”

But one night when they checked, he didn’t laugh.

My father got the call. “I understand…”

They buried him without an epitaph

Beneath an unmarked stone, as he had planned.

He’d been a paranoid old man, and he’d

Recited ghostly tales for all his life.

For he was part of that peculiar breed

Of superstitious folk. Left by his wife,

He’d emigrated from the old country

And, taking his son, my father, along,

Set out to find a place where he’d be free

From haunting specters, or at least prolong

His days until the wisps came back for him.

The wisps, they say, were ghosts that led children

Astray in forests with lights that glowed dim,

And boys chasing wisps did not become men.

He’d tell a story to my father when

He was still young, then he’d tell it to me.

My mother hated it: his tale again

Would come up at dinner innocently.

“Yes, I remember when I was young. Did

I ever tell you anything about

When I was young?” he’d say, twisting a lid

Around the lip of a jelly jar. Out

The back door, the wind was starting to howl.

“You’re scaring him,” my mother said before

He’d even begun. “Nonsense,” he said with a scowl,

But now the wind was knocking on the door.

“Not trying to scare, just to educate.

You don’t mind, do you my boy?” he’d ask me.

My father stayed out of it. It was late.

Too late to argue. I sat silently.

“You see? He doesn’t mind. It won’t take long.

And every telling of the story, I’m

Forever getting those last moments wrong.

But now I’ll tell it right. Just one last time.”

 

III

“You know how I grew up outside a town

That slept within the hills upon the edge

Of an old forest where the slopes swept down

Like waves, our house at the bottom. A hedge

Was all that separated us from that

Typhoon of trees, marking the borderline

Between the sleeping town, its roofs all flat,

And endless seething hills, all serpentine.

We called it Jörmungandr, for we saw

Within the shadows of the hill and dale

A snake with coils the size of hills, its jaw

Unhinged and devouring its own tail.

Oh yes, those hills were alive, to be sure.

Their lungs would exhale the cold mountain air,

And just outside the gaping maw, a lure

To bait the children wandering out there:

A path that twisted through the pines and came

To end within a place that was nowhere

But that was everywhere one and the same.

And then one night I wandered, unaware

Of constellations, unknown and unseen,

That watched my movements from above and pulled

The flow of streams in directions between

The three dimensions known to me and dulled

My senses beneath their glow, that soft light

That seemed to twinkle, then to grow, and then

Which seemed to come down from the sky that night.

Not stars. No, something else. Some halogen

Gleam of bioluminescence, bobbing

First up, then down, just like the deepest eel

Within the deepest trench, with gills throbbing

And its breath a stench—a light I could feel,

A light that wasn’t warm, but that burned cold.

It led me off the path, into the wood.

I shambled over roots tangled and old

Until I came to a clearing. I stood

Inside a wisping ring of trees, within

Which reared a polished black stone monolith

That did not reflect, but seemed to draw in

All light, and softly pulsed as if the pith

Of the woods had converged in its black heart,

Sucking in life and exuding darkness.

And then, at once, the lights shattered apart

In a darkened void, black and bottomless.

The gliding lights, now within the black hole

That was the monolith, became shadow.

The pulsing stone had opened a portal,

Into a far-away, starlit plateau.

And then, as watching from a windowsill,

I gazed into the depths of the cosmos.

Inside the dark was something darker still.

I saw a twisting shape. Ouroboros.

The end and the beginning. A single

Ring of serpent head and tail, devouring

And being devoured. And then a tingle

Ran up my back, as if cold hands scouring

My spine had taken hold, dragging me down

Into the earth. My eyes went dark, and then

I saw no more. When I awoke, the town

Had woken too, as morning’s light again

Was dawning on the flattened roofs and brought

The color back into the world, that had

Disappeared from sight overnight, and naught

Of the black stone remained. Yet clad

Upon my fourth finger was a brass ring

Of a reptile consuming its own tail.

But I could not remember anything

Of where it had come from. To no avail,

I sought to recall the night preceding.

Memories like muttered whispers and lisps,

From my mind’s ears were slowly receding.

And all that remained were the ring and wisps.”

 

IV

My grandfather wore the brass ring for all

His life, believing the wisps had meant for

Him to remember the pulsing portal

And what lay beyond the opening door.

We buried him wearing it, the coffin

Locked, and six feet of earth atop the wood

Which, like a door nailed shut, sealed him within

That tract of earth where a single stone stood.

And as we turned our backs to go, I thought

I saw that stone grow dark, and pulsed as soft

As a beating heart. But no. My mind fraught,

I looked away and climbed the stairs aloft

And joined my parents far beyond that patch

Of broken earth. That night I rode alone

Around the park, beneath the trees. Their thatch

Cast shadows on paths long overgrown

Until the limb-roof was gone, and I stopped

Beside the lake, with just one tree standing

Forlorn on the shoreline. There, fireflies swapped

Their secret songs in whispers enchanting

While moon-rings danced upon the lake’s mirror.

And in the sky, I saw strange glowing lights

Like twin suns in a distant hemisphere,

With tendrils stretched like writhing phagocytes

Consuming elements of alchemy.

They slowly drifted down to earth, skimming

Across the surface of the lake towards me.

Beneath the water, bubbling and brimming,

There was a shape like a giant serpent.

I watched it lurk, as a predator waits,

While the lights, now ashore, circled and went

Behind the weeping willow’s leafy gates.

The lights began to dim, and then went out,

But just beyond the leaves, a rustling stirred.

While the shape in the lake began to spout,

And then the leaves parted. Unsepulchered,

A thing was reaching, like a tentacle, but

No—it was an arm, shriveled and lifeless

Yet somehow still moving, and it astrut,

Beckoned me forward into the darkness.

But then, I saw it. Around its finger,

Was wrapped a ring made of brass, like a snake.

I could not move, though I dared not linger.

The lake’s depths churned and waves began to break

And from the depths, there came a rising form.

The leviathan rose at last, into

The theater of night, as clouds and storm

Turned black the stars, and all that shone were two

Eyes, reptile and cold. Then, from in the tree,

There emerged a face, whose features I know.

Though distorted by death’s veil, I could see

My grandfather in the weeping willow,

Crying out. And I, mad with terror, screamed

As blackness clouded my vision, and all

The world melted away, or so it seemed,

Until I was awoken by rainfall.

The tree was still there, but the giant shape

Was gone from the lake. My grandfather too

Had disappeared, so I made my escape.

I fled through the pathways, muddied with dew,

And grabbed my bike. But there, upon the seat,

Was an object that was left behind by

Someone or something. It was the ring. Feet

Racing, heart pounding, I put it in my

Pocket and rode away into the night,

Never to return to the park again.

I’d often thought of life as just finite.

But I believe that deep within the glen,

There in the old country, my grandfather

Found something ancient, something terrible,

Some infinite loop where heads and tails were

All the same, and the eldritch push and pull

Of life and death conflated, becoming

A thing that was neither living nor dead.

And on some nights, I’d stare at the brass ring,

Thinking Was I the ophidian head

Or tail, the one devouring or being

Devoured? With secrets behind locks and keys,

I, who like a seer forever seeing

Behind the veils of weeping willow trees,

Am eternally trapped by memories

Of what I saw that night, and now I know

That there are no real truths other than these:

That death is not the end, and the shadow

Of Ouroboros descends on us all.

Forever we swallow our former lives,

Whatever fate may upon us befall:

Though our spirit ends, something else survives.