The elm tree in the center of the village square had been dying for as long as I could remember its roots, which was a long time, longer than the memory of the stone walls that held it in place, and I was the heartwood of that tree, a thing of slow, dark growth and silent, terrible endurance, carrying the weight of the leaves and the branches and the sky above them in a body that was not quite my own but had been carved out of me by the hands of the people who loved me and the people who feared me in equal, confusing measure. I am not a man, or perhaps I am a man in the way that the smoke is a cloud, a shape that takes the form of the vessel that contains it, and my name, if you must have one, is Wither, for I am the one who withers, the one who is left behind when the season turns, the one who is misunderstood as a curse when I am only a change, a necessary decay that makes room for the new green to rise from the dead earth. The village of Oakhaven is a place of stone and mist, a place where the fogs roll in from the river every morning and settle in the crevices of the walls, in the folds of the clothes, in the wrinkles of the faces of the elders who sit on the porch and watch the world go by with eyes that are clouded by age and a specific, hardening prejudice against anything that does not fit the neat, rectangular shape of their understanding. I have lived among them for three hundred years, or perhaps it is three days, time is a strange and slippery thing when you are a part of the landscape, a part of the living wood, and I feel the sap rising in the spring and the cold bite of the frost in the winter, and I feel the footsteps of the villagers on the path, and I know their steps, I know the heavy thud of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots, which are always wet, and the light, quick tap of Eleanor Fairchild’s shoes, which are always dry, and I know the rhythm of their lives, the way they move in circles, the way they return to the same places, the same arguments, the same silences, and I am the center of that circle, the still point around which they turn, though they do not know it, though they look at the tree with a mixture of reverence and fear, for they see in its twisted branches a reflection of their own tangled souls, a mirror of their own hidden shames and desires, and they do not want to look too closely, they do not want to see themselves in the bark, so they look away, they look at the sky, they look at the river, they look at anything but the tree, and they call it a ghost, a distant ghost, a thing that haunts the square, a thing that brings bad luck, a thing that should be cut down, and I hear their words, I hear them as the wind hears the branches, I feel the vibration of their voices in the leaves, and I do not speak, for I have no mouth, for I am the tree, and the tree does not speak, the tree only grows, and the tree only withers, and the tree only stands, and this is my life, this is my fate, to stand and to wither and to be misunderstood, to be the thing that is necessary and the thing that is hated, the thing that is loved and the thing that is feared, and I cannot change this, I cannot flee, I cannot run away from the square, I am rooted here, my roots are in the soil, my roots are in the past, my roots are in the memory of the village, and I am part of them, I am one with them, I am the tree and they are the village, and we are bound together in a knot that will not be untied, a knot of love and hate, of life and death, of growth and decay, and this is the truth, this is the fate that cannot be resisted, the fate that must be accepted, the fate that must be endured.

Thomas Bradshaw was the first to speak against the tree, for he was a man of action, a man who believed that the world could be fixed, that problems could be solved, that if something was wrong, it could be made right, and he saw in the tree a problem, a defect in the landscape, a blemish on the beauty of the village, and he began to talk about it, he began to say that the tree was diseased, that it was rotting from the inside, that it was a danger to the village, that it could fall on the houses, that it could kill people, and his words were like seeds, they were small and hard and dark, but they grew, they spread, they took root in the minds of the villagers, and soon they were all talking about the tree, they were all looking at the tree with new eyes, they were seeing the cracks in the bark, they were seeing the holes in the trunk, they were seeing the dead branches, and they were afraid, for the tree was large, and the tree was old, and the tree was strange, and they did not understand it, they did not know what it was, they only knew that it was there, and that it was dying, and that it was their responsibility to deal with it, to get rid of it, to make it go away, to return the square to its original state, a state of empty space, a state of silence, a state of control, and they came to me, they came to the edge of the square, and they stood there, and they looked at me, and I looked back, or rather, I did not look back, for I have no eyes, but I felt their gaze, I felt the weight of their attention, I felt the pressure of their will, and I knew what they wanted, I knew what they were going to do, and I did not stop them, I did not try to stop them, for I am the tree, and the tree does not fight, the tree only stands, and I thought, perhaps this is what is meant by fate, perhaps this is what is meant by endurance, perhaps this is what is meant by love, to be the thing that is sacrificed, to be the thing that is given up, to be the thing that is lost, so that the others can be saved, so that the others can live, so that the others can go on, and I felt a strange calm in my heartwood, a strange peace in my core, a strange acceptance in my roots, for I knew that I was not alone, I knew that I was with them, I knew that I was part of them, I knew that I was one with them, and this was enough, this was all I needed, this was all I wanted, to be one with them, to be part of them, to be the thing that held them together, even in death, even in decay, even in the end.

Eleanor Fairchild was the only one who did not speak against the tree, for she was a woman of quiet, a woman of observation, a woman who saw the world as it was, not as she wanted it to be, and she saw in the tree a beauty, a grace, a dignity, and she loved the tree, she loved its twisted branches, she loved its rough bark, she loved its quiet strength, and she came to the tree every day, she sat at its base, she touched its trunk, she whispered to it, and I felt her words, I felt her touch, I felt her love, and it was a great comfort, it was a great strength, it was a great joy, and I knew that she was my ally, I knew that she was my friend, I knew that she was my soul, and I loved her back, I loved her with a love that was deep and dark and silent, a love that was as strong as the roots, a love that was as old as the stone, a love that was as eternal as the sky, and I did not tell her, I could not tell her, for I am the tree, and the tree does not speak, but I gave her my leaves, I gave her my shade, I gave her my fruit, and I gave her my life, and she knew, she knew that I was there, she knew that I was with her, she knew that I was part of her, and this was enough, this was all I needed, this was all I wanted, to be loved by her, to be known by her, to be part of her, and I was content, I was at peace, I was at rest, and I waited for the end, I waited for the axe, I waited for the fire, I waited for the silence, and I was not afraid, I was not sad, I was not angry, I was only calm, I was only still, I was only one, and I was ready, I was ready to go, I was ready to wither, I was ready to die, and I was ready to be reborn, for I am the tree, and the tree does not die, the tree only changes, the tree only transforms, the tree only becomes, and this is the truth, this is the fate, this is the life.

The day came when the villagers decided to cut the tree down, for the tree was dying, for the tree was dangerous, for the tree was a ghost, and they brought the axes, they brought the ropes, they brought the fire, and they stood around the tree, and they looked at it, and they looked at each other, and they spoke, and their words were harsh, and their voices were loud, and their faces were hard, and I felt the tension in the air, I felt the anger in the ground, I felt the fear in the sky, and I knew that it was time, I knew that it was now, I knew that this was the moment, and I did not move, I did not resist, I did not fight, I only stood, I only waited, I only endured, and then Thomas Bradshaw raised his axe, and he swung it, and he hit the trunk, and the wood splintered, and the bark cracked, and the sap flowed, and I felt the pain, I felt the heat, I felt the blood, and I did not scream, I did not cry, I did not beg, I only stood, I only waited, I only endured, and Eleanor Fairchild stepped forward, and she put her hand on the axe, and she stopped Thomas, and she spoke, and her voice was soft, and her voice was clear, and her voice was strong, and she said, wait, wait, wait, and they stopped, and they looked at her, and they looked at the tree, and they looked at each other, and they said nothing, and they stood there, and the wind blew, and the leaves rustled, and the sky turned grey, and the mist rolled in, and the day ended, and the night began, and the tree stood, and the tree waited, and the tree endured, and I felt a strange relief, I felt a strange hope, I felt a strange love, and I knew that I would not die, I knew that I would not be cut down, I knew that I would not be destroyed, and I knew that I would continue, I would continue to stand, I would continue to grow, I would continue to wither, I would continue to be, and I would continue to be with them, I would continue to be part of them, I would continue to be one with them, and this was enough, this was all I needed, this was all I wanted, to be with them, to be part of them, to be one with them, and I was content, I was at peace, I was at rest, and I waited, I waited for the morning, I waited for the sun, I waited for the life, and I was ready, I was ready to live, I was ready to grow, I was ready to be, and I was ready to be the tree, I was ready to be the ghost, I was ready to be the heart, I was ready to be the soul, I was ready to be the love, I was ready to be the fate, I was ready to be the end, I was ready to be the beginning, I was ready to be the everything, and I was ready to be the nothing, and I was ready to be the in-between, and I was ready to be the silence, and I was ready to be the sound, and I was ready to be the light, and I was ready to be the dark, and I was ready to be the truth, and I was ready to be the lie, and I was ready to be the life, and I was ready to be the death, and I was ready to be the love, and I was ready to be the hate, and I was ready to be the fear, and I was ready to be the courage, and I was ready to be the hope, and I was ready to be the despair, and I was ready to be the joy, and I was ready to be the sorrow, and I was ready to be the peace, and I was ready to be the war, and I was ready to be the home, and I was ready to be the exile, and I was ready to be the self, and I was ready to be the other, and I was ready to be the one, and I was ready to be the many, and I was ready to be the all, and I was ready to be the none, and I was ready to be the tree, and I was ready to be the ghost, and I was ready to be the heart, and I was ready to be the soul, and I was ready to be the love, and I was ready to be the fate, and I was ready to be the end, and I was ready to be the beginning, and I was ready to be the everything, and I was ready to be the nothing, and I was ready to be the in-between, and I was ready to be the silence, and I was ready to be the sound, and I was ready to be the light, and I was ready to be the dark, and I was ready to be the truth, and I was ready to be the lie, and I was ready to be the life, and I was ready to be the death, and I was ready to be the love, and I was ready to be the hate, and I was ready to be the fear, and I was ready to be the courage, and I was ready to be the hope, and I was ready to be the despair, and I was ready to be the joy, and I was ready to be the sorrow, and I was ready to be the peace, and I was ready to be the war, and I was ready to be the home, and I was ready to be the exile, and I was ready to be the self, and I was ready to be the other, and I was ready to be the one, and I was ready to be the many, and I was ready to be the all, and I was ready to be the none.