The Dodson twins never imagined what would come of it that day when their aunt dropped off a Banyan seedling on their doorstep.
The twins — both smaller than their smarts — took the tree into the forest behind their house to find a place to plant it. Amongst the scraggly trees, the small plant looked vibrant. It found its home in that forest and for many years to come. So did the twins.
After the first year, the banyan had grown as tall as a house and was starting to extend long aerial roots downward from its wide-reaching limbs. With all the time in the world to play, the twins began to bring things from their lives outside the forest to the tree.
As the tree grew, the twins worked the branches, created supports, and built scaffolding to gently guide the roots in the direction they desired.
By the fifth year, the twin’s work had paid off. They had three pie-slice-shaped rooms, tucked between the branches that started to grow together.
By the tenth year, the twins had created a cathedral, with benches twisted together into ordered columns, the open spaces where light fell into the forest floor like stained glass.
By the twentieth year, a few others had joined them. A small community tucked between the roots.
By the thirtieth year, the community had grown into a small village. People called the tree their home, and they owed it all to the twins.
It remained like that for decades as the twins helped the community embrace the tree.
When the twins died, they were laid at the base of the central trunk between two large roots. It wouldn’t be long until it would grow over them, a permanent resting place in the wood.
Once the twins were gone, the people of the village lost control of the tree. They didn’t understand how the twins could have been so patient. They began to use axes to cut back unwanted roots and chainsaws to construct doorways. They sold branches from the tree as souvenirs, painted their walls with beautifully toxic paint, and polished the forest floor.
It wasn’t long before the tree began to die, its branches drying out in the hot sun.
When a small ember, carried gently on the wind, settled on a skyward branch, it quickly went up in flame. The fire made quick work.
The villagers tried to outrun the blaze but most did not escape.
The next day, all that remained was a field of ash and the echoing of screams from people who orchestrated their own doom.
In the fiftieth year, spring flowers began to carpet the forest. Bees and butterflies found their way back. Small berry plants began to grow. Birds fluttered in and out of the dappled shade.
At the very center of the char-scorched field, where the central trunk once unified the village, two banyan saplings pushed their first small leaves out of the soil.
Photo by Fallon Michael on Unsplash
