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I walked today into a ginko grove, the place where yellow and green fans once danced like sunlight on the forest floor. Their leaves are said to offer great health benefits. Yet what I found today was not good health. The trees are sick. I can gather that it began subtly. Probably with a mottling of the leaves. Like dark bruises spreading like black blood. I picked up a leaf from the forest floor but it crumbled between my fingers. It is autumn currently - I could expect them to crumble. This was different though. It felt like a brittle snap of something that was consuming them from within. The trunks are also changing. No longer are they smooth and a calming grey - they now weep of a black resin. It glistened like tar under a fading candlelight. Where branches met, cracks emerged as though the trees were fighting against an unseen weight. There was a gloom silence that I have never experienced before. There were no birds singing. Not even the insects. The air was heavy and stagnant as if the grove has been sealed in a coffin. I knelt by the roots of one of the older ginko trees and saw threads winding through the soil. They were white. A fungus, perhaps? But not one I know. It felt as if it was pulsing - almost breathing. It felt hungry. I better consult with the Shaman soon, they know far more about the exotic fungus in the land. The ginko groves are ancient. They have endured the winds, the flames, and the snow. They have even fought back against time. But, this sickness seeps through them as though they are no more than a few blades of grass. I do not yet know if whatever this is will claim the entire grove. I do not know if it will spill outward and infect the surrounding area. I put my palm against the bark and whispered a prayer to the Dagda, though no answer came. Their life is dimming. If they ginkos die, then so too will we. Tonight I carry the weight of the grove on my back. Tomorrow though... I will return with fire. Or a song. Or a grieving silence. Whichever the trees ask for. For now, I taste the ash upon my tongue, though not has been burned, yet. Zenath, the Buffalo of the Mists | |