The Spruce Tree by Dagstjarna  

One hot Summer day, Celegorm and Curufin wandered off from the place their family had made camp on the shore of Wilwarinen, Butterfly Lake. It was very balmy and they were starting to sweat, so they agreed to venture into the shade of the forest in search of a place to cool off. Not long after they passed under the shade of the trees did they stumble into a meadowed clearing of feather ferns and billberry, and beheld a mighty spruce tree standing in the middle of all of it. 

“Wow!” Curufin cheered, jumping up and down before taking off running to the tree, leaving Celegorm to follow. They knew at once that the tree was very old and very strong. Silver Daylight fell in rays through the swaying tendrils of their branches, casting blue-green shadows. Bubbling sap sparkled like tiny cascading stars on their pale gray bark. Nydelig. They were very beautiful. 

Curufin went and sat on one of its roots, pressing her feet into the cool black earth. Celegorm sat down on the ground beside her, picking a scab on her knee. Usually they said hello to trees right away, but this one was very big and wonderful, even more than normal, and they were feeling a little sheepish. Curufin peeked up at the tree a little shyly. 

“Well hello there, little one.” Said the tree, voice deep and rumbly. She could hear the smile in it. 

“Hello!” Curufin said. “It is very hot today. Thank you for the shade.” 

“You’re very welcome.” The spruce tree replied, before settling  into a comfortable silence. Birds came and went from their boughs, swooping in and out, their bright songs painting the air. 

Curufin poked Celegorm on the shoulder, and then beaconed her closer to cup her hands around Celegorm’s ear and whisper in it.

“I have a question for the tree,” She told her sister. 

“You? A question?” Celegorm smiled at her. 

“Should I ask them?”

“Yeah,” 

“Alright,” She whispered back. She looked up at the tree. “May I please ask you a question?”

“Certainly, I love questions!” The tree said with delight.  

“What exactly do trees do all day?” She wondered. 

The spruce laughed, warm and thundery. They considered her question for a moment.

“Well, first of all, we are all terrific gossips! That’s important for us. We can’t move far, so news has to travel. Just today I heard that my sister’s father-brother’s mother’s fourth cousin’s best friend’s great great grandmother’s aunt, dropped a branch right on a beaver dam, and broke Muddie’s tail! Muddie being the third child of the beaver family of the dam in question. Only Muddie’s had something coming to him, because he keeps chewing up willows that are- in my humble opinion- too young to be going down, no matter how bad they need that dam fixed up before winter. It’s a real scandal, though- all Treedom is arguing about it by now.” 

“Where do the beavers live?” Celegorm asked, finding the courage to ask a question of her own.

“Oh goodness, let’s see now- down the river past the hazel groves, up the otter creek, past the little lake, through the aspen realm of the green mountains and down on the other side, across the heather highland, down into beech and oak country, and then a little to the South where the River Running meets the golden moss hills. Up a little brook, one quarter of the way to the mountains where the snowmelt comes running down to feed it. That’s where the beavers Lingon and Mull live, with their kits Clover, Chomp, Muddie, and Aven.” 

“That sounds far away,” 

“As the crow flies,” The spruce agreed. Then they offered a considerate pause where they waited to see if the children had any follow up questions. When they did not, the spruce continued. “We trees also do a lot of something called world-wending.” They said slowly, thoughtfully. “Every family of tree does it a little differently. Every individual of every family has a flourish all their own.” They explained. “We all work together, weaving the songs of the birds, the frogs, crickets, wind, and elk, thunder, rain, elves, and other spirits. As the Music of the world passes through our branches, we spin it and weave it, the way thread passes through a loom. The world is a woven tapestry of Music, songs going East to West in one direction, and South to North the other way.” 

Celegorm squinted off into the distance furrowing her brow.  

“I…think I’ve seen the threads, one time.” She said slowly. “I was playing in the forest once, looking at the leaves, and I could see lines. They were everywhere. The whole world was made of threads with no end as far as I could see. Then I blinked a couple times and everything looked solid again. Those are songs?” 

“Yes. There are many different kinds- thick, thin, loose, tightly pulled, braided, fraying, and in every color of the stars. A lot of people sing them, even you. And they are very important. If the birds did not sing before dawn, there would be no dawn at all. If the water did not sing, there would be no frogs. The Songs are like thread because they hold the world together, but the world is also made of them. They are the love and respect that passes between people, between birds and the sun, water and frogs, wind and trees. Many of the folk you call “plants” world-wend. Even though us trees are the tallest of them, we are also very young, and learned all we know from the older, smaller plants, and are still learning from them. The same way you “elves” learned your singing from birds and water and thunder and look to them as your teachers.” 

Just then a sound came floating on the soft Summer wind: a voice singing with a fair and haunting melody. There were no words in it, but the tune, lingering and melting on the air all beautiful and eerie and a little sad, left one no choice but to pause and listen. 

“That must be Maglor,” Curufin noted. “She has the most carrying voice in the family, so she does the loudest calling.”

“That means it’s lunchtime,” Celegorm said, standing. “Thank you very much for giving us a place to sit, for the company and conversation. We are very grateful.” 

“Yes, thank you for answering our questions!” Curufin added. 

“You and your questions are very welcome! You should visit me again,” The spruce suggested. “And bring your sisters and parents next time. I would love to hear your sister sing again closer at hand!” 

“We will!” They promised, and bowed before heading back to camp. 

The spruce tree listened to them go. They caught the rhythms of their footfalls, and the fair voice singing on the breeze, like wool snaring on their bristling needles. These they would weave into clear pools and crystal caves, into morels and moose velvet. 

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