by Mikayla Marin
Under a sunlit blue sky, a fluttering salt-kissed wind wanders over meticulously combed grove dirt. Dusty and dry, now fertile—trees that thirsted, at last sated—the awaited babe’s birth brought rains!
Allenia, now a small and giggling child, dances in the tickly young grasses.
Adults stomp and cheer. Awaited child! She is rooted at last!
Allenia’s tiny feet move in stumbling imitation around her newly rooted grove seedling.
Little seedling so small, she whispers to it, together we will grow.
—
Curls of hardened bark, ornate with blessed paints, woven within her intricate rustling plaits, permitted within the strands now with her spirit’s early emergence—a great power foretold. Leaves dot her yellow-green hair, bestowed from the eld-mother’s heart tree.
So young, adults coo. The Gods bless her.
Little seedling grew too. Again, they dance, around and around. Smiling.
Little sapling, Allenia whispers against its red-brown bark. Her small arms stretch to embrace the thickening trunk. Three new limbs have begun their upward curve. So tall, so big. Why must we already have leaves?
Madrona, they chant. Grove Keeper.
Allenia prays.
—
Madrona! They chant.
A women’s dance: sisters, mothers, aunts, grandmothers. All who had bore life, all who had tried, and all who did not yet know which they would be. Elbow linked to elbow, swaying, foot over foot, encircling. Eld-mother encircles within, white hair plaited, withered hands drizzle Allenia’s first blood.
So soon, big sapling. Allenia sighs. She aches. Unshed tears burn.
Three limbs, now burgeoning with branches, curl elegantly into the seaside air; yellow-green leaves translucent in the sunlight. Allenia, willowy with early womanhood, mourns against it.
Madrona blesses the barren grove, the woman chant, fervent. Louder! Fertility renews!
The blood circle is now complete. Allenia presses against the big sapling with a gasp.
A green and radiant haze lifts from her skin. Warmth. Light. Spirit manifesting.
Her fingertips burrow into the curling bark. Her spirit reaches, emanating up the leafed branches.
Too soon. Her plea is silent. Her plea is unheeded.
A seed, aglow with spirit, unfurls beside her. Her palm lifts and catches the swelling seed.
Madrona, their voices praise, gowns of green and brown fluttering as they kneel.
Allenia stares. Not a clan seed, not of Madrone.
Mother seed, they whisper. Tree of the Gods. Madrona saves us.
The Eld-mother kneels too.
Allenia’s singular tear falls; the seeds first water.
—
Screams. Agonizing shrieks. MADRONA!
A wave of orange-white heat shatters the night. Fire, fast, hungry, scorching up the cliffs.
Madrona! Her clan begs.
Too much, too soon. Not Madrona–Allenia!
Run. She knows nothing else. Run! She commands. She cannot. Not Madrona.
Grove trees crumble to ash. Too little rain. Too late.
Dig. Faster Allenia. Searing heat, no time. Dig!
Bloodied nails caked with dirt, shaking fingers torn by pebbles, clutch the mother seed.
Save the grove, save the clan. A bag of soil, her baby seed—the clan future at her hip.
Tears, hot as flames on her cheeks, leak down its red-brown bark, a final hug.
I carry your root strength eternally. Goodbye friend.
Charred grass, hot sparks, sooty singed soil coats her bare legs.
Into the dark. Hers to protect. Madrona. Grove Keeper. Groveless. Alone.