#Title

Let the seasons begin
FICTION
NAZIFA RAIDAH
It was a time in the night where one can’t really tell if it’s night or eve. The sun is still sleeping in and it’s unlikely that it has any other plans anytime soon. Nothing but silence cloaks the wood and it is the time for the chatter of the owls and bats. It is the night of small preys, meeting their ultimate doom or the start of their heroic tale.
In the midst of it all, a grand oak tree stretches and creaks with ample effort. The tree closes its eyes and tilts its branches towards the sky, basking in the moonlight. It lets out a deep resounding yawn and says, “Forgive me, friends...it seems like I’ve been asleep for almost an eternity.”
“Hey! That tickles!” giggles a Young Fir, poked by one of the oak’s branches.
“My apologies little Sprout, I didn’t notice you there”, says the Grand Oak without a second’s haste. “I told you not to call me that!” exclaims an exasperated Sprout, letting out a shake to affirm his annoyance.
“Well, my highly dignified neighbour, I’ve seen you since you were a wee sapling,” the Grand Oak says in amusement. Before Oak could say anything else, Sprout declares, “Well, I’m a hundred years old now… and it’s finally time you treated me like an adult!”
Suddenly the winds carry the weight of a hushed, ancient tone in its blow. To distant inhabitants living outside the forest, it sounds like the faintest whistle. And for those who don’t quite get the language of the trees, it sounds like a ghost, trying to tell you all their secrets but failing miserably.
“Hush now, youngling, the mother is speaking,” says Grand Oak, leaning onto Sprout. It seems that Sprout is still unsure of what to do. With one of his longest branches, Sprout flicks one of Oak’s leaves to break their trance. “Well, what am I supposed to be doing here?” asks Sprout, waiting eagerly.
“Listen”, says Oak, saying nothing else at all. A frustrated Sprout gives another shake, but Oak doesn’t pay any heed. Without even waiting a second, Sprout says, “Well, I can’t hear anything. Who is this mother, anyway?”
“Shhhh!” says Grand Oak, “Use your roots, travel to the centre of the network…you’ll find everyone there.”
Impatient still, Sprout attempts to follow Oak’s instructions. After all, this old log’s been here for a while. And for the very little credit Sprout places on Oak for his wisdom these days, deep down, they know that no one knows this forest better than Grand Oak.
“Look to the centre...look to the centre,” says Sprout, chanting to itself. The wind rustles the leaves of his other neighbours, and they too seem to be stuck in the trance. The forest floors are coated with their old, tired leaves. And then suddenly, as if it’s been dropped into a whole new dimension, the young Fir finds itself hearing chants of a thousand trees, surrounded by a hymn it has heard before, but didn’t quite understand.
“We are the guardians of the forest, rooted deep in the earth,” said a thousand trees in unison. “We have watched the comings and goings of the creatures who roam our woodland home. We are the protectors of this land, and we shall endure until the end of time.”
“And now,” says the mother, the oldest tree in the forest, “we shed our leaves in honour of the King of seasons, who grants us the bounties of youth, rustles our leaves with gentle breeze and makes our flowers bloom.”
All the trees chanted in unison, and so did young Sprout, as now, Sprout too was connected with the others.
Their words echo through the forest like a soft sigh.
As they speak, the sun begins to rise above the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The trees sway gently in the wind, their branches dance in the first lights as soon as it graces their surface. They continue to whisper their secrets, and the forest is filled with the sound of their voices, like a gentle lullaby.
And as they watch their leaves clear from the floor in the breeze, they know for certain that it is Spring.
Nazifa Raidah is a sub-editor at the City Desk of The Daily Star and a student of Media and Communication, Global Studies and Governance at Independent University, Bangladesh (IUB).
In the midst of it all, a grand oak tree stretches and creaks with ample effort. The tree closes its eyes and tilts its branches towards the sky, basking in the moonlight.