The Island of Missing Trees(19)

‘Dad? What are you doing?’ she said, but the wind snatched her voice away.

She took a step closer, then another. She could see them clearly now. Her father held himself upright, his arms crossed, his head slightly inclined to one side, not speaking. Her aunt was carrying in her arms a pile of stones she must have collected from the garden, her lips moving in a prayer, her words coming fast and tumbling into each other in a breathless plea. What could she be saying?

When done, the woman began placing the stones on the ground, stacking them up into little towers, one upon another. The rhythmic sound reminded Ada of the gentle lapping of the waves against the side of a boat.

And then, Ada heard a melody – deep, raw, plangent. She leaned forward almost despite herself. Her aunt was singing. A low, keening voice. A dirge in a language she could not understand but the sadness of which she did not doubt.

Ada stopped moving, not daring to disturb whatever it was they were doing. She waited, her hair blowing about her head, her nails digging deep into her palms, though she would not realize this until later. Half hiding in the shadows, she watched the two adults by the buried fig tree, drawn to the strangeness of their behaviour but equally detached from them, as if witnessing someone else’s dream.





Fig Tree





It was a ritual for the dead. An ancient rite to guide to safety the spirit of a loved one, so that it would not wander off in the vast recesses of the ether. As a rule, the ceremony ought to be performed under a fig tree, but – given my current position – I guess it had to be above this time.

From where I lay, I listened to the low, resonant, steady rap-rap-rap, stone laid on stone, rising like a column to support the vault of heaven. Those who believe in such things say the sound represents the footsteps of a lost soul treading across the Bridge of Siraat, thinner than a strand of hair, sharper than a sword, straddling precariously the void between this world and the next. At every step, the soul jettisons yet another one of its innumerable burdens, until finally it lets go of everything, including all the pain stored within.

Fig trees, those who know us will tell you, have long been regarded as sacred. In many cultures spirits are believed to reside inside our trunks, some good, some bad and some undecided, all invisible to the uninitiated eye. Others claim that every genus of Ficus is, in truth, a meeting point, a gathering place of sorts. Under, around and above us they mass, not only humans and animals, but also creatures of light and shadow. There are plenty of stories about the way the leaves of a banyan tree, a relative of mine, can all of a sudden rustle in the absence of even the slightest breeze. While other trees remain motionless, when the entire universe seems to stand still, the banyan stirs and speaks. A thickening in the air like a premonition. It is a spooky sight, should you ever see it happen.

Humans have always sensed there was something uncanny about me and my kind. That is why they come to us when in need or in trouble, and tie velvet ribbons or strips of fabric on our branches. And sometimes we help them without them even noticing. How else do you think those twin brothers Romulus and Remus would have been found by a she-wolf, had their basket, floating dangerously in the waters of the River Tiber, not got caught in the roots of a Ficus ruminalis? In Judaism, sitting under a fig tree has long been associated with a deep, devout study of the Torah. And, while Jesus might have held in disfavour a certain barren fig tree, let us not forget it was a poultice made of us that, upon being applied to his wound, saved Hezekiah. The Prophet Mohammed said the fig was the one tree that he wished to see in paradise – there is a sura with our name in the Qur’an. It was while meditating under a Ficus religiosa that Buddha attained enlightenment. And did I mention how King David was fond of us or how we inspired hope and new beginnings in every animal and human on board the Ark of Noah?

Anyone who seeks refuge under a fig tree, for whatever reason, has my deepest sympathy, and humans have been doing so for centuries, all the way from India to Anatolia, from Mexico to El Salvador. The Bedouin settle their disagreements in our shade, the Druze kiss our bark reverently, placing personal objects around us, praying for ma‘rifah. Both Arabs and Jews make their wedding preparations beside us, hoping for marriages sturdy enough to weather any storms which may lie ahead. Buddhists want us to blossom near their shrines, and so do the Hindus. Kikuyu women in Kenya daub themselves with the sap of fig trees when they want to get pregnant and it is the same women who defend us bravely whenever someone tries to cut down a sacred mugumo.

Under our canopy, sacrificial animals are slaughtered, vows taken, rings exchanged and blood feuds settled. And some even believe that if you circle a fig tree seven times while burning incense and uttering the right words in the right order, you can change the sex attributed to you at birth. Then there are those who hammer the sharpest nails into our trunks to pass on to us whatever illness or malady assails them. This, too, we endure silently. It is not for no reason that they call us holy trees, wishing trees, accursed trees, ghostly trees, unearthly trees, eldritch trees, soul-stealing trees …

And it is not for no reason that Meryem insisted on holding a ritual for her dead sister under – or above – a Ficus carica. As she struck the stones against each other, I heard her sing – an elegy, slow and mournful, a belated keening for the funeral she had not been able to attend.

Meanwhile, I was sure my beloved Kostas kept his distance, not saying much. I didn’t have to see his face to know that it must have acquired an expression of polite disapproval. As a man of science, reason and research, he would never give credence to the supernatural, yet neither would he belittle anyone who did. A scientist he might be but, first and foremost, he was an islander. He, too, was raised by a mother prone to superstition.