The Island of Missing Trees(28)

She slumped into her bed and pulled her legs towards her chest. Quietly rocking her body, she started to cry.





Fig Tree





Towards midnight, I picked up an odd sound. Alarmed, I tensed. But it turned out it was my old friend the hawthorn tree, a native species, a gentle hermaphrodite, sending signals through roots and fungi, asking how I was doing. It touched me, his/her kindness, the sheer simplicity of it. For kindness always is – direct, naive, effortless.

Under and above the ground, we trees communicate all the time. We share not only water and nutrients, but also essential information. Although we have to compete for resources sometimes, we are good at protecting and supporting each other. The life of a tree, no matter how peaceful it may seem on the outside, is full of danger: squirrels that strip our bark, caterpillars that invade and destroy our leaves, bonfires in the vicinity, loggers with chainsaws … Defoliated by the wind, scorched by the sun, attacked by insects, threatened by wildfires, we have to work together. Even when we might seem stand-offish, growing away from others or at the edge of forests, we still remain connected across entire swathes of land, sending chemical signals through the air and across our shared mycorrhizal networks. Humans and animals can wander around for miles on end in search of food or shelter or a mate, adapting to environmental changes, but we have to do all that and more while rooted to the spot.

The dilemma between optimism and pessimism is more than a theoretical debate for us. It is integral to our evolution. Take a closer look at a shade plant. Despite the meagre light in its environment, if it remains optimistic, the plant will produce thicker leaves to let chloroplast volume increase. If it is not so hopeful about the future, not expecting the circumstances to change any time soon, it will keep its leaves at a minimum thickness.

A tree knows that life is all about self-learning. Under stress we make new combinations of DNA, new genetic variations. Not only stressed plants but also their offspring do this, even if they themselves might not have undergone any similar environmental or physical trauma. You might call it transgenerational memory. At the end of the day, we all remember for the same reason we try to forget: to survive in a world that neither understands nor values us.

Where there is trauma, look for the signs, for there are always signs. Cracks that appear in our trunks, splits that won’t heal, leaves that display autumn colours in spring, bark that peels like unmoulted skin. But no matter what kind of trouble it may be going through, a tree always knows that it is linked to endless life forms – from honey fungus, the largest living thing, down to the smallest bacteria and archaea – and that its existence is not an isolated happenstance but intrinsic to a wider community. Even trees of different species show solidarity with one another regardless of their differences, which is more than you can say for so many humans.



It was the hawthorn tree that informed me young Ada was not doing well. I was filled with immense sadness then. For I felt connected to her, even if she might not think much of me. We had grown together in this house, a baby and a sapling.





Words Fly


Cyprus, 1974


Thursday afternoon, Kostas walked into The Happy Fig, whistling a tune he had picked up on the radio, ‘Bennie and the Jets’. These days it was hard to listen to anything without it being interrupted by breaking news of a terror attack somewhere on the island or a report on the escalating political tensions, and he kept humming the melody as though to prolong it, to stay inside another realm of lightness and beauty.

It was still early in the day so there were no customers around. In the kitchen the chef was alone, a basket of figs and a bowl of whipped cream in front of him, his hand on his chin. He didn’t lift his head to see who had come in, so absorbed was he in his work.

Yiorgos was behind the counter wiping glasses, a white cloth slung over his shoulder.

‘Yassou,’ said Kostas. ‘What’s the chef doing?’

‘Oh, don’t bother him,’ said Yiorgos. ‘He’s practising the dessert Defne was telling us about. Her father’s recipe, remember? We are planning to add it to the menu.’

‘That’s great.’ Kostas looked around. ‘And where is Yusuf?’

Yiorgos gestured with his chin towards the patio at the back. ‘Out there, watering the plants. He sings to them, did you know?’

‘Really?’

‘He does, and every day he chats to the fig tree. I swear to God! The number of times I have caught him … The funny thing is, when he talks to humans he stutters and mumbles his words, but when he talks to plants, he has such a silver tongue – the most eloquent man I’ve heard.’

‘How extraordinary!’

‘Yeah, well. Maybe I need to turn myself into a cactus to make him say more than two words to me,’ said Yiorgos and chuckled. He took another glass from the rack, wiped it gently and glanced at Kostas, his gaze sharp. ‘Your mother was here earlier.’

Kostas paled. ‘She was?’

‘Yes, she was asking about you.’

‘Why? She knows I come to see you. She’s the one who sends me here to sell things.’

‘Yes, but she was asking whether you visit at other times too, and if so, what might be the reason.’

Their eyes met for a second.

‘My guess is someone saw you leaving this place with Defne. On an island, words fly faster than a falcon – you know that.’