The Island of Missing Trees(83)

‘I figured,’ he said in turn.

He knew, even back then, that she was prone to bouts of melancholy. It came to her in successive waves, an ebb and flow. When the first wave arrived, barely touching her toes, it was so light and translucent a ripple that you might be forgiven for thinking it insignificant, that it would vanish soon, leaving no trace. But then followed another wave, and the next one, rising as far as her ankles, and the one after that covering her knees, and before you knew it she was immersed in liquid pain, up to her neck, drowning. That’s how depression sucked her in.

‘Are you sure you want to marry me?’ said Defne. ‘Because I’m not an easy person, as you know, and I have –’

He put his finger on her lips, interrupting her for the first time. ‘I have never been more sure of anything in my life. But it’s totally fine if you need more time to think – or to turn me down.’

She smiled then, a hint of shyness entering her voice. She leaned over, her breath brushing his skin. ‘I don’t need to think, darling. I’ve always dreamed of marrying you.’

And because there was nothing left to say, or that’s how they felt, they were silent for a while, listening to the night, alert to every creak and rustle.

‘There’s one more thing I want to do before we leave the island,’ Kostas said at last. ‘I want to visit the tavern and see how the old fig tree is doing.’





Fig Tree





Of all the insects, if there is one you cannot possibly ignore when telling the story of an island, it must be the ant. We trees owe a lot to them. So do humans, for that matter. Yet they regard ants as trivial, of no major consequence, as they do so often with things that lie beneath their feet. It is ants who sustain, aerate and improve the soil over which Greeks and Turks have fought so bitterly. Cyprus also belongs to them.

Ants are resilient and hard-working, capable of carrying twenty times their own bodyweight. With a life span that surpasses almost any other insect, they are also the smartest in my opinion. Have you ever watched them drag away a millipede, or gang up on a scorpion, or devour a whole gecko? It is both fascinating and frightening, every step perfectly synchronized. What goes on inside the mind of a single ant in that moment? How does one achieve that kind of inner confidence, the assertiveness to take on an enemy far better equipped for the fight? With their olfactory memory, ants can pick up scent trails, sniff out an intruder from another colony, and, when far from home, they can remember the way back. Should obstacles appear in their path, cracks in the ground or fallen twigs, they can make bridges from their bodies by clinging to each other like skilful acrobats. Everything they learn, they transfer to the next generation. Knowledge is nobody’s property. You receive it, you give it back. In this way, a colony remembers what its individual members have long forgotten.

Ants know our island better than anyone. They are familiar with its igneous rocks, recrystallized limestones, ancient coins of Salamis, and they are experts at making use of the resin that drips from tree barks. They also know where the missing lie buried.

The year Kostas Kazantzakis returned to Cyprus, a colony of ants set up home among my roots. I was expecting this as I had recently been infested by aphids, those smallest of insects that suck sap from leaves and spread viruses, causing trees deep stress. If Yusuf and Yiorgos were here, they would never have allowed this to happen. Every day they checked my branches for pests, spraying my leaves gently with apple cider vinegar, taking good care of me, but now I was on my own, defenceless. Where aphids appear, the ants are sure to follow, fond as they are of harvesting sweet aphid droppings. But that was not the only reason they built an entire colony here. Ants love overripe figs and now that no one was harvesting mine they were all overripe. A fig is not exactly a fruit, you see. It is a synconium – a fascinating structure that hides flowers and seeds in its cavity, with a barely visible opening through which wasps can enter and deposit their pollen. And sometimes, seizing the opportunity, ants, too, crawl through that opening and eat what they can.

So I became used to listening to the pitter-patter of thousands of tiny feet scuttling back and forth. A colony is a strictly class-based society. As long as every member accepts inequality as the norm and agrees to the division of labour, the system operates seamlessly. Workers forage for food, keep living spaces tidy and tend to the queen’s endless needs; soldiers protect the community against predators and perils; drones help to propagate the species, and die soon after mating. Then there are the princesses – the future queens. The social stratum must be preserved at all costs.

One night, as I was getting ready to go to sleep, I heard an unusual sound. With only a few attendants in tow, the queen was making her way up the lengthy, rugged path of my trunk.

Still panting from the arduous climb, she began to tell her story. She said she was born by an old well, not far away. She had good memories of growing up there. As a princess she was aware that when the time was ripe, she would be asked to leave her birthplace to start her own kingdom. The colony was thriving, the population growing. In need of more space, they had been enlarging the settlement through subterranean passages and tunnels, connecting chambers to nests. But in a terrible engineering mistake, the workers chewed too far into the wall. One afternoon the east side of the well caved in and collapsed. In the beat of a heart, the water that seeped out drowned hundreds. Some species of ant could swim, but not this one. The survivors scattered in all directions, seeking shelter wherever possible. After this catastrophe, the queen said, she had to leave her home as fast as possible to start a new life.