The Singing of Trees
“The Forest is dark, dearie, The Forest is dark;
The moment you think that you’re lost in the woods, then you are.
Do not lose your way, dearie, Do not lose your way;
The monsters are lurking not far from the path should you stray.
Things aren’t what they seem, dearie, Things aren’t what they seem;
Kind grins are bared teeth; Please don’t answer the calls from the trees.
Do not pay them heed, dearie, Do not pay them heed;
Hear footsteps behind you, beware but don’t fret, they’re just checking.
The air is alive, dearie, The air is alive;
To help and to hinder, but it’s how some learned to survive.
These woods are too old, dearie, These woods are too old;
Watch for crimson wraiths, keep your strength and wits close should you go.
Deep in the Forest.”
~Emory R Frie
I visited the woods yesterday and the day before that too. When I finish writing this, I’ll be making another visit. There’s something about the woods, the forest that sings to my soul, that lures me back time and time again. For some folks it’s the ocean that tugs at something deep inside them, for others its mountains but for me it is the forest.
It’s spring but the last of winter's icy breath can still be felt, enough to chill the skin and send light flurries of snow when dark clouds cover the bright blue spring sky. But then the clouds dissipate as quickly as they gathered and the sun breaks free once more, warm when the wind drops for a moment or two. The forest is beginning to awaken after the slow sleep of winter. New leaves bright and verdant are beginning to unfurl from branches, lush and green, carrying the hope that can only come with springtime and the flowering trees wear their white blossoms like crowns.
For those who know, signs of animal life hint at the hidden life of the forest, the life that hides when man comes through. Deer trails that some, unknowing, might mistake for a path. Smaller trails too, the tell tale gap between long grass, a crossing over water. Scat. Prints that don’t belong to dogs. The signs are there for those who know and understand at least some of the ways of the woods. If you’re quiet enough you might just catch sight of these shy woodland animals, or perhaps hear the sound of hoofs on the dry forest floor. There is a magic in the woods for those who know how to see it, for those who do not impose themselves on the woods but instead become a part of it.
But even for the most green of us (no pun intended), perhaps making their first foray into exploring the delights of the wood, the birdsong cannot go unnoticed. And there’s another type of singing too, the singing of the trees. What’s that you say? Trees do not sing. But of course they do. You’ve no doubt heard it yourself. When the wind is high and rushes through the boughs making them sway, the song sounds like the ocean. When it is more gentle the song takes on the quality of an inland sea. Sometimes the song is different, more eerie perhaps, seeming to emanate from the heartwood itself, a whining and creaking, ethereal and otherworldly. Some find this sound to be creepy. They do not like it. Perhaps they thought the trees silent and so, upon hearing this strange song, a fear both old and new creeps upon them. Perhaps this fear is ancient, as old as civilization itself, the recognition that the forest is the living embodiment of the other. The forest isn’t a liminal space but instead is the other side of the coin, the opposite of what we have become accustomed to. By the time we enter the forest proper, we have already passed through the liminal space.
As regular readers will know, folklore is my jam, all kinds and from everywhere. I cannot explain this love, but can only say that these stories, passed down through the ages fascinate me, and we all know that there are often truths hidden in stories, if only just a speck.
I have a particular love of the old fairy tales. I don’t mean the sanitised and repackaged stories of Disney, but instead the older stories told and retold by authors such as the Brothers Grimm, Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, Marie-Catherine d’Aulnoy and others beside. A common theme within many of the stories I adore is that of the forest as being other. The protagonists of such stories venture into the forest with warnings ringing in their ears, told to stay on the path, you know how the story goes and what befalls them when they inevitably leave the path behind. The forests are full of monsters; witches who wait to feast upon the flesh of fattened babes or wolves that gobble up grannies. But not all folk stories pitch the forest as places filled with monsters. The forest is still a place to be wary but instead of monsters, ghouls and ghosts, there is instead magic.
The forest in these stories are tests the protagonists must face, some obstacle to overcome. The man becomes the hero. The girl becomes a princess (sometimes aided by several magical creatures or, as in the original story, thieves). Whether hiding evil or magic, or perhaps both, what is clear is the forest is a place outside the normal bounds of human morality, and the same is true of the forest in real life. The laws of man hold no sway in the forest. When confronted with the stark realisation of our smallness, without our technology, machines and industry, the illusion of superiority soon vanishes, and we are reminded of our place within the world and how soft we really are.
For those who feel connected to the land and to nature, this is a welcome feeling, a balm that soothes our world-weary souls. A chance to reconnect with what is real, an opportunity for our spirit to soar in the wilds where it belongs with the spirits of land and nature. We hear the singing of the trees and do not fear it but rejoice in the music. But for those still bound to the world of man and machines, of industry and capitalism the forest may seem a dangerous place, filled with malice, the other world, primal and savage. They will cling to the path through the woods, stepping oh so carefully lest they lose their way. To people such as these, the singing of the trees is chilling, perhaps even frightening, the whine of a forest witch or monster. They can’t help this feeling, and so we must take them softly by the hand and lead them away from the path. We must teach them how to dance to the music of the forest, show them the delights that are as hidden as the deer, and help them as they begin to rewild themselves. This is how we begin to affect change. This is how we make the world wild once more.
EMMA KATHRYN
Emma Kathryn, practises traditional British witchcraft, Vodou and Obeah, a mixture representing her heritage. She lives in the sticks with her family where she reads tarot, practises witchcraft and drink copious amounts of coffee.
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