The Stelmužė Oak
“O Man, know thyself, for within thee lies the treasures of treasures!”
Jurgis sat on a crumbling stone wall that encircled the manorial estate. Beyond the shackles of serfdom lay Šventybrastis, and beyond that a land blooming with silver lakes, ivory birch groves, and the Nevėžis River. Under the harvest moon it peacefully slumbered, flowing on through the pine forests and towards Kėdainiai. Jurgis watched the day sigh away into the evening, a gauzy peach mist rolling down the hills and settling in the valley below, veiling the twinkling lights of the cottages.
"Do you always sit here alone?" He started and tumbled from the wall with fright. Picking himself up, he dusted down his dirt speckled shirt, and turned to meet a wistful-eyed little girl.
"I know your face, you’re the Szlachta's daughter." His words tinged with distaste as he looked hesitantly at the manor house on the brow of the hill. But as he viewed her double plaits that dangled beneath her little hat trimmed with gold braid, the filigree drops that hung from her ears like sea buckthorn berries, and the way she fumbled awkwardly with the woven belt around her waist, his features softened. "I used to live on the other side of the wall, in the village. Where the promise of autumn ripened like blackberries in the hedgerows. That was until your father, like the Baltic lords before him, charged across the land and called me from that world into this." As he echoed unspoken grievances, he was all at once painfully aware of how shabby his exterior was. The scuffed edges and subdued tones seemed to speak of the faces he would greet daily in the fields. Here, in the stillness, only the distant navy wash that crept along the horizon, and the little girl's golden earrings spoke of the world beyond the estate.
"I too have only recently moved here." She said quietly, offering a little piece of tinder that would hopefully kindle a friendship between them, but Jurgis threw aside the flint.
"What do you know of it?" He shot back. "Surely only the daily task of choosing which doll to play with concerns you?" He instantly regretted his impertinence, as the little girl, like a creature of dusk humbly lowered her dove grey eyes. “I'm sorry.” He said so quietly that even the dappled cuckoo in the nearby evergreen would not have heard him, but she did and said.
"Then come with me and Vadimas will tell you a story of a boy who was not much older than you are now." She invited him, and with intrigue Jurgis gladly followed her along a winding path that led through an orchard. Where dewy damson plums ripened on shadowy branches. Beyond the orchard stood the stables, and it was here that they found a man of advanced years, seated upon a bale of hay, and whittling birch wood with an amber handled knife.
"Vadimas, this is..." She turned to the boy.
"...Jurgis, sir. I have come in promise of a story." At his introduction, the old man raised a thorny eyebrow, ran a hand through his steel grey hair and laughed.
"I see, well then, you better seat yourself, and tell me, were you promised any tale in particular?" Jurgis shook his head as the little girl settled herself down beside Vadimas, and whispered into his ear.
"So, Rosa..." He addressed the little girl, her eyes glittering like dew. "...It is Feodor you wish to hear about?" And the two children nodded eagerly, Vadimas throwing a patchwork quilt over their legs. "In those days, when the mighty Stelmužė oak to the East was not quite so mighty, there lived a boy named Feodor. He was an only child, and it had taken his soul a long time to decide whether or not to come down to earth. He was the son and heir to this very estate, but he had spent the first eight years of his life amusing himself by hiding from his mother in wizened trees, cartwheeling over freshly mown hay, and plucking off the daisies petals one by one to watch them float like stars down the river. Every night he would gaze out of his window and hum a melody. He could not recall where he had first heard it, it just flowed out of him, and he felt a kinship with the linnet birds who would light upon the sill and echo his ancient ditty. Feodor took no delight in the carved wooden playthings that his father bought him from the showrooms of Vienna and Paris, and he viewed the other children of rank similarly wooden. The way they would stand awkwardly, all tamed hair and crisp white smocks. He did not understand them, and instead, would skulk outside the workers cottages, listening to the stories they wove in the lamplight. Their words cast shadows upon his whirring mind, and a wind like the breath of Vėjas, who blows souls into oblivion, blew through him. It whispered of enchanted things, of the mermaid Jūratė, who lives under the Baltic sea in a palace of Amber, and of the land of Dausos, where the good souls dwell upon the mountain between two rivers. However, Feodor was prohibited from straying beyond the estate's boundary, and it was only at night when he loosened the catch of his window that could he view the oak. As the years passed, tolerance drained out of the children, and they turned from him, for he was privileged and they were not. To them, Feodor was the foreign shadow that wielded mastery over their families. Yet this was not so, for although he was rich in earthy treasures, he was lonely, and knew nothing of the world beyond the folwark. For many a year, in isolation, he watched the clouds dance across the moon, with whom he would secretly converse. He had heard tell that the moon was Menvo, the son of the Almighty, and he fancied he could see his features etched onto the luminous surface. The words that sprang from his lips emblazoned themselves on to the verdant green leaves of the oak, who rustled in echo. Feodor wondered if the mighty oak's imploring branches would ever reach the moon, and he mused night after night, until one crisp evening, when he blew out the candle by his bed, dangled his legs over the windowsill, climbed down the ivy, and crossed into the forest.
In the moonlight, he approached the grove and the hoary oak that towered above all things, its acorn-laden branches so dense that only the light of a solitary star penetrated its spiralling foliage. He trembled in its presence, and thought of the ancient ones who had harvested the mistletoe with their golden sickles, and sworn oaths of allegiance much as he had done from his bedroom window. He bowed his head to the tree and laid a hand upon its honey coloured bark, an unknown comfort filtering into him. And then he began to climb, and climb, and climb, each bough like countless hands lifting him up, higher and higher until he punctured through the canopy. A sea of leaves rustled and stirred beneath him, and a fresh breeze swept the curls off his face. He smiled rapturously and held out his arms towards the moon, and to all the souls who processed across heaven in their glittering raiment.
The chill North East wind of Auštaras encircled him, yet still he remained, imploring them to take him with them into the West. Lace white snowflakes of winter drifted down and settled upon him, single snowflake by single snowflake crowning him with flecks of ice. Patiently he waited, until the oak shivered and enclosed its arms around the him, the mossy bark encasing his limp frame. An owl screeched as the goddesses Lamia and Giltinė crossed paths beneath the shadow of the tree. Here, life and death eclipsed each other, and after the last acorn had fallen from the oak, and before the first blossom of the year appeared, Feodor's soul withdrew from him, and unfurling its wings of glacial feathers, it ascended to the moon." Vadimas paused. “For you see all of the trees were once children, many of whom climbed up high into the branches so that they might reach out to their ancestors. And when their soul has departed, they become the tree itself.”
“Is that why that oak is so mighty? Because Feodor had deep understanding?” Jurgis asked.
“That may well be true, for oaks are the wisest of them all, having grown from young saplings, and garnering knowledge of both worlds. We too are all capable of earning such treasures, we just need to contemplate ourselves, as if in a looking glass, and carefully tend to our own sapling. Do not let your head be so full of thoughts that you cannot hear the whisperings of the trees, for they have much wisdom to impart before they too are bowed low by the elements, and make their final descent into the earth. The teaching that I wish for you to slip into your pocket today, is the one that shows us not to allow the barriers in our mind to materialise in the world like the other children did with Feodor. We are all born from the earth and we all die into it, the rest is just details."
Jurgis turned to Rosa, and together they clasped hands across the boundary of their worlds, and standing beneath the oak, they swore an oath of everlasting friendship.
Story from 2015.
Painting: Louis Francais: "Orpheus", 1863, Oil on canvas, 195 x 130 cm (76.77" x 51.18"), Private collection.
