The Weight of Memories
Niles expected to spot changes when he faced his shaving mirror the next morning, but he only saw dark-circled grey eyes and a crease between his brows that announced his headache.
Listening to his trees had absorbed his focus for hours until he’d been stiff from sitting and so cold his teeth had chattered like magpies.
A long hot shower, his largest mug of hot chocolate, and curling into a tight ball under his quilt and two extra blankets hadn’t completely banished the shivers.
Even thoughts of Orren hadn’t be able to do that.
Sleep had been slow in coming, and leaving his cocoon when his alarm prompted him had been a struggle.
Orren’s gift—if it had been a gift—was no easy one, because twelve hours later, Niles was still drowning in images and impressions, unable to make sense of it all.
Did trees store memories in their trunks and branches?
Had touching the beam let him sense those memories?
Or had he drifted off into a fanciful dream, prompted by the conversations he and Orren had shared?
And what about the trees in his glade? The images that had come to his mind when he touched them had been familiar, but also not.
The hues of the seasons, his renovations from a different angle, curiosity and excitement when he planted new trees.
None of those had been his memories, and seeing himself had been the most disconcerting thing of all.
Niles didn’t know what to make of the information he now had.
He hoped Orren would know.
The weather had changed overnight. A blustery wind tore through the clouds and threw rain with abandon. Niles skirted the glade, keeping to the covered walk that ringed the courtyard, to where Orren waited beside the door to the library.
Not seeing him sitting in the glade was unusual.
His posture was stiffer, too, and the way he hugged his stack of books made Niles think of the discomfort of attending networking meetings.
But he had come, and relief sent Niles’s heart into overdrive.
He wanted to hug the silly man, but what he said was: “Look at you all wet and dripping! Why didn’t you shelter under the carriage arch if you couldn’t be bothered to knock on my door? ”
Orren blinked. “I… wasn’t sure of my welcome.”
He sounded so hesitant the need to wrap his arms around him almost ate Niles alive. “Of course you’re welcome,” he blurted, unlocking the library door and ushering Orren inside. “I don’t mind if you’re not human. I enjoy your company.”
“That’s good to know.” Orren laughed, then, warm and joyful.
When he held out his hands, Niles took them and being pulled close to Orren felt like the most natural thing in the world, just like sharing coffee and hot chocolate on the big sofa in the library. It was this familiarity that made Niles pluck up the courage to ask. “Are you? Human, I mean?”
“I was human, once,” Orren admitted. “I don’t remember all that much of that life. The books, so full of memories. And the trees.”
“Now you’re immortal?”
“No. Everything dies. But I don’t live like you do, birth to death. Not anymore.”
Niles failed to imagine a non-linear life. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, and stepped closer, a dish towel in his hands. “Here. Sit. I’ll dry your hair while you explain.”
Orren sank onto the sofa. “Most life is linear, but there are a few of us who accept different tasks. Autumn is the time for memories, and I’ve watched autumn arrive and depart more times than I care to count.
I always watch, you know? Families in windows.
Couples on benches.” He paused and reached up to where Niles was rubbing at his hair to stroke his fingertips over the back of Niles’s hand.
“I’ve never been invited inside before.”
The ache in his voice shoved a giant lump into Niles’s throat. He swallowed it down, needing to speak his truth, however much it embarrassed him. “I’m glad you came," he said. “To the library. That first day. I’m glad you stayed.”
Orren's breath hitched. “So am I,” he near-whispered. “Believe me, so am I.”
Niles had a myriad of questions. He shelved them all. Once Orren’s hair was as dry as he could get it, he set the towel aside and headed for the coffeemaker, to let hot chocolate and coffee restore normality.
“If you don’t live the way I understand living, then what do you do?” he asked once their drinks were made.
“Travel and talk. Trees aren’t meant to be solitary, you know?
Once, every tree on this world was connected to every other tree.
They sang, shared memories, celebrated when a sapling had grown enough to join the song, mourned when a voice faded from their circle.
That was once. Now, trees are being felled in swathes, and the connection between them all is stretching thin. ”
“What about the trees people plant? Don’t they make up for those lost?”
Orren’s shoulders sagged, and from one moment to the next he appeared sad, and tired.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But it isn’t that simple.
If you placed two dozen babies into a house, would they survive without an adult to care for them and show them how the world works?
Trees are no different. They need guidance, too. ”
Horror gripped Niles. “My trees—”
“Are fine.”
Orren’s touch, a gentle brush of fingertips, soothed Niles’s agitation.
“Truly. When you planted the birch in the courtyard, you wakened the memories the house held onto. Your trees learned as they grew, enough to reach out to find other trees. I did the rest, the first time I came.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“The last two autumns.” Orren touched the back of his fingers to Niles’s cheek. Niles loved how tactile Orren was, how he always knew when comfort was needed and welcome. “I’ve been watching you care for your trees, and every year my wish to speak to you grew stronger.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Memory keepers are not supposed to show themselves to humans. Our business is with the trees.”
“Memory keepers…” Niles tasted the word like a fine wine, compared it to the man sitting beside him and found that it fit.
“Yes. Much like humans, trees die of loneliness. They need the connection to other trees to thrive. More than that, they need the memories to know how to protect themselves.”
Niles curled into himself and clutched his mug of coffee tighter.
Any other day, the information Orren had revealed would have delighted him, would have had him asking questions.
Right then, embarrassment hobbled his tongue.
He’d brought trees to his courtyard as if they were objects, his to place to his liking—when they were so much more.
They’d watched his renovations, marked every one of the few visitors to his library, had soothed him and offered companionship when he’d felt lonely and ignored.
“Protect themselves how?” Niles took refuge in data collection.
Orren’s smile said he wasn’t fooled. “You did nothing wrong. In fact, you did better than most people. You didn’t just plant your trees, you spent time with them, talked to them, shared information. That’s why your trees have their voices. Why they’re sharing memories.”
“And… the protection?”
“Dog with a bone.” Orren shook his head.
The smile he gave Niles was fond if a little wistful.
“Did you know trees can alter the scent of their leaves? That they can change the leaves’ taste, even, and do it deliberately?
If a deer were to wander into your glade, your trees would know how to make their leaves unappealing.
Solitary trees, young trees that haven’t been taught…
could suffer greatly without that knowledge. ”
Orren rose to brew more hot chocolate, and Niles marvelled at how at home he seemed in a world that had to become stranger to him with each passing year. “Was there hot chocolate when you were human?”
“It was a novelty—fashionable, highly prized, and correspondingly expensive.” He brought his brimming mug back to the table.
“Making it was a lengthy process, and the resulting drink was so heavy with sediment it needed stirring before every sip. But all that aside, I’ve always felt chocolate rather than coffee was the perfect match for autumn. ”
“Is that the only time of year you visit?” Niles held his breath as he asked.
Orren nodded. “Yes. And I must leave as the last leaf falls.”