Under a Willow Endlessly Weeping
Under a Willow Endlessly Weeping
It was always the same with rain. Cold, grey. Whether it pitter-pattered upon a tin roof like the scampering of rodents or drenched the poor newscolt through his cap and jacket, rain fell from the heavens in a smear of unfeeling twilight. The rain did not care. It turned earth to mud and slosh, bent the trees beneath its winds. The inevitable gravity of a downpour made everything seem wilted and dreary. Rain never changed.
Or perhaps Cloudy Day had just been staring out the window too long. Again. He had not been away from his hometown of Tall Tale very long, but he had already forgotten just how much it rained. He had grown used to the sun in Ponyville, how it dappled the mossy floor of his forest home, how it warmed the earth and illumined all the uncounted verdant shades of leaf and wood. And the sunlight glinting in the brook—how it sparkled! Like rippling currents of gold…
A quiet sigh slipped past his lips. Cloudy missed that brook, forever babbling softly amid the forest’s ambience. He missed his house, woven of a grove of oaks by the magical song of fey creatures. Well, he had always liked to think that was how it had come to be, though, in truth, he had discovered the tree-home quite by accident, vacant but alive. From the stained-glass windows and high, twisting boughs, the whole forest felt that way—alive. Of course, it was more than possible that Cloudy was romanticizing what had begun as facts. His imagination tended to run away with him, especially when he was surrounded by the hard, sharp jungle of a city such as Tall Tale.
That was not to say that Tall Tale was a bad place. It was quite lovely, in its own way, with its world-renowned libraries and museums, lush public parks, not to mention all the friendly and inventive citizens. It just was not home anymore, not as much as his speck of woodland east of Ponyville. Cloudy could not recall precisely when that shift had occurred, when his heart had taken root in that quaint town, but he had a fairly good idea. Perhaps it was not that tree-home at all, wonderful though it was. Just maybe, it was somepony far more special than any material comforts.
“You’ve been brooding over that rain too long, son,” creaked the voice of his adoptive grandmother.
Turning from the window, Cloudy found the old pegasus perched in her rocking chair by the fire. Age had creased her skin, with laugh lines framing her mouth and wrinkles sagging about her jowl and knees. Her magenta eyes and soft blue coat, however, were still as bright as the day Daisy Chain had first walked into the Tall Tale Orphanage. She even wore the same tie-dyed headband and beaded shawl—both vibrant with every color of the rainbow—though the latter hung more loosely from her narrow shoulders now. The headband, too, did not fit quite as well around her thinning, pink and mint-green mane, which Daisy Chain kept long and flowing despite the silver strands flecking the fading colors. She never had been one to wear her mane up.
“I’m not brooding,” replied Cloudy Day, shifting his attention back to the window. The reflection of a brown unicorn with a dark, scruffy mane stared back at him with earthy, longing eyes. He quickly focused past his phantom in the glass to the cold, grey rain. He did not need verification from his reflection that he was not brooding. He was definitely, resolutely doing no such thing.
Daisy Chain chuckled, the sound more akin to the quiet groan of her tired rocking chair when she swayed it back and forth. “You always were a bad liar, Cloudy. Don’t think you can fool old Daisy now.”
A small laugh escaped him. “Where do you get it in your head that you’re old, Gran?” asked Cloudy, leaving the window to stand beside Daisy Chain’s rocker. He readjusted her drooping shawl with a wisp of silver magic. “You’re the prettiest young mare in all of Tall Tale.”
“Phaw! You never could stop spinning fancies, you silly colt. Always with your head in the clouds.”
Cloudy glanced toward the thunderheads outside. “Not in these clouds.”
“Salix bab… ba—what’s this word, Cloudy?” asked his sister from her place on the rug. The little earth pony lay stretched out on her belly, a book at least twice her size open before her. The amber glow from the hearth made the soft yellow streaks in her green curls deeper, more like gold, and her muted red coat was all but set afire. A furrowed brow shadowed her cyan eyes. Indeed, her whole face was screwed up with the effort of sounding out a particularly troublesome word. Autumn Song had also been an inmate of the Tall Tale Orphanage, though Cloudy Day had, by that time, already been adopted by Daisy Chain.
Standing over Autumn Song, Cloudy followed his sister’s indicating fore hoof. Apparently, the book was an encyclopedia of trees—every single one of them, from the size of the volume. On the current page was an image of a willow, with several paragraphs of information alongside it. The pair of words to which Autumn pointed was the tree’s scientific name. “Salix babylonica.”
“Thanks,” Autumn mumbled, pushing her glasses back up her muzzle. “‘Salix babylonica is round in shape and is characterized by long, wispy branches and thin leaves. The twigs generally turn yellow—the leaves, green—early in the spring, which is why many consider this tree to be one of the first signs of the season. Salix babylonica, otherwise known as the weeping willow, can grow to heights of…’” She paused. Then, propping herself up on her forelegs, Autumn Song raised her gaze to Cloudy and asked, “Why’s it called a weeping willow? Trees don’t cry.”
“Willows do.”
“I’ve never seen any trees cry.”
Cloudy chuckled. “Well, perhaps willows don’t cry as you and I, but, nevertheless, they do weep.”
Autumn Song fell silent for a moment, examining the image of the willow more closely. Then she pushed her glasses into place again and looked at Cloudy. “Why do willows cry?”
“Now, there’s a fine story,” remarked Daisy Chain, leaning back in her rocker.
With the familiar folktale surfacing from the depths of his mental library, Cloudy Day settled down on the rug beside his sister. “Well, willows have not always wept. At first, they didn’t even know what tears were, let alone what it was to cry. Trees are kind and joyful by nature, and so they have no need of sorrow, nor pain. That is not to say that they don’t feel sadness, of course, but they simply had not experienced such grief as would conjure tears. Not, that is, until two ponies taught them how.”
Magic swirled around Cloudy’s horn. A shimmering landscape spread before him in the air, with mountains in the distance and a wood to one side. The rippling surface of a wide lake dominated the scene, and on its banks flourished a grove of willows. One willow towered over its fellows, its draping vines touching both earth and water. Then the living curtain parted, revealing a gnarled trunk and a pair of ponies—a mare and a stallion—seated together in the willow’s shade.
“Their names have long been forgotten,” said Cloudy, “but the love each felt for the other transcends time.” His magic flared, and the silvery illustration shifted. Instead of two adults, there were now two foals. The filly was weaving the flowering vines of the willow into braids, and the colt was clambering amid the boughs. Then the colt lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, startling the filly. The two stared at each other for a breath, and then they both laughed and the filly helped the colt to stand.
“When they were young, these ponies first met under the oldest and most wizened willow of the grove near their village. Friendship came easily, and the foals spent their days playing in the Old Willow’s shade. Sometimes, they would even sneak out of their beds at night to meet in secret under the willow, or put up a makeshift tent and spend an evening camping. And the Old Willow watched them. She welcomed their company. When the foals returned to their village at the close of day, the Old Willow would tell her fellows in the grove all about the foals’ adventures, how they would make necklaces of her vines and climb among her branches.”
“But trees can’t talk!” interrupted Autumn Song.
“Phaw! Of course they do,” Daisy Chain laughed. “All trees talk. What do you think that whispering is when the wind rustles their branches? Or when the sun warms their wood and they begin to creak and groan?”
“Is that true?” asked Autumn, gaping and staring wide-eyed at Cloudy.
Cloudy nodded. “May I continue?”
Ducking her head, Autumn’s mouth stretched in a sheepish grin. “Yes. Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Cloudy chuckled. He turned his attention back to the magical illustration, conjuring new images. Glimpses of the foals at play resolved into a montage of their adolescent and young adult lives. In place of the filly and colt stood a young mare and stallion. They still appeared to be as close as they had been as foals, but they had matured. They stood or sat beneath the willow, talking to each other and watching the sun set over the lake. Then the stallion said something to the mare, and the mare threw her arms around him, a smile almost brighter than the stardust that created her lighting her whole face.
“As the years passed and these foals grew,” Cloudy went on, “their friendship also grew, and soon it had become something more. Great quests of the imagination became an exchange of heartfelt gifts, quiet conversations that lasted long into the night, and, finally, declarations of love. And the Old Willow watched them, and she told the grove how the young stallion would pick the yellow blossoms from her vines and thread them through the mare’s mane. The Old Willow was especially happy when the stallion proposed to the mare, as well as when the two were wed in the Old Willow’s shade.
“Then, one evening, the lovers came to the Old Willow in a storm of anger and woe.” The illustration changed. The mare and stallion barged through the willow’s vines with faces contorted by some terrible feud, every gesture as sharp as their silent shouts. “The Old Willow couldn’t understand the why of it at first, but, as the ponies’ argument went on, she soon learned. Dark creatures from beyond the Lands of Green—as the trees call Equestria—had laid siege to the Greatest Stone Grove of the Mountain—the city we now know as Canterlot. You see, at this time, the Princesses were absent from the city, on a quest to free the Crystal Empire from the Dread King’s reign. Knowing this, the forces of evil had descended upon the city.
“The lovers had heard the call to arms, and the stallion had decided to answer it. But the mare didn’t want him to go to war. She feared he would be killed. If he died, the mare knew she would die, too, for her life was nothing without him. The stallion, however, held no such worries. He claimed that, with thousands of other warriors marching alongside him, there was little chance that he would meet his end on the field of battle. And so he went to war, and the mare was left behind to wait for him to come home again.” The stallion vanished from the illustration. “And the Old Willow watched, but now she had only the mare. When she shared her worries with the grove, sympathy and a sliver of sorrow made the other willows sigh in the breeze for this unfortunate turn of events. Hoping to lend the poor mare some solace, the Old Willow bade her flowers to bloom early.”
Cloudy Day paused, watching the silvered seasons shift in his glittering painting. The mare sat alone in the willow’s shade as flowers bloomed and gave to fruit, as the land turned dry and the willow’s vines began to shed, as winter froze the lake and spring thawed it anew. The inevitability of those seasons reminded him of the rain outside the window. “Spring became summer, summer became autumn—so did the cycle of the seasons continue. A year passed, and the stallion did not return. Summers came and gave to frost, and the stallion did not return. The mare came to the Old Willow every evening, and she would speak to the Old Willow of the happy days before the war. It seemed to give the mare a measure of strength and hope, and she waited every day for her love to return.
“But he never would.” The mare collapsed at the Old Willow’s roots, tears of stardust streaming from her eyes. “One day, the mare received a letter declaring the news she had so long dreaded. The war had at last come to an end, and the armies of evil had been beaten, but—like so many who answer the call to battle, even today—the mare’s husband had not survived. His death was a noble one, if any death can be said to be so, but that didn’t change the fact that the mare’s heart would never again be whole. She came to the Old Willow in tears, and her tears fell upon the tree’s roots.
“‘Why does rain fall from your eyes?’ asked the Old Willow.
“‘It is not rain,’ sobbed the mare. ‘I weep, Old Willow. I weep for my husband, for he is dead and I will nevermore see his smile, nor feel his touch. He is gone from me forever!’
“The Old Willow was silent. She didn’t know how to heal a wound as deep and grievous as that which had been torn in the mare. But she could watch, and watch she did. She watched the mare weep long into the night, listened to the mare’s hollow keening. The rest of the grove whispered to each other, confused and disturbed by this immeasurable depth of sorrow. They sought answers from the Old Willow, but she had no answers to give. Not yet.
“As the Old Willow’s roots were watered with the mare’s endless tears, the Old Willow could bear the mare’s crying no longer. She gently embraced the mare in her vines, weaving the yellow flowers through her mane. ‘I have watched you and your beloved many long turns of the seasons,’ the Old Willow said. ‘I will not watch you die alone in such terrible heartache.’” The silvered Old Willow wrapped her vines around the mare and drew the pony to her gnarled trunk. Light shown where the mare touched the tree. Slowly, the mare melded into the heart of the Old Willow.
“And the Old Willow made the widowed mare a part of her, so the mare would never again be alone. The mare, for her part, welcomed this gift. However, in joining with the Old Willow, the mare shared her grief with the wizened tree. The Old Willow had never before known such a deep, aching sorrow. Droplets of water began to form on her leaves, and her bark and roots grew damp. The other willows were baffled by this, for they had never seen this happen to any tree, let alone the matronly Old Willow.
“‘Why does rain touch you when none has fallen?’ the willows asked.
“The Old Willow was quiet for a time. Then she said, ‘It… is not rain.’” Cloudy paused. The magical illustration before him sparkled with tiny flecks of white light all across the image of the Old Willow. “‘I weep,’ the Old Willow whispered. ‘I have learned how to weep.’
“And the Old Willow’s tears fell upon the roots of the nearest willows, and they, too, learned how to cry. Soon, every willow in the grove, and the willows in the groves beyond, had learned what the purest and deepest of sorrows was and how to shed tears. And now all willows weep, for they cannot forget what they have learned. When you see the dew glinting upon the trees, and you see their bark and roots have grown damp without rainfall, it’s because they weep still. Not always, but every now and then, when they think of the poor lovers who taught them how to cry.”
Cloudy Day’s aura faded; the silvery illustration dispersed. The popping and crackling of the fire and the steady creak and groan as Daisy Chain rocked back and forth were the only sounds in the room. Autumn Song’s gaze was still riveted on where the magical image of the Old Willow had been last. Her eyes glistened behind her glasses. As the silence began to stretch, Cloudy’s gaze drifted toward the window again. The rain had subsided, and the dark thunderheads were a softer shade of grey, paler—almost silver.
After a time, Autumn rubbed at her eyes and shoved her glasses back up her nose. “That’s so… sad,” she said finally, looking up at Cloudy. “Is it true?”
“I like to think so,” replied Cloudy.
Autumn shifted her stare to the photograph of a weeping willow in her encyclopedia. A scowl darkened her features. “If falling in love means you have to be that sad, I never want to fall in love. Never, ever.”
“That’s a risk worth taking, child,” said Daisy Chain. “Well worth taking.”
“But I don’t ever want to be that sad!”
Cloudy Day slipped a foreleg around his sister in a warm hug. “If you find the right somepony—a very special somepony, who lifts your spirits just by being in the room, who fills your world with a light brighter than the sun, who stands by you when you are at your best and worst, who sees through your masks and, at times, seems to know what you’re thinking and how you’re feeling even before you do—if you find the right one, love is worth all the tears willows weep and more.”
Autumn Song was silent throughout Cloudy’s speech, but now she stuck out her tongue and gagged. “Blech! When did you get so sappy, Cloudy?”
Daisy Chain laughed. “Never you mind, child. You’re too young yet to worry about such things. Why don’t you dig out your galoshes and raincoat? I bet all that rain left plenty of puddles just perfect for splashing!”
Grinning, Autumn hopped to her hooves and hurried off, leaving her tree encyclopedia open on the floor. Cloudy closed it with one wisp of magic and, with another, floated it to the nearest end-table. As he picked himself up to find his own rain gear—lest he be soaked to the bone by Autumn’s antics once they were outside—Daisy Chain creaked her rocker to a stop.
“You know,” she said, slowly rising, her joints popping and cracking almost as much as the fire, “the last time you told that story, I seem to remember the two lovers both being earth ponies.” The smallest smile touched Daisy Chain’s lips. “Is there some reason you made the mare a unicorn this time?”
Heat flushed Cloudy’s cheeks. He averted his gaze, swirling a fore hoof in tiny circles on the rug. “W-well… that’s… um…”
“No wonder you’ve been out of sorts since you came to visit,” Daisy Chain chuckled. “A bit more heartsick than homesick, eh? So when did you meet this lucky little lass, hmm? In Ponyville, was it?”
Sighing softly, Cloudy looked out the window at the pale grey clouds—grey like she was. The beautiful grey that verges on silver, like mist… or stars. “We met almost two years ago, under a weeping willow.”
