The Beautiful Tree
By Ella Wong
Illustrated by Ella and Edward Wong
Deep in the very heart of the woods stood a Beautiful Tree. The tree had leaves of sparkling green, a thick gold trunk that broke even the harshest wind, and nuts that, when the wind blew, knocked against each other like chiming bells.
He led a happy life; whenever he was bored, the squirrel nesting in his branches told him stories, and wouldn’t stop chattering away until he got hungry and plucked a nut to eat.
Whenever the tree was sad, the nightingale sang to him with her beautiful, burbling voice until he forgot his sorrow.
And whenever he was simply grumpy, the beetles scurried across his roots and tickled him until he laughed, leaving him in good spirits once more.
Yes, the Beautiful Tree led a very happy life indeed.
And then one blistering summer’s day, a boat maker strode into the woods looking for a tree to make a boat with.
He happened upon the Beautiful Tree, and looked him up and down.
“Yes,” he said to himself. “This tree will make a fine boat indeed. Look at that sturdy trunk! It shall never sink! And look at those golden branches! The boat will look as if it is gilded, and I might be able to sell it for a higher price.”
So he picked up his axe. But before he could swing it at the tree, the squirrel leapt at him, snarling and baring his teeth.
Soon the boat maker ran off with squirrel-bite marks all over him.
The Beautiful Tree thanked the squirrel, saying, “How shall I ever repay you?”
“Your branches give me a home and your nuts are my food.” the squirrel said. “You need not repay me, for I was repaying you.”
And so, the Beautiful Tree led a happy life again; until one bright autumn’s morning a jeweller strode into the woods, looking for something he might use in his creations.
He happened upon the Beautiful Tree, and looked him up and down.
“Marvellous!” he exclaimed. “Why, those leaves could pass for emeralds! I shall be able to sell them, and no one will know they are but leaves, for they are as fine as any jewel.”
And he reached up, intending to pluck every single leaf off the Beautiful Tree.
But before he could so much as touch one, the nightingale flew at him, shrieking terribly. Her beak glinted dangerously sharp.
Soon enough the jeweller ran off, peck-marks covering his arms.
The Beautiful Tree thanked her greatly, saying, “How shall I ever repay you?”
“Your leaves give me shelter from the prying eyes of humans, and a safe place to build my nest,” the nightingale said. “You need not repay me, for I was repaying you.”
And the Beautiful Tree led a happy life again, until one icy winter’s night, when a poor woodcutter walked into the woods.
He happened upon the Beautiful Tree, and looked him up and down.
“This tree will fetch a good price at the market, for it is as beautiful as the day. I shall be able to feed my family with it!” And, overjoyed, he picked up his axe.
The beetles scrambled towards him, clicking their pincers in fury, raising their horns, but he took no notice and swung his weapon, hacking again and again at the Beautiful Tree’s trunk; until, with a mighty groan, he swayed and fell into the knee-deep snow with a thump.
The beetles cried out in dismay, the nightingale wept, and the squirrel sagged in the bitter wind.
The Beautiful Tree had never felt such a heavy sorrow bearing him down, like an endless chasm had opened up in him and the only thing that could fill it was misery.
More and more wretched despair was seeping from his heart and into the chasm, yet it wouldn’t fill and it wouldn’t close—and oh it ached, because something just wasn’t there anymore.
But he wanted—needed—to be strong for his friends. So he said, forcing the warble and crack out of his voice: “Do not worry. The snow was soft and did not hurt much, and I know places for you to make new homes in. Little squirrel, go to my elder brother who has strong branches and round nuts. Little nightingale, go to my sister, who has many leaves for you to hide in. And little beetles, my roots are still in the soil. You may still live there, and be happy, for you will have a reminder of me in your home.”
“You have given us a good home, and you have been nothing but kind towards us,” the beetles sobbed. “Yet we have let you down. How shall we ever repay you?”
“You need not repay me.” the Beautiful Tree called, as the woodcutter lugged him away. “You have comforted me with your presence, and you have made me happy when I was sad.”
“But still…!”
The animals bowed their heads, united by silent grief, as the tree disappeared from sight.
*
The woodcutter brought the Beautiful Tree home. “You are too splendid to sell immediately,” he said. “And besides, a blizzard is coming. You shall be my family’s Christmas tree until the snow clears up.”
And so, the Beautiful Tree was erected in the woodcutter’s little cottage, strung with dried berries and strands of straw tinsel. He was crowned with a wooden star carved from one of his own golden branches, and he sat in the corner as the humans laughed together, singing the night away.
“Oh,” he sighed, “I do wish I were back home with my animal friends.”
*
The snow did not stop falling until months later. By then, the Beautiful Tree had shrivelled and browned, withering to a husk until he was beautiful no more.
And because he was not beautiful, no one would buy him. Not the boat-maker, who said the wood was too ugly and would surely crumble at sea; not the jeweller, who dismissed the dusty sepia leaves with a look of disgust; no, no one wanted a tree that was no longer beautiful.
“What use are you,” the woodcutter shouted angrily, “if you cannot help me make money?”
And he hurtled the tree into the woods.
*
Deep in the very heart of the woods lies a tree. It was once beautiful, but no longer.
Once a year the squirrel, the nightingale and the beetles reunite over the withered tree.
Once a year they will gather together; the nightingale will sing, the squirrel will tell stories, the beetles will dance.
The tree has no energy to do anything but lie there, listening and watching.
He cannot even speak.
But he is happy, for he is with his friends at last, after a long year of waiting, and that is all that matters.
Once a year his heart will fill, and that is enough for him.
“You are still a Beautiful Tree,” the animals say to him. “You may not be so on the outside, but you are beautiful on the inside. You are beautiful to us, more beautiful than the sun and more beautiful than the moon, and we will come every year to be with you, rain or shine.”
And the Beautiful Tree smiles.