The Secret of the Trees

The oldest building in town was the hospital, and the only thing older than the hospital was the ancient oak around which it was built. The hospital stood tall with its three floors, and the oak’s shade covered the entire courtyard like a linen bedsheet. Precisely at noon, the shadows couldn’t conquer anyone in that courtyard; those who knew the secret of trees were safe. Sometimes, during the early, not yet matured mornings, the shadows of the oak branches would cling to the nearby windows, and with their dance, they would show the way to those leaving the hospital forever, often in dreams. However, the secret of the trees was not, as one might expect, within the shadows; on the contrary, the secret resided in the space between the shadows. The essence of the secret, like any other essence of life, lay somewhere in-between – where the light reached. Shadows were there to divert attention from the path of revelation, but in that diversion, they simultaneously revealed the true path. This phenomenon escaped even the most experienced observers; it was visible only to those who knew how to feel.

The boy’s awareness was doing trench-like work, diligently and tirelessly. In strictly technical terms, for the gentlemen doctors and their machines, this was an unwavering proof of brain activity. Consequently, despite unfavorable predictions, the prognosis for life was optimistic. Sometimes, the nurses would make a mistake, not knowing about the boy’s present awareness, and would talk about his condition. Every even remotely good news was a reward for its dedication, and every bad news motivated the boy’s awareness to look harder and try to sense anything new, even if it was the unpleasant smell of gauze and antibiotics. Only occasionally would awareness pause and look out the window, where shadows were spreading, tempting it to fall asleep with them and whispering to it, suggestively, how tired it was. These negotiations between higher forces lasted for days, and on the tenth day, the shadows would briefly feed on someone else, from the second floor of the hospital. They would return for the boy sooner or later; they always did. For now, they moved away from the boy’s room window, and the bright light pinched his cheeks uncomfortably, prompting him to rub his eyes. Waking up was painful. The boy underwent endless further examinations. When death runs into willpower with gladiatorial experience, predictions don’t mean much. Nevertheless, even those betting against the boy were joyful: no matter how much they bet against the boy, witnessing this medical miracle became a priceless experience.

“A miracle?” the boy asked.

“Yes, a miracle. No one expected you to make it alive to the hospital. You went through eleven surgeries in four days. Despite all our knowledge and efforts, few believed.”

“What do you mean few?” the boy asked. “Dad believed. That’s enough.” A deafening, heavy silence followed.

“Rest now,” the young doctor said to him, “this is all too stressful.”

Days went by, and the doctors rotated like on a conveyor belt in front of him, looking at him with both concern and excitement. His father never visited him.