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Daphne and Apollo
by Cezarija Abartis There was a time when my skin was soft and smooth, not patchy and wrinkled and rough tree bark. Who of us really knows who we are? He courted me: I was a country girl, and I expected to become a farmer’s wife. I learned about all the plants, how to trim them, mulch them, cover the saplings during sudden frosts: the olive trees, the fig trees, the poplars that were merely beautiful. (Everything grows, my father said in a voice certain and immovable, everything changes.) My father taught me about rivers, flood plains, watering the crops, predicting the weather. My father said I was a hard worker: I knew how to milk cows, make cheese. But we lost our farm and moved to the prince’s property. I never wanted to move again. I did not expect to be courted by a prince, and not just a prince, but the most eligible bachelor in all the land. The courtier courted me. He noticed me from his chariot and climbed down. “I haven’t seen you before on the estate.” He patted the trace horse, a fine white stallion. “No, sir.” I put down the basket of grapes. His face shone like the sun. The coarse wool farm boy I went walking with was nothing like this prince. That boy and I sometimes held hands; I let him kiss me once. This prince strolled easily; his narrow fingers wore rings; his eyes were serene. He had everything and was used to commanding and owning. No wonder he was serene. That spring we chased each other through the olive orchard. I tagged him and hid; then he found me behind a tree and laughed. I asked a riddle: “Why do birds fly south for winter?” He looked puzzled. I answered, “Because they're too tired to walk!” I clapped my hands in pleasure at surprising him. Then he gave a riddle: “What’s the same about a bird and a tree?” He barely repressed a smile. “They both fly, except for the tree!” “Mine’s better,” I said. He taught me about music, and I taught him about plants; he taught me about poetry, and I taught him about silence. I liked him that spring and summer, but as the year unfolded into the abundance of autumn, I changed, or maybe he changed, or maybe we both changed. I did not care for our childish riddles anymore. I missed the fields and the lambs; he missed the court with its mosaics of the golden fleece and its frescoes of the four winds trumpeting air out on the world. He missed his silver and gold friends. “Come,” the prince said, “let’s travel across the world.” I pulled my hand back. I felt the breeze like a cat’s rough tongue on my hand. I turned away from him. I slowed down. My plumpness faded. Father said I was wasting away. I became a hard tree. My fingers burned, and twigs erupted from their tips--leaves sprang up around my head--my eyes clouded over with knots--roots twisted out of my toes into the ground. It felt a relief to be unmoving. Birds now sing in my branches; my glossy leaves provide shade to small creatures. I want to know if I did the right thing. Was that the right choice? Should I become a girl again? Can I undo what I did? |
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