The Mother Tree stood east of center in a vast forest. Her branches spread out, taking up the space of several dozen regular size trees. But the Mother Tree was a regular tree to being with. She had been there a long time, longer than any of the little bipeds could remember. Their oral history says she is the Mother Tree, the one from which the first ancestor sat under and rested after being born from one of the tree’s fruit.
Each spring, as the first of her buds began to form, the ancient ritual was performed. The people established the ritual long ago and it was set up so that it was very rare that a sacrifice was made. There had not been one in four lifetimes.
As the buds formed, all children born since the last spring were brought to the tree. They were offered to the Mother Tree in exchange for her giving birth the their ancestors. As the children lay on the still frost covered leaves under the massive branches, the people waited. They waited for the sign that a child would be accepted in exchange.
There would be no doubting the sign since it was such an unusual thing, something that could only come from the Mother Tree. A twig holding a newly formed bud had to fall and land on a child. Then to confirm it, the great owl living high above in the trunk had to call out. The chances of both of these events happening accidentally at the same time just was not possible. The great owl was nocturnal and was only seen in the day time during the late fall fire season. As for the twig with the bud, the chances of one falling were slim enough but for one to fall and actually land on a child was even slimmer.
A spring came when there were not many children born the previous year. In all, there were only seven children ranging from an infant just a few weeks old to one that was almost a year old.
Several villages came to witness the event. The tree was so far into the forest that they set up tents and lean-to huts, using wood they brought with them. It was a two day trip in, two days there, and two days back. Then they would help each other start the plowing of the fields.
Despite there not being a call for a sacrifice in four lifetimes, the villagers still maintained a sense of dignity and respect. The babes were dressed in their finest clothes and laid on the leaves on the ground. The drum beat began after the last child was placed on the ground. A steady rhythm, a heartbeat, the drum sounded out across the forest. Wild animals stood still, hunter and prey alike. There was a sense of anticipation in the air.
With the birds and people silent, all that was heard was the drum. Yet when the twigs landed on first one child and then its twin, it was as loud as a village gong. The drummer faltered but kept up the beat. She glanced toward the village elders who now stared up into the branches of the Mother Tree.
As big as the great owl is, he does not make a sound when he flies. He landed on the lowest branch, then floated down to a large stone near the trunk. The parents of the twins stood still and straight. A slow bead of sweat ran down the man’s back. And the owl called out twice.