THE POLE AND THE TREE, an allegory by Joseph Wakim
The lightning flashed across the skies like an X-ray of arteries from the heart. It ignited a snapshot of the silhouettes above the horizon.
No human dared walked the streets in this electric storm. Even umbrellas were unsafe.
The thunder echoed seconds after the burst of light.
It was so deafening that no human could hear the private conversation that was being conducted place on one tree-lined street.
Both were born as spotted gum trees.
One grew gloriously in the front garden of a double storey, brick-veneer home. Her branches spread gracefully to kiss the sun in order to provide shade for the fauna who sought shelter and safety there. Her trunk resembled a human stretching in a yawn, with its limbs arching and twisting.
The other had no limbs. He was carved into a perfect tube, stretching straight up like a power pole. In fact, he was a power pole. A short horizontal plank was bolted into his vertical axle, where the electric cables hung. He used to shed its bark in spots, like his neighbour. Now he was stripped bare for the world to see. This pole had no leaves, no seeds, no spots, and no-one to call him ‘home’. The humans treated him as dead, as a utility, to carry their telegraphs across the land.
This pole moaned in pain and the neighbouring tree could hear the crackling of the electricity sparks which humans called the ‘crown’.
To the tree, the crackling sounded like the gritting of teeth.
‘Why do you do that?’ asked the tree.
The pole did not answer. He could not answer in this excruciating pain. Another flash. Another thunder. Another crown. Another moan.
‘What is it, dear neighbour?’ the tree asked again.
‘Neighbour?’ the pole panted. ‘I am no neighbour. We are not the same!’
The tree already knew that. ‘But I can see you. I can hear you.’
‘But you can’t feel what I feel,’ the pole muttered. ‘They think I am dead.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’ the pole muttered. ‘The humans who did all this to me.’
‘You mean they thought they killed you?’
‘I wish they did’, the pole continued. ‘I wish I was dead.’
‘Well you’re not,’ confirmed the tree. ‘I can hear you … panting.’
‘They think no sap means no life!’ the pole grumbled. ‘But there’s much more to us than sap.’
‘What did they do to you, dear neighbour?’
‘What did they do?’ the pole echoed. ‘What didn’t they do?’
Another thunderclap. Another cry in pain. The tree felt pity but did not know how to help.
‘I see they stripped you of your … arms’, the tree began.
‘Arms only?’ the pole mocked. ‘They stripped me of much more! They stripped me of my skin. They stripped me of my spots. They stripped me from my family roots. They stripped me from my neighbours. They stripped me bare.’
The tree sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, dear neighbour. But they cannot strip you of your dignity. You still have that.’
‘What dignity?’ scoffed the pole. ‘Can’t you see me naked up here, with electricity currents bolted all around me, running through my spine?’
‘I don’t understand,’ the tree shrugged and shook her branches. ‘Why would they do that to you?’
‘Not just me,’ replied the pole. ‘Open your eyes and see how many of us are tied together, for as far as the eye can see. We are slaves chained together, to carry their burden on our shoulders.’
‘What burden?’ asked he tree.
‘For their electricity, their telephones, their messages, their …’
Another bolt, another scream.
‘If I was dead, I would feel nothing!’ the pole shrieked with a trembling voice. ‘This is eternal punishment!’
The tree was saturated in the pouring rain but this did not blur her vision and her curiosity for the truth. ‘Punishment … for what? What did you do, dear neighbour?’
‘Do?’ the pole sneered. ‘How can we do anything? We were trees, just like you. What do you do?’
‘I … I grow, and give branches, and attract birds, and make beautiful …’
‘Stop it! Please stop reminding me of the life they took away from me!’
‘But you asked me …’
‘And now I’ve asked you to stop!’ demanded the pole.
‘So why the punishment?’ repeated the tree. ‘What possible crime could a tree commit?’
After a long pause, the pole exhaled and whispered, ‘Straight!’
‘Straight?’ repeated the tree. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My crime is that I grew straight … straight up to the light. No twisting or turning. I cut right through the air and grew directly toward the one true light. Not their human lights that they switch off and on.’
‘So they stripped you bare and executed you like this … for being straight?’ concluded the tree.
‘Oh how I wish they could hear me now!’ the pole cried out. ‘I will talk so straight it will cut them!’
‘But you said that you carry their messages’, the tree reminded him. ‘Why can’t you carry your own message and send it.’
The pole shuddered. ‘Can’t you see I am dis-armed! They call me a power pole! What power do I have? The only power I feel is that electricity which burns at whatever is left of me.’
The tree sighed in sympathy. ‘I want to help you, dear neighbour.’
‘Help yourself!’ the pole replied. ‘Lean over here and take my advice.’
The tree swayed in the storm as close as she could muster. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Don’t grow straight. Learn from me. Twist and curl. Stretch and twirl. Arch and join hands with your neighbours. Just don’t grow straight. They will target you. They will strip you. They will crucify you … like me … like us … like all of us.’
Another flash of lightning and the crown around the head of the pole became a luminous blue.
He screamed. ‘It burns!’
‘Oh I can’t bear this any longer, ‘the tree declared, rain running off her gum leaves like tears. ‘How can I share your pain?’
The pole panted but did not reply.
‘Please talk to me, dear neighbour’, continued the tree, ‘let me help …’
‘I thirst,’ the pole whispered. ‘But it’s too dangerous.’
‘What is too dangerous?’
‘The rain always runs off my body,’ he explained. ‘I have no branches and no leaves to capture it.’
‘But what about the cables and the beam that holds them up there?’
‘They are not my body. They will never be part of my body. They are bolted to me, but they are not me.’
‘So how can I quench your thirst?’
‘There are cracks in my body that lead to my spine. The water runs down but never soaks in. My skin is parched with cracks. They are wounds from the electricity burns where the remains of my flesh have been torn open. Do you think you could fill your leaves with rain water, swing your branches and help me drink, through my cracks – just this once?’
‘Well I could try …’
‘But it’s dangerous,’ the pole warned. ‘You are made of wood and water. The electricity can run right through you.’
‘The same with you, right?’ asked the tree.
‘No. I have more than wood and water. I also have metal bolts and carry a much heavier burden of electricity. If the lightning strikes when you touch me with water, you could carry all my electricity on top of yours.’
‘And so what if I do?’
‘It could kill you. It could burn your roots and leaves.’
‘And then what?’
‘And then?’ the pole pondered. ‘Then you could become like me.’
The tree paused then surprised the pole. ‘And then what?’
The pole was shocked. ‘You would risk all this, all your beautiful life, for me?’
‘Well, what is a dear neighbour for?’
‘No!’ the pole realised the enormity of the sacrifice. ‘I am sorry I even said that. It’s wrong. It’s unfair. It’s cruel.’
‘And so is what happened to you, dear neighbour,’ snapped the tree.
‘So … you will risk everything, just to quench my thirst, once?’
‘Well, I could have grown straight and risked everything? But I was spared your fate. I did nothing right. You did nothing wrong. Right?’
‘But you are so … beautiful.’
‘You were a tree like me once, remember?’
‘But you have humans who love you, and care for you, and take shelter beneath you …’
‘Maybe we need just one tree to die so we could save the lives of others.’
‘How?’ asked the pole.
‘If something happens to me, it will be for all the world to see … how dangerous this all is. Maybe they will learn to stop stripping trees like you, and put their cables somewhere else.’
‘No!’ the pole was mortified at the offer. ‘Please don’t!’
‘You can’t stop me, dear neighbour,’ insisted the tree. ‘It’s my choice.’
The tree deliberately waited for the next flash of lightning. She swayed her boughs, filled her leaves with the pouring rain, and positioned herself next to the cracks in his skin. When she felt that lightning was imminent, she watered his skin and soothed his burns.
When the lightning struck, they screamed together. She lit up like a Christmas tree. Some of her branches became instantly charred and came crashing to the ground with a thud that shook the house.
The residents flicked on their lights to see the source of the noise. Then they had a black out and panic ensued.
There were flashes of camera photography as the residents were in awe of this spectacle. The tree was now on fire. It could soon become charcoal.
The pole now had a different thirst. He wanted to know where this profound self-sacrifices had come from.
He took his dear neighbour’s advice, in her honour, and did his best to pass on this story through his cables, as a telegraph to all the power poles, for as far as the eye could see.
‘Tell the trees of her sacrifice,’ he messaged in his own way. ‘If they follow her, we may stop the crucifixions!’
The crackling crowns were drowned out by the wailing sirens of fire trucks racing towards the burning tree. They were followed by news media, hot on the trail of a good story.
The picture of a tree embracing a pole sparked much speculation.
The question was not whether the tree and the pole could speak. The question was whether the humans would listen.
