• A warm wind swept across the land, tickling the golden fields of barley with its breath, and shepherding the woolly clouds that tainted here and there a sky of radiant blue. Fallen leaves waltzed on their own like dancers garbed with beautiful dresses of red, gold and brown; a graceful dance led by the playful, childish nature of the wind, who gave them wings and rolled them across the countryside.

    On the horizon, a small forest was ablaze with colour, each branch of every tree covered in rubies and opals, setting the skyline on fire. Swallows glided above, swerving erratically, weaving to and fro. Chirps filled their throats, creating a melody so sweet that accompanied the chuckles and gurgles of a small stream, its surface twinkling like myriads of diamonds as the afternoon sun set its gaze upon it. It was clear that Lady Autumn had passed this way, and had let slip her cloak upon the Earth, leaving behind a landscape of heart-wrenching beauty.

    In a barley field, a small head popped out of a hole in the ground, twitching nose raised towards the sky. A field mouse ventured out of the safety of its burrow, ears pricked and snout aquiver as it scanned its surroundings curiously. Sensing nothing out of the ordinary, it took a few quick steps, ever vigilant, pausing now and again to listen. Making its way around the tall barley stalks, it headed towards the edge of the field, in search of seeds that might satiate its small appetite.

    As it reached its destination, it paused once more, letting the sun wash across its golden brown fur, beady black eyes blinking timidly in the light. As it prepared to carry on its way, the small creature halted abruptly, its senses on alert as it noticed a hunched figure, walking stick in hand, slowly walking up the green hill that rose up against the horizon, making its way towards the towering figure of an oak tree that bore down upon the land surrounding it. Curious, but wary nonetheless, the little mouse crept closer still, watching the elderly man huffing as he came closer to his destination. Sensing there was nothing to fear, it turned its tail, eager to begin its daily harvest.

    The old man mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he drew nearer to the colossus. Upon its throne of earth and grass, the giant oak seemed to rule upon the land below, a mighty landmark, symbol of the strength of Mother Nature’s creations. Its leaves were framed by sunlight, giving it a majestic, almost saint-like appearance. Before this humbling sight, the elder’s wrinkled face broke into a warm smile, as someone who knows that beneath the impressive appearance dwells a heart of gold.

    Reaching the tree’s roots, he gently placed his walking stick against its trunk, and looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Autumn had taken its toll, and what once was a glorious crown of emerald green leaves and acorns now crumbled into rusted brown shards, littering the ground below. Shaking his head, the old man reached out, fingers shaking slightly as he touched the great tree’s body, feeling its rugged surface. Countless legions of insects had gnawed and drilled into it, leaving behind millions of tiny holes that lay open as bullet wounds. Here and there, lichen had spread like countless silvery liver spots. Enormous gnarled and twisted roots lay at its base like the half-buried bodies of gargantuan snakes.

    Putting a hand to his own face, the old man felt the wrinkles and creases that now marked his features; the result of many seasons come and gone. He knew his life was reaching its end and that soon he would join his ancestors, friends and loved ones in the Eternal Fields; and that while he lay but in memory, the great tree would be born again in spring, claiming once more lordship over the lands it looked down on.

    Despite this knowledge, he smiled once more. After all, this oak tree was a place of fond memories that would linger as long as it lived. Closing his eyes, he remembered all the moments spent at the foot of the tree. The times he had spent there playing with his younger sister; the comfort the gentle giant had brought in times of sadness; the shelter it had provided on rainy days; the games he had played in spring, summer, autumn, winter; the moments he had spent flicking through books in the shade; his first kiss; the romantic picnics he had had with his beloved; her cry of surprise and joy when he unveiled a shining engagement ring; the nights spent gazing at the stars, the Ursa Major twinkling brightly overhead... so many images of happiness sprang before the elder’s closed eyes.

    A tear made its way down his cheek, dropping down upon the earth below. At the autumn of his own life, the old man was touched at the thought that this tree, motionless and solitary, had been closer than the closest of friends. And that it would live on, bearing through many more winters to come, immortalizing the joy and comfort it had been witness and cause of for all these years.

    Feeling a tug on his sleeve, the elder opened his eyes abruptly in surprise, cut off from his reverie. Looking down, he saw that the source of the tugging came from a small girl, no more than three or four years of age, staring intently at him. Somewhere behind him, in the distance, her mother was calling for her. He quickly wiped his tears, not wanting to upset the child. But she, with a smile, held out a rosy apple; “Don’t cry” she said, before answering her mother’s calls, stumbling down the hill to the path below. The old man watched her run off, her small Wellingtons thudding softly against the grass. Her chestnut hair shone in the sun, and the wind blew about her tiny dress. Someday, he thought, she would grow up, and have beautiful memories of her own to hold onto; memories that would be anchored to specific places that would be special to her alone. And then, when her autumn came, she would remember those places with a smile, just as he had done. The world can be such a beautiful place, he meditated; so full of colour, happiness, magic and wonder.

    Carefully, he sat down, his back to the oak’s trunk. Pulling his cap over his ears and snuggling into his jacket, he held on tight to the apple that had been given to him like a treasured possession by one so young and innocent. And as his eyes began to close, he saw his beloved walking up the hill, dressed in silvery white, hand out-stretched, a gentle smile etched upon her soft face. He felt himself reach out, and then all senses left him, and he fell into a deep slumber.

    It was evening when the small field mouse made its way back to its burrow. The sun was melting like butter on the horizon, and the soft tunes of a lark pierced the silence, singing a lullaby to the land as it prepared to go to sleep.

    Nearing its home, the little creature paused, looking at the oak tree of Herculean proportions, and at the shape that lay slumped at its base. Ever so curious, it headed forward, carefully climbing over the tree’s roots. An apple lay upon the ground, a few inches away from the figure’s lifeless hand.

    Upon the old man’s face was carved a smile of contentment, an expression of such serenity that one may have thought he was merely asleep. He was reunited with his beloved, with his friends, with his companions... And there he lay at the foot of his dearest friend, bonded for eternity by memory, two Ancients of this world at rest.