There is beauty in the way of things
How can someone miss something that they’ve never seen, something that they’ve never heard?
A man who’s never drank water won’t know how much he is thirsty until the first drop of rain will have fallen on his lips.
A man who’s never eaten anything won’t know how hungry he is until he smells fresh bread coming out of the baker’s oven.
A man who’s never seen a sunrise won’t understand the beauty of it until he sees those reds and oranges melting together.
Jonathan Sims had never been one to look for beauty in the words of others. He understood the English language perfectly well. He needn’t look in the dictionary to know the meaning of what was said to him. He took the words of others at face value and never took the time to look between the lines, never tried to see what could be meant beyond what was simply said.
But when he heard a voice in the forest reciting poetry to the trees, singing their sorrow to the birds, whispering words to the insects, he couldn’t help but stop and listen. He couldn’t understand it all, but it was as if he had finally found a missing piece that he didn’t even know he needed to find. There, in the clearing, sat against a weeping willow, there was a man with auburn hair who was reciting a poem to the forest.
Jon had never seen this man before.
Not in the village, talking to the baker and his wife.
Not in the market, trying to bargain for better prices.
Not next to the bonfire, during the festival.
He had never seen this man before and yet, he felt as if he had known him all his life.
And as he stepped out of the treeline and into the clearing, the man smiled at him and introduced himself.
It wasn’t the lines of his body that drew him in. This kind of thing had never interested him and it wasn’t about to start just because of a man in the forest.
But the way that his face lit up as he smiled. The way that his eyes reminded him of the dewy grass in spring, of a stormy cloud in the summer. The way that his voice sounded like the creek near his grandmother’s house, the creek that he hadn’t heard in over a decade. The way that, when Jon introduced himself, his lips formed the words soundlessly before he repeated it to himself, as if Martin also hadn’t known that he had been missing him all his life.
Jon didn’t know that he needed to have Martin by his side before he saw him, before he heard him, but in this moment, it all seemed so clear.
So he simply crossed the clearing and sat by his side, asking him to continue with his poetry and Martin smiled and did.
When the night fell, they had to say goodbye to each other.
He tried not to think too hard about the fact that Martin hadn’t even moved away from the tree. That he had simply smiled at him and had told him goodbye.
Even so, the next day and the day after that, Jon kept coming back to see Martin, underneath the willow tree.
They didn’t always talk about poetry. It wasn’t as if he knew enough about it to hold a conversation more than a few minutes long on the subject, but he did enjoy listening to it, as long as it came from a voice that sounded just as beautiful as the summer days in the forest did.
They talked about the rain, about the sun.
They talked about the taste of the apples during the fall.
They talked about the feeling of the snow falling in their hair.
They talked about books.
They talked about snuggling underneath a blanket next to a fire.
They talked, and talked, and talked.
And every night, Jon would go back home.
And every night, Martin would wave goodbye and stay seated by the weeping willow.
And every morning, Jon would come back with a basket of food and tea.
And every morning, Martin would be waiting for him, smiling and ready to talk more.
Before long, Jon couldn’t help himself and asked him to come home with him. Just for one night. Just to talk more. They were both enjoying their days by the willow tree, so wouldn't they enjoy their evenings, in his cozy cottage.
But Martin just shook his head, his beautiful eyes suddenly filled with a sorrow that Jon couldn’t fully understand.
While he wanted to come, while he wanted to see all of the things that Jon had told him about in the village, he simply couldn’t. That he truly wanted to come with him, but that it simply wasn’t possible.
Jon simply nodded, silence filling the clearing for the first time since they had started their daily meetings. He didn’t want to argue with Martin, didn’t want to lock their eyes together as he looked oh so sad.
He didn’t breach the topic again the next day or the day after that. He didn’t want to risk causing him any woes.
But in his dreams, he couldn’t help but wish for them to be together outside of their clearing. He couldn’t help but be greedy for more.He wanted to hold Martin in his arms as he fell asleep in his comfortable bed, in the warmth of his house, away from the forest. He wanted to see him as he opened his eyes in the morning. He wanted to come in the kitchen and see him make the teas that he kept talking about. He wanted to hear him talk about all of the things that he enjoyed in the comfort of his home, in the comfort of what could be their home.
The days and then weeks kept coming and going.
As they grew further and further into the year, the night kept coming earlier and earlier, cutting their meeting short.
And even if Jon didn’t mention the idea of Martin joining him in his home again, he could still see the grief in his eyes.
So one day, when the morning was still sweet and not too cold, Jon brought Martin a bouquet of flowers. Daisies and freesias and baby’s breath and forget-me-nots. Flowers that he hoped showed him what he truly felt.
And as he knelt in front of him, underneath the weeping tree, he asked him again to come with him. He asked him to leave the forest so they could be together not only in the light of day, but also bated in the moonlight.
He never wanted to cause Martin any sorrow, but this day, Jon saw him weep for the first time.
He told him that he truly desired to come with him. That the forest was so cold and lonely at night, when all of the animals had gone to sleep and that he was truly alone. That even if he rubbed his arms all night, he could never be truly warm until he saw Jon’s smile in the morning. That he wanted to follow him out of the clearing, but that he was bound to the willow tree.
He explained to him that he had been cursed many years ago. That his soul and his body were bound to this tree. That even if he yearned for the same dreams as Jon, that they could never be true.
They held each other as they cried, flowers forgotten on the ground.
This time, Jon didn’t try to forget.
Martin wanted to come with him. He wanted this curse to be broken, for them to be together and not separated by the night.
Now, every day he would come by the clearing, talking and holding his beloved in his arms.
And every night he would go through every book that he owned, trying to find something, anything that could help their wish come through.
Finally, on a late night in fall, Jon finally found what he had been looking for.
The answer was so simple, so clear.
He couldn’t believe that he hadn’t thought about it before.
If a curse is bound to an object, one must simply destroy it to break the curse.
This night, guided by the moonlight, Jon came to the clearing with an axe in hand.
He told Martin that he had come to free him, that he couldn’t be bound by the magic of the weeping willow if it didn’t exist anymore. He knelt on the ground in front of him and asked him if he could try. Asked him if, tonight, he could finally bring him home.
Through his sobs, the man with auburn hair nodded and begged him to try. Anything would be better than the freezing loneliness that took him at night. They both knew that winter would come soon and that they didn’t have much time before the cold would make it too dangerous for their meetings to go on.
And so, ‘neath the moonlight, Jon cut the willow tree.
It took him a long, long time.
But finally, as the dawn came, the sun warming their cold skin, the tree fell to the ground.
The men both stood there, unable to move for a long, long moment, before Jon dropped the axe on the ground.
It was as if the spell that held them broke in an instant and they threw themselves at each other, holding one another as if they would never let go.
Jon took Martin’s hand and pulled him out of the clearing and into the forest, toward the village.
As they walked and walked, Jon whispered what could only be called poetry. He told Martin about how he loved his eyes, how he loved his hands, how he loved his hair, how he loved his smile and his voice and his laughter and the way that they talked and talked and talked.
But as he continued to walk toward the village, he barely noticed how his hold on Martin’s hand became lighter and lighter. How the answers coming from his companion were shorter and shorter. He continued walking, until, as he took his first step out of the forest, he noticed that he wasn’t holding his hand anymore.
As he turned around, all he could see was a path of flowers.
Daisies and freesias and baby’s breaths and forget-me-nots.
Martin was bound to the forest and couldn’t be taken out of it.
But his love followed Jon’s dream until his soul fell apart, on the way out of the forest.
And as Jon fell to his knees, weeping for what he had lost, his sobs sounded almost like the creek outside of his grandmother’s house.
