THE TREE

     HE NEVER KNEW who his father had been, and he could not perfectly remember his mother. He slept in no special corner of his own, but just where he could, most frequently in the workshop where the gardening tools were repaired. Now and then he was issued a loincloth, and he usually had enough left of the old one to tie a strip around his head against the sun. He was the least of all the slaves in Pharaoh's garden, and he did not even have a name. The women and children laughed at his queer shape and called him Monkey. Overseers said, "You, there!" or laid on with a stick. The other gardeners simply ignored him, or kicked him aside like a dog when he got in their way.

      During a great part of the year he worked at buckets, lifting water until his hands, calloused as they were, would mark the rope with blood. His whole back was seamed with welts from many beatings; and it might have appeared a marvel, if any man had cared to wonder at it, that he could endure so much and live so long. If he had been set to work in the more beautiful parts of the garden, he would have been driven harder and might have died, as others did, in a year or two. Fortunately even the overseers were ashamed of him and used to place him near the stinking rubbish pits outside the wall of the garden, or in other hidden places, where for hours together they did not need to come. This had saved him, while in time a special pride of his own had grown within him. Alone of all the slaves of Pharaoh, he owned a tree.
      Egypt was a poor land for trees. The floods destroyed them, and the hot, dry time when the earth cracked open withered them away. So precious were they that no man might cut one, even on his own land, without asking permission to do so. The best trees were all imported and grew in rich men's gardens. Pharaoh's came by ship from Lebanon, or up the Red Sea from distant Punt and over the desert, with a train of water carriers to moisten their roots. A collar of solid gold would not have bought one, yet this meanest of the slaves in the garden nursed one he had some right to call his own.

      It happened, while this slave was still a lad and had not yet been put to the heaviest labor, that the glorious mind of Pharaoh had conceived of a lake especially created for the pleasure of his wife. A boat of the finest cedarwood inlaid with gold should ride on it, in which twenty girls were to row and sing in chorus to delight the queen. A gay painted summerhouse on the shore must look over the water at masses of green beneath the cliffs of the western desert, mysteriously purple in the shades of the setting sun. These beautiful thoughts Pharaoh proclaimed from his gold throne in his hall of audience, wearing the blue crown and holding the glittering symbols of his divinity. These commands the chief minister heard, groveling on the floor before his king and god as was proper. These he proclaimed in his turn to the Master of Pharaoh's Boats, the Steward of Pharaoh's Summerhouses, the Director of Pharaoh's Pleasures, and all such people as were thought worthy to hear the good news from his exalted lips. Next, these gave audience to lesser persons, and they to others. In a little time extra slaves were set to make mattocks or baskets for the carrying of earth, while droves of wretched laborers were being herded into boats in the Delta to join with those stationed at Thebes on the glorious work.  
      That was a bad time, and the slave always remembered it with a shudder. Indeed, his twisted shape was mainly due to carrying those heavy loads before he was grown. Many died, for besides the labor, there was sickness that spread like wildfire through the wretched temporary barracks, where at night the men had scarcely room to stretch full length upon the floor. Soon there was a gravedigger gang, for such people were not worth the trouble of embalming. Crowds of new slaves came in every month and died like flies, while a few became seasoned, only to collapse at last under the incessant toil. First a vast basin had to be hollowed, and the earth carried out in baskets to spread on the banks or farther away. There were great boulders in this soil, some of which fifty men could hardly drag up the bank and off into the desert. Besides the lake, a canal must be constructed to bring water and to let it flow out again across the land. An island was made in the middle, and on the western bank a series of hummocks, so that the trees might rise toward the cliffs as Pharaoh's beautiful thoughts had imagined them. Long before the banks were ready, trees arrived and were laid by the hundreds in temporary trenches, while the head gardeners inspected their watering and cursed the delay.
      It was over at last, the mud barracks knocked down, and the rubbish and filth of the slave camp tidied away. Quick-growing bushes had been planted by thousands to clothe the slopes with green while the trees were young. Forget-me-nots, celandine, and other wild flowers had been set out in masses by the water. By next year all traces of man's miseries would be smothered in a fairyland of blossom.
      Gangs of slaves who were no longer needed had been sent to the quarries, a dreadful fate which this one only escaped because he was considered too ill. When he did not die after all, they sent him staggering down to the lake where men were planting in groups of five, two digging holes, two carrying water, and one doing the skilled work. The trees were by now in poor condition, and it was considered better to discard a doubtful one than to be blamed for planting those which did not grow. As a matter of course, the importers had supplied twice as many as would be required. Dead ones were thrown on a heap, whence they disappeared with the connivance of the overseers, who understood that the men must do some sort of cooking now and again. It was with this idea in mind that the slave, tugging one night at the brush pile, found himself with a tree in his hands which he felt sure could yet live.
      His first thought was to throw it back and find another. His second was to plunge his nose deep among its branches and enjoy the smell. It was a cypress, which he had never before seen closely, since he and his gang had been planting peach trees in clumps along the shore. It came into his mind that if he could plant it, he might take pleasure in passing it from time to time. Outside the high wall of the palace garden was a small space, half concealed by the belt of flowering shrubs that screened the rubbish pits. It was on the far side of the path and very private. Yet, he thought, I can find excuses for coming by here. He went down quietly to the lakeside and fetched a bucket so that he could plant exactly as he had seen the gardeners do.
      Later on, when he was set to watering the garden, he only remembered the little tree now and again. After a few months, he forgot it completely until the next growing season came to remind him. The tree was still there and had bright little tips to its branches, which were more beautifully scented than ever before. For the very first time he felt a sense of possession and liked it. Nobody will beat me, he thought, if I root you up and throw you away. Reflecting thus that its tender growth was by his permission, he began to feel an anxious pride, as a man does in his child. He formed the habit of looking at it daily and giving it water, while he calculated its growth in a twelvemonth, or wondered how tall it would be in several years.

     It was not until seven growing seasons had passed by that an incident taught him that his tree was no longer a child, but had become a god. That year there was sickness among the slaves of the palace, as was often the case in the outbuildings where lower servants lived seven or eight to a room. One day when the slave came to ask for his daily rations, he found not the hag who usually cooked for him, but a youngish, shabby girl.
      It was the custom of the stewards in Pharaoh's household to give the slaves their supplies at about the time of the full moon. Each had his measure of oil, his portion of onions or salt fish, and his small sack of grain. This went to the wives, who ground and baked and doled out with careful planning so that the ration might last until the moon was full again. If a slave had no woman, he gave up his food to the wife of another, who paid herself as a matter of course by pilfering from his stock. The wretched hag who fed this slave not only starved him, but daily made him the target of her shrill abuse. It had become a penance to fetch his bread, which was doled out in ever smaller portions as his dumb endurance made the woman bold.
      The slave slouched up to the doorway and extended his hand, while the girl with a sullen scowl on her pinched face put into it his miserable allotment. She was expecting to shrink away and scream an answer when he bullied her, but to her surprise, he took it with a heavy sigh and turned away. Starvation was preferable to public jeers, he knew.
      He was halfway across the yard when the girl came running after him. "Here!" she said abruptly, and slipped into his hand another piece of bread.
      He twisted it between his fingers slowly as he thought things out. "You will be beaten," he mumbled after a moment, staring at it as if it were some strange delicacy from Pharaoh's kitchen.
      The girl shrugged in her sulky fashion. "Not today," said she, half ashamed of her impulse and angry at being seen in public with this twisted mockery of a man. "The woman is far too sick to care." With that she turned around and ran away.
      She had shown him kindness, and she had bothered to answer when he spoke, and besides all this, there was the bread. He puzzled over his feelings while he chewed it slowly, exploring each mouthful with caution for lumps too hard for his teeth. By midday, he had come to the conclusion that he would offer her something, though this was easier said than done, since he had not even a small clay amulet of his own. After a great deal more thinking, he went very reluctantly and broke a beautiful, scented branch off his tree.
      Nothing was private in the slave quarters. Since morning the girl had already endured a good deal in the way of remarks about her handsome new lover. If he had brought her a posy from the marshes, she might have thrown it out indignantly and sent him about his business without delay. Unfortunately, the branch was far too queer a present, and she took it, screeching with laughter, from door to door. By nightfall, it was common knowledge that he had broken a piece off one of Pharaoh's valuable trees.
      The story did not reach the overseer until morning, but when it did, he took his stick and went to investigate. Now and then flowers were picked before they were quite faded. It was even possible when fruit was gathered to look occasionally another way. Trees, however, were Pharaoh's pride and must never be damaged. Besides, the slave should not have been near them in the course of his work.
      The inquiry started with a beating that very soon induced the slave to confess his sins. "It was only a tree by the rubbish pits," cried he.
"There is no tree by the rubbish pits," retorted the overseer, and laid on harder.
      "Suppose we make him show us," one of the men who held the slave suggested good-naturedly. "He is really too stupid to explain clearly where he has been."

      They let him get up and lead the way miserably to the little space beneath the bushes and the wall.
      "Why, there is a tree here after all!" exclaimed the overseer. "This is quite extraordinary. I must ask the head gardener where he would like it, as there is no use leaving it in a place like this." He went away with his men after pointing out to the slave his daily allotment of work.
      All day long the slave struggled sullenly with the buckets, aching in every limb and brooding wretchedly. By now the tree had become more than a possession; it was something that made him a man, not a beast, in his secret heart. When evening came, he gathered a handful of berries he had heard his fellow slaves say were poisonous. Some overseers who pressed their men too hard had died mysteriously, but the slave was far too humble for any such ideas. His thought was to lie out under the tree that night and kill himself.
      It was peaceful close to the wall, protected by the bushes and hearing the scented branches of his tree rustling above his head. He felt comforted by the whispering sound and did not eat the berries. "I will not actually be moved," the tree seemed to say. "You had better wait."
      By a miracle, the very next morning there was another overseer, a fierce new broom with an even larger stick. "Because the old one has the sickness," shouted he, "is not a reason for you to slacken in your work.”
      There were more blows that week than usual, but the slave did not mind them. When he heard the old one was actually dead, he felt a fierce joy mixed with awe. "There is a powerful god in my tree," he muttered. "How strange that I had not known it until it killed this man!"
      Time passed quietly thenceforth, until the tree had grown so tall that the slave was constantly frightened lest the gardeners notice it. Fortunately the queen perceived it first from her boat of cedarwood, in which the girls were singing softly as they rowed about. "As I look around this paradise," said she to Pharaoh, "it is that single cypress by the distant white wall which pleases me most greatly. How perfectly you have placed it at the end of the gap the canal makes between the trees!"
      A man who is also a god does not expect in one short lifetime to think all of his wondrous thoughts himself, but has to delegate to his servants many of the treasures of his mind. Thus Pharaoh was pleased to accept this part of his own plan, and he readily answered, "I am particularly happy that it gives you pleasure because it is in such details that I best express the exquisite perfection of my taste. I will send a gold ring to the chief among my gardeners for his care in fulfilling my desires."
      After this the tree grew freely, and no one hindered it. If the slave was seen watering it from time to time, it was considered a part of his duty and occasioned no remark. The little space between the tree and the wall was now his lair, and in it, he had even accumulated a few possessions. He had found a ragged old cloak for cold nights, had laid a soft bed of rushes, and had brought in pretty pebbles or flowers to please his tree.

      Like all gods, the tree was quite capricious. A certain charm might be good for many days if repeated to it exactly; yet eventually it wore out after some fashion, and the slave would get into trouble until he had changed his spell. He took to asking people about spells and became quite learned in them, so that now and then he was called upon for magic when people were ill. This brought him presents which he faithfully buried by the tree, keeping back nothing. Better still, it earned him gratitude. Old slaves were not very common among the lower servants, and his fellows began to feel curiously proud of him for living on. Even the overseers became friendly in time and seldom did more than whistle their sticks through the air. "This work is too much for you," said the latest one quite kindly as he found him struggling with the bucket. "We must give you something light, in the kitchen perhaps, where there will be scraps better suited to your toothless gums."
      "I like -- this work," protested the old man gasping, but the overseer only laughed a little as he moved away.
      He took his trouble to the tree that night as usual, but for the first time for many years it did not comfort him. "You are too young," he muttered into its branches, "and do not know what it feels like when your strength begins to fall." The tree answered nothing, for there was not the slightest breeze and no combination of spells would seem to produce one. At last when dawn came, the slave saw that his god despised him in its youthful strength and had cast him off completely. He scattered his rushes into the pit, folded his cloak, buried the bright stones under a covering of earth, and went away.  
      He was not the slightest use in the kitchen, where the chattering dazed him and the stuffy heat of the fires gave him headaches all day long. People were always pushing him aside to get at things behind him. The head chef openly pitied himself for being saddled with a man who was queer in the head. They let him try to sweep the floor, but then said he was too old to carry the rubbish and sent a boy to take it out to the pits. At night they kindly gave him a very warm corner near the embers of the hateful fire, where he lay feeling stifled and sickened by the heavy smell of fats. After a while their patience wore thin with him, and they found him a nuisance. "Stop poking around!" yelled the head chef crossly one day as he was trying to sweep.
      The old man tottered to a corner and sat down with his hands to his bursting temples, groaning to himself.
      "Phew!" said the head baker, taking up one of the little fans which were used to keep the fire glowing and trying to cool off his face. "I really never felt heat like this before."
      “It's just as bad outside," said a boy staggering in with water. "The sky is a gray-blue color, and there is a queer ring round the sun."
      "It is the end of the world!" cried a young barbarian sharply.
      "Nonsense!" retorted the head chef, feeling that it was his duty to set a tone for the kitchen. "Once in my father's time there was a flood in heaven, so that water poured out of it for hours, turned his house to mud, and washed it away, Frogs descended, he said, with the water, but in a few days they died and stank. This was a marvel that started with a queer ring round the sun."
      A slave looked up from a duck that he was turning on a spit above the flame. "That is only rain," he said with scorn. "In Troy, we have it often." He never let the kitchen forget that his father was king of a few miserable huts somewhere by the ocean to the north.
      "I suppose it rains crocodiles in Troy!" said someone scornfully. It was long ago established in the kitchen that every story about Troy was to be taken as untrue.
      One of the baker's boys, who was bringing over a fresh batch of cakes for frying, chose this moment to faint dead away and fell with a clatter, dropping the dough from his tray and collapsing on top of it.
      The head baker burst into a wail. "It wants but half an hour to Pharaoh's dinner!" cried he in dismay. "Bring me some more quickly! Old fool in the corner, come here and clean up this mess!" He bustled about, sweat streaming from his forehead, and harried his underlings.
      In the confusion of getting Pharaoh's dinner, the kitchen was a turmoil. Carvers clamored for the meat, decorators snatched at the breadstuffs, beautifully dressed waiters rushed in and out, swearing horribly at the kitchen servants. Everyone was slipping and sweating in the terrible heat. When the meal was over, the slaves all straggled into the courtyard without touching the scraps that were their usual food. Even the water boy, who was famous for his appetite, declared himself revolted by the very idea of eating anything. They were content to fan themselves, dip head or hands in water, and stare exhausted at the leaden sky.
      The old man, his throbbing head clutched in his hands, tottered off around the corner. For the first time since he had come to the kitchen, nobody bothered to ask where in the world he thought he was going. He went along the familiar path by the gardeners' quarters, where a few wretched women and children stared listlessly after him, and passed out of the small side gate leading to the pits.
      The tree was taller than ever and looked as though its young pride felt no concern with stunted, elderly things. He did not even venture to address a spell to it, but sat down quietly, happy at least that there was no stupid chattering out here. The tree stood silent, and there was no conversation between them, as there once had been. "I planted you," he did say reproachfully after a long time, but if it stirred at all in answer, it was far too near the top for him to see.
      It was getting very dark, and he ought to go back to the stuffy kitchen, where he would have to parry endless questions about where he had been. Before he went, he would say one spell, the first and simplest he had uttered, when long ago the spirit of the tree had revealed itself by slaying the overseer who threatened it. He crawled back into his lair and fumbled in the loose earth about him for his offerings of pretty stones. Then he turned himself onto his back and said the words, looking straight up into the darkness of the branches. After a moment, with the tiniest of sighs, the tree began to answer him.
      It answered with a whisper, a stirring, a lashing, a rumble, a flash, and a roar. It whipped and bent to the storm as the heavens were opened and the water streamed down, as if from the overflowing of some heavenly Nile. Roofs were blown off in the slave quarters and mud walls melted down to shapeless lumps. Pools of water extinguished the fires all over the kitchen. In Pharaoh's quarters, the god's own bed was hastily moved from under a drip. People huddled together in the torrents, shivering and wailing, while the children shrieked at the lightning flashes, and men spoke of the end of the world.
      It was a terrible time, and yet it was quickly over. In the steaming damp of the following day, mud walls were rising again. Children were gathering palm leaves for roofing. Painters and workmen were busy repairing the damage to the solider parts of the house. On the second day, things were so nearly in order that the gardeners could take out their men to pick up torn branches and cut off battered flowers.
      The tree by the rubbish pits had blown over. "That is a pity,” said the chief gardener, "for this tree was one which Pharaoh placed himself. We must find another for this spot, but meanwhile, be sure you save the wood."
      "There is an old man here," exclaimed one of the slaves who was nearest. "The tree is lying across him, and I think he is dead."
      "What an extraordinary thing!" said the chief gardener, peering through the branches. "Does anybody know who he is?" Nobody did. "Well, I suppose you two will have to bury him somewhere."
      "By the by," said the head chef four or five days later, “what became of the old dodderer who used to sweep round here? Does anybody know where he has got to?" Nobody did.