Page 11 of Until the Last Leaf Falls

“Travel and talk. Trees aren’t meant to be solitary, you know? Once, every tree on this world was connected to every other tree. They sang, shared memories, celebrated when a sapling had grown enough to join the song, mourned when a voice faded from their circle. That was once. Now, trees are being felled in swathes, and the connection between them all is stretching thin.”

“What about the trees people plant? Don’t they make up for those lost?”

Orren’s shoulders sagged, and from one moment to the next he appeared sad, and tired. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But it isn’t that simple. If you placed two dozen babies into a house, would they survive without an adult to care for them and show them how the world works? Trees are no different. They need guidance, too.”

Horror gripped Niles. “My trees—”

“Are fine.”

Orren’s touch, a gentle brush of fingertips, soothed Niles’s agitation.

“Truly. When you planted the birch in the courtyard, you wakened the memories the house held onto. Your trees learned as they grew, enough to reach out to find other trees. I did the rest, the first time I came.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“The last two autumns.” Orren touched the back of his fingers to Niles’s cheek. Niles loved how tactile Orren was, how he always knew when comfort was needed and welcome. “I’ve been watching you care for your trees, and every year my wish to speak to you grew stronger.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Memory keepers are not supposed to show themselves to humans. Our business is with the trees.”

“Memory keepers…” Niles tasted the word like a fine wine, compared it to the man sitting beside him and found that it fit.

“Yes. Much like humans, trees die of loneliness. They need the connection to other trees to thrive. More than that, they need the memories to know how to protect themselves.”

Niles curled into himself and clutched his mug of coffee tighter. Any other day, the information Orren had revealed would have delighted him, would have had him asking questions. Right then, embarrassment hobbled his tongue. He’d brought trees to his courtyard as if they were objects, his to place to his liking—when they were so much more. They’d watched his renovations, marked every one of the few visitors to his library, had soothed him and offered companionship when he’d felt lonely and ignored.

“Protect themselves how?” Niles took refuge in data collection.

Orren’s smile said he wasn’t fooled. “You did nothing wrong. In fact, you did better than most people. You didn’t just plant your trees, you spent time with them, talked to them, shared information. That’s why your trees have their voices. Why they’re sharing memories.”

“And… the protection?”

“Dog with a bone.” Orren shook his head. The smile he gave Niles was fond if a little wistful. “Did you know trees can alter the scent of their leaves? That they can change the leaves’ taste, even, and do it deliberately? If a deer were to wander into your glade, your trees would know how to make their leaves unappealing. Solitary trees, young trees that haven’t been taught… could suffer greatly without that knowledge.”

Orren rose to brew more hot chocolate, and Niles marvelled at how at home he seemed in a world that had to become stranger to him with each passing year. “Was there hot chocolate when you were human?”

“It was a novelty—fashionable, highly prized, and correspondingly expensive.” He brought his brimming mug back to the table. “Making it was a lengthy process, and the resulting drink was so heavy with sediment it needed stirring before every sip. But all that aside, I’ve always felt chocolate rather than coffee was the perfect match for autumn.”

“Is that the only time of year you visit?” Niles held his breath as he asked.

Orren nodded. “Yes. And I must leave as the last leaf falls.”

A Question of Time

“Please hold on to your leaves,” Niles whispered to his trees. The night draped his courtyard like a velvet blanket. Niles had donned a couple of extra layers and cradled an insulated mug of mulled wine. Since Orren had taught him to listen, he spent even more time in his glade, talking to the trees before they succumbed to their winter sleep. It comforted him like nothing else.

“Expecting Orren to leave has been bad enough,” he whispered. “Knowing he will is worse. I have so much yet to learn.” And though there was not even the hint of a breeze, his trees replied with an amused rustle of leaves. “It’s true,” he said. “I had no idea someone like Orren even existed. I didn’t know trees had memories or that you need to learn like we do. He’s introduced me to a whole other world, and I don’t want him to leave, not yet.”

Another amused rustle and Niles’s shoulders sagged. He took a sip from his mug and sighed. “Yes, I like him.”

More amused rustling.

“I like him so much, I might be falling in love with him,” he admitted. He’d never say this aloud anywhere else. “I was so alone before he came. Back in the spring I would have told you that was fine. But now I’ve met him, spent time with him… I don’t want to go back to feeling that way.”

This time the rustle was comforting. Niles couldn’t explain how he knew the difference, just that he felt it. And maybe that was the difference. He’d walled himself off from feeling. His work was logical, creative in a structured way feelings never were. There was no logic to the lump in his throat or the prickling behind his eyelids. There was no logic to feeling so torn up at the thought of Orren’s leaving.

You haven’t even asked him to stay. The thought floated through his mind, in a voice that wasn’t his.