The Maker created a marionette to dance for the souls of heaven. She was light on her feet and for a while she twirled in rapture, loving her work and enjoying being the star of a show all to herself.
But then, it happened. In the audience, was the spirit of a tree who had been felled during a frigid winter. The tree recognized the marionette as a fellow oak and decided to talk to her after the show.
They talked long into Heaven’s night and the marionette learned what it was like to be a tree of the Earth.
“But you were once a tree, growing from a lone acorn buried in a bed of soil until your life’s dawn.” Said the tree to the marionette.
“What is a acorn? What is to grow?” asked the marionette.
“An acorn is the seed of life for oaks, planted in the soil of earth it spreads roots and burst out in green up and up into the sky.”
“I was made fully formed by the hands of The Maker, I have never changed, how are you so sure I am made of the wood of oak?” asked the marionette.
“I just know.” Replied the tree.
The idea that she had been made as oak but had never experienced life as an oak plagued the little dancer. When she danced now there was now a tint of melancholy in her moves. The puppet master of her show, her creator, The Maker, decided to ask her what was wrong.
“I’ve never experienced life but yet I’m standing on the final stage. I am made of oak yet am not an oak. I have no soul in a haven for souls. Who am I?” implored the marionette.
“You are the dancer of the final show, the reminder for those missing old life that good things come to those who wait.” Answered The Maker.
“But I’m not satisfied with that role anymore! I want to be part of the audience, someone with a soul, someone who has lived… and died,” cried the marionette “I am like a tree with my roots trapped in heaven, eternally frozen in one state for a long time… no for eternity.” Cried the marionette.
“I want to become a tree and live and die”
“But you weren’t destined for a fate, your name isn’t written in the book of souls,” said the exasperated maker.
“Is there anyway for me ever to be a tree?” asked the marionette.
“It is impossible.” Replied The Maker.
The marionette stood on the cliff of clouds. Underneath her, the wind blew over a green forest, stretching into eternity. Above her head stood the silver strands of strings. In her hand was a knife.
She raised the knife towards her strings, the very strings she planned to tie to the earth and grow from.
In her head, the words echoed
You will never be a tree.
You weren’t destined for a fate
“Not anymore! I will live!” screamed the marionette.
She cut the strings and collapsed over the edge.
She was falling, down, down, closer to her wish, just at the end.
The free wind blew her neat copper hair into disarray, it ruffled her dress into streaks of red. Promising of life without life.
“I want to live” was her last thought.
She hit the ground as a comet. Smashing into pieces. Shards of wood dug into the ground, burying themselves deep into the soil of the clearing. She was destined to never grow. Never die.
Years past, the marionette was gone and her wood began to disintegrate. It melded with the soil as the years passed.
The seeds of other trees blew on the wind, eagerly waiting to begin life. They fell into the soil that the marionette had crashed in years before. They grew from her remains. At last, the marionette was given life.