Master Oakenwise and the Reluctant Sapling
A Tale of the Garden
The morning fog lingered among the Garden's pathways, transforming familiar shapes into mysterious silhouettes that shifted and changed with each gentle breath of wind. Master Oakenwise stood quietly beside a young sapling at the eastern edge of the herb garden, his gnarled fingers brushing lightly against its slender trunk. The sapling was unusual—not quite a proper oak but not entirely something else either—with leaves that seemed to flicker between different shapes depending on how the light touched them.
"You're being stubborn again today," the gnome murmured, his beard of moss and tiny star-shaped flowers quivering slightly as he spoke. "Spring is well underway, yet you've barely put out your first proper leaves."
The sapling swayed almost imperceptibly, though there was no breeze to move it.
"Yes, yes, I understand change is difficult," Master Oakenwise continued, settling himself on a smooth stone that seemed perfectly sized for a gnome's meditation. "But remaining as you are isn't really an option, is it? Not with what's coming."
From his vantage point behind the rosemary bush, Claude Moreau made careful notes, his pencil moving quickly across the page of his sketchbook. He had discovered the gnome's morning conversations with the sapling quite by accident the previous week while searching for the perfect angle to capture dawn light on dew-covered spiderwebs. Now he found himself returning each morning, fascinated by the strange relationship between craftsman and tree.
Master Oakenwise reached into his pocket and produced a small wooden box, its surface carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and change even as Claude tried to sketch them. The gnome opened it carefully, revealing a collection of what appeared to be seeds—though they glowed with a soft inner light that ordinary seeds certainly didn't possess.
"Perhaps a demonstration might help," the gnome said to the sapling. "Sometimes seeing another's transformation makes one's own path clearer."
He selected a seed that shimmered with a pale green luminescence and planted it carefully in the soil at the sapling's base. From his other pocket, he produced a tiny silver watering can—far too small for any mouse gardener, but perfectly sized for gnomish hands—and sprinkled three drops of a liquid that caught the morning light like liquid starshine.
Almost immediately, the planted seed began to stir. A tiny sprout emerged, unfurling with preternatural speed. Within moments, a small flower had formed—a bloom unlike any Claude had seen in the Garden before. Its petals were the impossible blue of twilight just before true darkness, with a center that glowed like captured moonrise.
"You see?" Master Oakenwise said to the sapling. "From stillness to becoming in the space of a breath. The seed didn't argue or hesitate—it simply embraced its nature."
The sapling's leaves trembled slightly, though still without any breeze to move them.
"Ah, but that's precisely my point," the gnome nodded as if the tree had spoken aloud. "Transformation isn't about becoming something you're not—it's about becoming more fully what you already are."
Claude smiled at this gentle wisdom, making a note to include it in his evening journal. The gnome's relationship with the sapling reminded him of conversations he'd once overheard between his own grandfather and the reluctant grapevines in their family vineyard—the patient coaxing, the gentle encouragement, the deep understanding that growth follows its own wisdom rather than human timetables.
For several days, Claude observed this same ritual: Master Oakenwise would arrive at dawn, speak quietly to the sapling, demonstrate some small wonder from his collection of magical seeds or tools, and then depart with words of encouragement. Yet the sapling remained stubbornly unchanged, its leaves still caught in that curious in-between state, neither fully formed nor completely dormant.
On the fifth morning, something different happened.
Mr. Thistledown arrived at the herb garden just as Master Oakenwise was settling onto his meditation stone. The scholarly mouse carried what appeared to be a brass sextant of his own design, clearly intent on taking measurements of the morning sun's precise angle.
"Ah! Master Oakenwise!" Mr. Thistledown exclaimed, nearly dropping his delicate instrument in surprise. "Most fortuitous encounter! Most excellent timing! I've been hoping to consult you regarding certain astronomical anomalies associated with the western boundary's unusual thermal manifestations."
The gnome's eyes twinkled with quiet amusement. "Good morning to you too, Mr. Thistledown."
"Yes, yes, good morning, of course," the mouse scholar adjusted his spectacles, his scientific enthusiasm momentarily overwhelming ordinary social niceties. "But regarding these observations—I've detected a curious correlation between the warming patterns along the Wall and certain stellar alignments that traditionally indicate transformative botanical cycles."
As Mr. Thistledown launched into a detailed explanation involving star charts, temperature gradients, and what he termed "potential metaphysical causality vectors," Master Oakenwise listened with patient attention. The sapling, however, began to display an unmistakable restlessness—its young branches swaying despite the morning's perfect stillness, its few leaves turning as if struggling to catch every word of the scholarly mouse's exposition.
"Most remarkable phenomenon, you see," Mr. Thistledown continued, unfolding a complex chart covered with notations in his precise handwriting. "The Door's energetic emanations appear to be triggering accelerated growth cycles in plants with certain historical or magical resonances, while others remain curiously resistant to these stimuli."
At this, the sapling's movement became more pronounced—almost agitated.
Master Oakenwise noticed immediately, raising one gnarled hand to gently interrupt the mouse's discourse. "I believe our young friend here has something to contribute to this discussion."
Both gnome and mouse turned their attention to the sapling, which had gone suddenly still again, as if embarrassed by the scrutiny.
"Interesting, most interesting," Mr. Thistledown murmured, adjusting his spectacles for a closer look. "Heightened responsiveness to specific conversational stimuli. Most unusual botanical behavior."
"Not unusual at all," Master Oakenwise said quietly. "Simply a young being experiencing curiosity and uncertainty in equal measure." He addressed the sapling directly: "You've been wondering about the changes, haven't you? About what's coming through the Door?"
The sapling's topmost branches dipped slightly, in what Claude could only interpret as a nod.
"You're afraid," the gnome continued gently. "Afraid of what becoming fully yourself might mean in a Garden that's about to remember what it once was."
Another subtle movement, another apparent confirmation.
Mr. Thistledown, momentarily forgetting his scientific instruments, took a step closer to the sapling. "Most remarkable communicative capabilities! Most extraordinary inter-species dialogue!" His scholarly excitement gradually softened into something more personal. "Though I suppose I understand your hesitation, young sapling. Change is indeed most irregular, even when necessary. Even when wonderful."
With unexpected tenderness, the scholarly mouse patted one of the sapling's lower branches. "My old umbrella felt much the same way, you know. Transformation is never easy, even when it's exactly right."
At the mention of the umbrella—which Claude knew from his observations had transformed into the young Oak that now grew near the Garden Wall—the sapling seemed to stand slightly taller.
Master Oakenwise smiled, his beard-flowers shimmering with approval. "Perhaps you'd like to tell our young friend about that transformation, Mr. Thistledown? While I attend to some necessary preparations?"
The scholarly mouse brightened immediately at this invitation. "Oh! Yes! A most instructive parallel! Most relevant botanical precedent!" He settled himself comfortably beside the sapling, his scientific charts temporarily forgotten as he began relating the tale of how his faithful umbrella had found its true nature.
Master Oakenwise used this opportunity to withdraw slightly, moving to a small workshop he had established beneath the sprawling roots of a mature beech tree. Claude, his curiosity divided, chose to follow the gnome rather than remain with Mr. Thistledown and the sapling.
The gnome's workshop was a marvel of organized enchantment. Tools hung from twisted root rafters—chisels carved from single crystals, hammers with heads of polished meteorite, measuring devices that appeared to calculate dimensions Claude's human mind couldn't quite grasp. On a workbench fashioned from a slice of ancient oak sat the project that now commanded Master Oakenwise's attention: a tiny sapling-sized umbrella, its handle carved from rowan wood, its canopy formed from what appeared to be living leaves preserved at the precise moment between unfurling and full expansion.
"It's not what you might think," Master Oakenwise said without turning, somehow aware of Claude's observing presence. "Not merely a shelter from rain, but a shelter from fear."
Claude, startled at being directly addressed, nearly dropped his sketchbook. While the Garden's smaller residents often seemed aware of his presence, they rarely acknowledged him so directly.
"The young sapling," the gnome continued, carefully fitting a delicate silver rib into the umbrella's structure, "is caught between worlds. Born from a seed that traveled through time rather than mere soil. A descendant of Before-Garden stock, growing in After-Garden soil." His skilled fingers worked steadily, weaving something that looked like captured starlight into the canopy's edge. "It knows what's coming through the Door, you see. Not in thoughts, but in sap-memory. And that knowledge makes its becoming both more necessary and more frightening."
Claude found himself nodding, though he wasn't entirely sure he understood. Yet something in the gnome's words resonated with his own experience of the Garden—how his artistic struggles had intensified as the western boundary's mysteries deepened, how his dreams had filled with colors he couldn't quite capture with his existing pigments.
Master Oakenwise worked in focused silence for several more minutes, making minute adjustments to the umbrella's mechanism. Finally, he held it up to examine it in the workshop's gentle light.
"There," he said with quiet satisfaction. "A bridge between becoming and being. Between memory and possibility."
As he carried the tiny umbrella back to where Mr. Thistledown was still enthusiastically relating his umbrella's transformation story, Claude followed at a respectful distance. The scholarly mouse, catching sight of what the gnome carried, broke off his narrative with an excited squeak.
"Oh my! Most exquisite craftsmanship! Most ingenious construction!" He adjusted his spectacles for a better look. "Is that... is that what I think it is?"
"A becoming-umbrella," Master Oakenwise confirmed. "For those caught between what they were and what they might be." He approached the sapling, holding the tiny umbrella with reverence. "I've made them before, though not for many years. Not since the Time of Thorns."
He looked directly at the sapling, his ancient eyes kind but unflinching. "This is a choice, young one. I offer, but cannot decide. The umbrella will shelter you through your transformation, catching what falls away and nurturing what emerges. But only if you're ready to begin."
For a long moment, nothing happened. The sapling stood motionless in the morning light, its indeterminate leaves neither reaching nor retreating. Mr. Thistledown held his breath, his scholarly excitement temporarily suspended by the gravity of the moment.
Then, so gradually that Claude almost missed it, the sapling's topmost branches bent slightly downward, creating just enough space for the tiny umbrella to be placed where a human child might wear a hat.
"Well chosen," Master Oakenwise said softly. He positioned the umbrella carefully, securing it with a loop of silver thread that seemed to melt into the sapling's slender trunk. "Remember, transformation isn't about becoming something else—it's about becoming more fully what you already are."
As soon as the umbrella settled into place, a subtle change rippled through the sapling. Its indeterminate leaves unfurled more fully, their edges becoming more defined, their color deepening from hesitant green to a rich, confident hue that reminded Claude of summer forests glimpsed in dreams. The trunk, previously so slender it swayed with every passing breeze, seemed to center itself more firmly in the earth, finding its proper alignment between soil and sky.
"Most extraordinary accelerated development! Most remarkable botanical transformation!" Mr. Thistledown exclaimed, already reaching for his notebook. "The chronological implications alone are–"
He was interrupted by a sound unlike anything Claude had ever heard in the Garden before—a gentle chiming, like crystal bells played by the softest of breezes. It came from the sapling itself, or perhaps from the spaces between its newly confident leaves. The sound carried notes of both joy and determination, like someone who has finally found the courage to begin a long-anticipated journey.
"Ah," Master Oakenwise nodded, his beard-flowers glowing with approval. "The first song. Well done, young one."
The chiming continued, shifting gradually into a more complex melody that somehow reminded Claude of roots stretching through dark soil, of leaves reaching toward light, of the particular courage required to grow when growth means change.
"What will it become?" Mr. Thistledown asked softly, scholarly precision temporarily giving way to simple wonder.
Master Oakenwise smiled. "Exactly what it always was, beneath the hesitation. A Door-Tree."
"A Door-Tree?" Mr. Thistledown's whiskers quivered with excitement. "You mean like the legendary specimens mentioned in Ancient Botanical Correspondences Between Realms? The ones said to exist in both Garden and Wild simultaneously? But I thought they were purely theoretical constructs! Most unprecedented! Most paradigm-shifting!"
"Not theoretical at all," the gnome corrected gently. "Simply forgotten, like so much else the Garden is now remembering." He gestured toward the western boundary, where the mysterious Door had appeared in the Wall. "When that Door opens at the full moon, this sapling's kindred will be among what returns. It needed to find its courage now, to help welcome its family home."
As if in response to these words, the sapling's chiming song took on a new quality—a calling note that seemed to reach toward the western boundary. In the distance, Claude thought he could hear a faint answering melody, coming from beyond the Wall itself.
"It's already begun," Master Oakenwise said quietly. "The conversation across boundaries. The remembering of wholeness."
Mr. Thistledown, overwhelmed by the scientific and historical implications of what they were witnessing, had produced three different notebooks and was attempting to make simultaneous observations in each. "Most unprecedented harmonics! Most remarkable cross-boundary communication! Most extraordinary botanical awakening!"
The gnome watched the scholarly mouse with fond amusement, then turned his attention back to the sapling—no, the young Door-Tree—that now stood straight and certain in the morning light, its leaves fully unfurled, its voice finding its proper place in the Garden's symphony.
"Becoming is never finished," he told it gently. "But beginning is often the hardest part. You've done well today." He touched one gnarled finger to his heart, then to the Door-Tree's slender trunk. "May your roots know their true soil, and your branches their true sky."
With that, he gathered his tools and departed, leaving the Door-Tree to continue its transformation beneath the shelter of its perfect umbrella. Mr. Thistledown remained behind, methodically documenting every aspect of this "most extraordinary developmental acceleration," occasionally pausing to speak encouraging words to the young tree as one might to a promising student.
Claude made his final sketches of the scene, knowing his paints could never fully capture the subtle magic he had witnessed. Some transformations, he reflected, could only be truly understood by those experiencing them—whether reluctant saplings, aging gnomes, scholarly mice, or human artists struggling to see beyond ordinary reality.
As he closed his sketchbook and prepared to return to his cottage, Claude noticed something remarkable: a tiny Door-Tree seedling had sprouted beside his foot, its first leaves already reaching confidently toward the light. Without thinking, he carefully dug around it with his pencil, creating a small pocket of soil that he could transport safely.
This small courage, this becoming-thing, deserved a place in his garden too.
Editor's Note: The Door-Tree seedling that Claude Moreau planted beside his cottage grew with remarkable speed, eventually reaching a height taller than the cottage itself. Garden visitors still speak of its unusual properties—how standing beneath its branches sometimes allows one to hear distant conversations from places that should be too far away to perceive, how its leaves sometimes show patterns from other gardens that exist only in possibility or memory. Mr. Thistledown maintains extensive documentation of its "most extraordinary inter-dimensional properties," though he notes that these manifestations grow markedly stronger whenever the moon is full.
Master Oakenwise continues to craft becoming-umbrellas for those caught between one state and another, though he now has a waiting list that extends, according to his careful records, "three seasons and a dream's length." The original Door-Tree stands tall beside the herb garden, its voice now a constant harmonizing presence in the Garden's music. And on quiet evenings, particularly when the light fades in just the right way, visitors sometimes glimpse other Door-Trees standing where nothing was before—their roots reaching beneath the Wall, their branches offering shelter to travelers from elsewhere who might, with proper welcome, remember their way home.