If I Were Queen, Things Would Be Different

Once upon a time there was a majestic old oak tree that grew next to a mountain stream which meandered in its burbly way past a boulder and out into the valley.

The oak tree had been developing a thought for a few years, as oaks think very slowly. One sunny afternoon, the tree said, “I believe I am so old, that I must be the oldest being around.”

The stream, which had been contemplating a small course change next rainy season, thought about what the tree had said. “No-o-o,” the stream finally said. “I was the one who provided the moisture back when you were just an acorn. If I had not been here, you wouldn’t have germinated in this sandy soil.”

“Ah,” said the tree. “Then you must be the oldest being around.” The tree and the stream placidly digested this revelation for a few weeks. Then came a day when the mountain, which had never before felt the need to share its thoughts, rumbled, “I believe you are both wrong. You, Tree, did not grow until the stream was here. But the stream comes from a spring in my belly, so I must be older than Stream.”

Tree and Stream heard what Mountain said, and could not, despite many months’ ruminations, see anything wrong with his conclusion.

“The mountain must be the oldest being around,” said the tree finally.

Time passed. The tree stood naked next to the ice-covered stream and snow fell on the mountain. One cold night, the boulder spoke.

“I remember when I rested where Mountain stands now, and I was no closer to the sky than I am this day. There was a great upheaval and I rolled over here. Then there was a mountain.”

Tree and Stream and Mountain gave this speech careful consideration. Finally, Tree gently shook its new, green leaves and said, “The boulder has made a good point. I believe he must truly be the oldest being around.”

A spider was listening from her web in the shadow of Boulder. She remembered as a young hatchling hearing her great-grandmother tell the tale of Tree proclaiming himself the oldest being around. Her grandmother had shared what Stream had said, and her mother confided what Mountain had determined. She herself could recall Boulder’s proclamation back when she had laid her first batch of eggs. She had produced many find broods of young since those days of youth and possibility, and now was content to rest her old legs in the shady corner of her web.