Pelean los toros y mal para las ramas.
This saying teaches that quarrels between heads-of-household result in damages and sorrows for those that walk near them or live in their shadows. But the bulls would have to be very big, or the tree would have to be very small, for the bulls to cast their shadows over the branches of the tree. However, it doesn’t matter, because we have faith in our stories.
Once upon a time there was a forest, whose trees had a peculiar quality. As long as their roots didn’t touch, the trees grew perfectly normally. But on the rare occasions when the roots of two sprouts made contact, something wonderful happened. Each sprout turned into a horn and the young trees stopped growing. Their roots got tangled, taking the form of a bull, that would grow under the ground where those trees should have grown.
However, as fate would have it, the day came when two bulls were born at the same time in that forest floor. And they felt the need to lock their horns and fight. Maybe because they were born in a tangle of roots, and their horns sought the same connection. The same subtraction. So that where there had been two, only one would remain.
The bulls fought. In the shadow of the trees. They fought, until only one bull was left in that forest. And it wouldn’t be long before that bull was truly alone. Because the trees had also sustained injuries during their fight. Wounds in their trunks, so deep, that the connection between their branches and their roots had been broken for good. Leaving a lone bull, in a mortally wounded forest.
I don’t know about you, but I never wanted to become a bull. I wanted to keep my roots and grow to be a tree. I wanted to touch the sky, not tear everything to shreds.
A freak of nature, that’s what they called us. I myself preferred the term brothers, but the rules of that forest were written in something harder than stone, and we fought. In the womb. Underground. I fed on my brother in the dark, where I couldn’t tell the color of his blood. Before words like guilt or hatred had taken root in me. And for that I am grateful. I am grateful for the small mercy this hard-hearted forest showed me. Because I could have drowned in red, but black is a color I can easily forget.
That’s the future that awaits me up there. Goring another bull to death. Another bull born in the same forest as me. But that won’t make him my brother. I had my roots. He will have his. The trees will just stand by. And I just hope that their leaves don’t rustle in the wind. Because there is only so much I can take. And being cheered on, being rooted on, while blood drips down my horns… I can’t think of anything that would be lonelier than that.
We fought to the death. There were no regrets. The sky above declared a winner, but that is just an empty word. Neither of us set out to be crowned. Our only hope, our shared aim, was to mortally wound this forest. And we succeeded. Soon all the trees will die. There will be no more bulls like you and me. Your blood, my brother, will be the last red leaf to rot away here.
How many horns do I have? Two, that’s right. The perfect number to start a fight. But soon that number will go down to one. My horns will fall out. Only I will be left. And I don’t know why some people say that one is the loneliest number. Maybe they say that because they haven’t grown up in this forest? But as far as I am concerned, one is, and always will be, the number of peace. That magical thing, that lets you take deep breaths.
I wish someone had told me that this forest would be brimming with birds. Their mocking cries. If I had known what awaited me, I would have thrown the fight. But I won. I survived. And now I have to wait, until another bull is born in this forest. I have to wait, with nothing to do but look up at the blue where those birds fly. Because fighting is what I was born for. Nothing else fulfills me. Those birds know it, and they mock me. Because they have the sky in their hollow bones. And I have horns, that are going to waste while I wait.
Mine, mine, mine. The forest is mine. What? No, I don’t know what I will do with it. I suppose I could always breathe. Deep. Deeper than the roots I used to have. Or I could fell those trees. Make them into blank pieces of paper, and let my words run wild. But who cares about that? The important thing here is that I won the fight. And the forest is mine! Mine, mine, mine!
I would say that I am sorry. But I am afraid that it would be adding insult to injury.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be young and think that I am alone in the world. To not care about such things as collateral damage. But youth wasn’t what fate had in store for me. I was born an old soul. Do you know what that means? You breathe my air. I fan all the shades of red that fate reserves for bulls like you. I will live on in this forest, long after you bleed out by the horns of some other bull.
Do you see these scars? It isn’t the first time bulls fight in this forest, and it won’t be the last. What do you take me for? A delicate flower? I am a sturdy tree. Those horns aren’t sharp enough, they aren’t long enough to wound me and leave me for dead.
Don’t look down. Don’t you dare. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Eyes up there, in the sky. That’s right. Burn that blue in your mind. Those bulls might have gored you, and life might be trickling down your bark, but you are not dead yet. And their fight, their destruction won’t be the last thing you see. It won’t be what you take with you when everything fades to black. That black won’t come from dried blood. It will come from the sky you once touched. From that blue you brightened, every night, with your dreams.
You are too close. You are too close. Too close for comfort. My roots are right there. And I can’t look. Please. I know what will happen. I have seen it before. Red, so much red. I know that you won’t listen to me, because nobody has the right to tell you how to live your life. But please, just please, don’t come any closer to me. Don’t seek my company. Believe me, there are worse things than loneliness.
By the way, we didn’t just pluck the following animals out of thin air. They were already there, hidden in plain sight, in the bark of our trees.
What do you think, little bird? Could this outcome have been avoided if they had turned into little birds like you instead of sharp-horned bulls? Your beak looks pretty sharp to me, and you would have had to sleep somewhere at night. But the sky is blue, and we can always pretend. Come, let us share the same dream, little bird. If they had inherited your feathers, those birds would have taken wing. They would have left this forest in the dust, and spent their lives pecking stars in the night.
Sure, why not? Lie to me. Comfort me. Go ahead, I will bask in your lies. Tell me that lizards are cold-blooded creatures. Tell me that their blood is the coldest blue, and the sky would pale in comparison. That there would have been no fight, no wounds, no spilt blood, if those two had turned into lizards instead of bulls. Tell me that blue is contentment. Tell me that the colder the blue, the stronger the apathy. That those lizards would have basked in the sun. Like the sky. Like the rest of us trees. Go ahead. Lie to me. My wounds have almost healed, and I am ready to believe you.
I disagree with you. Star-nosed moles wouldn’t have been better than the bulls we got. Those bulls might have gored most of this forest to death, but we were just in their way. Collateral damage. That’s what we were. Invisible. Ignored. Because they only had eyes for one another. But no star-nosed mole would ever show us that same kindness. We would be in the way. Obstructing their view of the stars above. We would have left ourselves wide open for comparisons, and those moles would find us lacking. No, thank you, I can do without that kind of wound. At least the ones being ignored leaves behind eventually scar.
I can’t tell whether you are a dog or a lion. Whether you are loyalty or warm sunlight. But it doesn’t matter, because there are some wounds that don’t heal. Life is what it is. And I don’t play make-believe.