Chapter 4: Talk of Gold

"When the last two bircheans of gold meet, the chosen one shall be brought onto this land and save us all from this fate of death and war," the tree of time announced as if reciting from a book.

The other five trees in the group darted their attention in the direction of the tree of time, asking the humble and wise tree questions they'd never asked before.

"How much longer until the chosen one is born," the tree of fire asked, while they all stood gawking at the tree of time.

"I know the answer," the tree of wind shouted sarcastically; "I believe the answer is soon."

"Is this story of the so-called chosen one even true," quoted the tree of earth, "For all we know, you could be making it all up to give us hope again."

"I assure you!" the tree of time began to shout, "the story is true!"

"Could you at least tell us the gender of the chosen one," the tree of water calmly asked, "Will the chosen one be wise or strong?"

"Settle down, everyone! Yes, I know she's told this story almost one hundred times already. I know we all have questions, but we also know that she can only see bits and pieces of the future given to her by the earth, not the whole thing!" the tree of nature yelled, "Now, if there's something we can agree upon, it's that "death by human" is getting out of hand, and if there's something that can stop it, I'm all ears."

This group of trees talking atop of a forested mountain may not yell dignity, but they may very well be the most vital life on earth, at the time anyway. They are widely known as the guardians but prefer to call themselves "The Circle of Trees."

Some may be wondering, "what does death by human mean?" Death by human refers to rapid deforestation by humans that bircheans can't fight against, lest there be consequences.

It started over a millennium ago when humans were victorious in The Great Birchean War between man and birchean. The humans gave the bircheans two choices, either provide them with the secret of living comfortably in the forest or give away their forest. To humans, the bircheans had no secret to give, and ever since that day, it's been more common for trees to die by the saw or ax of a human than by old age.

Bircheans lucky enough to escape the battlefield quickly discovered ways to avoid humans. They plotted trails along dense forests, known as tree routes, and brought about an evolution to make them appear as trees when needed so as not to be seen by humans.

It wasn't long before the tree of time's prophecy came to pass, for only five years later, something extraordinary took place. It all started when an oak sapling birchean came running along to give big news to a long-forgotten species.

It was early fall that time of year. The wind could be heard whistling through the tree as the leaves fell, dispersing throughout the barren ground beneath the scattered trees, which displayed their autumn colors with pride.

Given the chance, humans would marvel at the kinetic scenery; however, it was simply another day of tranquility for the area's residents in a region known as the Forest Mountains.

"Ms. Goldey, Ms. Goldey!" the sapling yelled, waiting for a response.

"Oh, how are you doing, little one," Ms. Golden answered his call, curious as to what the sapling would say.

That morning, she was preparing a meal for the residence of her Forest Mountain, made from rich soils and sweet dews. When the oak sapling birchean came around, Ms. Golden placed the meal in a sunlit area, not far from her plot of land.

To a bircheans' nose, this delicacy could be smelled from miles away, but the meal would soon be the least of her worries.

"Guess what news my mama told me today!" the sapling continued to yell, "She told me there'd been news of another golden birchean, headed to this here mountain!"

"That's nonsense," Ms. Golden gasped, drawn back by the words, "for I am the last of my kind. So, return to your home and stop making up these stories of a golden birchean coming to our mountains!"

"But I'm not lying," the sapling whined, "I'm telling the truth!"

"Run along, little one," she began gesturing, fanning her hand in the direction he'd come, "for if you stay any longer, your parents might worry.

The sapling gave in, leaving the golden birchean with a pang of deep sadness as his gaze glued itself to the ground. Finally, after seeing the sapling in such a sorry state, the golden-leaved birchean agreed to tell the sapling a story. As she began to speak, the sapling sat and listened

"Now a birchean village, there once was," she began, "Over a century ago, it stood, low in the meadows it laid where things were once joyous. There may have been no trees, but the seedlings were plentiful. They weren't just any old seedlings, for these seedlings were made of gold. They thrived throughout the meadow until that one bright crimson morning. Along came a human who saw the little seedlings, and he saw how fragile they were."

"Not long after, he brought his tools, and one by one, golden seedlings were plucked from the ground. Unable to walk, run or even crawl at the moment, they were all placed in a pile with no way of escape. There was another human who'd brought with him a big rock pot, which he would put the seedlings inside, using his element to melt them alive."

"We didn't want such a fate, yet it took all my family and left me. One by one, they melted the seedlings but left me, for my bark was not metallic, simply just regular wood with a shade of gold. As soon as they left, a sort of circle hovered over me. When the ring began to move, I followed it as soon as I could crawl. Finally, after some time living here, I was told a guardian created the circle I observed. They saved me from that madness, and that is the end of my story."

The sapling, who sat with Ms. Golden under the shade of a maple tree, was truly intrigued by the story. "At least you had a good ending," the sapling cheered, surprisingly happier than before.

Ms. Golden was happy to cheer up the birchean, but a bemused audience cut off her chance to respond. Instead, many wows, ohs, and whoa's were echoed from the mountain's base, growing closer with every passing moment.

"Are you a Golden birchean or a yellow poplar birchean?" said one of the mountain's residences.

"I'm golden as the sun," said Mr. Golden.