The woodpecker's wail

Afshin worked tirelessly sawing away on the old apricot tree, and yellow sawdust trickled down from both sides. Sweat drenched his body, but he refused to let go of the tool. “I have to finish this,” he whispered to himself. The older man in the bed lifted his head slightly from the pillow and fixed his gaze on the shaking tree. The man had been stuttering for years, and his legs were shaking. So, his son could no longer hear the old man’s soft whisper as he struggled with all his might.

The vicious teeth of the saw ripped the wood apart mercilessly, and it felt like it was tearing the old man’s heart in two. The apricot tree was the largest in the garden, planted in the first year of the old man’s marriage and surrounded by mulberries, peas, and peaches that he had added later. His children grew up with the seedlings, eventually married, and moved into their own homes. Only the younger son, following tradition, stayed with his father.

A few years after his wife died, the old man fell ill, but he refused his children’s requests for medical treatment. “I feel like I am leaving the world,” he said. “My legs can no longer support my weight, and I am on the verge of death. I must prepare for the journey. My wings have been cut off.”

He also refused to go to his children’s homes.

Strange, persistent thoughts flashed through his mind as his son worked, disappearing among the apricot trees and reappearing. Unnoticed by his son, the helpless old man continued to stamp his feet. His mouth was dry because he had not drunk water for days. However, the son thought this was just a sign of ageing and did not inform anyone about his father’s condition.

“I farmed this garden with so much hope,” the old man said. “I wanted my children to harvest something sweet from it without having to beg from the neighbours. I wanted this garden to sweeten the lives of my neighbours too.”

Every fall, he fertilised the trees in his garden and wrapped the seedlings in warm clothing for the winter, just as he did with his children. He pruned their excess branches and stroked them in the spring. The old man felt as if he lived and breathed with the trees in his garden, especially with the woodpecker that had built a nest in a walnut tree and was pecking at the trunk with its pointed beak. The old man loved the bird’s music and could listen to it for hours. But when the sharp edge of the saw cut into the trunk of the tree, the woodpecker fled, and the old man could still hear the hatchlings that remained in the nest.

Afshin paid no attention to his father and continued with his work. The branch cracked and destroyed the old man’s last hopes. He pinched his lower lip to ease the pain. Neighbours took the grafted seedlings from the garden and grew their own. Some even sold the seedlings at the local market. This was exactly what the old man had hoped for.

Afshin had been exiled from Russia for months because he was involved in a theft at an iron factory and had connections with disagreeable friends, including a Russian woman. The old man had given him the saw and warned him not to cut live branches. He also reminded him of the old tradition of confirming the death of a tree with three people before cutting it down. The old man had taken care of the saplings himself and even dug a stream.

He believed that his son would use the dried branches as firewood for the winter, but the tree had sprouted new branches, was green, and bore fruit.

He had repeatedly warned his son that cutting green branches was tantamount to decapitation and that the axe should only be used to cut rotten wood.

The saw wobbled uncontrollably, and the old man’s gnarled hands, which had betrayed him for years, trembled with a lack of strength. Doctors had diagnosed him with hydrochloric acid buildup in his joints, but the prescribed medications had proven ineffective.

The old man’s gaze wandered back to the trees. From a distance, one tree in particular caught his eye. It was a rare specimen, the only one of its kind. This tree had a special place in the old man’s heart. Every year it bore fruit late but abundantly. “Why could not he see this as a slow endeavour that would pay off in time?” - The old man was troubled, and his mouth was dry as sand. His son understood, but he still single-mindedly cut down the tree, ignoring the old man’s pleas and rejecting his hopes. “Yesterday he burned the clothes I had bought him with such high hopes,” wailed the old man.

“This is an outdated feudalistic practice whose time has long passed,” Afshin said to a friend who had fled Russia with him and who had shown him the garden a few days ago. They planned to cut down all the trees and build a swimming pool in their place.

“How should I explain to him that our situation is not comparable to the one in Russia? We do not have the means to build a swimming pool. Maybe he wants to build a pond with the proceeds from the cows,” the old man said to himself.

After spending many years in exile, the old man found it strange that his son was so influenced by a foreign culture. “Did he have to adopt their way of life? Was it necessary? What made them so superior?”

He was told that the whole town, including his son, was insulted and belittled and that he was referred to only as a “black-haired man.” Now it was too late; he was out of control. He had been raised to be a spoiled brat, and that was the old man’s failure.

For the last four or five years, he had been coming here and dealing in cows and calves, even abandoning his wife and two children. He was planning to bring his Russian wife here. He used to say that they should all drink milk and eat snacks several times a day, just like the townspeople.

The sick man was plagued by intrusive thoughts. He stumbled and breathed heavily, but the young man was completely absorbed in his work. The branch broke off and fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Afshin stopped and threw the saw away.

The woodpecker reappeared and pecked away at the walnut trunk. But the old man, once enthralled by its rhythmic tapping, could no longer hear it. He died before the branch touched the ground.

Firdavs Azam