What The Tree Holds

In the Brazilian savanna where the earth is red and the sky does things that skies elsewhere don't bother with — there lived a family of armadillos. The Duru family. They had lived in this red earth for so long that some of them had gone slightly red themselves which they considered a sign of belonging and not as the aunts insisted too much time in the sun.

Every year on the night of the dry season's last breath when the red earth cracked and the strange skies turned the colour of an old bruise healing — the Duru family went to the tree.

The tree had no name. It was too old for names. It had been there before names. It had been there before most things. Its roots went down so deep into the red earth that Old Grandmother Duru said they probably came out somewhere on the other side of the world which was China and that this explained a great many things about China. Nobody asked what things.

This was the night they dug.

Every Duru knew the rules. Rule one: Everyone comes. No exceptions. No excuses. Uncle Braz had once tried I have a bad back and had been handed a smaller shovel. Rule two: You dig up last year's thing first. Rule three: You put this year's thing in. Rule four: You don't decide what this year's thing is until you are standing at the tree in the dark with your family and the red earth under your claws and the strange sky above your head. That was when you knew.

Dillo was seven years old and this was his first year doing the digging himself. Last year he had watched. The year before he had slept through it entirely which his mother had never quite forgiven.

The family walked to the tree in the last hot dark of the dry season. Grandmother Duru at the front. Then the aunts and uncles in their usual complicated order. Then the cousins who were too many to count and too loud to ignore. Then Dillo's mama and papa. Then Dillo.

The tree was waiting. It was always waiting. It was extremely good at waiting. It had been doing it for longer than anyone could remember and showed no signs of stopping.

Grandmother Duru dug first. Her claws were old and extremely effective. She lifted out a small clay pot. Last year's pot. She opened it. Inside: A single red earth pebble. Smooth and round and the colour of everything around them.

"Your great-uncle Faro put this in," said Grandmother Duru. "The year he was very ill and wasn't sure he would be here for the next one." She held it up. "He was here for forty-seven more."

She put the pebble in her pocket.

Then everyone dug. The cousins dug competitively. Uncle Braz dug carefully on account of his back which was real this year. Papa dug with the serious face he reserved for important things and broken appliances.

The hole got deep. Red earth piled up around them. The strange sky watched.

"Now," said Grandmother Duru. "What does everyone put in?"

This was the part Dillo had been thinking about for weeks. He had considered: A drawing. A stone. A feather. His best marble. A piece of the tree's own bark which felt circular but interesting.

He stood at the hole. The red earth was warm under his feet. The sky had gone from bruise-colour to the deep blue-black of something ancient and enormous. Around him his family stood — Grandmother and aunts and uncles and too-many cousins and mama and papa — all of them in the dark at the roots of the old tree that had been here before names.

Dillo put his claw in his pocket. He had put something there before they left. He hadn't told anyone. He had barely told himself.

He took out a small folded piece of paper. On it he had drawn this. This exact thing. The tree and the hole and the family standing around it in the dark. All their shapes. Grandmother at the front. Too-many cousins. Mama and papa. And himself small at the edge with his first shovel.

He put it in the hole.

Grandmother Duru looked at it before he covered it over. "Next year," she said, "whoever digs this up will know that in this year on this night you were here. And that you knew you were here."

Dillo looked at the hole. He thought about next year's Dillo standing at this tree digging up this drawing. He thought about the Dillo after that. And after that. All the way down through all the dry seasons and strange skies and red earth nights that hadn't happened yet.

All of them coming back to this tree. All of them connected by a hole in the ground and a rule that said everyone comes no exceptions no excuses.

He covered the drawing over.

The family walked home through the dark savanna. The red earth was cool now. The sky was full of stars in the particular abundance that only happens far from everything.

Dillo walked next to Grandmother Duru. "Why do we do it?" he said. Grandmother Duru walked for a few steps before she answered. "So you know," she said, "that you come from something. And that something is still here. And that you are part of it whether you feel like it or not."

She took the red pebble from her pocket. Handed it to Dillo. "Great-uncle Faro," she said. "Forty-seven more years."

Dillo held the pebble. Warm and smooth and the colour of everything around them.

He put it in his pocket. He would put it in next year's pot.

The savanna went on forever in every direction. The tree stood behind them in the dark holding everything underneath it the way it had always held everything — quietly and for a very long time and with no intention of stopping. You said: when you start, let it be known that this is an armadillo family.when you start, let it be known that this is an armadillo family. and in brazil5:05 PMClaude responded: Easy fix.Easy fix. The opening just needs one grounding image — red earth, Brazil, armadillo — before we meet the family.

In the Brazilian savanna where the earth is red and the sky does things that skies elsewhere don't bother with — there lived a family of armadillos. The Duru family. They had lived in this red earth for so long that some of them had gone slightly red themselves which they considered a sign of belonging and not as the aunts insisted too much time in the sun.