In the middle of the grove stood an unusual tree. Since time immemorial, its branches had stretched deep into the earth, its leaves sprouting and dying in the underground darkness, while its roots jutted into the air. Thus the tree had lived.
Travellers and wanderers passing through the grove avoided it, taking it for a symbol of unnatural death. From afar it seemed lifeless. The bravest would approach it every few years, examine the trunk, stare at the bare roots that spread above them like a crown. They would tear off pieces of bark and dig for its fruit. Then they would flee, startled by their own courage.
Soon they too became pariahs. People avoided them like lepers, as though they bore the fatal sign of the Inverted Tree, as though they were destined for ruin. Nothing strange happened to them—except that they died lonely and wretched, outcast by a world that did not understand curiosity. They died clutching the seeds of its fruit and the withered leaves of the tree, mysteries they had failed to decipher.
Mordekai watched the roots of the Inverted Tree with pity. They seemed to drink moisture from the air itself, and thus survive.
“Something important happened here,” thought Mordekai. Something great.
In the grove, birds were chirping. Bees, flies, wasps, and horseflies buzzed everywhere. Grasses swayed, and the treetops rustled. Small rodents rolled in the clumps of earth. The grove breathed its summer.
Mordekai stepped closer. He felt the faint scent of dampness spreading from the roots. Around the Inverted Tree there was a clearing, as if the grove itself had cast it out and wanted nothing to do with it. Mordekai frowned.
“That’s not right,” he thought. “Does it matter whether you grow upward or downward?”
He sat down and leaned against the trunk. He could see the outlines of branches and the tips of leaves peeking from the damp soil. He touched the wrinkled bark. Through his fingertips pulsed a rhythm—steady, distant, like a sob. From the bare tips of leaves dew dripped upward, rushing toward the roots.
“Tears,” thought Mordekai.
He sat until dusk, leaning against the trunk, listening to the sorrowful life of the tree. Then he understood: every tremor, every drop, every rustle and quiver was an apology.
“This tree lives only to ask the world’s forgiveness,” Mordekai said to himself.
He decided to spend the night beside it. The moonlight, his old ally, closed his eyes.
He dreamed a terrible dream. The earth was naked, like a newborn child. Two faces, male and female, drowned in greedy curiosity. Then faces without number—evil and good. Screams, flames, unearthed graves. Heaven was silent. The earth was silent. Only humans spoke—and lied. They lied endlessly, as though justice never was and never would be.
A revelation flashed in Mordekai’s mind. This was no ordinary tree. All of humankind had come and gone beneath its branches, under its gaze.
“You are the First Tree,” Mordekai whispered. “You are the Tree of Knowledge. Out of shame you have hidden your face in the earth. You think yourself guilty of every human sin because someone, long ago, ate your fruit. So you seek forgiveness, but you don’t understand—humans are destined for such acts, just as you are destined to bear fruit. Deeds of evil are the fruit of humankind.”
The tree wept in its vegetal tongue. It sobbed and howled through its roots. It trembled and shook until, at last, it split in two, as if struck by lightning.
Mordekai awoke, his face wet with sweat, brushing soil and moss from his hair. The sun was already pulsing in the blue sky like a blister.
He pressed his cheek against the bark and whispered, “You are forgiven. You have long been forgiven.” Then he turned and left.
The next morning, on one of the roots, a bud had sprouted. With great effort, the tree’s conscience found peace. But there was no one there to witness the bud.
Other Mordekai Stories: The House Awoken
