The Old Man and the Singing Trees

The Stranger in the Village

The dust of the road clung to Aziz’s cloak as he made his way into the village. His journey had been long, and his legs ached from the endless climb through mountain paths. He had heard rumors of the Singing Trees, and though most dismissed them as old wives' tales, Aziz had always believed that stories contained fragments of truth.

He found the village square bustling with life—women kneading dough for the evening meal, children chasing each other with wooden toys, and old men sitting under the shade of an ancient mulberry tree, discussing the affairs of the world.

Aziz approached one of the elders, a merchant selling sacks of almonds and dried apricots.

"Tell me," Aziz said, lowering his voice. "What do you know of the Singing Trees?"

The old merchant’s hands, steady even in his age, paused over the almonds. His face darkened.

"Why do you ask about things that are best left alone?"

Aziz did not waver. "Because I wish to hear them for myself."

The merchant scoffed, shaking his head. "Foolish boy. The old man who lives there speaks with the trees, but he is no ordinary man. Some say he is a sorcerer, others say he has lived for a hundred years. Go if you must, but do not return to us with madness in your eyes."

Aziz bowed in thanks and, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, he set off toward the grove of mysteries.

The Whispering Leaves

Aziz followed a narrow path leading away from the village, past the river where women washed clothes and past the wheat fields where men sharpened their scythes. As he approached the grove, a strange feeling settled over him.

The trees were unlike anything he had ever seen. Their trunks were twisted with age, their branches stretched toward the heavens, and their leaves shimmered like silver under the fading light.

Then, the air shifted.

A sound—soft, haunting, melodic—drifted through the trees.

Aziz froze. It was not the wind.

The sound rose and fell, like a song sung by unseen lips.

"You hear them, don’t you?"

The voice startled him.

Aziz turned to see a thin old man standing among the trees. His face was carved with deep lines, his silver beard flowing down to his chest. He wore a simple woolen shawl, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"You must be Baba Darwish," Aziz said.

The old man nodded. "And you must be a man who listens."

Aziz swallowed. "Why do the trees sing?"

Baba Darwish ran his fingers over the bark of a tree, as if feeling its pulse. "Because they remember," he murmured. "They remember what men forget."

Aziz frowned. "What do they remember?"

The old man’s gaze lingered on him. Then, without another word, he turned and beckoned.

"Come. If you truly wish to know, you must listen not with your ears, but with your heart."

The Guardian’s Tale

As night descended, Aziz sat with Baba Darwish beneath the oldest tree in the grove. The air was thick with the scent of earth and cedar, and the melody of the trees hummed in the background like a distant lullaby.

"You see," Baba Darwish began, "long ago, before war and ruin, before kings and conquerors, there was a great ruler—Malik Shah."

Aziz listened as the old man wove the tale.

Malik Shah had been a wise and just king, beloved by his people. But jealousy festered among his advisors, and one by one, they betrayed him. On the eve of his execution, the king fled to the mountains, seeking refuge in the grove.

"As his enemies closed in," Baba Darwish whispered, "he pressed his palms against the bark of the oldest tree and whispered his secrets into its trunk."

Aziz leaned forward. "And what happened?"

"The tree listened."

Aziz’s breath hitched.

Baba Darwish’s voice softened. "Since that day, the trees have held his story—and many more. They whisper the truths that men try to bury."

Aziz looked around, suddenly aware that the songs in the air were more than just sounds. They were memories.

And then Baba Darwish’s gaze grew heavy.

"And now," he said, "they have chosen you to listen."

The Warning

Days passed, and Aziz remained in the grove, drawn deeper into its mystery. He learned to hear the trees not just as sounds, but as voices.

Then, one night, the song changed.

The whispers became cries of distress. The trees swayed, though there was no wind. Their leaves shuddered.

Baba Darwish woke with a start. "They are warning us," he said. "A great drought is coming."

At dawn, they rushed to the village.

"You must store food," Baba Darwish urged the people. "You must prepare for a famine!"

But the village elder scoffed. "Trees do not predict the future!"

Only a few villagers heeded the warning. They gathered wheat, stored water, prepared for what others refused to believe.

And then—the drought came.

The rivers dried. The fields turned to dust.

Gul Darrah suffered. But those who had listened survived.

The End and the Beginning

Baba Darwish had grown weak. His hands, once steady as the roots of the trees, trembled. One evening, he called Aziz to his side.

"My time is near," he said softly.

Aziz’s heart clenched. "No. You are strong."

Baba Darwish smiled. "The trees have told me otherwise."

And as the wind carried the last song of the evening, Baba Darwish closed his eyes. His final breath left him as softly as a leaf falling to the earth.

Aziz buried the old man beneath the oldest tree. He sat there for days, waiting.

Then, one night, the trees whispered a name.

Aziz.

And he knew.

He was now the guardian.

Epilogue: The Next Traveler

Years later, another traveler came to Gul Darrah.

Following whispers, he found a grove where trees sang and a man who understood their voices.

An older Aziz greeted him with a knowing smile.

"Do you hear them?"

The traveler hesitated, then nodded.

Aziz placed a hand on the tree’s bark.

"They remember."

And so, the legend of the Singing Trees lived on.

The End.