The Lamentable Coma of Mr. Tiddlewink and the Trees That Didn’t
In a small, entirely forgettable corner of England—just past the village of Lower Beanlington and not quite near Upper—there existed a forest that most maps politely ignored. It wasn’t that the cartographers bore any ill will toward the woods; they simply found it embarrassingly difficult to pronounce its name, which was something akin to “Grrblsthwap Forest.” Locals referred to it as “the woods” and left it at that.
Ben Tiddlewink, a man of negligible repute and even less significance, found himself meandering through these very woods one drizzly afternoon. Ben was an accountant by trade, which explained the persistent aura of ennui that clung to him like a damp sweater. He was the sort of person who wore beige socks and thought of mayonnaise as an adventurous condiment.
On this particular day, Ben had decided to take a walk—a radical departure from his usual routine of not taking walks. Perhaps it was the way the clouds hung in the sky, resembling a celestial committee meeting that should have been an email, or maybe it was the uncharacteristic urge to feel something other than the synthetic fibers of his office chair. Whatever the reason, Ben stepped into the woods, umbrella in hand, utterly unaware that his life was about to become marginally less dull.
As he wandered deeper, the trees seemed to close ranks behind him, branches interlacing like old friends sharing secrets. The air was thick with the scent of moss and a vague hint of misplaced ambition. Ben, of course, noticed none of this. He was preoccupied with calculating the annual depreciation of his toaster.
It wasn’t until he tripped over a particularly impertinent root that he began to pay attention. As he dusted off his trousers—standard grey, purchased during a two-for-one sale—he heard something unusual: a whisper. Not the kind you’d expect from the wind rustling through leaves, but a bona fide whisper, as if the trees were engaged in a heated debate about existential philosophy or the proper way to brew a cup of tea.
“Who’s there?” Ben called out, immediately feeling foolish. Trees, after all, were not known for their conversational skills.
Silence. Then, just as he was about to dismiss it as a figment of his underutilized imagination, he heard it again—a soft murmur, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
“Very funny,” Ben muttered. “Laughing trees. What’s next, sarcastic shrubs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” a voice replied. “Shrubs are far too self-absorbed for sarcasm.”
Ben spun around, searching for the source. “Who’s speaking?”
“We are,” the voice said, emanating unmistakably from the tree beside him—a grand old oak with an air of superiority.
“Trees don’t talk,” Ben stated, more to himself than to anyone else.
“Well, not usually to humans,” the oak conceded. “But exceptions can be made.”
“Why me?” Ben asked, bewildered.
“Why not you?” another voice chimed in—a slender birch with leaves that tinkled like laughter.
Ben considered this. He had no satisfactory rebuttal.
“Fine,” he said, adopting the tone of a man negotiating a cell phone contract. “What do you want?”
“Want?” The oak sounded amused. “It’s not about wanting, dear boy. It’s about needing you to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“The Symphony,” whispered the birch.
Before Ben could inquire further, a strange sensation enveloped him. The forest around him seemed to shimmer, the colors deepening, sounds amplifying. He felt a peculiar connection, as if his mind was being gently plugged into a cosmic socket he hadn’t known existed.
Images flooded his consciousness: roots intertwining beneath the earth, sharing nutrients and whispers; signals sent through fungal networks like gossip across garden fences; trees warning each other of pests and droughts, celebrating blossoms and mourning fallen companions.
“You’re… connected,” Ben breathed.
“Bravo,” the oak said dryly. “The human grasps the obvious.”
“All this time, you’ve been communicating. Helping each other.”
“Unlike your species,” the birch noted with a hint of reproach.
Ben bristled. “That’s not fair. Humans communicate. We have the internet.”
The trees rustled in a collective sigh. “Yes, and look where that’s gotten you.”
He couldn’t argue with that. His last online interaction had devolved into a heated debate over the correct orientation of toilet paper rolls.
“But why reveal this to me?” Ben asked.
“Perhaps we hoped you might learn something,” the oak replied.
“Me? I’m just an accountant.”
“Precisely,” said the birch. “Numbers are your language, yet you fail to see the most critical ones.”
“Such as?”
“One,” the oak interjected. “As in, you’re all part of one system. Interconnected, interdependent. Yet you act as if you’re isolated units.”
“Well, society does encourage individualism,” Ben mumbled.
“Individualism!” The trees shook with what might have been laughter or a mild breeze. “Adorable.”
Ben felt a twinge of defensiveness. “It’s not like we have root systems linking us together.”
“Don’t you?” the birch asked pointedly. “What about your relationships, communities, the shared experiences that bind you?”
He thought about his neighbors, whose names he didn’t know, and his coworkers, whose lives outside the office were a mystery. “I suppose we might have drifted apart.”
“Drifted? You’ve erected walls, both literal and metaphorical,” the oak chastised.
Ben sighed. “So what do you suggest? That we all hold hands and sing kumbaya?”
“Not necessarily,” the birch said thoughtfully. “But a little empathy wouldn’t hurt.”
He rubbed his temples. “This is a lot to process. I’m talking to trees, for heaven’s sake.”
“Don’t worry,” the oak said kindly. “Most humans ignore us. You’re just lucky—or unlucky—enough to be receptive.”
“Great,” Ben muttered. “I’m the chosen one of flora.”
“Think of it as an opportunity,” the birch encouraged. “Spread the word. Nurture connections. Be the mycorrhizal fungus you wish to see in the world.”
Ben couldn’t help but chuckle. “Be the fungus, huh? Inspiring.”
“Every grand system starts small,” the oak reminded him. “Even oaks grow from tiny acorns.”
He looked around, the forest now seeming less like a collection of trees and more like a grand, interconnected organism. It was humbling, in a way.
“I’ll try,” he said softly. “I don’t know how much difference one person can make, but I’ll try.”
“That’s all we ask,” the birch replied.
Just then, a sharp ring pierced the air—his phone alarm. He blinked, the forest snapping back to its ordinary hues. The murmurs faded, leaves rustling with mere wind once more.
Had he imagined it? Possible, though unlikely. Accountants weren’t known for overactive imaginations.
He made his way back to the edge of the woods, the afternoon sun casting long shadows. As he stepped onto the sidewalk leading to his neighborhood, he noticed Mrs. Peabody struggling with her groceries.
Without overthinking it, he hurried over. “Let me help you with those.”
She looked surprised but grateful. “Thank you, Ben. So kind of you.”
As they walked together, she chatted about the weather, her cat Mr. Whiskerton, and the perplexing popularity of kale. He listened, genuinely engaged.
Over the next few days, Ben found himself reaching out more—bringing coffee to a beleaguered coworker, actually reading the community bulletin, even attending a local gardening club meeting (though he remained skeptical about the merits of begonias).
One evening, while watering the neglected fern in his apartment—a new habit he was rather proud of—he felt a subtle shift within himself. A connection, faint but present, like a thread linking him to something larger.
He smiled wryly. “Be the fungus,” he whispered.
Halfway across town, the trees rustled in what might have been approval.
Months later, the residents of Lower Beanlington and Upper Beanlington found themselves inexplicably drawn together. Block parties sprouted like wildflowers, communal gardens replaced vacant lots, and conversations blossomed where silence once reigned.
No one could quite pinpoint how it started. Some credited the unusually fine weather; others thought it might be something in the water. Ben Tiddlewink knew better, but he kept that to himself.
After all, who would believe that an ordinary man had learned extraordinary lessons from a sarcastic oak and a witty birch?
One Saturday afternoon, Ben returned to the woods, a thermos of tea in hand. He sat on a fallen log and sipped quietly.
“Back again?” the oak’s familiar voice drifted through the leaves.
“Thought I’d visit old friends,” Ben replied.
“How goes the human experiment?” the birch inquired.
He chuckled. “Slowly but surely. We’re not as adept at networking as you lot, but we’re trying.”
“That’s all anyone can do,” the oak mused. “Well, that and photosynthesize, but I suppose that’s out of your reach.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Ben said with a grin. “We do get our energy from the sun—after it’s processed by plants and turned into food.”
“Touché,” the birch laughed.
They sat in companionable silence, the forest alive with subtle sounds. For once, Ben felt he was exactly where he was meant to be—not lost, but part of a grander design.
As the sun dipped low, casting golden light through the branches, he stood to leave.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
“We’ll be here,” the oak assured him. “Rooted to the spot.”
“Very punny,” Ben groaned.
“Couldn’t resist,” the birch admitted.
He waved goodbye, heading back with a lighter step. The world felt different now—richer, more connected. And while he knew there was much work to be done, both within himself and his community, he also knew that even the mightiest oaks began as humble seeds.
In the end, perhaps that was the secret symphony of the trees: a reminder that growth is possible, connections are vital, and even the most unassuming individuals can make a difference.
Or maybe it was just a case of mild heatstroke leading to hallucinations. But Ben preferred the former explanation.
After all, life was far more interesting when you believed in a little magic among the trees.