30 Days 30 Stories, Installment 7, The Money Tree

There was once a beautiful money tree. It grew outside the cottage of a woman and her family. It was green and verdant, and had been planted there when the girl was a baby. Her family had been very rich at that time, and had had money for such a gift. As it stood now, however, a great war had bankrupted the family and their town. All they had left was the small income from the strong money tree.

The money tree was quite young, but great, and it produced its fruit every spring. Every spring the family carefully gathered each piece of money as it ripened, and hid it away under the floorboards, and then they watched for another. The woman's husband had died in the war, and her children were small. She had a garden and a few chickens, but they were thin and scrawny. She needed the money tree for food, and she needed the money tree to buy medicine for her husband's mother, now very ill.

Many times the woman would find that a branch or two had been cut off by someone hoping to plant their own money tree. She shook her head sadly; that was not the way one could grow a money tree. Money trees could not be cut and grafted; they had to be carefully reared. As well, to produce money, they had to be given as gifts. Her parents had given her this money tree, but the cut branches were useless to their possessors. However, she new that if she were starving she would probably do the same.

It was deep into winter. The winds were blowing scudding snow across the ground. The money tree was asleep, and the gold beneath their boards dwindling. Firewood was scarce; soon she might have to use the remains of the chicken coop to burn. She didn't know how she would do without it. Perhaps the chickens would have to live inside, with them.

There was a knock on the door. She ignored it, hoping it was her imagination. The children were restlessly asleep, her mother-in-law slept fitfully. A guest would only bring chaos. But the knock continued. The woman sighed, smoothed back her dark hair, and wiped the sleep and weariness from around her eyes. She opened the door a crack to see who it was. A man and a bundle stood outside. He was scruffy and looked starving, but she was loathe to let him in. A man in a house full of women and children? She thought not. "Please..." he trailed off, looking at her pleadingly, and then opened the blanket and she saw there was a very young baby inside. Too young. She gestured for him to come in.

The baby was too small and too thin. He needed warmth and he needed milk. She didn't know what to do. There was no money left to buy milk, and their firewood was running out. The baby was very thin, but when it opened its eyes, the blue of them made her want to weep. They were the blue of her husband's eyes, and the blue that she had loved.

That morning she sent the man with some money for milk - it was almost the last of what they had. Then, looking at her firewood, she knew she would not make it. They dismantled the chicken coop. They burnt the wood. The baby did not ail, and began to laugh. They all gathered round, hungry, to the sound - it was joy in a time of need.

A week later there was no more wood. It was late in the day, and they were not prepared. A storm was coming in. The woman realized what would happen. In the cold the baby would not make it; they had no other choices. She gave the man an axe, and pointed to the money tree. He did not know what it meant, but merrily cut it down, whistling at the prospect of warmth. Inside, the woman wept silent tears as she ground corn meal for some pan bread.

They warmed their hands at the wood fire that night. The baby laughed. There was warmth, and in the warmth in front of the fire, the man took her hand gently. He smiled at her. Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled in return.