Will Grannis

In the faraway valley of Dorian Dree
One can spot in an instant the world's tallest tree.
Its trunk is as broad as a tower is high,
And it stretches forever, or at least past the sky.

Where a tree in your yard would have bark for its hide,
This tree's almost barkless, with marks on its side.
And why are there marks on the side of this tree?
It's all due to the village of Tallyboo-Vee.

For in fact this great tree that has almost no bark
Is right in the center of Tallyboo Park.
It's not that the bark hasn't fully been peeled
But rather that a once barkless tree has been healed!

Well, only a little. But a little is some!
And I'm telling you now where that healing came from.
Let's wind back the clock almost ten thousand seasons
To the time it was barkless (and I'll tell you the reasons).

The Tallybooveesians are an interesting sort.
They're taller than us, and they have their own sport
Called tickety-tacket, where they see who can shoot
A cannonball farthest using just an old boot.

But the real occupation of Tallyboo-Vee
Instead of old boots uses our aforementioned tree.
Each person in Tallyboo's given their share:
A row and a column in a matrix that's square.

This matrix is carved in the side of the trunk,
So big that it's used up the very last chunk!
In Tallyboo-Vee they've all worked out a plan,
And to it they adhere — each and every last man!

Whenever one wrongs you, in the tree you'd leave sign,
"Row me, column you," with a careful dark line.
And if you've wronged someone? They carve in the square with your name,
So everyone knows for each wrong whom to blame.

If, for example, in tickety-tacket,
While wielding your boot like a badminton racket,
You slipped and you brought the boot down on your foe,
In his row and your column a tally would go.

So each row is a record of wrongs one's received,
And columns for wrongs they themselves have conceived.
So they say to themselves, "It is right that you do,
Exactly to others what they did to you."

From the marks on the tree flows a sap red as wine,
Which pools altogether and drips in a line.
And with all of the marks that adorn the tree's face,
A red river of sap flows around the tree's base.

Of all of the people of Tallyboo-Vee,
None can compare with young Tiddle McGee,
Whose love for this system surpasses them all,
And leads them each morning inspecting their scrawl.

As the Tallybooveesians arise with the sun,
They meet at the tree to recall what's been done.
And Tiddle McGee climbs along the tree's side
And points out the marks that have not yet quite dried.

Each morning he'd beam as he climbed to the top,
And shouted out marks with a satisfied hop.
Why is he in this role? He will tell you with glee:
"For none keeps the tallies as neatly as me!"

Their mornings consist of this daily refrain,
Letting each one remember their grudges again.
"Forgive?" they all scoff, "Such a fanciful plea.
Our justice forever is carved in the tree."

As the sun rose up high on a Friday in May,
The people awoke and assembled to play
Their part in the daily recounting of sins.
And such the day's squabbling and fighting begins:

But the Tallybooveesians all quieted down
When Tiddle McGee arrived from the town.
And climbing his way up the side of the tree,
His voice echoed out across Dorian Dree.

"This mark I see is as fresh as a rose!
And witness how from it so much sap now flows!
We can be sure that Miss Molly McClane
Has done something awful to Timmy's son Shane."

But the volume of sap that flowed out of the tree
Was too much to handle for Tiddle McGee,
It pooled up in his foothold, disastrously slick
And down he slipped faster than one can say "Quick."

So down Tiddle slipped as his footing gave out,
The townsfolk too stunned to respond to his shout.
But Tiddle survived this great fall from great heights,
For the red river caught him and he sank out of sight.

As he opened his eyes he could see not a lick
(In case you don't know, sap is shockingly thick!)
He kicked and he struggled, he battled and fought
His lungs burned like fire as upwards he shot

To the sap river's surface, where gasping for air,
He heard someone shout, "Well that's just not fair!"
Tiddle, still stuck in the red river's flow,
Couldn't see what was wrong, but thought he should know.

So he turned his head backwards and oh what a sight!
The townsfolk were angry and itching to fight!
He heard hoots and hollers and several loud shouts,
Unsure why they rioted until he heard one point out:

"That column of Tiddle's has scarcely a mark!
In fact I think his column's now covered in bark!"
When Tiddle looked up at the place that they stared,
He understood instantly why at him they all glared.

For indeed the great column of tallies his own,
For the wrongs he had done to the people of town,
Had not only lost every trace of a mark,
But even, in fact, had grown back its white bark.

This gave the impression, to those on the shore,
Of a pillar of white that had not been there before.
They knew Tiddle cheated, they just couldn't prove it,
For when one made a mark you could never remove it.

As Tiddle cried out to them, begging for rope,
They all jeered and delighted to see him flow down the slope.
The stream twisted and turned and then went underground,
So that under the tree our friend Tiddle was bound.

At last coughing and heaving Tiddle fell on a floor.
The river had emptied into a room with a door!
Tiddle felt a strong urge to find cover and hide,
But beyond the door a voice boomed, "Ah, you're here, come inside!"

Cautiously placing one foot 'fore the other,
He opened the door and stepped through to discover
A workshop that seemed to be cozy and neat,
With wood-shavings scattered around at his feet.

All that the room had was a workbench and chair.
Well, those and a feeling of strength in the air.
A man at the workbench looked up with a smile,
And said, "Come, sit beside me a while."

But Tiddle drew back, feeling small and ashamed,
For his record erased left him feeling unnamed.
Then again the man called him, "Tiddle, sit without fear,
For the scars that I bear are the reason you're here."

As Tiddle stepped closer, still burdened with doubt,
He saw on that man too many tallies to count.
Each mark that had vanished from Tiddle's own place
Was carried right there on the man's gentle face.

He felt in that instant a comforting grace,
Not judged for his tallies, nor by absence displaced.
For the man in the workshop had taken his blame,
And Tiddle found love where there once had been shame.

So Tiddle hopped up on the stool by the man
Who picked up a small object and started to sand.
It was a wood bowl, maybe three inches wide.
Tiddle watched as the man sanded down the inside.

It could have been seconds or maybe a day,
We'll never find out — there's not really a way.
For time in the tree, we can safely surmise,
Isn't the same, and neither flows, passes, nor flies.

And so somewhile later, the man handed Tiddle
A bowl with an empty (but very smooth) middle.
The man pointed out on the wall a small tap,
Whence when Tiddle turned it began to flow sap.

Tiddle filled the bowl up with the sap from the tree.
The man hugged him and asked him "Please do this for me?
This sap will restore the original bark,
If you rub it on tallies, it wipes out the whole mark.

"You see not only your wrongs I want to erase,
But your friends', and your foes', everywhen, everyplace!
This tree that I've built, where my own blood I've poured,
Shall, if you help me, be one day restored.

"Do you think you can do that? Start with your own row,
And if others wrong you, your tally forego.
Think how great it will be if they follow your cue!
But even if not, I still ask this of you."

And before Tiddle could let out a sound,
The man and room vanished, and Tiddle woke on the ground.
He lay on the banks of the river of sap,
Quite far from the town, somewhere he'd only seen on a map.

A dream? wondered Tiddle, Is that what that was?
He sat up and blinked — and then paused, just because
Resting beside him, in the dew by his knee,
Was the bowl full of sap that he'd filled in the tree.

So he carried it home as he followed the stream,
Still not quite sure what was real or a dream.
And when he at last reached Tallyboo Square
The Tallybooveesians awaited him there.

They shouted, "You cheat! Painting over your sin!
All to avoid taking guilt on the chin!"
But Tiddle stood calm with the bowl in his hand,
And said, "That's not true — Oh you must understand!"

He told them the story, the river, the fall,
The man in the workshop who had borne marks for all.
But they laughed and they jeered, saying, "Tiddle, you fool!
No one undoes what's been carved as a rule!"

Tiddle cried, "I will prove it! Come with me to the park!
We will see if this balm can bring back the white bark!
They followed him to it, knowing sure well he'd lied,
And all watched him close as he climbed up the side.

He kneeled in a crevice and dipped in the bowl
And forgave every grudge that he'd kept in his soul.
He rubbed where the row with his name had been scarred,
And the bark came back white, unbroken, unmarred.

His row met his column, a cross tall and wide.
And the sap of the tree glowed like light from inside.
The people stepped back, some in awe, some afraid,
For they knew not what manner of sign had been made.

All came to agree that he hadn't deceived
And yet as a whole they all stayed rather peeved.
Not a cheat or a liar, but not of their kind,
For grace when ungracious is hard to abide.

And so they still mocked him and turned him away,
Yet Tiddle returned to the tree every day.
And once in an eon a doubter would plead,
"Please heal my row too! I want to be freed."

So Tiddle would help them to wipe out their row
(They seemed lighter and brighter when walking back home).
Yet most ignored Tiddle, his grace they refused,
And the tree's sap still bleeds from the marks that they've bruised.

Yet Tiddle forgave them, though few forgave he,
And each time that he did, bark grew back on the tree.
He spoke of a day when the bark, root to crown,
Will be white as the snow that in winter drifts down.

In the faraway valley of Dorian Dree
One can spot in an instant the world's tallest tree.
Its trunk is as broad as a tower is high,
And it stretches forever, or at least past the sky.

Now if you were to wander through Tallyboo Park,
You would see that tree lacking still most of its bark.
Till Tiddle's day comes, what can one Tallyboo do?
Tiddle answers that question with an answer that's true.

He still sits there. He'll tell you, "It's love you should do,
Exactly as grace has been done unto you."
And some learn the lesson — a few, maybe two—
But all hear him asking, "I've tried. How will you?"