Shepherds of the Singing Wood
For as long as anyone could remember, these mountains had always sung.
Season after season, and year after year, the trees that covered their rounded ridges and shadowed valleys had swayed in the sun, stretching their branches to the clear blue skies as they filled the air with the chorus of their blended voices. These trees were known far and wide across the land, for this was the Singing Wood. From a distance, it seemed that the mountains sang, but in truth it was the trees that lifted their voices, and not the mountains.
Truegrain strode through the light-dappled shadows of his grove of the Singing Wood, tracing the long, twiggy fingers of his hands against the branches of his brothers and sister trees. Today, their voices were but a soft hum that harmonized with the buzzing of fat, summer bees and the sighs of the little flowers.
As he took his long strides, gliding his roots through the loamy earth, he hummed as well. Today, he was making his way uphill. Before long, he had climbed up out of their valley. He began to make his way across the long back of the ridge. From both sides, where the land sloped down and away, he heard the songs of other groves. Their voices were strange to him, and yet their songs were old friends.
All of the groves sang the Old Music. Each warbled their own arrangement of the ancient tune, varying it according to the voices that were available. In some valleys, the furry pines boomed their bass notes. In some, young saplings cooed with clear and clean tones. In others, the blended voices of the wood performed in concerts that carried across the winds to gladden the hearts of all who heard them. Not one note was wasted, for every chord was heard by the Maker’s ear.
Truegrain through of this as he covered the distance between his valley and the moot. It was to be his first time in attendance. For many long seasons, he had grown amongst the other trees of the grove, putting down his roots into the good soil, spreading his leaves to the sun, and drinking deeply of the refreshing rains. He had weathered storms and sheltered others beneath his sturdy limbs. All the while, although half-asleep, he had sung the Old Music.
At first, he had not known what he was doing. Yet, little by little, the words that he sang had begun to take root deep within, changing him little by little. His shepherd, old Hollylock, had encouraged him and had drawn forth his budding understanding. At last, one day, he had woken up. A Voice has spoken his name. He had known then what he was to do. He was to become a shepherd.
The shepherds had always been a part of the Singing Wood, and yet they were distinct. For as long as anyone could remember, they had directed the singing of the Old Music, both remembering and repeating the words that were always at risk of drifting away on the wind.
Old Hollylock had spoken of a calling that he had once received. He had been charged with the task of caring for the others, of protecting them, and of teaching them the true words. Hollylock had faithfully done this, season after season, and it was now time for him to put down roots for good. Other shepherds would take his place.
Today was the day. Truegrain soon met with the others that would serve with him. Boldleaf hooted as he came, trumpeting his rejoicing to the afternoon air. Bentbranch came more slowly, trailing his branches on the ground as he entered the grassy bowl in which the moot would be held.
Hollylock held up his old, bent limbs. They trembled slightly in the spring breeze, but his voice was firm and deep as he intoned the ancient charge. Shepherd the wood. Watch over each one. Do this willingly and eagerly. Set them an example. Do this, and you will receive your unfading reward. Will you do so?
Yes, they all said. Boldleaf shouted it joyfully. Truegrain spoke it soberly. Bentbranch only whispered it. Then, as if in response to his acceptance of the charge, Truegrain heard the Voice that had called him ringing across the hills. What it said, Truegrain kept to himself.
The next day, all three returned to Truegrain’s grove to begin their work. As they traveled, they spoke together of what had happened and of what they would do next. Bentbranch seemed in awe of his new responsibility. When the others asked him why he had become a shepherd, he had answered that he felt he must. After all, he had heard the Voice. Surely, that was all that mattered. Boldleaf laughed easily and often, and he laughed at this. When Truegrain asked after his plans, he spoke joyfully of the coming seasons. What music we'll make, he declared! Truegrain agreed with him. The song must be sung. He looked forward to guiding the grove in the singing of the Old Music. What a joy that would be!
The seasons came and went. Old trees fell and saplings sprang up. The woods had grown and spread themselves far and wide across the ridges. Truegrain had not seen Boldleaf or Bentbranch for several seasons, for he had been busy with the needs of his grove. Old Hollylock had started his long rest, even as several of the younger trees had begun stirring. The music was doing its work on them all, and Truegrain was kept busy, shepherding their growth, watching over them, and setting them an example as he, himself, sang the Old Music.
Soon the time for the moot came again. Once more, Truegrain climbed the hill to the top of the ridge and made his way to the grassy bowl in which the shepherds gathered. There, he met his brothers, Boldleaf and Bentbranch. Both described the new valleys in which they and their groves had settled, speaking warmly of the cool streams that watered them, and of the warm slopes on which their groves now rested. Truegrain fondly remembered the early days when the three of them had first worked as shepherds. He told them of Hollylock’s hibernation and wished that he had help once more. He mentioned the trees that he was encouraging to listen to the Voice, and he wondered aloud how long it would be before they could take their place beside him.
Bentbranch shook his shaggy head sadly, bemoaning his business, and saying that he had no time to seek for help. The cares of his groves hung heavily upon him. There were so many things to do, so many little things that needed his attention. How was he supposed to do all that a shepherd must and still find time to help awaken others? Truegrain was sorry to see his old friend carrying such a heavy burden.
But, before he could counsel him, Boldleaf laughed. Truegrain thought he heard a brashness in the tone of this laughter that he had not heard in the past. It landed harshly on his ear. The music of his once-sonorous voice had somehow soured.
Boldleaf chastised Bentbranch, telling him that he would have no need of help if he would only properly discipline his grove. He spoke loudly and at length of the success that he had been having, boasting of the fruit of his methods and promising great things in the coming seasons.
As the moot ended, Truegrain made his way slowly back to his grove. His thoughts revolved around what he had seen and heard. He was troubled. Still, with each step, he hummed. Beneath all of his doubts and concerns ran the Old Music. Before he reached the end of his road, the doubting voices had quieted and he resonated from root to leaf with the harmonies of the music that he had hummed.
All would be well.
The seasons came and went. Old trees fell and saplings sprang up. Newleaf and Deeproot awoke and were called as shepherds. Now, they labored alongside Truegrain, shepherding the grove, watching over the singers, and teaching them the Old Music.
From time to time, news would come to Truegrain of his old co-laborers. Neither Boldleaf nor Bentbranch attended the moots anymore. Boldleaf’s grove had grown large and tall. The tops of his trees could be seen over the ridges, and each autumn they flared out in showy glory. Yet Truegrain couldn’t help but notice that the music that carried across the ridge from Boldleaf’s slope – while lovely – seemed somehow discordant, as if it were the music to a song that he did not know.
He was more concerned about the valley that Bentbranch still shepherded. Over the seasons, its song had grown softer and softer. When he had visited out of concern one summer, his old companion had said that all was well, but that he was too busy tending to the needs of the trees to have time for much singing.
Truegrain shook his leafy locks at this as he strode across his valley. The streams ran deep and clear, for with the help of Newleaf and Deeproot, he had cleared the blockages that had threatened to clog their course. The sun shone down its bright rays, gleaming off of the leaves of the saplings and giants alike, for each had been directed to stand where they could benefit the most from one another. Creatures danced and played amongst their trunks, and the air was filled with the shimmer of wings as the birds and insects took refuge in strong, straight branches. And the music! How they sang! The Old Music filled the valley as the grove rejoiced in the bright days of summer. Truegrain joined in the tune, and thought he could hear an echo of a familiar voice whispering to him.
Well done, good and faithful shepherd. Well done.
The seasons came and went. Old trees fell and saplings sprang up. Truegrain was moving more and more slowly these days. He could feel his limbs trembling as he raised them to the spring breezes. Soon, it would be his time to take root once more. He lifted his head to the sky and listened.
The wind told him that, today, all was well. This had not always been the case. There had been storms. There had been fires. There had been sickness. Yet, through it all, the Old Music had sustained his grove.
He lowered his head as memory washed over him. Others had not fared as well. In his mind’s eye, he saw the tall, strong form of Boldleaf as he had stood to receive his charge from old Hollylock. Boldleaf was long gone, now, withered to a stump in the fire that had claimed his grove.
He had led his grove to sing new songs. Obsessed with his own music, he had overlooked the old ways. As a result, he had forgotten to tend his streams. When the sparks of summer lightning had fallen, the grove had been as dry as tinder. The flames had taken them all. Only now were new saplings peeping up through the ash. He would soon send Deeproot to look after them. There were plenty of new shepherds to care for Truegrain’s grove. Their music still rang true.
He thought of Bentbranch and of the sweet sound of his voice as the two of them had sung together. He had not heard that voice for many a year, and the valley where Bentbranch still slowly shuffled to and fro had gone silent. No new shepherds now came from those somnolent groves.
Who knew if any more would awaken once Bentbranch went to his rest? Would any?
With a long, slow sigh, Truegrain chose to let go of his doubts. The Singing Wood was not his, after all. He had served in it as a shepherd, season after seasons, year after year. Yet, the mountains had always sung, not because of his efforts, but because they were made to do so. The Voice that had called him still rang throughout the hills. Soon, he knew, it would be his place to listen to the voices of others as they sung the Old Music. After that, once his voice had been stilled, who knew what would come?
Truegrain smiled, his bark crinkling at the corners of his mouth, for the Voice had whispered to him what would happen. He had heard that an unfading crown of glory awaited him. One day, the chief shepherd, whose voice he knew so well, would place it upon him. And, oh how the Old Music would ring out upon that day! It would ring out from him and from all of those who had ever formed the Singing Wood.
For as long as anyone could imagine, these mountains would always sing.
Michael Somerville is the author of several short stories, as well as an in-progress high-fantasy series called the Tales of the Broken Realm. He loves telling stories of hope about ordinary characters doing their small part to help heal a broken world. By day, he pays the bills as a hands-on storyteller and project manager, leading and envisioning professional teams in the "real-world", even as he is busily building and illustrating imaginary worlds in his evenings and on the weekends.
Outside of work and writing, he enjoys a wide range of hobbies, including playing music with his family and friends on keyboard or guitar, drawing, sculpting, painting, sewing, and blacksmithing, or walking the length of the Appalachian Trail in his home neighborhood in the Shenandoah Valley, where he serves as a Board member on his local civic association.
Most important to Michael are his family and his church. Michael and Jessica celebrate their 20th anniversary in 2026 and are happily raising three wonderful daughters. He serves actively in his local church, playing music on Sunday, teaching the older elementary kids, and leading a “small group” full of wonderful saints. He hopes to hear "Well done" one day, and plans to keep serving his true King until then.
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