About roots and orchards

Like all good stories, mine precedes me. With any luck, it will outlast me too. I have the tremendous fortune of having been born into a family that would have done anything for me, and—as such—I feel the need to do something for them. I would have enjoyed a meteoric rise to fame for any truly undeserving reason and the ability to shower them with gold, poured from some limitless coffer funded by a shady offshore bank account; however, it would appear that the years have done little to fill my coffers with gold, only my head with stories. Stories ripe and fresh off the branch of the proverbial Pear Tree, and what I cultivate, I cultivate for them. Always for them. The Guardians of the Pear Tree.

 

These people, this family of mine, are the only explanation to me that matters for the question that plagues us all:

why am I here?

 

My lineage has known Guardians the likes of whom could parallel the heroic greats of any number of world mythologies, and I am proud to say that I have lived under the very same roof as a few of them in my day. For what would a Pear Tree be without its guardians? A question to keep the philosophers busy and poor and like all such questions, simpler than it seems: alone. Without safety, a Pear Tree would never know the orchard. Without the orchard, who would bear witness to its fruits? Guardians keep them safe; they keep the pears growing.

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As for me, well, I am not one for the sun. A fair complexion like the maidens of yore has always left me more comfortable in the shade. So, I live in the orchard, the familial Eden, my ever-growing ombrelle, and I tend to all that I can. A groundskeeper unearthing narrative. A blacksmith forging tools for generations to come. A bard keeping the Guardians company throughout the seasons of this life.

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So, these stories I write for you, all of you, from under the Pear Tree.

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