Underneath the weeping willow tree

Will the man take the children's message back to the grown-ups? Who is the man? What was he doing under the willow tree? Wars go on, so why should the children trust him?

Underneath the weeping willow tree

It was a warm spring day. The sun shone gently down on the grassy hillside above the city. Clusters of wildflowers, celebrating the spring, were growing all over the grass. There were children all over the grass too. The older ones were sitting or strolling, some in groups, some alone; the younger ones were playing. A little boy of four, called Joshua, was playing with an older girl, called Rachel. Rachel had decided to look after Joshua. They were picking bunches of forget-me-nots together.

A mile away, the city ground on at its daily work. Cars and trucks made their way round the ring road below the hill; sounded their horns, queued at the lights, then grumbled off again in low gear.

The children did not hear the cars and trucks. Their only world now was the hillside, with the ring road at the bottom, and at the top tall pine trees, standing shoulder to shoulder like soldiers, guarding the summit of the hill.

The pines were not concerned about the children. But below the pines, alone in a damp hollow on the hillside, stood another tree, a weeping willow. Its slender trailing branches were clothed in spring green, reaching down towards the ground. Its trunk leaned towards the children. The tree felt for the children. It shared their distress.

It was a Saturday afternoon. The traffic had stopped at the lights. A woman crossed the ring road from the city. Now she climbed the hillside towards the children. She carried a bunch of flowers she'd bought from the shop in town. She paused to gain breath. She looked up. But she could not see the children; for they were dead.

She saw only what the dead children could not see - their graves. The graves were set out in neat rows. They were all the same; each a marble rectangle set in mown grass, surrounded by a tidy path; every grave the same size. And on each grave, in the same place was writing: the child's name, dates of birth and death; and a photograph of him or her; a living face frozen onto the grave.

The woman knelt by her little boy's grave: 'Joshua, 1998-2002'. She looked at his picture; and she wept as she removed last week's flowers, and arranged the fresh bunch she had brought.

She could not see the children watching her, as they watched every grieving parent who visited this hillside graveyard. From a little further up the hill, near the willow, Joshua recognized his mother. He ran, half tumbling down the slope, forget-me-nots in hand, to his own grave. He called ‘Mummy!’ He tried to hug her, longed for her to pick him up. But she heard nothing, felt no touch; sensed not his presence but his absence.

She remembered the horror of the day he died. After a night of terrifying shelling, she had gone out in the clear dawn with him to find food. She remembered the whine of the late shell shattering the stillness, the explosion that blew her off her feet. She remembered neighbours finding Joshua's little body beneath the rubble.

Heavily she stood and began to walk among the other graves; every one of them a memorial to a child killed in war. Trying to comfort herself she said: ‘He is at peace now. They are all at peace.’

But she was wrong. They were none of them at peace. Joshua had died too young to understand why not. But the older children knew. They knew the terrible truth they had found on dying, which they carried with them everyday on the hillside. They knew that there could be no peace for dead children until living grown-ups stopped killing living children in war. They knew that the living are giving the dead no peace.

Every day living parents and grandparents, brothers and sisters would come to the hillside, bringing flowers, to grieve. Everyday the living remembered the dead with genuine sadness. And the willow wept with them all. But the children had no way to communicate to the visitors the message they so urgently needed to share.

Every day the dead children longed to touch the living, to speak, to shout. ‘Stop! Tell them stop, to stop killing children in war!’ But no word could be heard.

If only, the older ones said to each other, if only we could return from the dead and hold up signs, like school crossing wardens, saying ‘Stop! Let the children pass through life in safety.’ But they knew of no way back.

The afternoon passed. Joshua's mother went, and Joshua continued to play with the older girl, picking forget-me-nots. Other parents came and went too.

Evening came. The sun, hazy now, was setting over the city, tinging the weeping willow with gold. Under the willow sat a man. The children had not noticed him come. And he showed no sign of going. The children kept looking at him; and he kept watching them. Slowly the children realised, he was one of them. He was not living. He was dead. And he was crying, crying on the hillside above the city. None of the children felt they should approach him – none that is except little Joshua.

Joshua edged nearer the willow. Protectively, Rachel followed close behind. The man wiped his eyes and beckoned to them, smiling.

‘Come to me’ they heard him say.

He held out his arms to Joshua; and Joshua trotted forward. The man took him on his knee; and Joshua gave him his bunch of forget-me-nots. They drooped now, for wildflowers soon wilt when picked.

‘Go and bring the others’ said the man gently, encouragingly, to the girl. And she did.

All the children stood silently round him.

‘What did you want to say?’ he asked, with an inviting smile.

They told him why there was no peace for dead children so long as living grown-ups went on killing living children in war. The man listened; but it was as though he was listening to something he already knew. They said they needed to get their message back to the living. He understood that at once. It was as though the very reason for which he had come was to be their messenger.

‘But how?’ they wanted to know. They asked eagerly, ‘How can you take back our message?’

‘You will see tomorrow’ he said. ‘Or rather,’ he added with a smile, ‘you will not see!’

And with that they had to be content. None of them dared ask the man any more questions. They thanked him, said good night and walked away, leaving him alone.

Joshua took Rachel's hand.

‘Will the man tell mummy that I love her?’ he asked.

‘I'm sure he will,’ said Rachel. ‘But she knows that already.’

By morning the man was gone. The children half expected him to return the next evening to tell them what he had done, that he had delivered their message. They hardly dared to hope that the living would listen, that the killing of children in war would stop; that they would find peace.

The man never returned and the children remain disturbed, without peace. More dead children, killed in war, join them everyday.

But they have not given up hope: for, although he was with them for such a short while, they believe they can trust the man who came to visit them that Saturday evening.

Joshua's mother still comes each week to tend his grave. And the willow tree goes on weeping.

Paul Johns is a Methodist local preacher from Nottingham. He worked for many years as a management consultant, and is a former managing director of Traidcraft plc. He is co-founder of a small development agency called SANA, working in Bosnia. He is the author of September 11th and beyond: 20 parables for our time, ISBN 1-84298-092-0.