The Legend of the Oak
A folk legend about an old oak, Nedohir, and the memory that lives through generations.
Legends of my land… Fairy tales… True stories… Who knows them best? Of course, the one who has lived the longest and has seen the most in their lifetime. In other words — the elders. I paused to think… And who is our elder? A wonderful thought came at once — the oldest, bronze-aged, two-hundred-year-old oak.
I quickly got ready and went into the forest. There he stood, a mighty giant — I came closer, leaned against him, and closed my eyes… The leaves rustled, the branches swayed, and a quiet story began to be heard.
“I came into this world at the top of a mighty oak growing in the Poltava region, in an oak grove, and back then I was called an acorn. A peasant named Nedohir picked me up and took me on a long journey. So long that I traveled in a scarf, in a pocket, and in a bag. A child’s hand placed me into the ground with the wish: ‘For centuries.’ That child’s hand touched my bark many more times. In the summer heat, it brought me water. In the winter frost, it covered me with snow. I began to be called a young oak. I grew, and more and more young trees appeared nearby. That is how this forest came to be. I have seen much in my lifetime — both good and bad…
I will tell you a secret!
If you want to be immortal — plant a tree. I have grown for two centuries. And for two centuries people have remembered old Nedohir.
If you want to have a good memory — plant a tree. Remember what people say: ‘That was when the oak had not yet shed its leaves…’
If you want to be remembered with kind words — plant a tree. A person will come, sit in the shade on a hot day, and will surely remember kindly the one who planted it.
If you want your family to remember you — plant a tree. Many years later, your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren will come to it. And their parents will surely say: ‘This tree was planted by your great-grandfather.’
If you want a guardian — plant a tree. When your strength is gone, when sadness and sorrow come, when your head aches — lean against a tree, remember the past, think about the future — and dark thoughts will fade, and strength will return…”
I opened my eyes — silence. Only snowflakes rustled over the copper attire of the giant — the oak. The air was clear and pure. It is in such air that legends are born.