Tilia and the Linden
A magical story
about the origins of a magnificent tree

Leva, Jihan and John
“Gentle! Gentle! – it is very fragile”, shrieked Christophorous to Angelo, his 8-year-old son, who was hastily throwing a sack of clay pots into their boat. It was the last parcel holding all that they’ve ever owned. He took one last look back at the rugged island which had always been his home. Exomvourgo, upon which the Venetians had perched until only recently, cast long shadows across the land under the full moon. With a firm push, Christophorous dislodged their boat, drifting them out to sea. The last remaining residents of Tenos had finally left the island for good.
***
Tilia yells at the third car that almost hit her this evening. She’s been carrying signs and chanting on the highway with Keep Tinos Intact all afternoon in protest of excessive marble excavations across the island. Despite all their efforts over the past two years, politicians stand resolute against the demands and wishes of the local community. The government – no doubt persuaded by Big Marble – believes the rock is a practically inexhaustible resource. Despite the likelihood of causing irreparable ecological damage to the island, plans are already being drawn up in Athens to increase excavations by ten fold within a year.
Tilia’s partner Vasilis slams his sign against the road in frustration. “Why do we bother with this each week? They don’t listen! It’s time to escalate things, Tilia.” Hot, tired and now annoyed at her partner’s growing urge to resort to violence, Tilia sets down her sign and walks away. She’s done for today.
Tilia is as native a Tinian as anyone can be these days. She was born and raised in Pyrgos where her grandparents built their home 80 years ago. She loved this island and spent many afternoons laying under the enchanting Plane tree in the center of her village. Her grandparents were part of the second wave of migrants that repopulated Tinos after countless years of desertion. No one really knows why Tinos was abandoned so suddenly all those years ago. When her grandparents arrived, the island was littered with old abandoned villages, dovecotes, and an astonishing number of feral goats. Things have since changed. Most of the villages are once again brimming with life. The wild goats, however, remained.
***
Frustrated after her argument with Vasilis, Tilia hiked down from Kampos and into the valley of the Linden tree. She found the magnificent tree while exploring the valley as a teenager and has often returned to meditate under its shade. The branches stretch out some distance, providing substantial cover for the ground below. Tilia is troubled by how little they can do now that all solutions seem to have been exhausted. She quiets her mind again under the Linden tree.
A gleam of light catches her eye at the base of the Linden. Tilia reaches down and digs a tiny bottle out of the earth. It holds an inscription within. She pops the lid and pulls out the small piece of paper. Tilia begins to read the ancient words aloud.
Mouthabar nach barnacho’ cha braeo’...
The earth begins to rumble under her feet. Alarmed, she jumps back, dropping the tiny scroll. The ground settles again. Tilia grabs her belongings and leaves in bewilderment.
̇* . ̇ * ̇ . ̇ * ̇
Fog enveloped Sophia and her covenant under the half moon. After years of waiting, negotiating, resisting, and casting all spells that they knew, the covenant was left with no options other than the ultimate sacrifice. While these would be the last days for the Venetians, Sophia knew Tenians would have to soon follow. Gravely, they encircled the seedling. Standing firm, the witches of Tenos began their low chant.
Mouthabar nach barnacho’ cha braeo’ menda laubraasse phaspha bendeo
The winds were howling and mice scattered from the field. Frogs tucked themselves deep within the creek as the water rose to feed the seedling. Faint battle cries between the Venetians and Tenian farmers reached the circle from beyond the valley. They would come for the covenant soon
The chants of the covenant grew louder and more powerful as the seedling began to sprout. Soon after having been pressed through the soil, the first branches unfurl themselves as they reach up toward the night sky. Bursting with great effort through the rocky ground, without the benefit of sunlight, rainfall or time. Roots roll into the creek, drawing water into the tree. A group of branches gather at the base, fusing themselves into a sturdy trunk, pulling nutrients and minerals from deep within the soil. The branches give way to more branches. Leaves unravel, forcing from among them small flowers to blossom into the night.
The chatting halts and the witches step back to take in the magnificent Linden tree reaching across the creek toward the old oak tree. As their branches inch towards one another, the witches gather their things and quickly leave. The Linden tree wraps an offshoot around the oak, fastening itself to its neighbor. Having acquired all its strength, the Linden releases a subtle burst of aroma into the cool night air.
It began as a pleasant fragrance in the morning wind. Yet with each intake of the Linden’s aroma, the smell grew stronger as though to never escape one’s senses until it developed into an unbearable stench. The streets were soon emptied of life as people shut their doors and windows. The Venetians were the first to abandon the island. Yet Tenians’ celebrations of the Venetian departure did not last long as they too left their homes one by one.
Three slow knocks pound at Tilia’s door, followed by three quick taps. It’s a signal of alarm from the more radical faction of Keep Tinos Intact, which must have already swept across the island by now. They’re calling a militia to arms. Tilia jumps to her feet and races down the hill toward Vasilis’s home – to reason with him, to stop him. She pushes through his door only to find a half empty glass of water and no shoes in the doorway. She’s too late, he’s already left. The plan to resort to violence is already under way.

Unsure of what to do, Tilia runs down to the Linden tree to pray. She sits under the tree, closes her eyes and rests her hands on the soil above its roots. Tilia finds the scroll under her palm and picks it up. She stares desperately at the inscription, wondering what it was and why it was here. A sudden sense of purpose overcomes her. Tilia faces the Linden tree and raises the scroll. Unsure of what might lie ahead but convinced that she must press on, Tilia begins to read the inscription once again.
Mouthabar nach barnacho’ cha braeo’
menda laubraasse phaspha bendeo