[The Ents’] part in the story is due, I think, to my bitter disappointment and disgust from schooldays with the shabby use made in Shakespeare of the coming of ‘Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill’: I longed to devise a setting in which the trees might really march to war.

– J.R.R. Tolkien, in a letter to W.H. Auden

Who can impress the forest, bid the tree
Unfix his earth-bound root?

– Macbeth

The young man stretched wearily, sweat trickling down his face despite the chill air. A halt had been ordered and he welcomed the respite, however brief. They had been marching with all possible speed since crossing the border from Northumberland, so eager were Malcolm and the English lord to press on to Dunsinane. But an army of ten thousand lacks the wings of its leaders’ ambitions, and progress was slow. He pushed a shock of tangled red hair out of his eyes and peered uneasily at the dark smudge on the horizon, knowing full well what it signified. That band of trees, with the Grampian wall rearing up behind it under a leaden sky, marked the edge of Macbeth’s lands.

Menteith, the captain of his company, cantered up and reined his horse sharply. "Hoy! You there, Dougan! What is that forest yonder?"

"That is Birnam Wood, m’laird." The youth was careful to keep his voice neutral, suppressing the surge of dread that rose in his craw at the very utterance of those words.

"Birnam Wood, is it? Fair news indeed, lad! Our journey’s end draws nigh—and with it, God willing, the foul traitor’s end as well!"

As they marched on, the smudge growing ever larger and more ominous in his thoughts and vision alike, Dougan silently cursed the unhappy chance that had seen him pressed into service as a guide for the invaders. For he had grown up in this land, knew every hillock and hollow, every goat track through the hills, all approaches to the castle. Even, though he was loathe to contemplate it, the way through the forest itself. And try as he might to fight them off, the memories came, unbidden and unwelcome.

* * *

He was a boy of ten summers again, treading once more the dark paths of Birnam Wood…

As the youngest in a family with five sons and no daughters, it fell always to him to do the chores the others disdained, his brothers preferring to fish and hunt, leaving him to help with the cooking and gathering of berries and firewood. There was wood a-plenty to be had deep in the forest, where the trees strove against each other, choked with old growth and dead branches. He had been well schooled by his grandfather never to cut so much as a twig from living tree, but to gather only what lay scattered on the mossy floor; had been forbidden even to bring a hatchet or ax with him. "Bad luck," is all his gaffer would say whenever he asked why.

Dougan never rushed to complete the task, no matter how much he might be scolded for it later. Some strange reluctance always caused him to linger on the way, stopping to skip stones in the river, or to hunt duck eggs along the banks. One day he left it too long, and when finally he hurried in under the eaves, the sun was dropping toward the hills.

He instantly sensed a difference in the mood of the forest. No sound of beast or bird disturbed the heavy silence, and though he tread as softly as he might, every snapped twig was as loud as a thunderclap in his ears. Grey, twisted trees crouched over the path like sinister old men, with holes for leering mouths, knots for hard, hostile eyes, and trailing beards of lichen. Their leaves rustled fretfully though the air felt still and lifeless, and almost he thought they murmured to one another, or so his nervous fancy made it seem. Warily, he picked up some small bits of wood. A branch crashed to the ground just behind him, causing him to jump. The light was rapidly bleeding away, and every now and again he stumbled over an unseen root.

Another step, another piece of wood…he stooped and straightened, then started to move forward again, but was brought up short by a tree in his path…in the path, he realized with confusion. As he stepped around it, something clutched at him from behind. He yelped in fright, dropping his armload of wood. A twig had snagged in his tunic, he told himself, feeling a bit sheepish as he bent to gather up his scattered kindling. He now paused a moment, considering. The gloaming had deepened, and although he knew he should gather more wood yet, a sense of foreboding told him it was time to go back…past time.

He turned to retrace his steps—and stood gaping. The path was gone, as if it had never been. Trees crowded thick around him, and as he whirled in a panic, seeking a way out, branches caught him at every turn. The kindling dropped forgotten from nerveless fingers, and with the sudden blind panic of a cornered beast, he bolted. But there was nowhere to run…he made it no more than a yard or so before violently colliding with a low-hanging bough, and all went black.

* * *

He woke as if from an evil dream, feeling himself rocked gently in loving arms. "Mither," he whimpered, eyes still closed.

"Hoom, hom!"

Dougan’s eyes flew open. He was being carried through a dark wood, high above the ground, by a great…something, and for a moment all the stark terror came rushing back: the grasping trees, the headlong flight…

But he could not long remain frightened, for the eyes that gazed solemnly down into his were in truth as gentle as his mother’s, but sad, too…profound wells of sorrow that seemed ancient as the earth itself. He wondered if he were, perhaps, dreaming after all, for the creature carrying him resembled nothing so much as an enormous, walking tree: a hoary, gnarled oak, like the forest around them. The deep voice boomed again, a sonorous, rolling cadence of sounds strung together like words that seemed to go on and on. It paused, as if considering, then spoke again, but now it seemed to employ the speech of men, though the language was strange to him.

"Banakil? Kuduk?"

The words were neither Scottish nor English, he was certain of that.

It tried again. "Perian?" it said doubtfully.

Was it, perhaps, speaking French? He didn’t know, never having met a Frenchman. "What are you?" he whispered.

The tree-giant stared down at him, as uncomprehending as himself. Apparently giving up the attempt to communicate as a bad job, it continued on in silence, each great stride carrying them swiftly though the wood. All around them, the trees were tame and quiescent now. The only movement was that of branches lifting slightly as they passed, as if in homage or to ease their way, and the only sound the faintest stirring of leaves, like whispered secrets floating on a delicate breeze. It seemed to Dougan that the creature attended closely to this murmuration, humming every now and then in response.

In what seemed no time at all, they had reached the forest’s edge. The giant set him down carefully and gazed out over the moon-drenched fields, glaringly bright after their passage through the shadowed groves. "Hloth-nas," it rumbled, pointing a long, twiggy finger. It had brought him back to the very spot where he had entered the wood…how had it known? There across the meadows, its window a beacon of warmth and welcome, its chimney-smoke twisting up into the night sky, was his home. For a moment Dougan hesitated, looking up at his strange savior with a sudden burst of gratitude. Then he bowed deeply, as he had seen his father do when addressing the laird. "I thank thee," he said.

The creature gave a great rolling Hrum! that sounded, somehow, like laughter, and said something else in that strange tongue, of which he caught only the words "Kali" and "Razar." It inclined its stiff, woody torso slightly toward him, then turned and in two long strides reached the forest; in another it had disappeared completely among the trees.

When Dougan breathlessly related all that had happened to his family, his brothers scoffed and teased, claiming he was telling tales to get off lightly for coming home so late, and with no firewood a’tall. Only his grandfather eyed him thoughtfully, removing his pipe just long enough to remark, "’Twas a shepherd." But he would say no more than that and turned back to the fire, pipe clenched firmly between his teeth once more. His brothers nudged each other and snickered behind their hands. His father grunted. "Aye? I’d fain see the likes of his sheep, then!" His mother said nothing, but only hugged him fiercely, then swatted him on the backside and set him to laying the table.

The matter of the walking tree was not mentioned again, but it remained sharp in Dougan’s memory—along with the horror of the wood. It was this last that caused him to leave home as soon as he was of age, and to seek a new life as far away from Birnam Wood as he could manage…even as far as the strange southern land where men knew not the skirling of the pipes and the wild beauty of the highlands. And there all his efforts had come to naught when word reached the ear of Lord Siward, Earl of Northumberland, that one of his own stable hands hailed from the Sidlaw Hills round Dunsinane…

* * *

His reverie was interrupted by a cacophony of shouts and whinnies as the forces of vengeance ground to a halt once again. They had reached the very edge of the wood as night drew down around them, and a group of nobles had ridden up to join Menteith. They were gathered a short distance away from Dougan, conferring among themselves.

"’Tis but three leagues hence across the plain to the tyrant’s stronghold," said one. "We should push on now, under cover of darkness."

Dougan saw his captain frown. "Nay! For once across, there’s not cover enough for a hare below the watchtowers of Dunsinane castle, or so says our guide here…we’d do as well to send Macbeth a note saying we’ve come a-calling."

"Let us call on him then, and have done with it," growled a tall, powerfully built man with a bristling black beard.

"Peace, Macduff," soothed Menteith. "The hour of reckoning approaches, but it is not yet at hand. Our men are weary and need a night’s rest before we launch the assault…let us take our ease in the forest, where we may lie hidden for a time from unfriendly eyes."

Malcolm, son of the murdered king, had thus far seemed content to merely listen as the others debated. He was young—scarce older than Dougan—and only the lightest down yet shadowed his cheek. But now he spoke with an air of quiet authority, and the others instantly stilled. "You speak wisely, Menteith. We will do just so."

"But—no one goes into Birnam Wood at night!" Dougan burst out, forgetting himself. They all stared at him, and he blushed. "If it can be avoided," he added meekly.

Macduff strode up to him; steely blue eyes bored into his. "What are you called, boy?"

"Coll Dougan, m’laird."

"Well, Coll Dougan, when your counsel is desired, it shall be asked of you," said Macduff dryly.

"Aye, m’laird, your pardon," he murmured, defeated.

And so the order was given. Slowly the army began to move forward under the trees, company by company, until the entire force was swallowed up.

From the moment he entered the wood the sense of malice was so palpable, so overwhelming, that Dougan almost reeled from it, as from a physical blow. He wavered, but glancing back, saw Macduff glowering at him. With a supreme effort he mastered his fear and forced himself to keep going, picking out a path among the dense aisles of trees that pressed in on all sides as if they, too, watched his every move. A constant rustling, creaking, and murmuring surrounded him—wordless voices full of anger and resentment. Even the soldiers began to cast uneasy looks about them, sensing that something was amiss. Dougan felt trapped, imprisoned in a close dungeon of innumerous boughs from which there was no escape…and thus he would wander forever beneath the shadow of the tree-tangled wood.

Of a sudden the way opened out before them and Dougan halted, stunned. They had come upon a great clearing, completely denuded of trees…only their stumps remained, the fresh-hewn cuts gleaming white in the gathering dusk. The sight filled him with confusion and dismay. Who was daring, or foolish, enough to have done this—and why?

As he stood staring, the sound of muffled hoof beats came thudding up behind them. A scout, who had been sent out across the plain, was now returned, and Dougan listened with growing trepidation as he made his report. Macbeth’s castle was mightily fortified for a siege: a great ditch dug around it, and a stockade of sharpened logs on the far side. This, then, explained the felled trees. But surely Macbeth knew the old tales…why had he not heeded them?

They pitched camp in and around the clearing, with only scattered fires to fend off the deep, oppressive gloom; no light of stars or moon pierced the sullen clouds. Dougan huddled by his captain’s small bright blaze, grateful only that so many branches littered the ground there was no need for any to cut firewood.

Menteith had kept him close at hand, ostensibly to discuss their route on the morrow, but Dougan wondered if fear of his desertion played any part in it. After asking a few perfunctory questions about the terrain around the castle the captain soon fell silent, staring into the flames. The trees were eerily quiet now, too…the rustling had ceased and the forest’s great brooding presence hung over them, poised and expectant, as if in anticipation of some fateful action or event.

"Good evening to you, masters!"

They both jumped, having heard no one approach. But now they saw an old, bent woman hobbling toward them, a basket over her arm. Dougan wondered why there had been no challenge from the sentries.

"Greetings, old mother!" replied Menteith somewhat gruffly, to hide his momentary discomfiture. "What do you here in this God-forsaken place?"

"Gathering herbs and mushrooms for my cook-pot, noble sir," she quavered. "My sisters await me anon."

"Indeed!" An eager note crept into Menteith’s voice. "’Tis a fortnight and more since I’ve had aught but rations ill-prepared and eaten in haste. A bowl of good, warming stew would be welcome indeed on the eve of battle!" He tossed a coin to her. "Lead on to your cottage, good-dame, where you and your sisters shall serve us a hearty sup."

The old woman made no move to catch the coin but let it fall to the ground and stared at it, then back up at him. Suddenly she laughed, and the shrill, wild sound sent a chill down Dougan’s spine. "Our humble broth is not fit for such a fine lord as yourself," she cackled, and there was a weird gleam in her eye.

Dougan noticed with horrified fascination that the cloth covering her basket heaved and rippled as if something moved beneath it. Herbs and mushrooms?

"Loony old crone!" muttered Menteith, then said aloud, "Be on your way then, and we’ll not trouble you further. But keep the coin all the same," he added magnanimously.

A cunning look came over the woman’s face, and she pounced upon the silver piece that gleamed amid the moldering leaves. "Thank ’ee, my lord!" she crooned. "Mayhap I can’t give you a meal, but for your kindness to a poor old woman, I will give you something better still: a piece of advice that you would do well to heed." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Linger not in this wood, for it is perilous for the Second-born."

"Second-born? What do you prattle about, woman? I am the eldest of my house!"

"Man the mortal, master of horses," she chanted in a singsong voice, then shot a glance at the great, hoary oak standing guard by their camp. "Isn’t that right, dearie?" she said, seemingly to no one in particular, before turning back to Menteith. "And harm no living tree, nary a single bough or twig. For the wood is roused this night, and full of wrath."

She shuffled up very close to the nobleman, who was looking increasingly unnerved, and confided, "’Twas well for Macbeth’s men that they set upon the trees in full light of day, and took them as they drowsed. But they do not sleep now, nor will they again until they gain their desire."

"And what would a tree desire?" said Menteith lightly, even as he edged away from her. "A gentle rain? A tender breeze?"

"They want blood," she hissed, "and care not overmuch whose they spill. Do not provoke them!" She clutched his arm, halting his retreat, and continued in a voice that was scarce above a whisper, yet carried clearly, "If Malcolm would win the day, he must follow the trees to war…"

Menteith laughed, but glanced nervously at the trees. "You speak in riddles, mother! What—"

He broke off as the contents of the basket gave a sudden lurch, and the woman struck them a violent blow. They subsided again, but Menteith, wide-eyed and pale, made no further comment.

As the old woman departed, she nodded to the oak as to a familiar, then cackled again and hastened away. Dougan looked at the tree curiously. Something about it niggled at his memory…

Rolled up tightly in his blanket under the great oak, Dougan slept little that night. The trees had resumed their whispering, like a fitful wind rushing through a field. When dawn broke, cold and damp, his only thought was one of overwhelming relief that they had survived the night unscathed.

The clearing hummed with activity as the men broke camp, sharpening weapons and girding themselves for battle. Suddenly the commotion ceased as all around Dougan, the soldiers sprang to attention. Here came his master, Lord Siward himself, accompanied by Malcolm and the other nobles. The earl looked haughtily about the clearing, his glance passing over Dougan without so much as a flicker of recognition. Though he had saddled his lordship’s mount many a time, he was, it seemed, beneath notice.

Finally Siward deigned to speak, in that flat, nasal drawl of the southern lands. "What wood is this before us?"

Menteith cleared his throat. "The wood of Birnam—"

It seemed to Dougan that he nearly had said my lord, but caught himself in time.

Malcolm had been standing with his back to his companions, gazing thoughtfully up at the trees. Now he turned to them with a swiftness born of sudden inspiration. "Let every soldier hew him down a bough, and bear it before him," he directed. "Thereby shall we shadow the numbers of our host, and make discovery err in report of us."

A soldier bowed. "It shall be done."

"No!" For a moment Dougan did not realize the anguished cry had been his own, until he saw the nobles gazing at him in astonishment. "You must not harm the trees!" he persisted.

Macduff, red-faced with anger, charged over and, seizing him by the scruff of the neck, threw him against the oak-tree. "Twice it is now you have spoken out of turn," he shouted. "Thrice will see your head part company with the rest of you!"

Dougan cowered against the tree, a silent shriek ripping though his mind as all around him men raised their axes and swords to carry out Malcolm’s order. Surely their doom was at hand…

And in the next instant his worst fears came to pass. Ere a single blow could fall the trees erupted into sudden, angry life, swaying violently as if lashed by a gale, the murmur of their leaves now risen to a roar louder than the sea. Branches wielded like mighty clubs knocked away the weapons and pinned their hapless bearers against tree-boles. Great twisted roots boiled up out of the ground, writhing like many-armed sea creatures, and wrapped around men’s ankles and legs, tripping them up and dragging them toward cracks in the trees that opened like gaping maws.

Dougan, who lay huddled still by the oak, sunk in a fog of blind terror, suddenly felt himself lifted up and set on his feet. The fog parted a little, and he found himself looking up into eyes he had never forgotten…eyes full of ancient wisdom and sorrow. But now he saw reproach there too, and could not bear their gaze. "I tried to stop them!" he cried, and found that he was weeping.

The tree-giant turned away, striding quickly from the clearing. As it went, its great voice boomed out in long, rolling words, rhythmic and stirring.

Ta-runda runda runda rom!

The trees all went still, harking to the strange summons, then abruptly dropped the soldiers like so many cast-off toys. With a deep, groaning noise and a violent convulsion that made the earth buckle and rend, they wrenched free of their root-bound constraints to fall in behind their leader in rank after towering rank. The trees were moving!

Some men ran screaming before them; others cast themselves on the ground, groveling in witless terror. The trees overtook them, drew all about them, enveloped them in shadow…and then passed them by, leaving them dazed and trembling but untouched—indeed, ignored.

As Dougan stared after them in mute astonishment, a strange, cackling voice echoed in his mind. In that moment, understanding broke on him and he knew what he must do. "Stop!" he called out as loudly as he could. "Dinna fly from them, but follow them rather!" But the men still ran hither and thither like ants whose hill has been broken open, unheeding in their panic…

He searched frantically until he found his captain, who had caught his horse’s bridle and was covering its eyes and whispering in its ear to soothe it. "Laird, laird! We must follow the trees!"

Menteith turned slowly and stared at him with a vague, distant expression. He seemed to be in shock. Urgency overcame deference and Dougan seized his arm and shook it. "Please, laird! We must do as she said."

"As who said?" murmured Menteith distractedly.

"The old woman, m’laird! She said we were to follow the trees…"

"…if Malcolm would win the day," Menteith finished for him, and now he sounded like himself again. "Of course! I must tell him of this prophecy forthwith!" Vaulting upon his horse he urged it forward, crying in a great voice, "Follow the trees! Follow the trees to war and vengeance!" His horse snorted and reared, then dashed away.

Looking after him Dougan drew a deep breath, feeling weak with relief. He bent down to lay a comforting hand on the shoulder of a great strapping soldier who crouched, shuddering and whimpering, beside him. "Take heart, friend," he whispered. "The trees have nae business with us this day…they go a-calling on Macbeth!"

Such of the troops that could be rallied, and prevailed upon to master their fear, now halted in their wild flight and waited, trembling, for the trees to pass them by. How they moved no man could say, for there was a murk about them as they passed, but move they did, with swift, deadly purpose. The soldiers followed warily behind, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and their queer vanguard. Those who fled still before the trees were not seen again.

* * *

Upon the walls of the castle, the watchmen blinked and stared in disbelief, thinking the rising mists of dawn tricked their eyes. But soon there was no mistaking it: what had been an empty plain was now a vast forest…an enchanted forest, moreover, that rushed swiftly toward them. With a wild shout, one ran to bring word to Macbeth.

On the plain below, riding behind the trees, Malcolm looked up at the fortress and laughed, feeling certain for the first time that he would be king. Seizing a horn from his belt, he blew the call to attack. His forces, now heartened, roared as one as they commenced the charge.

And great Birnam Wood came to high Dunsinane hill…

~ End ~

Author’s notes:

The story incorporates the following lines of dialogue from Macbeth:

SIWARD

What wood is this before us?

MENTEITH

The wood of Birnam.

MALCOLM

Let every soldier hew him down a bough,
And bear't before him: thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, and make discovery
Err in report of us.

SOLDIERS

It shall be done.

Acknowledgements:

To William Shakespeare: thanks and sorry. Thanks also to John Milton for the "close dungeon of innumerous boughs" (Comus), Kenneth Grahame for the Wild Wood in The Wind in the Willows, Arthur Rackham for his illustrations of same, and Tom Shippey for general inspiration.

A note on geography:

As Tolkien noted in the prologue to LOTR, "the shape of all lands has been changed" since the Third Age, and so no exact geographic correspondence with Shakespeare’s time is possible. But his reference to "the North-west of the Old World, east of the Sea," would certainly seem to include Scotland.

I don’t imagine Birnam Wood as a remnant of Fangorn—that seems too far south for Scotland—but rather of the Old Forest, which clearly harbored its own population of Huorns. While there were no resident Ents there at the time of LOTR (none that we see, anyway) it seems plausible that one or more—maybe even Treebeard himself!—might have removed there if Fangorn were overrun by encroaching Men.

About the Birnam Oak:

To see the Ent that sleeps still in Birnam Wood, click on this image:

http://www.visitdunkeld.com/Birnam%20Oak/pages/Neil%20Gow's%20Oak%20Tree_jpg.htm

This ancient tree is thought to be the last remnant of Birnam Wood to survive from Shakespeare’s time.

Westron words and names:

banakil: halfling

kuduk: hobbit

hloth-nas: the cottage of your people (I cobbled this one together from hloth(o) "cot, two-roomed dwelling" and nas "people.")

Kali: Merry

Razar: Pippin

Sources: Appendix F to LOTR and The Peoples of Middle-earth

© 2006 K. Barreto, aka Inkling. Plot and original characters are the property of the author. Treebeard, Huorns, and Westron words and names are the property of the Tolkien Estate.