Secrets of Harmony Grove by Mindy Starns Clark Page A

whole unrequited love thing—Ovid gives a long, fictional tale about the forming of the earth.
    “There’s even a great flood. I think the quote on the marker comes from that part. The flood destroys all of humankind, and the ones who are left have to start over and repopulate the earth.”
    “Sounds like the Bible to me,” Mike said.
    “Similar elements,” I replied, “but this story is definitely not biblical. Instead of our one real God, the world Ovid describes is created by many mythical gods. In fact, it’s the gods that keep messing up things for the humans, from what I recall.”
    “So when does the Cupid guy start doing his bit?”
    “About two thirds of the way in. After that, the whole rest of the poem tells what happened to poor Phoebus and Daphne.”
    We came to the bridge, which was so narrow that we had to cross in single file. As I started over, I thought back to the many times Scott and our Amish cousins and I had played here. We had elaborate pretend games about an ogre who lived underneath. Striding quickly across the wooden planks now, I could only hope there weren’t any real ogres hiding under there, just waiting to come out and grab me around the ankles.

 

TEN
     
    Once our little group was on the other side of the bridge, we found ourselves facing the centerpiece of the grove, the bay laurel tree. As we stood there taking it in, I was surprised to realize that while most of the grove seemed neglected and untended, someone had been taking care of this area recently. Here, there were no fallen limbs or intrusive weeds or even any autumn leaves. In fact, I realized, looking down at the ground, the clearing had recently been raked, the ridges created by a rake’s tines still visible in the dust. Before I could point this out, the technician picked up on it as well. Telling us not to move in any closer lest we contaminate any evidence, he very carefully and thoroughly began examining and photographing the scene.
    While we waited, Mike and I read the markers etched into plaques mounted on the benches circling the tree. Nearby, Charlie and Rip stood guard.
    “So what happens to Phoebus and Daphne?” Rip asked, which made me smile, knowing that he was genuinely interested in the poem’s story.
    “In a nutshell? He pursues her, she runs from him, and when he’s about to catch her she begs the heavens for help and is turned into a tree. A bay laurel.”
    I added that the markers on these benches, when read in sequence, provided the climax of the poem, starting with the final chase through the wilderness, followed by her plea for help, and then that bizarre transformation of human into tree:
     
    Her strength was gone, she grew pale,
overcome by the effort of her rapid flight,
and seeing Peneus’s waters near cried out
“Help me, father! If your streams have divine powers
change me, destroy this beauty that pleases too well!”
    Her prayer was scarcely done when
a heavy numbness seized her limbs,
thin bark closed over her breast,
her hair turned into leaves,
her arms into branches,
her feet so swift a moment ago stuck fast in slow-growing roots,
her face was lost in the canopy
.
    Only her shining beauty was left
.
    I read the next one out loud, its words familiar simply because as children it had always made us giggle:
    Even like this Phoebus loved her
and, placing his hand against the trunk,
he felt her heart still quivering under the new bark.
He clasped the branches as if they were parts of human arms,
and kissed the wood
.
     
    “That’s why we always called this one the Kissing Tree.”
    “Is that this Ovid guy’s version of a happy ending?” Charlie asked, frowning.
    “The poem’s a tragedy. Unrequited love, remember? It doesn’t have a happy ending.” I read the next plate in the series:
    But even the wood shrank from his kisses,
and he said “Since you cannot be my bride, you must be my tree!
Laurel, with you my hair will be wreathed,
with you my lyre, with you my