By VERNA BROCK
There is a spit of land, barely forming a point, between two rivers flowing to the vast Gulf. Both empty the great subterranean river that waxes and wanes with the vagaries of weather, draining the entire Southeastern watershed; this is the enormous Florida Aquifer.
Upon the spit, clinging precariously to limerock and sand, stands an ancient cypress tree. Its roots are clearly revealed as they worm their way around and through the weathered rock. Limbs are gnarled and twisted by wind and rain, as if shaped by a giant’s hand carving a bonsai. The cypress remains a thing of wild beauty.
It stands surrounded by daughter trees, sprung from its seeds. Palms lean away from the wind, and palmettos grow thickly among them. Vines climb, and bloom, while coastal birds make their homes there. Otters, alligators, and raccoons move unmolested as they seek shelter and sustenance.
There was a time when the tree watched as tribal peoples came to the rivers’ edge, generation after generation. Their waters offered an endless bounty of fish, oysters, and crabs. Mothers gathered to scrub hides in the brackish water stained with tannin, as their children splashed and shouted with delight in the cooling waves lapping at the shore.
Flint-knappers formed blades and arrows upon the grassy spit, preparing their tools for hunting and fishing. Bones and antlers harvested from deer were worked into useful needles and knives. Low murmurs flowed between the workers as the knapping strikes sang out rhythmically and the chert piles grew.
For the most part, the tree lived in peace, and time stretched day into day, sunrise into sunset. One day, an apparition appeared on the horizon. A tall ship with billowing sails, boasting the emblems of Spain and Christianity, effortlessly sailed into the mouth of the river and dropped anchor.
These people had their own ways, and bustled about fortifying and surveying. A fort was established, while the original inhabitants quickly discovered their world would never be the same. The tree stood and watched as settlements rose and fell. Wars were fought, with losers and winners.
The British were bold enough to encroach and engage, as the first nations’ peoples slipped deep into the swamps and silently observed. Escaped slaves joined the natives in the swamps and worked to choose their allies wisely. Finally the territory became a part of the nascent United States, and settlers bearing names like Ladd and Jefferson came to tame the wilds of North Florida.
The tree held firm when a ferocious hurricane tore the bustling port of Magnolia to splinters. When the waters retreated, the town and its bridge were no more. But San Marcos/Saint Marks continued to grow, along with Newport just up the river.
When the young nation was tottering on dissolution, being torn asunder by the Civil War, the cypress stood vigil. Union ships sailed past the ancient tree, disgorging their forces there along the coast. The mostly colored troops began their long and fateful slog up the river. Cannons rang and roared, battling from the coast, all the way to the headwaters of the St. Marks. Farmers and Seminary students rushed to meet the battle, finally stopping the Union troops at the Battle of Natural Bridge.
The echoes of gunfire enveloped the land and the tree, as the fight raged for days, until it raged no more. Letters spoke of the sound of cannon fire carrying as far away as Madison and Monticello, alerting inhabitants to a ferocious battle being waged to conquer Florida’s state capital.
When the war was finished, and peace restored, life and commerce began anew. The tree continued to stand watch as people came and went. Boats, ships, and tankers moved in and out, and families prospered. A great Depression plagued the land, and World Wars erupted. But nothing was new to the tree. The whims of time and history moved steadily along.Even now, tides rise and fall. Storms blow. Sunsets glow pink and red and purple. And the cypress continues its vigil, still standing at the convergence of two rivers as the world revolves, undeterred by any of this. It is a timeless sentinel, a witness to the swirling eddies of history that flow past even today.