It began, as most things do, in a small way. In the subterranean darkness, a delicate tendril sensed light and warmth somewhere above it and began it’s long, painful journey toward the source. Slowly at first, then faster as it learned to negotiate the crevices and avoid the hard, implacable clods. Finally, it broke free into the light and found that it was surrounded by great creatures completely encased in protective garb that moved at the slightest breeze. At first the tendril was afraid, but it soon learned that there was nothing to fear, that it was welcome to a space of it’s own and that in only a few years…whatever that was…it, too, would join the others in welcoming another tendril into the group.
As the tendril grew, it began to change, to mimic the great creatures except in size and one other. The others had something the tendril did not. Clusters of hard, green husks that formed on their bodies each year, eventually becoming dry and brown, splitting open to discharge it’s contents. They all seemed proud of their husks and it did make them popular. All manner of small creatures would come among them each year to collect the contents of the husks. Some had four legs and a kind of bushy appendage that was constantly waving in the air. One of the great creatures said it was called a squirrel by other visitors.
Yet one of the small creatures was completely different from any of the others that came around. They only had two legs (or at least had learned to stand on only two of them and use the other two for grasping things) and seemed to worship the contents of the husks. Those contents were so important to the two-legs that many times they could not wait for the contents to be discharged when the time was right. Instead, they would shake parts of the great creatures until the entire husk would fall. Other times, when the husks would not fall by shaking, they would throw things into the creatures in order to break the husks loose. The pain it caused must have been great, judging from the cries of agony I heard.
It’s been over seven years now, since I arrived here. I’m not as big as the great creatures that welcomed me, but I will be eventually because I know that I’m one of them. I’m even producing my own green husks, now. While I’m proud that my husks are firm and it’s contents desirable, I cringe at the pain I will have to suffer if all of my husks don’t fall when they’re supposed to. But I will have to bear it because of the secret I now share with my elders. The objects ejected from my husks contain a magical food that is highly valued by the two-legs. When they mix those kernels with sap and other items, it combines into a potion that is irresistable to the two-legs.
The contents of my husks have a voice that only the two-legs can hear, a voice who’s siren song cannot be denied. Few who hear the call of the wild pecan can resist. And why should they? It is I and my brothers who know the secret of control. As long as a two-leg lives to bake (a form of cooking) that magical potion that they call a Pecan Pie, we Pecan trees will continue to reign as the true rulers of this world.