If you have a Juniper tree on your property, you best count your blessings.
For you will never worry about wolves harming the cattle or bears tormenting the honeybees. Deer will stay far from the garden, and rabbits too.
And you most definitely will never fret about thieves pilfering from your land.
Because what animals, humans, and you dear reader, will soon understand is that there can be no secrets from a Juniper tree.
Not because the Juniper is more virtuous or honorable than neighboring saplings and shrubs. No, no, it’s quite the opposite.
Rather, because no matter if we’re talking about the Alligator Juniper with its scaly bark, or the gnarled Greek Juniper that thrives on rocky cliffsides, or even the Creeping Juniper that carpets the ground with spiky needles—Juniper trees love to gossip.
And there is nothing more dangerous than a gossip who lives in a small town, where every day is the same, and even the trees are driven to boredom.
And that’s exactly what happened in a village far, far away, where the only activity was the rise and fall of the sun and the occasional farmer lugging a cart of corn to the mill.
The Juniper trees gossiped about the old farmer, of course, but there was little to comment on beyond his rickety cart and his tired mule. Sometimes his harvest was measly, hardly worth the trip, and the trees would chatter that the farmer was lazy and that his fields were fruitless.
But then one day, long after the sun had set and the moon took hold of the sky, there was the familiar sound of footsteps on the trail. Instead of the slow, rhythmic saunter of the farmer and his mule, these steps were hurried and unsteady. They would move quickly, then stop. After a few seconds, the steps would start up again. Then, they’d stop.
The Juniper trees began whispering in excitement. Was it a handsome traveler who had lost his way? Or perhaps a maiden in need of shelter? Maybe it was a crone who had crossed mountains and rivers to cast spells at this very spot! The trees shook their leaves in anticipation because, finally, something interesting was about to happen.
The trees were right, of course, but it wasn’t a traveler or a maiden or a crone that was cause for such fervor. It was a man—a man carrying three sacks of corn that were bursting at the seams. In fact, the sacks were so heavy that after only a few steps, the man would stop, drop the sacks, and lean against the nearest tree to catch his breath.
When he made it to the Juniper grove, the owner of the mill came outside to discuss the price. The miller offered him less than half of what he would have paid the farmer, and to the trees’ surprise, the man agreed. He shook the miller’s hand, and with his pockets full of silver, he retreated into the night, his footsteps quicker and lighter than before.
The trees were flabbergasted. After all, it wasn’t hard to see that this man, this thief, was the reason the farmer’s harvests had dwindled to a few moldy cobs.
So, the Juniper trees did what they did best. They talked. And gossiped.
Soon, the story of the miller and the thief spread along the dusty trail to the village and straight into the sheriff’s office.
The two men were promptly jailed, and not long after that, the farmer’s cart was full once more.
Once the excitement died down, the Juniper trees fell bored again. They had nothing to do but watch the rise and fall of the sun, gossip about the farmer’s ancient mule and the rickety cart, and anxiously wait for something interesting to happen.
This retelling was inspired by an English superstition suggesting that Juniper trees cannot keep secrets, and was adapted from “The Juniper Tree” by Lisa Schneidau.
