Fire Trees

 

THE CHRONICLE OF LIGHT AND ROOT

Before there were suns, before the birth of Boqer and the stars of Yam-Esh, there was Ahavah — the living planet whose heart pulsed with fire and whose breath sustained itself in the darkness of Mother Space. From its luminous soil rose the Fire Trees, sentinels of radiant flame whose light governed day and night. They stood like pillars of living fire, their roots buried deep in molten veins that sang beneath the surface. The sky above them was gray, serene, and endless, for there was no sun nor moon to guide time—only the burning rhythm of the trees.

Each Fire Tree rose in forty-five levels of height, each level marking an hour in the cycle of Ahavah’s breath. When the trees burned at full glory, the planet knew light; when they sank into the ground, the gray heavens borrowed their glow, casting a gentle shimmer upon the world. For ninety hours—forty-five of flame and forty-five of regrowth—one full day was born. Weeks were marked by the rising of red veins within their leaves, months by the shimmer of triple scarlet lights, and years by the pure-white gleam that crowned their branches. The Fire Trees did not merely count time—they were time, shaping existence with every rise and fall.

At the center of all stood the Mother Tree, taller and older than all its kin, glowing with a holiness the other trees revered. Around it, Ahavah breathed. Beneath it, rivers of light flowed in silence. And upon its soil, life stirred. From a hill of white sand, the planet gave birth to a being—flesh of its flesh, breath of its wind—who rose and called himself Yeshua. He was the first to walk upon Ahavah’s body, born of its purity and light, without flaw or shadow. For uncounted ages, the Fire Trees burned, and Ahavah lived in harmony with its firstborn.

THE DAY THE TREES WENT SILENT

But the silence began the day Yeshua’s joy turned to sorrow. Long had he marveled at the Fire Trees—their beauty, their rhythm, their devotion to the eternal balance of Ahavah. Yet in his loneliness, a whisper rose from the darker regions of the planet, that part of Ahavah which had longed for its own will apart from the light. It sought to live in him, to become one with its own creation. Yeshua, overwhelmed by a force he could not name, ate of the fruit-leaf that grew beneath the Mother Tree—and from that moment, the order of Ahavah began to tremble.

Three days of silence followed. Yeshua felt no hunger, no pain, no need for sleep. His flesh had become immortal, but his mind—shattered by a power too vast to bear—sank into madness. In a moment of despair, he struck down the Fire Tree nearest his home. It vanished into the ground, its light extinguished forever. “The life of this innocent tree goes for my house,” he cried, not knowing those words would echo across eternity. The balance of the planet began to decay.

When he turned upon the Mother Tree, rage and confusion filled his heart. The great barrier of light that surrounded it bent to his will, for the planet itself was his flesh, and the tree his soul. He pierced the trunk with his hands, summoning fire from the roots that flung him into the rivers of Ahavah. There, in pain and fury, he cursed the harmony between fire and water, declaring them eternal enemies. And when his anguish could no longer be contained, Yeshua drove his hand into his chest, tore out his heart, and fell lifeless to the ground. As his blood touched the soil, the Fire Trees dimmed one by one until the world of Ahavah lay in absolute darkness.

Three days later, the silence broke. From the roots of the Mother Tree, flames erupted. Rivers rose against the sky. The gray heavens folded like fabric, and the entire planet began to compress upon itself. Then, from the heart of the chaos, the Mother Tree shone one last time, brighter than a thousand stars. Its light condensed into a burning sphere—Ahavah’s very soul—and from that sphere emerged a being clothed in radiant hair and crowned with three living halos. Thus, Ahavah became the Creator—the Most High, the same who later formed Yam-Esh, the stars, and all worlds. The Fire Trees were no more. Yet their essence lived on within Him.

THE LOST FLAME AND THE BIRTH OF UNIVERSES

The Fire Trees of Ahavah are among the most mysterious phenomena in all celestial chronicles. No Elder has ever spoken directly of them, for they are part of the forbidden origin—the living memory of the Creator Himself. Yet fragments preserved in the earliest records of Shamayim speak of their nature and purpose.

Scholars among the Cherubim believe the Fire Trees were manifestations of primordial light, physical embodiments of Ahavah’s consciousness before His transformation. They argue that each tree was not simply alive but sentient—a fragment of divine will rooted in soil and flame. The Mother Tree, in this view, was the axis of existence, the first and last link between matter and spirit.

After the transformation of Ahavah into the Most High, the Fire Trees’ essence did not vanish—it evolved. When the Creator stepped into Yam-Esh, one of the newborn universes, He vomited forth fire. This fire multiplied into a vast ocean of flame, known to the Elders as the Yam-Esh Sea of Fire. From this sea, the first celestial bodies were born—most notably Boqer, the Mother Star, whose accidental creation marked the dawn of stellar life. It is believed that the fire of Yam-Esh was none other than the transmuted energy of the Fire Trees of Ahavah. Their light, once confined to the planet, now blazed across universes.

The theological significance of this connection cannot be overstated. For if the Fire Trees were the primal form of divine energy, then the stars themselves are their descendants—living embers of the original light that once governed Ahavah. The 24 Elders, Seraphim, and Cherubim, though born of later flames, may owe their luminous essence to the same ancient fire.

In certain lost hymns of Shamayim, the Fire Trees are said to “breathe in rhythm with the Creator,” suggesting they were not destroyed but absorbed, their rhythm now pulsing through creation itself. The cycle of day and night in countless worlds, the birth and death of suns—all mirror the rise and sinking of those trees. Thus, their extinction was not the end, but the beginning of cosmic order.

And though none in Shamayim speak the name Ahavah aloud, it is whispered among the wise that every star carries a memory of that ancient planet. Every flicker in the night sky is a spark of a Fire Tree, still burning in reverence to the first light that ever lived.