James Scotson - Planets Falling

The gardens are vast and diverse. Each plot is divided into different crops that are tended on specific cycles. Some areas are rotated regularly to control for blights and bugs. Other places, such as those with the apple trees and the grapes, have been tended and fed for centuries. Entwined among the plots are spots of wild forest, which provide windbreaks and keep pests from easily jumping among plots. Within the forests are many birds and other creatures that tend to the gardens, eating the insects and fertilizing the ground with their droppings. It’s a wondrous, dynamic place, providing us with ample food and the means by which we trade with the mountain folks to the east and the ocean dwellers to the west. Not many people travel from the north or south because the ancient cities block their path. The strangers who come from the cities are usually not welcomed.

The students and workers gather around me as I bark out orders for the day. I’m concerned about two of the lazier workers and tell them that their days are numbered unless I see a change. They’ll be cleaning stables and making less wages if they don’t improve. As they scurry off toward their jobs, I look down at my calloused hands and think about my first blisters. My mother brought me to the gardens as soon as I could crawl. I was working the plants and the ground soon thereafter. When I turned twelve, mom told me that she was taking me somewhere secret and very special. I was dismayed when I discovered that she’d led me to the same place I’d spent my entire childhood. The only exception was that the garden lots were empty and quiet. Even the birds and wind seemed hushed.

Here I was, a newly minted woman expecting a party or at least a present and mom had dragged me to her beloved gardens. At the moment, I was not agreeing with her decision about my birthday gift. Rather, I was hot with anger and boiling over with the spite of youthful betrayal. She studied my face calmly, her yellow hair braided tightly down her back. What I saw in her eyes was not disappointment but understanding and sympathy.

“Amy, I know how you must feel. I felt the same way about your grandmother on my twelfth birthday. But it is time for you to begin understanding your role in the continuum of things. Look over there.” She pointed toward a particularly thick patch of woods next to a freshly tilled and planted plot containing squash seeds. My anger began to melt into curiosity. “The woods are the key to our success. Don’t betray them.”

“Mom, I don’t understand. How can I betray a bunch of trees?”

“Sweetheart, the woods are more than that. They link the earth to our garden. If we don’t protect the forest, then the light will begin to dim. And we need the light to ensure healthy and plentiful crops each year.”

I was always inquisitive and fairly skeptical, even of my own mother. “The sun makes light and warmth, mom, not trees. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

She laughed. “There is light you cannot see. It connects all living things — the roots, the fungus, the worms, and tiny creatures we can’t even see. They shine in the darkness and talk to each other. Let’s move closer.”

As we approached the forest, the little ones appeared. I’d seen them on many occasions during my brief life and thought I was the only one that could perceive them. No one else, including my mom, seemed to notice them or talk about them. And here I was with my mother. I wondered whether I should finally tell her about them. The creatures reached the height of my twelve-year-old waist and were transparent. They were shaped like humans, with two legs and arms and large heads, with skin that looked like the bark of an ash tree. However, it was difficult to see features on their bodies and faces. Their eyes were barely discernible, but, from what I could see, they were kind and benevolent.

“Hello friends,” mother whispered into the trees.

“So, you do see them,” I exclaimed, astonished.

“Of course I do. Only you and I and our descendants seem to be able to perceive them. They are not of this world I think. Yet, they watch over our garden and ensure that all is well for us. Through time, you’ll learn to read their signs. They are able to tell me when to expect trouble or when to be ready for exceptionally good conditions. They come in quite handy.” She grinned at them. They appeared to grin back.

“Can I — touch them?” I walked closer to one of the shimmering beings.

“You can try. But I’m not quite sure they’re—” she paused to consider her words “they’re all here. They see us and we see them. But it’s like looking at a reflection in a pool. I’ve followed them into the woods many times. They disappear in the dark.”

I was up to the challenge, feeling bold. I walked right up to one of the creatures. It squinted and retreated into the shade of a large cedar. Not to be deterred, I advanced further and the green waif floated away. The wind rustled the trees and the creature and its brethren were gone.

“Nice try, sweetheart. No luck either, huh? They like to play. They’re never far away. I catch them in the corner of my eye just about every day. And they always appear when you need them. Once, when the crops were failing, they showed me a special substance in the soil that stopped the blight. They make me look to be quite the genius.”

“How do you talk with them?” In all my years of seeing them and thinking they were my special secret, here my mother knew about them all the time and could communicate with them. I was annoyed and impressed.

“They whisper in my mind. I see images, shapes, and sometimes words. Once they learn to trust you, they will start talking with you as well. You’re ready. You also will find that you can hear my thoughts and occasionally those of other people. The keeper’s gift seems to include mind reading.”

With that proclamation, things got weirder for me. The weirdness continues to this day. I admit that the little creatures are helpful and that I indeed learned how to talk with them in my mind. They show me how the plants think. I can feel the water rising underneath the bark of the trees, the tender grass dripping with dew, and the light touch of a honeybee’s tongue. Still, I can hardly call the green things in the forest my friends. Unlike my mother, my life doesn’t completely revolve around the garden. I have questions and thoughts that grasp beyond the gardens, the village, and even the ruins of the cities I’ve never seen. I doubt the creatures understand how tired I feel or how angry Wenn and my father make me sometimes. They disappear as soon as I begin to ask the questions that plague me such as: “Who are you?” As for the mind reading, I never quite understood what mom meant by that. I’ve never heard anything but the green ones and my own voice in my head.

Another day harvesting seeds and clearing brush is nearing its end and I’m weary to the marrow once again. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me but the prospect of cooking a meal for Wenn and father is not looking good. They’ll have to fend for themselves on stale bread and cold stew. They can take advantage of the harvest. I have a basket of fresh vegetables for them to eat. The peas are particularly sweet. I begin lumbering down the dirt path toward home when I hear steps behind me. Fear’s not a feeling I understand or condone. I stop and turn. Theo’s standing there in the fading light, his shoulders broad and straight.

I set down my basket and put my hands on my hips. “Theo. I’m getting a little worried about you. It isn’t like you to stalk me or anyone for that matter.”

Theo chortles, then his face falls. “Amy. Serious now. I got this feeling that things are changing. You know I like to kid and play, but something is up this coming winter. I can feel, taste, a wrongness in the wind. It may sound funny. But I think it has to do with you.”