Where Do The Trees Sleep?

Friday, 15th August 2053 – 11:58 P.M.

Petra, my dear. I haven’t written in a while, not just because Saklaus and I have been moving for a week or two now. It just wasn’t a great time. Lots of sleepless nights. I’m used to it now, just had a couple bad ones in a row. Too many of them around, damn Followers of Jörðians. But we made it out of a difficult zone, the post-forest was as bleak as ever. Remember those trees? I remember you’d always look up at them, as if looking at God himself, in awe and wonder. That smile you’d get, it’s still etched in my memory, still so vivid.

It’s the same smile as Saklaus’s too. He’s learning, but just not quick enough. He lags in decision making, and sometimes he’s just not focused enough on what we need to do. The other night (honestly can’t even remember how many nights or days it was ago, but seems longer than memory serves), we were passing through an abandoned gas station, one of those with the cafe right next door. Those bald-headed FOJ’s were looking around for supplies, searching every building they could. They’d captured a boy, no older than 16, and were preparing the razors and knives. They couldn’t see or hear us with the blood in their mouths but Saklaus was slower than usual, lethargic, could’ve gotten us both killed, erased. And I know. I can hear your soft, tender voice in my head even as I write. He’s only 13. And you’re right Petra. You always are. Were. You always were.

I can’t stop thinking about that boy. He was in my dreams, looking deep within my eyes, searching for my soul, while those FOJ’s brandished their knives around the boy’s scalp, crimson red oozing out voraciously. Another young boy, FOJ, trained for that moment, next to the other, blood flowing into the drainage pipes in unison. That damn fucking manifest. A boy for a boy. A girl for a girl. A body for a body. Slowly but surely eradicating mankind. And for what? All just for existing, being present, sharing the ground and air with the others. Us ‘norms’ now are difficult to find, and when we do find some, they rarely want to join. The larger the louder, they said. That poor boy shaved, tortured and cut for his refusal to survive in that way, to join them, probably hung at that same gas station, to die another day in that near future.

Today we finally found a good spot though P, you would’ve been proud of Saklaus this morning. We’d been moving from place to place for weeks, our feet were bloody and we definitely needed some food, not the scraps the FOJ’s or others left. He convinced me, the little rascal, by flipping a coin! Told me we should hike up the mountain, I said no. Once he’d thrown it up in the air, I had to go with it. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile in a long time Petra, a smile that would’ve made your heart throb. It was the perfect spot too, a small wooden hut lakeside, post-forest opened it all up, like a rose in season before the snip of the garden scissors. A bit damaged but could house us for a few nights probably, before the FOJ’s found it just like us. A place that maybe, just maybe, was worth fighting for. Just like this small world you’ve left us Petra, a place that maybe is worth all that trouble. Only maybe though.

The dark unlit hut was filled with little trinkets of a post-serum hoarder; vintage coins, magazines ripped and shredded spread across the floor, souvenir cups and mugs of all shapes and sizes, and a substantial amount of taxidermied small animals. Too sizable for it to be a simple pastime. We cleared the two rooms quickly, stepping over the hairy, decrepit body, dead of old age. A luxury. He was clutching a small binded notebook in his left hand, ink pen on the right. Funny that, looked almost identical to mine. Before I could say anything, Saklaus had already moved his stiff fingers from it, grabbed it and stuffed it into his bag. He murmured something under his breath, feeling my watchful suspicious gaze. I was too rough on him sometimes, my character hardened under the pressure of instinct, and I think it’s rubbed off on him the past couple weeks. I didn’t say anything though.

We’re staying the night here though, hopefully one of many, and we’ll visit the small lake tomorrow and do some recon, check out the surroundings during the day with the sincere aim of finding nothing. Saw some clouds on the horizon, a gentle rain hitting the post-forest ever so slightly just on the other side of the lake. It’ll pass over us at night, while I stand guard for a couple hours before the sun rises. Saklaus is already sleeping beside me, the wispy light from the burning candle dancing over his body’s shadow, keeping these last words alive. It's off now though, the room needs to be as dead as it was when we arrived.

Rest Petra, wherever you’re watching from, if you are watching that is. Maybe you and the other First Ones all watch together. I’m looking at the locket more and more these days. I’ll write again to you soon, I’m guessing it helps.

Until the land ceases to nurture,

Jurgen.

Monday, 18th August, 2053 - 6:34 A.M.

The past couple of days have been better than I ever could’ve hoped for. Some of the best days we’ve had Petra. The skies cleared, some birds I hadn’t seen for a while were flocking and chirping just as the morning dew came out after our first night at the shed. It was so picturesque, a painting of the sunrise freshly finished, with the paint still dry. After so many days and nights in fear, in survival mode, checking every dark corner of a room filled with supplies, awaiting traps at every moment, I finally relaxed Petra. Constantly on the move, tracking, following, escaping, sneaking, creeping. My God, how exhausting it is! The moment I saw that summer sunshine hit the shed’s dirty window, refracting on the dried blood-stained wooden panels on the floor where we slept, I finally relaxed.

And the smile, that unbelievably beautiful smile; the cheeks widening and contracting, lopsided to the right, the radiant hazel eyes following like the blossom of a rose. Are you living vicariously through him, Petra? Everytime I look at him since that morning, your frizzled blond hair and pointy chin stares right back at me. The same eyes I cherished you for stare right back at me Petra. Maybe that’s why our relationship grew colder, fraught with the tensions of everyday life here and now. Now that I sit here, at the banks of the beautiful Feldsee Lake (I figured out where I am btw) pen in hand putting these words to paper for no one to read, maybe all that tension and fear was my doing. Because he’s the spitting image of you....

Anyways, where was I? Let me read ahead a bit… Ah yes, the lake! Well that smile’s been there since we woke up that day. Saklaus and I, warily but well rested, spent the first couple hours of that Saturday’s daybreak checking the surroundings, seeing how secure the edges of the lake were. We trudged on for an hour atop this small hill overlooking the area, and saw there were very little signs of movement across a large stretch of land. It was a good sign. But I never trusted those. Not after last time.

On the way back, a tuskless boar crossed our path, sniffing at the ground of the gone forest. The latter had already but disappeared, north, I think. But we hadn’t seen the trees for a very long time. Saklaus looked on as the snout continued along its path, unaware of our presence. The snout could only do so much, and a starving boar is only looking for one thing. Especially one so starved. I reached into my bag and slowly took out the raspberries we’d found a week or two back, dropped by some heavily laden plant, and with it grabbed the sharp Salinger knife. Saklaus too, reached for his own. Leaving the berries on the floor, we backed up enough to let the boar, blind as it is, smell them and reach them, eager to feed. As it did, anxious for more, we pounced on it, the roaring bloodcurdling squeal only cut off by the razor edge knife, the liquid spilling into our hands. It was loud, and troublesome, but short. Wouldn’t ring any alarms.

…as I write here, it dawns on me, the lengths we go to. I didn’t think twice, and I don’t regret the boar’s death one bit. Even our son, blood in hand, was ecstatic with the find. I remember the first time I killed for food, it took me ages to use my own hands to cut. Learning everything for the first time. The lengths humanity goes to follow instincts after so many years not feeling it, not sensing it beneath. But it’s always there. Hidden, deep within the scales of our skin, numbed and silenced by the distractions of the everyday. Those distractions, after the serum, vanished. Those followers, you being one of them, killed any distractions after they cut the power station in Freiburg, and the green world, of which we were so unaware, began to take everything in its mindless path. The lengths we go to huh Petra?

____________________________________________________

After a couple of hours, filled to the brim with good meat, and with some leftovers for the night, me and Saklaus sat, our backs against the shed, overlooking the desolate and green-less lake. It was silent between us, so many days of hard work and cold shoulders in the end took a toll on not just him, but me as well. The passing crispness between us was something I had to try and change. This ‘trip’, if you could even call it that, could maybe save it. We were both so still, sitting there, gazing at the horizon, Saklaus fidgeting with his leather shoes, me touching the locket like a maniac (I do it too often these days, thinking of you), that I thought, maybe it’s the right time. I don’t even know how much time passed in that stillness, that measurable quietness, but I kept twirling it anyway. I twirled it in my hand, from finger to finger, feeling the weight of the metal, the creased middle where it opens, and thought, This could be the moment.

You know how terrible I am with that. Fucking words. Sharper than any razor, any FOJ blade they care to brandish to whoever they find along their path. Not much time now for them, everything goes by so quickly. But time at that moment stopped for a brief second, and while I tried to find the words to say to our child Petra, our beautiful golden child, who has seen what no child should, something beautiful happened.

It was Saklaus who first grabbed my pants, me deep in thought, and asked me if I could hear it. He tugged at them, with urgency, trained to notice even the most remote sounds in case of danger. Sapping back to reality, I heard it too, like a drum, far off in the distance but growing in size and weight. Creaking and gaining momentum, the drum began to seep into the ground, almost like a small earthquake. The sound alone made all my internal alarms jump at the same time, and the ground shaking increased my fears, could it be? I grabbed Saklaus by the scruff of the neck and hid ourselves behind one of the sides of the shed, just a couple meters from where we had been sitting, to get some cover from the incoming noise. He didn’t look too worried, but I knew what was approaching slowly, and what came with it.

The noise only grew louder and louder, the earth beneath our feet shaking, the lake in the near distance rumbling, rippling with anticipation. Goddamn it I hope they don’t see the shed. It just kept growing and growing. Thump. Thump. Thump. I told Saklaus to close his eyes, expecting the FOJ’s to appear in troves, their screams and war cries preceding them. But I heard nothing, no sound of men and women. With Saklaus trying to hold his breath, I peeked over the horizon on the far side of the lake to witness the seared skin of the fanatics, but saw something else entirely. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Near the lake, across the post-forest, a flock of pines appeared from the horizon. Their trunks long, elongated, and thick, their branches moving ferociously, dropping below like claps of lightning. There must’ve been more than 20 of them Petra, tall as skyscrapers, each one 40 or 50 metres tall and only a couple smaller younger ones. The roots, like nature’s random bulldozer, left behind a devastated path in its wake, torn up. The hundred tenebrous hands that made up the roots embedded themselves deep within only to rip back out to move further along. It always reminded me of the way an octopus moves along the seabed, the tentacles jumping at one other and moving in a fast circular motion to work seamlessly.

But trees, my dear Petra, were never meant to walk. And the sight of them moving was as awkward as one from the past could possibly imagine. The trunk swayed from side to side sporadically and aggressively, bumping into each other. The mixture of brown and green, the roots almost beige, moving in such a quick succession, all you could see was the massive house-size branches and the outline of the tree.

The trees made noises too. Not the ones you'd expect, I mean the wood crackled and croaked, but it almost sounded like they moaned, their wooden carcasses tired of walking aimlessly because of that serum, with no goal other than to follow the sun’s rays for the chance to survive, to try and satiate that unquenchable thirst. That’s why they were there, why they had come to this area particularly from who knows where, as no one tracked them and if they did, it was always at great personal peril. The flock wanted the lake’s water, and would only leave until the trees individually received enough of it to feel the satisfaction. The few I had seen before never prepared me for the next, and these sightings now were so rare Petra. I haven’t seen such a large flock in at least 6 years, just after you died, and everything went to shit.

And by god, Saklaus! After I said nothing in sheer awe and silence, he emerged from the far hidden corner, his eyes as open as his mouth, to watch in silence as well, the trees entering the lake. The mere presence of the biologically modified roots in the water began sapping and quickly draining the lake’s reserve. It wouldn’t drain immediately, but after a couple of these visits, the lake would disappear, only to be filled again by heavy rain or a flood. Saklaus could not remember the last time he’d seen a flock of pines, especially pines completely alone, and I could notice the excitement in his face. Our boy’s face changed, from cold, hardened, boar-killing, steel to exactly what a boy should experience, awe at the world around him. The sheer expression of surprise and amazement, it made me so happy Petra, as it would’ve made you. Your wonder seems to have passed on to him. I love him more for it.

Normally the FOJ’s had been seen to follow these flocks wherever they went, using them not only as a smokescreen, but to make their point come across even stronger. Humans must make way for nature to run its course back. The ages of the green they called it. They died in the process, as for the trees it made no difference what was in front or behind them. Villages around the post-forest had been lost by flocks of trees, just merely passing through without a thought in their mind. Not seeing any of the FOJ’s and their serum, not hearing their howls across the landscape conjoined by the earth-shattering movement of pine trees, it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

It truly was Petra. Awkward, gracious, elegant, ferocious, and unbelievably sublime, the trees had only the problem of survival and nourishment. No emotion, no remorse, no wishes or goals, no guilt. No guilt. No guilt! What I would do to have no guilt. No guilt for the way I’ve treated our son. No guilt for the curses I’ve placed upon your name when we barely made it through days. Guilt for hating you Petra. I regret what I wrote already, you benign one of them. You never were. What you did, releasing that serum to the public instead to try and save the earth’s forestation was so innocent, so pure, pure as God. You just didn’t know. You didn’t know the serum was something which the infamous Otto Jörðian, your friend and colleague, had drastically manipulated to do this. To change the world. But you changed it. You gave it to the world, and the world decided to use it.

Seeing the trees roam and wander off into the distance, as the roaring of their arrival dissipated into silence yet again, made me think about it even more. How could I possibly hate you? You were never one of them. I loved you, and you loved me. But you’re dead. And that I can’t change Petra. My calloused hands from the white-knuckle clenching grip on my knife every night as I try to sleep will never be able to change that, and I know it can’t. But maybe, and I say this only to you, my dear, maybe the world has changed for the better. Maybe you were only the messenger, the vassal, for God’s work. Why shouldn’t trees be able to walk? Who ordained that idiocy? A world forgotten, trampled, spat on, only to be resurrected from death to life. To real life.

Maybe you were right, maybe joining the research study of Otto, those damned dead First Ones, was the best thing to do. I just hoped it would’ve been different. And that instead of me handing the locket, the locket you gave me to always remember, remember your face, so the years would pass and it would’ve vanished from my ageing memory. Instead of me, handing it to our son, that it would’ve been you. That you could explain all those things mothers explain to their children, rather than me. I just wish it would’ve been different Petra…

At this point now I’m rambling my dear, but early mornings do make me cranky. We’re heading off to follow the path of the trees, as Saklaus wants to see them again, and honestly I do too. They remind me of you, they remind of your aspirations and that dreamlike state I cherished so much. And Saklaus is too excited for it. His joy is newfound, and I guess that if we live in this world, if we continue to do so, I have to seek that joy for him. And me. And you. After reflecting by that lake, slowly emptying it’s inside for the trees to continue, it really dawned on me. I have to seek it.

I guess I won’t be sending another letter for a couple of days, the flock of pines and the lightning like roots reverberating all around the empty landscape will have attracted other normals and FOJ’s alike, but I’ll write when I can. It’s helped me put all of this in perspective.

I’ve been smiling thinking about something your son said, as the trees vanished into the unending horizon. Word for word, with an incredulous expression on his face, barely looking away from the scene with a mouth still gaping and shaking with excitement, a question I can’t yet fathom to respond to, “Papa where do the trees sleep?”

Papa. Where do the trees sleep? I'm going to be thinking about this for the next few weeks Petra.

Until the land ceases to nurture,

Yours and always yours,

Jurgen