Pear Tree In a Valley

The pear tree stands sedate, twisted but stately, its leaves rustling slowly in a gentle breeze, watching the world go by, slowly tearing itself apart. Fragrant and fruity, it has stood here for decades. It has watched kingdoms rise and fall. Many kingdoms. That’s mainly because by these days, kingdoms have begun to rise and fall pretty quickly.

This pear tree has had a front row seat. Its flowers have blossomed among cool spring breezes as vast armies, armed to the teeth, have blanketed the countryside like insects (probably because that’s what they are) en route to great conquests but eventual annihilation. Its fruit has slowly ripened under the gentle warmth of summer sun as inhuman contraptions contort, whir, and destroy in the high skies above. The fruit has ripened in the shortening days of late summer among fleeing refugees, captives, and the desperate and dying of all species and races as they run, stumble, and choke in terror at the destruction of worlds they have become witnesses – and collateral – of.

Today, it’s early autumn. The fruit has ripened. It has been greedily plucked by swooping fowl, ravenous beasts, and desperate wanderers. And now the branches are clothed only in leaves. In this scrubby, half-open valley, the pear tree draws the eye. It acts as a type of beacon. A stopping-by place, right in the middle of the most natural route from the planes below to the sloping ridge above. Perhaps because of this, this pear tree has never sat alone for long. Especially in these days of upheaval and mass migrations, it isn’t unusual for at least one, if not many, beings to be trudging or galloping by, or pausing to linger for shade or nourishment.

It was that way this morning. A mother carefully shepherding her offspring were the ones to pass by on this slightly cool, slightly crisp morning. She was nervous and weary, his childishness and curiosity only slightly tempered by his half-comprehension of the many dangers that exist in his world. They walk up along the valley. She glances this way and that, not letting her skipping, humming child get too far away from her side or loiter too long at any one spot. Guiding with her hand, chiding with her voice, she steered him along the path.

He was the first to see it. Something, slouched under the pear tree. Dying. Moaning. He stopped and stared. His mother’s gaze followed his and she froze in fear. Thinking fast, she broke out of her terrified reverie and stepped off the path, and began traversing over rougher, stony, brushy ground taking them up the valley on a route as far away as possible from the pear tree and the thing under it. Whether it was machine or flesh she didn’t know. It very much appeared to be a mixture of both.

But it wasn’t the outright appearance – however frightful – that spooked her the most. It was the fact it looked very similar to the brutes, the monsters, that her tribe had so many stories about. They had ravaged their lands before, during previous conflicts, leaving many friends and relatives dying in frothing, writhing agony. These stories described these grotesque, disgusting creatures in minute, lively detail and painted graphic pictures of their indolence, cruelty, and viciousness. Because of this, even though it was obviously very seriously wounded, she didn’t want to take a chance going anywhere near the thing. Not with her precious life, one of the few of who-knew-how-many creatures that were still alive on this daily more hostile and barren planet. Not with the even more precious life she had been trusted to watch over. She passed by as quickly as possible and went on her way, with her son.

But it wasn’t very long before someone else passed by. Based on their dress, facial features, and mannerisms, they were a foreigner from far away, from one of the island kingdoms. Who knew how a denizen of the islands had made their way into this deeply inland region, but apparently one had. They are an open, gregarious folk. Kindness, willingly given and reciprocated, was their way of life. They shared, they talked, they spent many hours out of doors crafting a relaxed yet surprisingly innovative subsistence. And apparently, though far from home, this representative of their race hadn’t changed their outlook on life.

As soon as she noticed it, the islander approached the moaning, tossing form. It creaked, its appendages squeaked, its mouth foamed, its eyes rolled. It was evidently in great pain. She spoke kind, soothing words to it as she slowly approached. It didn’t respond in any way until she cracked open her bottle of water and held it out near the pale, grey lips of the bony creature. It started. It coughed. Its gaze shifted, and it stared blankly into the eyes of this Good Samaritan. An unnerving glint shimmered far back inside its eyes. No emotions, just pain, glinted out from deep inside the recesses of its head.

Then it struck out. With a crazed yelp it hurled a limb in a clockwise motion, sending both the bottle and the do-gooder flying backwards in opposite directions. The islander crumpled backwards awkwardly onto a stone, lay on the ground a couple seconds, retching, then scrambled up and staggered back several yards, eyeing the assailant. But it was clear it wasn’t going to pursue the chase. It just lay there, eyes afire, growling, to injured to move.

The islander then reprimanded it with a flood of ill-humored incantations, epithets, expletives, and insults. It was an emotive response to an escalating situation. But as soon as there was a break in the torrent of words, the bionic animal responded with a curse of its own. The islander retorted several words back. Then the machine shot back with a hissing oath of its own, staring out with chilling eyes that, if looks could kill, would send the islander quite into the grave.

Another round of berating from the islander caused the mechanical monster to get so angry it began trying to raise itself off the ground. Each movement was evidently painful, but it forced its torso up off the ground with powerful, hinged limbs, took a moment to breathe and brace for the pain, then drew itself up to its full high with a hiss.

The islander drew back in fear, bracing to run. The machine took a halting step, then fell flat on its face. The islander burst out laughing, and then mocked the machine with hilarity. This stung. The machine drew itself back on its feet. The islander stopped laughing suddenly. The machine starting slowly, painfully walking towards the islander, apparently resuscitated by anger. The death throes were gone. The islander backed up a few quick steps. But realizing the machine couldn’t hope to catch up to their fleet footed speed, she relaxed. The machine seemed to realize this too, changed course, and walked up to the bottle. It clenched it in its claws, drew it to its incisive lips, and then promptly splashed its contents on its face. The islander howled in glee. The machine uttered a short, raspy oath and twisted its face into an ugly glare.

After having laughed out all the hilarity in the situation, the islander eventually paused. Then began to feel sorry for the machine, again. Pulling out of her cloak a foraged fruit her trained eye had spotted on the trip to the valley, she cut it in two. Fruity juice dripped from the sliced edges. She stood for a moment, holding a slice in each hand, then set one half of the fruit onto a large flat rock. She made eye contact with the machine and nodded. The steely glint in the machine’s eye flickered, then softened almost imperceptibly. Clutching the other half of the fruit in her hands, she turned and walked away, listening to the slow creak of the machine’s halting, injured gait as it stumbled towards the slice of sweet, juicy fruit laying on the rock…