Planting the Rootless

It was the Oak’s idea. Her leaves had been whispering discontent for many cycles of the wind, and we were used to her complaints by now. All of us on the hill, even the most optimistic Beech, knew it was coming, our end. The End.

We hissed our fear in hushed susurrations, but no Rootless heard. Or listened. What could one do, when the screech of their cutting metal cages hacked our roots and stabbed our bodies, and our cries were silenced by the din? When our family and friends were murdered where they stood, sentinels of many ages of the Rootless. We watched in helpless horror as our home was flattened, and scarred with deep brown holes, open wounds on the body of the land.

But it was the wounds that could only be felt deep in our roots, spread from leaf top and root to leaf and root that rankled and could not be forgiven. Our families murdered, our connections to the larger community severed irrevocably.

How could we not fight back? How could we not try?

We trusted the wind and soil to carry our cries across the hillside, to the fields beyond, to our already conquered brethren. They perked up their stalks and steeped bitter acids into their grain, infused fruit and seed with subtle poison. We held our breath.

Then we waited.

*

The birds brought news of their planting. The feast, the crows and ravens cried, oh the lovely feast! Rootless laying still, yummy eyeballs ripe for the plucking. So much food! So much food! They feasted before the other Rootless could plant it all, cawing their windfall.

Our limbs lifted a little higher that day. Our leaves waved like flags in the breeze, and our roots snuggled more deeply in the warm dirt blankets.

But we couldn’t stop. We had relaxed our guard before.

It was time for the second wave.

We released the scent that ants found irresistible, the honeydew flavor that lured them to swarm by the millions, and let the allied breeze carry it to the Rootless’ angled burrows. Dependable, the wind recovered the screams and returned them to us with a gleeful satisfaction. We hearkened to the wind until the sun dipped below the horizon, and a peace settled on our branches.

*

The dawn brought wisps of wails rising up from the scabbed and gouged valley that held the Rootless, and some purred at the sound. More were planted in the ground in harsh angles, and small mounds dotted the landscape now. Already, roots probed the new holes, pushing against the bodies of our families that housed the bodies of the Rootless.

Once, we would have felt guilty for our actions. Once, we would have despised such mass destruction. But when your roots caress the carcass of your friend, the friend murdered very possibly by the corpse his corpse protects, you tend to lose all reason. When you witness the genocide of your species, life takes on new meaning.

In nature, some must die so others may live.

We released the final wave. Spores with minute spikes that rip the breathing sacks of the Rootless, that stop all life, exploded in a pale green cloud that rose quickly into the air. The invisible fingers swept it over the valley and into the burrows in tiny tendrils.

We basked in the silence that followed. Branches swayed in triumph and leaves sang with joy and vindication. Birds, normally rivals, danced in figure eights and loops together in a mass of colors, cawing and chirping with a freedom not felt in generations.

Immediately, we sent roots and shoots into the gaps, to start healing the hurt of so many ages. Already, we could feel Earth’s relief.

We could sense what we did spread slowly on the winds, outward, outward, planting the seeds for the future.

Kaitlyn Downing—part fairy, part mermaid, and part cat—spends most of her time in her pool or her garden in Florida with her four cats when she’s not teaching English. Most recently, her work has appeared in Hemlock, 34 Orchard, and Circle of Salt.

A Song for Kaitlyn