The Earth is My Prison Read online

  The child was trying to do a difficult pose and fell over laughing when he saw me. Then he burst out laughing at himself. The Mother came and introduced herself.

  "You're new here, aren't you?" she said.

  "Yeah."

  "Welcome to the Orchard, my name is Chokole."

  "Jo...cola?"

  "Ha ha, that's okay, a lot of people find it hard. Chuh-cole-ay."

  "Chokole, cool." (As it turned out I would never be able to to pronounce her name)

  "What's yours?"

  "Christopher,” I said. Somehow Tag felt like my prison name, and I didn't want to use it.

  "Nice to meet you. This is Sequoia, are you going to say hello, Sequoia?"

  Sequoia was hiding in the hem of his mother's dress. "No," he said.

  I laughed, "That's okay, grownups get shy too."

  "Really?" he said, not quite believing it.

  It was good to see a child. I probably hadn’t seen one since I’d been one myself. Careful, I told myself, they seem nice but they might be members of a deranged cult. They said they were going to have food and invited me to follow them.

  It was only after we stopped talking and stared moving that I realised we were not in a forest, we were on top of one, standing on the branch of a gigantic tree. The bark underfoot was smooth and flat. There were handrails to stop us falling and I went to the edge and looked over, then wished I hadn’t, from what I could see we were a good 200 feet from the forest floor.

  Following along behind the others I was amazed at what I saw. It was like the cities of the air dreamed of in the early 20th Century except made from entirely natural materials. There were wooden elevators pulled on hempen ropes, thick branches that had been hollowed out to made tunnels and climbing nets that the tree people moved about on with dizzying ease, the women climbed with babies clinging to their backs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  As well as the transportation branches there was also a more slender fruit-bearing variety. I saw several people attached to safety harnesses picking the fruits, looking like a team of very determined spiders. I observed the fruits came in two forms. When under-ripe they made a delicious snack (the people ate as they worked) but when ripe they hardened into a gourd (the hollowed versions of which hung from the worker's belts as canteens)

  ~

  We came to the dining hall, a modern Viking longhouse with beautiful high ceilings, tree trunk pillars and startling timber trusses.

  In this dining hall the women ate with the men and it seemed to make both groups happy. There was not the same horrible pent-up energy there had been in the Juvey canteen. Men, women, and children ate and laughed together in wonderful chaos.

  News of my arrival had spread throughout the community and I was treated like a celebrity. People came right up to my table to introduce themselves, causing my fear and suspicion to melt away. The tree people put on a fantastic spread; stewing, steaming, jamming, and fricasseeing the pear-like fruits into a smorgasbord of delight.

  3.

  After the meal a woman with intricately woven blue and white dreadlocks approached me. She was stunning, with coffee-colored skin and a proudly exposed belly that bore the marks of a few pregnancies. I tried not to stare.

  “Hi, I'm Miranda. Are you going to the ceremony?”

  Ah-ha, I thought, this must be where the cult stuff starts.

  “Eh, I'm not sure."

  She laughed. “Come on, I'm going there.”

  I followed her out of the dining hall.

  “What kind of ceremony is it?" I asked innocently.

  “We're going to sacrifice you to our tree gods," she said and the joke put my mind at ease.

  We went up a few gravity-defying levels and arrived at a the meeting place, which was carved right out of the tree. Porthole- like windows allowed the sun entry and it danced off the interior concentric rings, making a charming wallpaper.

  Soft mats had been arranged on the floor and a group of people sat around in a circle. I took a seat next to Miranda and feeling my shoulders tense ordered myself to relax. Leading the group was a serene-looking woman. She was dressed in white and wore a white turban. She had a long hard-to-pronounce name but told us we could shorten it to KP.

  “A special welcome to our newcomer...” she said, waiting for my name.

  “Christopher.”

  “Chris, I love your tattoo what does it mean?” She pointed to the X on my hand.

  “All the boys in my village get one,” I lied. “It means you're a man.”

  “Chris, welcome to the Orchard."

  KP had a drum in front of her and I thought she would lead us in a sing-along. Instead she said: “We are going to contact our spirit animals.”

  Oh shit, I thought, they’re crazy. Just give it a chance, I said to myself. I was hungry for something, answers, understanding, and maybe I would find it here.

  "I want you to go,"she said, "and pick out an animal mask."

  A menagerie of half-masks lay on a nearby table. I got up and browsed along with the rest of the group.

  "Try and find one that speaks to you."

  If they were talking, it wasn’t to . Some people grabbed theirs with great certainty. I just felt like picking up whatever one I was looking at. There was a nice looking fox one and I held it so no one else could take it.

  Noticing my indecision, KP handed me a neutral mask.

  "Here, Chris,” she said, “let your mind paint the picture."

  I put it on and was the last person to sit down.

  "Close your eyes," KP said in her calming voice.

  The mask started to irritate my nose and I opened my eyes to scratch it. I felt KP addressing me.

  "Try not to move. Let your imagination go to work."

  I imagined different locations but none seemed right. KP began a rhythm on the drum. I wanted to look but disciplined myself to keep my eyes closed.

  "Your animal might be shy, explore patiently until you find them."

  My mind kept coming back to a desert. I waited but nothing appeared. Opening my eyes I saw the others were already moving to the beat of the drum, behaving in the style of their animals. I was still in my chair, feeling lost.

  Thinking it might help me get into it, I got up and messed around with the others. It was fun, we played like dogs and cats, sniffing and biting each other. KP gave us our own drums and I beat mine until it didn't feel like me anymore.

  When I got tired of all that I went back and sat on my mat, hoping to sit out the rest of the ceremony. I closed my eyes and then I saw it.

  A tiny yellow scorpion, sitting on a rock on the crest of a dune. He regarded me impatiently, as though I was late for our appointment.

  I had hoped for something bigger, like a wolf, not this bug. However, as I observed him, my respect grew. In Egypt and places like that, the first thing people do when they get up is check their shoes for scorpions. They are not simply crushed or ignored like other bugs.

  The scorpion beckoned with his pincers, and I followed, walking behind him in the sun. I could feel the back of my neck being baked and was relieved when he led me to the entrance to a cave, the shadows cool and inviting.

  The cave was part of a system that descended deep into the earth. Sometimes the passageway narrowed so much that I had to hold my breath to squeeze through the gap. I caught myself becoming panicky but then I saw the scorpion waiting for me on the other side and I became calm.

  There were many distractions on the way to our destination; bones of explorers who had lost their way, abandoned chests overflowing with gems, patches of glowing mushrooms that promised an incredible experience when eaten, and points of light shining in the darkness that may have been torches, or eyes...

  Our journey ended in a deep cavern set under the earth, there were drips in the darkness and the air was warm and I felt we were not far from the Earth’s core. Clouds of steam rose up from pools of water on the cavern floor, hot springs.

  The sc
orpion came to rest at the edge of one of the pools.

  The water was so clear enough for me to see my reflection. The man staring back at me was older, and with a prominent brow like a caveman.

  I could see the grooves in his face, and the stories that had formed them, in sharp definition. The image disturbed me and passed my hand through the water to dispel it. The water was pleasantly hot. I took off my desert raiment and slid in up to my neck, breathing in the steam.

  I could feel every muscle let go and relax. I rubbed the sand from my body, watching the whirling mist it made in the water. I let out a long sigh, held my nose, and submerged myself. The sound of my own heartbeat thrummed in my ears and I felt as happy and secure as a baby in the womb.

  When the need for air was too great I broke the surface, wringing the water from my hair and rubbing my eyes. I put out my hand on the rocks to pull myself out, and disturbed the scorpion. He stung me so viciously that reality crashed down around me and I was back in the room.

  I gingerly rubbed the back of my hand which was throbbing painfully. I looked around, dying sunlight lit the dregs of the ceremony. Some of the dancers lay in orgy-like piles, while others like me sat on their mats in deep contemplation.

  The facilitator instructed us to slowly come back to reality and gave us all the opportunity to recount our experiences. It was a surprise to discover that I was one of the few to actually meet my spirit animal, the rest had been more elusive.

  I didn't say much, just the form my animal had taken and that I was sorry I had lied to them before, about where I got my tattoo. It seemed silly to keep secrets from people I'd gone on such a journey with.

  4.

  After the ceremony we went and regained our strength in the dining hall. I met Robert, the man who had been assigned to watch over me. He seemed a decent guy, rough but kind. There was no real attempt to win me over. He was about sixty, with an open collared shirt and a tool belt that hung low around his hips. He wore a coarse beard streaked through with white. He looked like he had spent his life building things.

  “How do you like the place so far?” he asked.

  “I like it a lot,” I said honestly.

  “How was the ceremony?”

  “Good. Really good.”

  “That was a good idea you had, jumping in at the deep end.”

  “Thanks.”

  He told me a bit about himself. He was originally from Massachusetts and had been with the colony for 30 years. He had been "upstairs" (in the trees) for most of that time.

  Contrary to what I had heard the Orchard did have a set of rules, but they were boiled down into three simple precepts that everyone could live by. They were:

  1. Respect the Place.

  2. Respect the People.

  3. Respect Yourself.

  The first rule meant you didn't break anything and if you did you admitted it and fixed it. The second meant you didn't hurt people and if you did you said you were sorry. The third meant you took good care of yourself.

  "So, no getting drunk on cider at 2AM and waltzing off the end of a branch, comprendè?"

  "Sure thing,” I said, laughing.

  "I bet you're tired but if you like I could show you around a little? Answer any questions you might have?"

  ~

  He took me in my first trip in one of the timber frame elevators. It swayed from side to side in nausea-inducing fashion. We went so high I couldn't see the ground anymore, just leaves.

  "You get used to it," he said.

  My first question was how they had found me out in the Wastes.

  “We go on expeditions sometimes, only about once a month so count yourself lucky.”

  “What kind of expeditions?”

  “Oh, looking for stuff, nails, luxury items. It’s great to live off the land but sometimes you just need a dang chocolate bar, you know?”

  At the top we stepped out of the elevator and onto a thick branch. I gripped tight onto a nearby handrail. Robert was already moving, onto a caged ladder that led up through a layer of canopy. The ladder was nothing more than small boards nailed to the tree and I couldn’t believe I was trusting my life to such shoddy carpentry.

  Putting me to shame, young children ran fearlessly across walkways below us that were only a few inches wide. I had to keep up a stream of conversation with Robert to take my mind off the knot of nausea forming in my stomach.

  "How tall are these trees?" I asked.

  "About 300 feet."

  "I thought so."

  "How did they get so big?"

  "These aren't your garden variety," he explained. "They're a genetically engineered super breed developed during the war. They contain the best traits of all species. They yield the best building material, and the most nutritious fruit and sap. They suck toxins from the air and their leaves shield us from UV. The roots can travel for miles to find water so you can plant them anywhere and watch them thrive. They give us everything we need," he said reverently.

  "How long did it take them to grow?"

  "A couple of days."

  "Okay. I have a one important question. How do you poop?"

  "We have designated "drop zones," he said, laughing, “we design them to fertilize the forest floor.

  I had bigger questions, like where I was going to fit in all this, but for now just knowing the facts soothed me.

  We emerged onto a wooden platform, that was big enough to serve as the Orchard’s city square. The Orcharders were all in a circle, busy at work, knitting strands of hemp together to make rope. Miranda was there and patiently showed me what to do. I attacked the work, glad to have something to do and a way to contribute.

  “What’s this for?” I asked Robert.

  "Making nets,” he said, “these are thin so they’ll probably be used for catching food."

  "What kind of food?"

  "Birds. About the only kind of animal that's left,” he said. "They're drawn to the trees. We’ll paint these black so they won’t be able to see them in the dark, then we coat them with sap to make them sticky."

  "You're kind of like spiders," I said.

  "Yeah, I guess so," he said thoughtfully.

  I started to feel at ease. The chances that the tree folk were an evil cult seemed increasingly remote. Meanwhile a strange sort of barnyard dance had started. The tree people had gotten up and were walking in a circle, swapping places and ducking under the rope to make the joins in the net. I was tripping over myself trying to keep up but they kindly guided me into the right place.

  A group chant began:

  "We are the Weaver,

  We are the Web,

  We are the Flow,

  And we are the Ebb."

  After a couple of rounds I felt like I was going into a trance. The rhythm had entered my body and I didn’t trip anymore. I merged with the music, my hands working with a purpose that was not my own.

  After the net was finished we put it away, folding it into a neat square with the same satisfying synchronicity. Robert invited me to meet his wife but I declined, telling him I was too tired.

  ~

  As I was making my way back to the guest cabin I got lost on the unfamiliar walkways and cursed myself for going it alone. One of my wrong turns brought me to a smaller, less tended-to square where people my own age were enjoying a late night dance. The revellers were playing with fire. Swinging staffs lit at both ends and gyrating candelabra hoops with consummate skill.

  I sat and watched. I liked the way the fire made trace patterns in the air. From where I was sitting I could see the way back to my cabin. I would stay a while yet.

  5.

  The next day I was given a job helping Robert restore one of the old cabins. The design was ingenious, from the outside you couldn't even see the door, it blended seamlessly into the grain.

  "Perfect for hiding," Robert said.

  "Hiding from what?" I asked.

  "Raiders, people who would take what’s ours.”

  “Does that
happen much?” I said, alarmed.

  “Not much these days, I think anyone who didn’t find a good place is gone now.”

  The inside of the dwelling was warm and homely, and sketched from natural lines. It was a small space, you could spread out your arms and touch both walls, but what space there was was used well. There was a desk for writing and a sleeping compartment just big enough to sit up in squirreled away in the roof.

  "Reminds me of Bilbo Baggins's house," I said.

  "Yeah, you’re right," he said, smiling.

  "Who used to live here?" I asked.

  "A little old lady, Malory, she's gone to live with some other people now, she needs help with stuff."

  "That's a shame," I said.

  "Just the next stage of life."

  If it was back home, the "next stage of life" would be an injection of lethal chemicals into the heart.

  "Okay, let's get to work." Robert said, rubbing his hands.

  The beams that held up the sleeping quarters had become distressed. The original plan had been to simply reinforce them but seeing how bad they were (they had not been looked at the whole time she lived there) Robert made the call to replace them.

  The new beams were in a storehouse one level down and we would have to make several trips before the day was over. The morning passed easily enough, I worked alongside Robert and we made conversation, getting to know each other.

  “You know,” I said, “Douglas Adams said coming down from the trees was our first mistake.”

  “He a friend of yours?”

  “No, a science fiction writer.”

  “Then he should know that there’s no going back in life, only forward.”

  Morning made way to Afternoon and I was getting tired form all the heavy lifting. I knew I needed a break but I was afraid to ask in case it made me look lazy.

  We were passing over a rickety rope bridge when the strain of carrying the beam and watching my footing on the slats got too much. I went to readjust my handhold and the whole thing slipped out of my hands.