Xenocultivars, page 3
“Astonishing! Can this dimetrodon teach me, then? To become whatever it is that I must become?”
“She cannot. She and her species are long extinct. What’s more, in the time between then and now, a great ocean has sprung up between that world and our own, and I fear my humble roots could never cross it.”
“Oh well,” said the tree. “I guess I’ll never know what I might become, or how I might become it.”
But still, the tree could not give up. It thought and thought, trying to convince itself that what it wanted was impossible, that it could never become some other thing, some particular thing that it could not put a name to. But no matter how much it thought, no matter how much it tried to convince itself otherwise, it could not put an end to its desire.
“The answer,” it told itself at last, “is only across an ocean. How far could it be, for me to grow my roots?”
Over centuries and over millennia, the tree thought and thought, pondering the riddles of reincarnation and of yearning and of what might be a higher form of life than its own. It sunk its roots down deep into the earth, through the soil, through the rocks, beneath the river, down beneath the continental plate itself to where the rocks were dry and hot with the heart of the earth. From there it spread its root system beneath the ocean, stretching further and further still — refusing to sprout and refusing to die, until it was the oldest tree in its forest, until all the other trees were its nieces a thousand times and had never even heard it speak — it grew its roots until it had spread across the whole of the ocean, to the distant lands on the other side of the world where its diminutive cousins still lived their small and simple lives. Joining its root system to theirs, it called out to them in greeting.
“Cousins! Once, long ago, we were a single forest. Even though we now are split apart by an ocean, I call to you from across the sea. I have been told by a wise albino, a poison-eater of my people, that in your land there are great sages who know all things in heaven and earth. Is it true? Can they answer me? Can they tell me what it is that I yearn to become, and how I might become it?”
“Cousin,” said one of the trees across the ocean. “You have returned to us at last! Of course we welcome you. Of course it is true. Why, even now, here comes the butterfly-sage Zhuang Zhou, a master of all sorts of transformations. If you yearn to become something else, anything or any particular thing, then surely he shall be able to instruct you.” And just so, a butterfly presently alighted on one of the tree’s roots, where it stuck up from the ground.
“Hello,” said the butterfly.
“Are you the sage Zhuang Zhou?” asked the tree.
“Who’s asking?”
“Sir, I am a tree from far across the ocean. Seeking your wisdom, I have these many millennia pushed my root system through the rock of the earth and across the ocean itself. I have done this because I yearn to become something, some particular thing, but I cannot put a name to it.”
“Put a name to it?!” gasped the butterfly, appalled. “What has it ever done to deserve that?”
“So that I might —” began the tree. But it could not answer the sage’s question. It thought and thought, and by the time it had an answer the butterfly sage had died and his great-great-grandson had returned to the conversation.
“If I put a name to what I yearned for, sir, perhaps I might understand it. And if I understood what I yearned for, sir, then perhaps I might become it.”
“Psshaw,” scoffed the butterfly. “A name will only stop you from understanding it.”
“But the cycle of reincarnation —” said the tree, and began to explain what the albino had taught it. By the end of its explanation, the butterfly had died and its own great-great-grandson had returned to carry on the conversation.
“What a waste!” said the butterfly, “what a waste of a life is the service of reincarnation. Do not wait to become some promised thing. Do not align yourself in the service of others. You need not sacrifice the life you have to some future promise! Be yourself as useless as you can, give the fire and the axe no place within your body, and you shall surely already have become whatever you yearn for.”
“But —” began the tree but the butterfly, impatient, interrupted.
“I’m afraid it is already too late for you, my friend,” he said. “If only you had come to me earlier, I could have taught you to grow strange and useless and twisted, so that no one would ever seek to cut apart your body and make use of it. But over the millennia, you have grown yourself so straight and tall and pure. What’s more, your wood is proof against both fire and water. You have made yourself far too useful. Surely in some future century men will come with fire and axes to chop you into pieces and end your life. The only escape for you now is to transform into something entirely different.”
“That is all I want!” said the tree. “I want it with all my will. But how?”
“To transform yourself entirely is simple: you must dream, as clearly and lucidly as if it were real, and in that dream you must live a life so entirely that when you wake you will not know if you have awoken from a dream or entered one.”
“But what is a dream?” asked the tree.
“For a tree such as yourself, I suppose a dream must be a very strange thing indeed,” answered the butterfly. “For your whole people are not given to fancy or imaginings or anything but deep and abiding thought. So, to dream, you must let your mind wander as it will, across all the network of your root system, across the oceans and into the skies. Do not cease, do not try, do not empty yourself, simply let your mind be what it is. Through this, perhaps, a tree might dream. If you can dream, then in each dream you can experience an entire life, and in all those lives surely you shall eventually find the one that you wish to live; and in the finding of it, you will have already become it. Surely it shall work for you. Even if it does not, though, it is your only hope.”
“Thank you,” said the tree, and set its mind to dreaming.
At first dreaming was so hard that the tree found it almost impossible, but over years and centuries of practice it began to imagine itself as all manner of things. It imagined itself as a salmon, and in the course of a single day’s breath it lived the whole of a salmon’s struggling life. “A strange thing, to be a salmon,” thought the tree, “but it is not what I yearn for.”
It imagined itself as a butterfly, and in the course of a single breath it lived an entire butterfly’s life, and a whole sage’s life behind that life, and still it was not what it yearned for. It imagined itself as a bird, as a mushroom, as a wild horse in a beam of sunlight, even as a dimetrodon, all so intensely that it could not tell if it was a tree or not, but none of those were what it sought. It then imagined itself as an albino, yearning for its reincarnation and teaching its knowledge to a lone red tree that yearned to be something that it could not even put a name to.
Last night, breathing in, it imagined itself as a human. Last night, breathing in, it experienced an entire human life. More particularly, it experienced your entire human life, from the moment of your birth until the moment of your death. It imagined this story, it imagined reading these words, it imagined what you might think of it. It imagined all those things, so clearly that it could not tell if it was a tree imagining you, or you imagining a tree.
It wondered, as it read this story about itself, “Is it this that I have yearned for?” But only you can answer that.
P.H. Lee lives on top of a walnut tree past the rose bushes down a dead-end street at the edge of town. Their work has appeared in Lightspeed, Clarkesworld, and Uncanny among other venues. Their non-writing hobbies include cooking and translating Classical Chinese.
Content Notes
Uncharting Territory
Jessica Yang
I smell camphor oil when I wake up — at least, I think I do. My heart’s thudding the way it does when you leave a dream abruptly, and my sinuses are acting up, which is the kind of disrespect I don’t need. I got tangled in my blankets overnight, and they’re wound around me in a tight cocoon, the damp heat seeping into my skin and muddling my memories.
I spent a summer with Second Aunt a few years back, and every morning started the same way — humidity mingled with incense and camphor, the roar of weekday traffic, and the sizzle of radish cake. I’d kick off my covers and go back to dozing until the heat got unbearable. It was nice, not having to do anything or be anyone.
Fighting free of my blankets, I half expect to see my aunt’s balcony outside with its tidy arrangement of potted plants and canopy of drying clothes. Instead, all I see is the standby light of the com screen blinking in the darkness. My legs dangle over a standard-issue cot, the only furniture in my transport pod.
Head swimming, I struggle to orient myself. The sharp fragrance of camphor is gone, replaced by stale air. I glance down and see my boots on the floor, crusted over with mud. There’s a bit of dry grass and some weeds stuck to the heel.
Right. I’m in the dead zone. Also known as the Outer Reaches or, if you want to scare small children, the Province of Ghosts. The dead zone is everything outside the network of cities covering the planet. Kaoye is the capital city, with sky trains, street bots, and enough hydro-fields to feed every citizen — and I’m not just bragging because it’s my hometown. It’s a pretty decent place to live. The dead zone, not so much. Good thing I’m going home soon.
Two days ago, I landed in Sector 426, which used to be some kind of wetland. Before that was the desert with black sand, and before that was a jungle with the absolute worst biters. Summer internships with the Survey Office are all like this. You take a few samples, code in the ID, and submit them for analysis. Then you zip along in your pod to the next sector. Rinse and repeat.
Fieldwork can be kind of a drag, but I like this gig. All the best adventure shows are set in the dead zone, and of course I knew they weren’t remotely based in reality, but I still wanted to leave the city and see the dead zone for myself. I wanted to see the sky, clear and free of any distortions.
Plus, I’m starting my first year at Kaoye Central University next month. Not bad for a kid whose teacher wrote “Lin Guilan is a walking disaster” on their report card. I’m looking forward to university, I really am, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly scared shitless. Like anyone who’s watched one too many deep space documentaries, I’ve got a healthy fear of the unknown. And figuring out my future? A big, terrifying unknown.
So yeah — I took this internship, hopped in the pod, and ran. It’s been a nice break from the background buzz of fear that plagues my every waking moment.
I stumble out of bed, waving at the com to report in. It flashes my name, pronoun, and ID code, then goes blank, showing my reflection. Eugh. Usually I think I’m pretty good-looking. My face is squarish, and I have eyes like a hawk — dark, piercing, always on the lookout for something to eat. But I buzzed my hair months ago and my sides badly need a trim.
The com chirps as my supervisor links up.
“Lin Guilan,” he says, checking a roster. “Confirm your sector.”
“Four-two-six,” I reel off. “I sent in the silt samples —”
He cuts in. “Your temperature’s running high. Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t think so.” I remember how I woke up. “But it was pretty hot earlier —”
“Exhale,” he says. I exhale as the com scans me. My chest feels tight, but that might just be anxiety. You never know when something’s about to go horribly wrong... like when my supervisor says, “You’re sick. You’ll have to stay put while you recover.”
“Stay put?” I’m suddenly aware of the clamminess of my skin.
“The bug you’ve caught is an Outer Reaches strain. It’s harmless, but we can’t allow you back into the city until it’s out of your system.”
“But I’m going home today.” Panic starts to bubble up inside me. “Tomorrow’s my end date.”
“You haven’t been cleared to return yet. Transport functions are disabled, effective immediately.” A pause, punctuated by the clacking of an analog keyboard. “This is standard protocol for interns and assistants.”
Translation: I’m not important enough to bring back for medical care. I swallow, and it feels like there are like fish bones stuck in my throat.
“What if I need a doctor? Or medicine?” I fight to keep my voice calm. “It can’t be legal to strand me out here.”
“It’s standard protocol,” my supervisor repeats. “In the event that you’re unable to fulfill your obligations to the Heimin Survey Office, you are responsible for your own safety and wellbeing.”
“But —”
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding zero percent sorry. “Remember to submit to your daily scan.” And just like that, he ends the call.
The screen flashes “SHUTDOWN SEQUENCE INITIATED.” The standby light flickers out, and I realize that the ambient energy hum I’m used to hearing is gone.
I wave at the com. It’s unresponsive. I fish my phone out and hold the slice of glass up to the thread of light streaming through the vents. The solar port’s mostly busted, but there’s enough juice to power on.
I dictate a message to my mom. “Ma, this is Ah Lan.” I don’t want her to worry or, worse, storm the Survey Office. I’d love to see my supervisor get his ass kicked by my tiny tough-as-nails mom, but she’s getting too old for public brawling. I have to lie. “I can’t go home today. My internship got extended and —”
My phone dims. I hit send before it dies. Knowing it’s no use, I dump it in the charging dock. The whole pod’s shut off. Fantastic.
I end up on my cot, curled around my water flask. My joints ache, the pain coming in waves, and my head feels all woolly. I should probably be figuring out how to get home, but when I try to string two thoughts together, it’s like catching soap bubbles.
As I drift off, I smell camphor again — but it’s not quite right. It’s got a damp, after-the-rain taste to it. I sink into sleep, telling myself that when I wake up I’ll be somewhere safe, with breakfast frying and sunlight pouring in.
* * *
No such luck. The next afternoon, I wake up feeling like garbage. I don’t need a scan to know I still have a fever.
I ooze out of bed and kick the depo tray. It pops out, and there’s a dessicated meal kit waiting for me. I dunk it in water and try the com while my food reconstitutes. It powers on just long enough to take my temp, then immediately blinks off.
Lunch for the day is a decent imitation of sticky rice. As I eat, I consider my next steps.
My supervisor said that whatever I’ve caught is harmless, but it sure doesn’t feel that way. Then again, I’m the type to get knocked out by seasonal bugs. That’s why First Uncle persuaded my mom to let me do this internship. He told her, “These Kaoye city kids are spoiled. If you want Ah Lan to toughen up, they need to get some fresh air. The real kind, not the purified stuff in here.”
First Uncle’s always nagging me to study harder and stop watching dead zone shows, so it was nice to have him on my side for once, even if his reasoning makes no scientific sense. Just to spite him, I downloaded all of Booty Call: Pirates of the Outer Reaches before leaving the network.
If I’d known I would end up stranded out here, I wouldn’t have done this internship. But when I think about going back to Kaoye, I feel like I can’t quite catch my breath. Suddenly I need fresh air more than anything in the world.
I fumble with the manual release. The door whooshes open, sending me stumbling into the searingly bright sunlight.
According to the assignment docs, this area used to be a wetland. It’s hard to believe that when you see it now. The landscape is all striations of soil and brush, and the waters have long since drained away.
I clamber onto a large boulder and scan my surroundings. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before — just rippling waves of golden reeds and streaks of rust-colored dirt. I angle my phone toward the sun. It flickers on barely long enough for me to see I have a message from my mom, then flashes “SOLAR PORT MAINTENANCE REQUIRED” before dying. So much for that.
I take one last look around and that’s when I see it: an off-white building in the distance. It must be a research outpost — which means real beds, real showers, and somewhere I can charge my junk phone. During training, we’re warned not to stray from our assigned coordinates. That’s how you end up lost, eaten, or ghost-struck. But right now it seems worth the risk.
Back in the pod, I drag on my boots, pack a knapsack, and head out. After that, it gets a bit hazy. I remember walking through tall grasses, stepping over smooth stones and crystalline veins. I think I started humming an old holo game soundtrack. I end up on the ground outside the building, the hot scrape of cement almost welcome.
A foot nudges my side. I look up and for a second, I think I’m looking at a legend, the sort that stars in historical romances — dark hair pulled back in a braid, eyebrows like a calligrapher’s ink strokes, and planes of gold and bronze where sun and shadow fall.
The legend speaks. “So you’re not dead.”
An arm encircles me, supporting my weight as I’m pulled to my feet. There’s the chirp of a key scan. A rush of air. And then darkness.
* * *
The heat of the sun is heavy on my eyelids, flaring like flame in my vision. I shove away the comforter covering me and try to get my bearings.
I’m in a long, narrow room with windows just open enough to let in a light breeze that stirs around drifts of dust. Bunk beds line one wall. Com screens, older models that can’t possibly be operable now, cover another. The only sign that someone else has been in here recently is an open bag of shrimp chips on a folding chair near my bed.
“They’re awake!” someone yells and suddenly two faces are peering down at me. I raise a hand, attempting to wave them away. I don’t want anyone to catch what I have. They back off.
