The Speaker for the Trees (2 page)

Earthfolk were
fundamentally modest, clothing the majority of their flesh under the pretense
of preventing chills. And rightly so. The majority were hideously misshapen,
flesh drooping from their bodies like broad, baggy coat pockets turned inside
out. His own shape had a peculiar tentacle in the midsection for which he had
yet to find a use except to drain a reservoir of waste fluid, though his earth
wife found it fascinating. Oddly enough, oftentimes so did Hedge, and he didn't
mind indulging her.

This time he
was too distracted to obey.

Ignoring her
calls, Hedge stared into the field. Sure enough, the light came again—a bright
white pillar of cold brilliance that struck in the center of the field,
throwing thin shadows against the ground. Hedge took a step forward. And fell
in the dirt, legs caught in the pants he hadn't bothered to draw up. Fitting
irony.

Jerking the
pants to his waist, Hedge ran to the house, flashed past a scowling Anna and up
the stairs as quickly as the torpid body would allow. He banged open the
bathroom door and pulled the drapes aside to stare into the cornfield. And
there they were, visible in the moonlight. Patterns flattened into the crops as
though a giant had stretched a foot out of the heavens to stomp frantically
after an invasion of scrambling cockroaches. To anyone else they were an
unintelligible jumble of circles and tangled lines like the brambles of an
impassable briar patch. To Hedge they were words, instructions, a message he
understood in an eyeblink.

Danger from
what, he wondered. Supernova? Solar radiation? Visitors?

Hedge exhaled a
deep, shuddering breath.

He was going to
need a toaster.

“You know
they’re here, don’t you?”

Burt blinked,
clearing the blur from his eyes as he emerged from a gentle half sleep brought
on by staring into the campfire and feeling its warmth lick his face. He looked
down and saw he was seated on the overturned bucket he’d used to carry fish
from the boat. Blearily, he looked to his left and saw the shimmer of stars on
the lake. He watched the descending moon and its reflection creep toward one another,
wondering if they would bounce when they met and go caroming off in some
unexpected direction, then felt a poke in his ribs.

He turned back
to the right and found Clem, hat crushed down to his eyes, a few inches from
his face. He appeared to be waiting for something.

“Who’s here?”
Burt responded at last.

Clem sat back.
Pointed to the ground.

“People what
watch us at night when we’re sleepin’. People what ain’t really people, but
they look like us and talk like us and smell like us. Studyin’ us. They don’t
like what we done with this place.”

“Who?”

Burt looked
around the campsite. He studied the low-hanging trees, but didn’t see anything
out of place.

Clem leaned in
close and answered the question with a gust of fish-smelling breath.

“Mole folk.”

Burt’s eyes
hooked back to Clem.

“Mole folk?”
Burt repeated.

Clem had
subjected Burt to his bizarre conspiracy theories before. Clem had once claimed
the trees were telling his wife, Thistle, he’d been at the Bus Stop Bar instead
of helping Burt patch a pontoon on their boat. He stuck to this theory even
after the bartender of the Bus Stop Bar called his wife to come and collect him
after he’d passed out in the entrance.

“Was the damned
trees,” Clem told him a few days later. “They’s pivved at me ‘cause I nicked
their roots with the mower the other day. I done ought to cut ‘em down, but
then the wife would know I’s onto her. They’re in cahoots, you know.”

Everything that
seemed normal to anyone else seemed suspicious to Clem. Lately, anything out of
the ordinary was the work of an insidious group of tiny-eyed, subterranean
ground diggers that somehow had the ability to look just like people and were
always causing mischief that might otherwise have happened of its own accord.

“There ain’t no
damned mole folk, Clem,” said Burt. “Ain’t nobody watchin’ us. Ain’t nobody
that look like us, talk like us, or smell like us that ain’t us. The only folk
out here is you and me.”

Burt jabbed a
finger at Clem, then himself for emphasis.

In response,
Clem raised a hand and pointed past Burt.

“And that
feller.”

Burt turned.
Sure enough, a man stood behind him, looking from one of them to the other, an
enormous smile on his face.

He was dressed
in a black suit and tie, carried no camping gear, and wore sunglasses beneath a
tree-shaded night sky. His skin was as chalky white as the moon behind him. The
smile on his face was unwavering, unnaturally large, and didn’t sit quite
straight, like the fissure in a broken watermelon. It might have been any of
these oddities that drew their attention, but it was the stainless steel
toaster he held in both hands that caught their gazes, and they watched in awe
as their distended reflections grew and shrank on its silvery surface.

Burt and Clem
exchanged glances with the visitor, then with each other. Finally, Clem broke
the silence.

“What is that?”
he asked.

The visitor
followed Clem’s gaze to his hands.

“This,” said
the visitor, with a voice deep with gravity, “is a toaster.”

“Oh,” said
Clem, disappointed.

“Not what he
expected,” Burt explained.

“What did he
expect?”

“Just that,”
said Clem. “But… not that.”

“Something
more,” explained Burt.

The visitor
appeared perplexed.

“I see,” said
the visitor, not seeing.

“I’m Burt,”
said Burt. “This one’s Clem. Can we help you?”

“Yes,” said the
visitor. “Yes you can. My name is…” The visitor paused in thought for a moment.
“Mr. Visitor. I’m looking for someone. Maybe more than someone. Do you know
anyone around here who behaves… strangely?”

Burt jerked a
thumb back toward Clem.

“Certifiable,”
he said.

Clem smacked
Burt’s hand away.

“This might be
serious, jackass.”

“There’s
another fellow in Greenville always saying weird stuff,” added Burt. “Like how
he’s a plant or somethin’.”

Mr. Visitor
tensed.

“A plant?” he
asked.

“Yeah,” said
Burt. “Hedge Johnston. Farmer. Bee keeper. Pretty ordinary guy. Other than the
crazy stuff, I guess.”

“Always talkin’
to that moonbat, Scud,” Clem added.

“What manner of
creature is a moonbat?” asked Mr. Visitor.

“Vegetable,
maybe,” said Burt, considering.

“I see,” said
Mr. Visitor. “Greenville. This is the name of the civilian center where Hedge
dwells, correct? Can you tell me where I can find it?”

“That way,”
said Burt, pointing. “Ten miles.”

“Twelve,” Clem
corrected.

Burt turned
around, annoyed.

“The hell
difference do two miles make?”

“Reckon it
makes a two-mile difference, don’t it?”

Burt huffed and
turned again to face Mr. Visitor, but as abruptly as he’d arrived, he was gone
again. A faint scent of burnt toast hung on the air for an instant before a
sudden gust took it away.

“I betcha he’ns
one of ‘em,” said Clem quietly.

“One a who?”

“Mole people.”

Burt scowled
and hunched toward the fire.

“Shut up,
Clem.”

Scud Peabody
was a genius. Of that Hedge was certain.

He'd come to
the conclusion earlier in the day while seated beside Scud at Milo’s Corner
Diner, before it became obvious he was going to need a toaster.

Milo's Corner
Diner was an unimaginative self description with broad windows on two sides
that faced the streets. A perpetual greasy haze hung about the ceiling and the
place smelled of hot sausage and syrup. The walls were a sickly, off yellow
like the watered-down orange juice and a ceiling fan with a broken blade jerked
lazily all year round.

“You don’t l…
look like a plant,” Scud stuttered. He did this sometimes, and his whole face
squinted in an effort to get a word past his lips.

Scud Peabody
was a scruffy, skinny, troll of a man whose eyes bulged from his head like
mushroom bulbs at the end of their stalks, jerking from one object to the next,
his mind a constantly spinning carousel of jangling, obnoxious thought. He had
a baggy, hound-dog face with a stubbly mouth always hanging open.

“Exactly,” said
Hedge. “I’m in disguise.”

Scud Peabody
was the only person who believed Hedge was a plant alien because Scud Peabody
was the only person wide minded enough to do so. Because he was so wide minded
it only made sense that everyone thought Scud was an idiot.

"Scud, yer
an idjit," sneered Garry Thorne from a table by the window. "He's
jerkin' yer chain."

Garry Thorne
was an unemployed truck driver who spent most of his time at the diner,
sneering at Scud or anyone else who caught his attention. He sneered at the
waitress who took his order, sneered at the fellows who sat at the table with
him, sneered at his children who would inherit his sneer and be hated by
everyone around them. And people did hate Garry Thorne. But they also knew that
to not be an ally of Garry Thorne was to be his victim. Most people tacitly
agreed to permit cruelty rather than risk being subject to it.

Which was why
Scud Peabody, who did not join them, who cultivated his own opinions and did
not fear the regular chastisement of Garry Thorne, was a genius. And because
Scud was a genius Hedge knew there was no point trying to deceive him.

"Ye ain't
l... lyin' to m... m... me, is ya?"

Scud's
distended eyeballs bulged imploringly.

"Plants
don’t lie,” said Hedge.

Scud considered
this.

"Ain't
posin' as a p... person a lie?" he asked.

Hedge wondered
how no one else could tell that Scud was a genius.

"It
is
deception," Hedge explained. "But for the purpose of self
preservation. Some birds pantomime a broken wing to lure predators away from
their young. Some moths disguise themselves with the pattern of poisonous
insects. Some insects take on the appearance of sticks in an effort to blend
into their surroundings. But they, like myself, behave so in order to survive.
Should we come out of obscurity there is no shortage of scientists who would be
interested in studying
us
instead of the other way round, which would be
a great hindrance to the mission."

“Ain’t tellin’
me
about it d… dangerous?”

"Idjit!"
came another cry, not Garry Thorne this time, followed by a few broken cackles.

“No one
believes me,” said Hedge. “It’s doubtful anyone would believe you.”

Scud smiled.

"You s...
sure is smart, Hedge. I wonders why you ain't a fancy s... scientist off in a
labbertory inventin' gadgets to make life easy fer rich folk. Think that's what
I would d... d... do if I were so smart as you and not so s... soft in the p...
pate."

Hedge liked
Scud a great deal. He was blunt and unassuming, and his character was louder
than his mouth. He took an interest in those who required aid, from steadying
the waitress who struggled to carry her order, to bringing grubs to the
hatchlings nesting in the crook of the main window.

"You
fecktard," crowed Garry Thorne. "Course he's lying. Birds ain't
smart. They brains ain't no more powerful 'n yours. An' you're about as smart
as a sock full o' nickels."

A chorus of
laughter ensued. Scud's eyes never left Hedge while they laughed, as though so
long as he held a gaze with someone else he was invincible because they didn’t
exist. Hedge returned the gaze until the laughter and jibes ebbed and Scud
asked another question.

It was a long
time.

In addition to
being stupid, Scud was also a boy-teasing faggot, albino shithead, mutant
retard and as many other combinations as Garry and the others could imagine
because, as it seemed to Hedge, they were all so terribly jealous of his
brilliance, and infuriated by his curiosity and the idea that he didn't give
one whit about their opinion.

That was how
Hedge knew Scud was not an idiot. Most distinguishable about the idiot, Hedge
noted, was their fear of that which was different. Those who feared difference
always made a point of finding difference in others in order to feel more
secure in their sameness. They referred to other people as fags, retards, et
cetera. They also had names for those of different social class, those who dwelled
in different regions of their country and the world, names for people depending
on their job, depending on their hair color, skin color, religion,
intelligence, and any other characteristic that made a person distinct. It
seemed to Hedge that by process of elimination the only people they didn't
categorically despise was themselves. Of course, there was a name for this as
well.

"So why
are y... you here?" Scud had asked. "What's your m… m… mission?"

Hedge relished
the opportunity to tell someone besides Anna, but knew he couldn't possibly
explain everything and be home in time to eat pork chops. So Hedge summarized.

* * *

Hedge was born
(as it were) in a government nursery on the bright side of the unspinning
greenhouse planet Krog-B alongside ten thousand of his kin, all neatly arranged
in hundreds of parallel rows like strips of soybeans. The metaphor was
appropriate, since Hedge was himself a plant, albeit far more complex than a
soybean. Hedge was the acme of a species that had existed longer than the
simplest forms of life on the human planet, developing over time into a hardy
species of considerable cognitive might and universal significance.