ZU-present -- Lessons from Forklore: draft

The gypsies say the world began with a woman who lived among the trees, and followed the messages of the stars. Her name was the name of the Earth, and she was the first life, sister of the planet. Her hair was the color of the golden leaves in the canopy that mingled with the sky. Her eyes were the green of the grass that cradled her steps upon the earth. Where she went, buds blossomed up from her path, and these buds grew to become flowers, then saplings, and then more trees for her home. This was the Forest of Birth. It was the beginning of nature.

Next there was a man, not long after the woman first appeared on the Earth. His name was something never before heard of, but oft repeated afterward. His hair was the dark of a deep crater that had never seen the light. His eyes seemed to engulf light itself, showing nothing but blackness. Where he went, things grew older and shriveled and fell to the earth. They were ground until they became nothing but dirt themselves, and their nutrients fed the living plants. He loved the woman, and together they lived for a long time, knowing nothing else but their young world. But the man grew old when the woman did not. And then, like the plants, he withered away. But he did not become part of a new life. He was a Spirit. This was the beginning of death.

Before the man had died, he and the woman had given birth to a child. This child aged as his father did, but never died. He could return to his earlier forms if he wished, or change into his more withered ones. There was a progression. He was the creation of time.

Time went on, but these three would always look to the stars for messages from those that created the earth. The gypsies still look to the stars. But much else is different. Completely different. The Forest of Birth is nothing but a folk myth now. And death and time are anything but new. I didn’t know all of these stories when a certain bud was planted in the rubble of a limestone cavern in the second hottest desert of my home country of Rubato, the Ceguera que Quema (“The Blindness that Burns”—do we know how to name things for tourists, or what?) in the 21st century, CE. But I did know that plant was going to be possibly the most important factor in Rubato’s future, and maybe even that of my world. Gaia is the woman of the myth. And when she plants golden buds for you to take care of, you’d damn well better take notice.

Now, you’d think a bud that is a potential fountain of life energy would be self-watering, but this one apparently still needs a little help to get a drink. And until they invent the extension cord long enough for me to set up a sprinkler system out there, somehow this task has fallen to me. There was no ceremony, or fancy title, or bestowing of an ulra-special, super-important watering chalice or something. Just the knowledge that if I cared at all about my homeland’s future… I was gonna see to it that this thing was taken care of. Every single day. I got the sense that it wasn’t just the water this bud needed; human care was a big part of it. And human selflessness. Devotion. Because contained within that single bud was nectar capable of restoring a life, of healing any disease, any injury, of bringing back anyone from the brink of death. It was unspeakably precious, beyond measurable value. And it was right at your fingertips—all you had to do to possess that nectar was simply pluck the bud from the ground, and that was that. But once it was used once, it was gone, and gone for good. You had to use all of the nectar to achieve the effect, and after it was gone, the bud would die. There would be no sapling. No tree. No forest. If you wanted to regenerate the land, you had to wait, and deny temptation, and care for the plant until it grew into the golden forest just like the myth. Then it would become the Forest of Renewal.

I’m a selfish woman by nature. I’m pretty damn sure Gaia leaving this task for me to take or leave on my own choice was a test. Just as raising this bud or plucking it is a test. Just as coming out to the bloody desert every single day, or at least finding someone else trustworthy enough to do so, is a test. A continuous test, almost like a habit, or a ritual, that runs you down and tests your dedication every single time. A wear on your patience. Denial of gratification. Every single day, you go out there, thinking, “isn’t this enough? When is this thing going to grow? Would it really be so bad if I plucked it now? Is it enough time?” and every single time, you find yourself wondering how many more days you can bear making the trek out there, just to water one stupid plant. How don’t birds eat it? Isn’t she testing animals too? Seems wrong that it’s just us humans that are being called out.