Alvin Xiao, Period 5, 5/14/21, Day B

Alvin Xiao

5/14/21

Period 5

Modern Mythology 2021

Creativity & Fiction

The Pilot and the Tree

The very first time was magical. I was no taller than a foot, but the vibrant colors of the world slammed into me with full force. A mishmash of other lively greens, sturdy browns, and an everlasting blue sprang into my view. They were the first three things I had ever known. But almost instantly, I was hit with something a little different. This time, it wasn’t something I could perceive visually, no. My fragile limbs prickled at the touch of some invisible, blowing force. It was ethereal. 

But of course, glamour is only temporary, subject to the unwavering dominance of time that precedes acclimation.

What was it that he called me? Yes, that’s right, I’m a sprout. To a newborn sprout who had only ever understood the embrace of nothingness, this new world of color and feel was the greatest gift. It was a glorious awakening after a long, long slumber.

The glitter faded fast. I was a healthy sapling by then, magnitudes taller than ever before. The greens and the browns morphed into what appeared to be identical images of myself, but a little taller and stronger. The blue that was above me turned out to have a few brothers, some glum gray and unsettling black. Some days, I was greeted by warm rays from the glowing phenomenon amidst the blue—the sun. Other days, the colorless force said hello—the wind, right? 

But despite that, there was a little gloom hidden within me. The world was getting a little boring. After all, I couldn’t move. My horizons stayed constant, rooted into the ground below me. Surrounded by taller greens and browns, I would never witness where the sun would go home to after a long day of shine, or where the funny-looking four-legged creatures would run to in a hurry, travelling in groups.

I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even sigh. All I could do was simply exist. But at this point, you might be wondering why I can communicate so fluently now. Really, it’s thanks to him.

One day, I heard a distinct humming noise. It got louder and louder. I couldn’t pinpoint the source, until all of a sudden, a much louder, mind-shattering sound interrupted the humming noise. At the same time at a distance away from me, a foreign silver collided with the ground, throwing dirt and debris everywhere. Smoke clouded my perception for a while. As the gray cleared up, I noticed movement within. Another funny-looking creature crawled out from under the silver beast, making its way toward me. He looked at me for a second, and collapsed on the ground.

I don’t really know how much time passed since then. The creature wore weird garments instead of fur like the other funny-looking creatures. But he had the mouth, the nose, and two eyes. And suddenly, the eyes opened, blinking with uncertainty.

He looked around and saw his silver contraption made into a mess. Grumbling, he quickly stood up only to hunch over, with his face contorted. He grimaced and slowly approached and leaned against me. 

And he began to talk. Did he know I was listening? I don’t think so. But he strung together distinct noises and kept talking. All I heard was nonsense at the time, and yet, I continued to listen because it was interesting.

As the days passed by, he began to inspect his contraption—he called it a jet—and started hammering at it and pressing buttons. I didn’t know what he was doing. And other times he would eat some berries he found around us. But during the entire time, he still told his stories to fill the silence in the air, and I still listened to his stories to fill the silence in my heart.

And he left. Surprisingly and anticlimactically, he bid his farewell, boarded his jet, and soared into the distant blue above. That was the end of our encounter.

What a mess. That’s how he would say it, anyways. After he departed, I was left with nothing to do so I simply recounted our time together over and over again, repeating his stories and his words. And by some miracle, I began to understand his language. This unique two-legged pilot, he called himself, described a world completely different from this forest. It was vibrant, glamorous, and ethereal, he said. If it was anything like what I experienced as a sprout, I wanted it. Even if it was temporary, I wanted a new world.

But I remained rooted to my origin, to the very dirt I sprang out of. That was my fate. I’ve matured into a healthy, strong body by now, similar to the ones around me. Yet it was frustrating that I couldn’t be as agile as the little birds that fly away, or as heavenly as the radiant sun that floats above. No, I was simply a tree, movable not by body, but by heart.

Now, I am left with one option. My children should fly, if not me. It’s time to release my children—pollen, as he would call it—into the wind, into the blue, and into the new world that I couldn’t reach. It is time for my children’s glorious awakenings as I descend into my long, long slumber.