A Tale Of Two Planets

Chapter 24 - Sophie, Earth

She went further from the bonfire, her comrades disappearing among the trees. They did good. The surviving was coming along. They worked hard, naturally, no civilization telling them what to prioritize anymore. Figuring stuff out all by themselves. To live, came first, of course, but already what came second was a conundrum. Food perhaps, or shelter and warmth—? Or perhaps hierarchy? To lead or to eat, what mattered the most? This wasn't the army. There were no definite set of rules, no order demanding attention. Here, order waited on them. Would they allow it, invent it anew? Or would they manage without it?

She found a large branch on the ground. A fresh one, green needles still clinging, one or two cones protruding. Perhaps an animal had it snapped, mutilated the poor fir tree? Or the storm? She took hold of the fat end, smelling the crisp resin—nice. Pure, fresh branch, a keeper. She hauled, fat needles weighing, scraping deep into the dirt of the uneven ground. Heavy stuff. Yeah, a prize alright—twelve tined, had it been a dear.

Back by the bonfire she demonstrated her creative find. Pride shone in her face, turning and twisting the meaty branch. The looks she received from her fellow survivors told something different, enthusiasm lacking, to say the least.

"What's that?" some polite individual offered.

"It's a stick," nudging the needles with her foot. "Might be good for a lot of things—tea, firewood, building material. Heck do I know, I'm no botanist. But firs are mighty trees."

"We're in the middle of a forest—"

"Yeah?"

"A fir-forest—" The polite individual turned away, neither shaking her head nor nodding. Discussion was over, now stop playing. Get to work.

The most frightening thing though, for all of them—most likely she wasn't even playing. She was serious, thinking to actually contribute. Heavy stick or not, she'd have brought something equally useless. Or said something, heaven forbid, even worse—as if she were from another planet, or more likely, another dimension.

The proud girl looked at her stick. No, she couldn't see it. She couldn't see what they saw, the meaningless - everything coming from her being useless, her objects of importance turning out unimportant - while declaring all of their own inventions fantastic. Everything they touched turned into monuments. No. She couldn't see the difference. Wouldn't. And so she took her branch and retreated, pulled it out of view of the others. Up against the trunk of a tree, leaning it in a convenient angle, she took shelter under her twelve tined prize. Made poor cover, for sure, but it was hers. Her own construction. And it still made her proud.

Hours passed and no one came looking. She missed her tea. Not the company so much, but the tea. Sure, some company would have been nice, someone to understand, to see what she saw. If only just a fragment. But not them. They would never offer understanding, or patience. They never taunted her, no, they never treated her badly. But the lack of tolerance was enough to make her sad, to drive her away.

She remained under her heavy branch for three days. Only one visitor came, once. The polite individual, bringing her a cup of tea. After that she left, hauling her twelve tined Barasingha for the whole of the first day. Also the second. Then the third. Then she stopped hauling, the stick becoming a part of her, her partner in crime. After a week or two she met Laurent. He took the stick from her, hung it on the wall above the mantlepiece. She was young but what could she do? The stick looked brilliant, a real centerpiece, and so she chose to love him. Or try anyway. His mansion became their mansion.

A newspaper found her, forced the life story out of her. Gorging on information about radicals and anarchists and hippies - yeah, they couldn't tell the difference. She told it all, every dusty detail about her supposed-to-be community, fine ideals, the sisterhood, the effectiveness, everyone fitting in except her. Fascinating. They hired her, not being able to let her go. She received a camera and off she went, into a new episode of her life. She was a journalist now, showing off a career, going up above the clouds, deep into the recklessness of modernization. She stayed among the commerce. Crowds, traffic, innovation, shining objects, sounds and lights. They spoke to her. Not the forest, the dark and the barren. Barren of people, that is. First salary and she bought her first par of heels. Wouldn't let them go, ever. Not indoors, not outdoors. Also a bloody-hell expensive piece of lipstick. It became her one and only true love. After the camera and the heels, of course. Unnatural and uncomfortable, that was the way for her. No more hippie-crap. No more sh*tting among the bushes.

They adopted a poodle, Laurent and her. The funniest, most constructed creature Sophie'd ever seen. It loved her. Then it died. And so she found no reason to come back. Her true loves she could bring with her. Her sad love—she had to leave it behind.