The Torus
Two small planets orbit the double star Gamma-1 Caeli in close proximity: Druinith and Marylith. Marylith has two continents, Winteland and Fiereland, which after billions of years of evolution, are both dominated by intelligent lifeforms with thriving economies.
Isalen, a periwinkle-skinned Wintelian with dark hair and deep-set, pale violet eyes, glided toward the kitchen. She had a unique, largely airborne stride, due partly to the low gravity, but also her petite size, and the fact that she often gazed upward. She paused at the doorway, wondering how her parents could eat and make small talk as if nothing had happened.
Isalen’s mother turned to Isalen’s father. “She’s barely eaten since the mycelotrees were cut down.”
Isalen gulped, and looked up at them, lower lip quivering. “Remember how, last holiday season, the elders said if someone you’re very close to dies, and Druinith is near enough to Marylith, you see a light on Druinith that night, the light of the dead person’s soul beginning its next incarnation?” She looked from her mother to her father, then back to her mother. “Well, last night I saw a web of lights on Druinith. I saw the souls of the mycelotrees.”
Isalen’s mother bent toward her. “What did they look like?”
“Gorgeous! Softly glistening. And pulsating.”
“You were not seeing the souls of mycelotrees,” Isalen’s father said. “First, mycelotrees don’t have souls. Second, it’s supposedly one distinct light, not a web of lights. Third, it’s just a myth, a story to entertain people, with no truth behind it.”
Isalen scowled. “How would you know? You never spend time with mycelotrees. I know them intimately. I felt their presence in those lights.”
Isalen’s mother clasped her hands. “It’s impossible to prove one way or the other,” she said. “But rest assured, the mycelotrees will be put to good use.”
Isalen cringed, and speared a droopy brown morsel on her plate. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Fierelian food,” her mother replied.
Isalen sniffed the morsel and scrunched her nose. Her father looked at her sternly. She turned away, and peered out the window.
Druinith still hung tantalizingly close in the sky, almost as close to Marylith as Marylith’s moons. She could no longer see the web of lights, but the pale purple sphere was enveloped in a breathtaking haze, broken here and there by ridge-like protrusions. Isalen liked to imagine that on Druinith lived a little girl, an only child like her, and one day they would meet and explore the universe together.
“Eat up,” Isalen’s father said.
Isalen frowned. She dumped the contents of her plate in the trash.
“What a waste,” her father said. “Perfectly good food, and it will end up in the landfill.”
“What’s a landfill?”
“The dump. Where the garbage goes.”
“What happens when it gets full?”
“They make it bigger.” Isalen’s father took a big bite and munched loudly.
Isalen looked doubtful. “They can’t just keep making it bigger forever.”
“Winteland is a huge continent.”
“Not infinitely huge.” Isalen felt a lump in her throat. “Where’s the dump?”
“To the south.”
“What’s to the north?”
“The mine, where I work. Where w extract raw materials for buildings, and technology, and megahauls.”
“So, the mine and the dump just keep getting bigger and bigger?”
“You could look at it that way,” Isalen’s father said.
“What other way is there to look at it?”
“The mine provides raw materials to make all the stuff we use. It provides jobs and opportunities so that our gross domestic product goes up, and our economy prospers. And the dump is a place for old stuff to go when it breaks or we upgrade.”
Isalen’s skin prickled. “The elders say the mycelotree roots extend to Marylith’s core where they intermingle in a living, light-filled rootball. The rootball is the soul of Marylith that holds everything in place. Each year, there’s fewer mycelotrees. If we destroy them all, we destroy our mother-planet!”
Isalen’s father sighed. “Another myth. Isalen, you’ve rotated both stars now. You’re halfway to adulthood. It’s time you learn to discern stories from truth.”
Isalen took her EpicBeam flashlight from her pocket and shone it into her father’s eyes. Her father turned away sharply, furrowed his brows, and let out a sound that was almost a growl.
“I hate you!” Isalen shouted.
Her mother stared from one to the other of them, aghast.
Isalen ran out into the night. Not knowing where she was going, she bounded across the moonlit plains until she found a huge mycelotree. It was gnarly and majestic, and its branches surrounded her protectively. Panting and exhausted, she curled up at its base, and listened to the ebb and flow of the mycelotree pods clinking in the breeze. She envisioned the tree’s roots traversing layers of rock and magma until they reached the light-filled mycelotree rootball, the soul of Marylith.
“Beautiful mycelotree,” she whispered, “Nothing makes sense. Please guide me.”
Isalen, a periwinkle-skinned Wintelian with dark hair and deep-set, pale violet eyes, glided toward the kitchen. She had a unique, largely airborne stride, due partly to the low gravity, but also her petite size, and the fact that she often gazed upward. She paused at the doorway, wondering how her parents could eat and make small talk as if nothing had happened.
Isalen’s mother turned to Isalen’s father. “She’s barely eaten since the mycelotrees were cut down.”
Isalen gulped, and looked up at them, lower lip quivering. “Remember how, last holiday season, the elders said if someone you’re very close to dies, and Druinith is near enough to Marylith, you see a light on Druinith that night, the light of the dead person’s soul beginning its next incarnation?” She looked from her mother to her father, then back to her mother. “Well, last night I saw a web of lights on Druinith. I saw the souls of the mycelotrees.”
Isalen’s mother bent toward her. “What did they look like?”
“Gorgeous! Softly glistening. And pulsating.”
“You were not seeing the souls of mycelotrees,” Isalen’s father said. “First, mycelotrees don’t have souls. Second, it’s supposedly one distinct light, not a web of lights. Third, it’s just a myth, a story to entertain people, with no truth behind it.”
Isalen scowled. “How would you know? You never spend time with mycelotrees. I know them intimately. I felt their presence in those lights.”
Isalen’s mother clasped her hands. “It’s impossible to prove one way or the other,” she said. “But rest assured, the mycelotrees will be put to good use.”
Isalen cringed, and speared a droopy brown morsel on her plate. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Fierelian food,” her mother replied.
Isalen sniffed the morsel and scrunched her nose. Her father looked at her sternly. She turned away, and peered out the window.
Druinith still hung tantalizingly close in the sky, almost as close to Marylith as Marylith’s moons. She could no longer see the web of lights, but the pale purple sphere was enveloped in a breathtaking haze, broken here and there by ridge-like protrusions. Isalen liked to imagine that on Druinith lived a little girl, an only child like her, and one day they would meet and explore the universe together.
“Eat up,” Isalen’s father said.
Isalen frowned. She dumped the contents of her plate in the trash.
“What a waste,” her father said. “Perfectly good food, and it will end up in the landfill.”
“What’s a landfill?”
“The dump. Where the garbage goes.”
“What happens when it gets full?”
“They make it bigger.” Isalen’s father took a big bite and munched loudly.
Isalen looked doubtful. “They can’t just keep making it bigger forever.”
“Winteland is a huge continent.”
“Not infinitely huge.” Isalen felt a lump in her throat. “Where’s the dump?”
“To the south.”
“What’s to the north?”
“The mine, where I work. Where w extract raw materials for buildings, and technology, and megahauls.”
“So, the mine and the dump just keep getting bigger and bigger?”
“You could look at it that way,” Isalen’s father said.
“What other way is there to look at it?”
“The mine provides raw materials to make all the stuff we use. It provides jobs and opportunities so that our gross domestic product goes up, and our economy prospers. And the dump is a place for old stuff to go when it breaks or we upgrade.”
Isalen’s skin prickled. “The elders say the mycelotree roots extend to Marylith’s core where they intermingle in a living, light-filled rootball. The rootball is the soul of Marylith that holds everything in place. Each year, there’s fewer mycelotrees. If we destroy them all, we destroy our mother-planet!”
Isalen’s father sighed. “Another myth. Isalen, you’ve rotated both stars now. You’re halfway to adulthood. It’s time you learn to discern stories from truth.”
Isalen took her EpicBeam flashlight from her pocket and shone it into her father’s eyes. Her father turned away sharply, furrowed his brows, and let out a sound that was almost a growl.
“I hate you!” Isalen shouted.
Her mother stared from one to the other of them, aghast.
Isalen ran out into the night. Not knowing where she was going, she bounded across the moonlit plains until she found a huge mycelotree. It was gnarly and majestic, and its branches surrounded her protectively. Panting and exhausted, she curled up at its base, and listened to the ebb and flow of the mycelotree pods clinking in the breeze. She envisioned the tree’s roots traversing layers of rock and magma until they reached the light-filled mycelotree rootball, the soul of Marylith.
“Beautiful mycelotree,” she whispered, “Nothing makes sense. Please guide me.”
#
Festive ribbons and bubbles of light announced the coming of the holiday season. Isalen couldn’t wait to venture once again into the caverns with her friends, each more dazzling than the next, spending the days jumping from icy spires into glistening pools. In the evenings, they’d huddle with their families around crackling bonfires, devouring gooey pompeldrons and sipping plumberry wine. Her favourite part of all was when the wizened Wintelian elders would tell incredible, magical tales of ancient times, their eyes glinting like sparks from the fire.
One evening, snuggled side-by-side on a puffel-cushion, Isalen between them, Isalen’s mother announced, “We’re not going to the caverns this year.”
“What?” Isalen said.
“We’re taking a family holiday to Fiereland instead.”
“No!” Isalen said, wide-eyed.
“It’ll be amazing,” her father said, putting his arm around her. “Opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Honey, why are you upset?” her mother asked. She gently passed her hand through Isalen’s hair. “We thought you’d be excited.”
Isalen’s jaw quivered, but the sensation of her mother’s touch was soothing. She stared into the flames of a dying fire in the crooked fireplace.
“The holidays are the only time of year I feel like… I belong,” Isalen said.
“They celebrate the holidays in Fiereland too,” her mother said, and kissed the top of her head.
Isalen burst into tears. Her father sighed. The fire crackled.
Her tears subsided, and she was slowly permeated by the essence, the souls, of the ancient mycelotrees whose burning corpses now warmed them.
One evening, snuggled side-by-side on a puffel-cushion, Isalen between them, Isalen’s mother announced, “We’re not going to the caverns this year.”
“What?” Isalen said.
“We’re taking a family holiday to Fiereland instead.”
“No!” Isalen said, wide-eyed.
“It’ll be amazing,” her father said, putting his arm around her. “Opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Honey, why are you upset?” her mother asked. She gently passed her hand through Isalen’s hair. “We thought you’d be excited.”
Isalen’s jaw quivered, but the sensation of her mother’s touch was soothing. She stared into the flames of a dying fire in the crooked fireplace.
“The holidays are the only time of year I feel like… I belong,” Isalen said.
“They celebrate the holidays in Fiereland too,” her mother said, and kissed the top of her head.
Isalen burst into tears. Her father sighed. The fire crackled.
Her tears subsided, and she was slowly permeated by the essence, the souls, of the ancient mycelotrees whose burning corpses now warmed them.
#
As they walked toward the aeroship, Isalen saw a sign that read, “Thank you for visiting Wonderful Winteland. Come back soon!”
Flickering in and out of view in the aeroship window amid panoramic northern lights and bolts of lightning, Isalen saw the mines: a seemingly endless multitude of stratified pits traversed by reptilian vehicles of all shapes and sizes. She stared, spellbound, clutching her stomach, both fascinated and horrified. It was hard to make out how deep the mines were because of the swirling sand and mist.
She was still contemplating the mines when, hours later, the aeroship started rollicking.
“Look,” Isalen’s mother said, “The famous red torrents!”
Between spatters of red rain were mountains of garbage, as far as the eye could see. On and on the garbage extended, until Isalen glimpsed fields and streams, and then, in the distance, gleaming spires and billowing smokestacks.
As they descended the aeroship, the first thing Isalen saw was a sign that read, “Welcome to Fabulous Fiereland!”
“We’re really here!” her mother said.
The aeroship doors glided open, and they were enveloped in sweltering heat, and lush, exotic scents that they couldn’t identify. The heat was cut by a torrent of ruby rain. It came on so suddenly, and so strong, it slapped Isalen to the ground, where rivulets of glittering sand swirled in a kaleidoscopic riot of amethyst, ruby, and gold.
“Isalen!” her mother exclaimed, helping her up.
Between streaks of red rain, Isalen caught glimpses of agile Fierelanders with broad smiles on their freckled faces as they catapulted on vines from one ancient mycelotree treehouse to another. The vines were bursting with outrageous flowers, translucent and glittering, some orange and spotted like tiger lilies, others with slowly unwinding fractal-like forms. It was like stepping into an intergalactic circus ring.
Isalen’s family spent their first day in Fiereland in the comfortable shelter of a sprawling museum. Her parents were more watchful of her in this strange place. Though it made her feel childish when they put their arm around her in public, she didn’t mind feeling protected.
The chaotic frenzy of Fierelandian weather was delicately captured in the museum embroidery and the hand painted designs on shawls and stone footwear. It occurred to Isalen that she had not seen any actual Fierelians wearing such ornate shawls and clunky footwear. Their clothing was factory-made, much like Wintelian summer clothing, and they wore sporty rubber sandals, quite unlike the ornate, heavy stone clogs before her.
After browsing traditional Fiereland artifacts for much of the day, they found themselves at the Museum gift shop. Isalen noticed a miniature pair of shoes like the ones she’d seen in the museum, but these were made of plastic, not stone, and the paint appeared to have been applied by a machine, not by hand. She shined her EpicBeam deep into the foot holes. What she saw in the left foot hole made her gasp.
“Made in Winteland? Mama, look! How is that possible?”
“Interesting,” her mother said. “I suppose, just like some things in Winteland are made in Fiereland, some things in Fiereland are made in Winteland.”
“But this is specifically for Wintelians to take home as a souvenir of Fiereland. And it’s made in Winteland!”
“We have excellent souvenir factories in Winteland,” her father said. “Undoubtedly superior to those in Fiereland. Another sign of the thriving Winteland economy!”
Flickering in and out of view in the aeroship window amid panoramic northern lights and bolts of lightning, Isalen saw the mines: a seemingly endless multitude of stratified pits traversed by reptilian vehicles of all shapes and sizes. She stared, spellbound, clutching her stomach, both fascinated and horrified. It was hard to make out how deep the mines were because of the swirling sand and mist.
She was still contemplating the mines when, hours later, the aeroship started rollicking.
“Look,” Isalen’s mother said, “The famous red torrents!”
Between spatters of red rain were mountains of garbage, as far as the eye could see. On and on the garbage extended, until Isalen glimpsed fields and streams, and then, in the distance, gleaming spires and billowing smokestacks.
As they descended the aeroship, the first thing Isalen saw was a sign that read, “Welcome to Fabulous Fiereland!”
“We’re really here!” her mother said.
The aeroship doors glided open, and they were enveloped in sweltering heat, and lush, exotic scents that they couldn’t identify. The heat was cut by a torrent of ruby rain. It came on so suddenly, and so strong, it slapped Isalen to the ground, where rivulets of glittering sand swirled in a kaleidoscopic riot of amethyst, ruby, and gold.
“Isalen!” her mother exclaimed, helping her up.
Between streaks of red rain, Isalen caught glimpses of agile Fierelanders with broad smiles on their freckled faces as they catapulted on vines from one ancient mycelotree treehouse to another. The vines were bursting with outrageous flowers, translucent and glittering, some orange and spotted like tiger lilies, others with slowly unwinding fractal-like forms. It was like stepping into an intergalactic circus ring.
Isalen’s family spent their first day in Fiereland in the comfortable shelter of a sprawling museum. Her parents were more watchful of her in this strange place. Though it made her feel childish when they put their arm around her in public, she didn’t mind feeling protected.
The chaotic frenzy of Fierelandian weather was delicately captured in the museum embroidery and the hand painted designs on shawls and stone footwear. It occurred to Isalen that she had not seen any actual Fierelians wearing such ornate shawls and clunky footwear. Their clothing was factory-made, much like Wintelian summer clothing, and they wore sporty rubber sandals, quite unlike the ornate, heavy stone clogs before her.
After browsing traditional Fiereland artifacts for much of the day, they found themselves at the Museum gift shop. Isalen noticed a miniature pair of shoes like the ones she’d seen in the museum, but these were made of plastic, not stone, and the paint appeared to have been applied by a machine, not by hand. She shined her EpicBeam deep into the foot holes. What she saw in the left foot hole made her gasp.
“Made in Winteland? Mama, look! How is that possible?”
“Interesting,” her mother said. “I suppose, just like some things in Winteland are made in Fiereland, some things in Fiereland are made in Winteland.”
“But this is specifically for Wintelians to take home as a souvenir of Fiereland. And it’s made in Winteland!”
“We have excellent souvenir factories in Winteland,” her father said. “Undoubtedly superior to those in Fiereland. Another sign of the thriving Winteland economy!”
#
When they returned to Winteland everything was brown, not white, and everyone was talking about the lack of precipitation. Ponds that used to be skating rinks this time of year had dried up. The holiday ribbons were being taken down, but they were in time to see the bubbles released into the skies. Isalen’s gaze followed the path of the biggest and most spectacular bubble. As it hovered before her, quivering in the breeze like living glass, she imagined it floating all the way to the girl on Druinith who was just like her. She imagined that girl realizing that she, Isalen, had wanted her to find it.
“Is it true there will be food shortages if the drought continues?” Isalen asked her father.
“Nonsense. There’s more than enough food for everyone. For dinner tonight I’m making glazed, spiced pompeldrons. Since we didn’t get to eat them for WintraFeast. Want to help?”
“Yay. Thank you, papa!”
Isalen furrowed her brow. “Hey, those aren’t pompeldrons. They’re in a package, not made from scratch. And they’re ring-shaped.”
“I thought it would be fun to try a new shape.”
Isalen opened the package. The pompeldrons were stiff, and didn’t smell right. With a sinking feeling she looked at the label. “Made in Fiereland.”
“So much for the thriving Wintelian economy, Papa. Even a traditional Wintelian holiday food is made in Fiereland!”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Isalen’s father said. “It means that our new free trade agreement is working as intended, stimulating jobs and growth on both sides of the pond. That’s what progress looks like, dear.”
Isalen looked down. “I heard that over the holidays the elders said the dying mycelotree rootball is causing the soul of Marylith to wither,” she said softly.
“Rumours,” Isalen’s father scoffed.
Isalen’s mother put her hand to her stomach. “I don’t feel so well,” she said
“Is it true there will be food shortages if the drought continues?” Isalen asked her father.
“Nonsense. There’s more than enough food for everyone. For dinner tonight I’m making glazed, spiced pompeldrons. Since we didn’t get to eat them for WintraFeast. Want to help?”
“Yay. Thank you, papa!”
Isalen furrowed her brow. “Hey, those aren’t pompeldrons. They’re in a package, not made from scratch. And they’re ring-shaped.”
“I thought it would be fun to try a new shape.”
Isalen opened the package. The pompeldrons were stiff, and didn’t smell right. With a sinking feeling she looked at the label. “Made in Fiereland.”
“So much for the thriving Wintelian economy, Papa. Even a traditional Wintelian holiday food is made in Fiereland!”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Isalen’s father said. “It means that our new free trade agreement is working as intended, stimulating jobs and growth on both sides of the pond. That’s what progress looks like, dear.”
Isalen looked down. “I heard that over the holidays the elders said the dying mycelotree rootball is causing the soul of Marylith to wither,” she said softly.
“Rumours,” Isalen’s father scoffed.
Isalen’s mother put her hand to her stomach. “I don’t feel so well,” she said
#
Isalen’s mother got sicker, and the rains never seemed to come. Isalen started having trouble sleeping. One night she lay awake in bed peering at the two full moons, and the third which was a mere silver sliver floating in a potpourri of stars. Druinith was on the far side of its orbit, nowhere in sight. Isalen wasn’t sure whether it was the extraordinarily bright sky, the intermittent agonized cries of her mother, the rumble of megahauls carrying factory goods across the parched land, or just her own mental turbulence, but sleep seemed impossible.
The next day, her father brought home a new mattress.
“You’ll sleep great on this!”
A big banner across the mattress read, “Made in Winteland.”
Isalen beamed at her father, and he looked back at her with tenderness in his eyes.
That evening, even with the new mattress, she couldn’t sleep. An aeroship roared, leaving a bubbly streak in the sky. As she watched it dissolve, she recalled how, while making the bed with her father, she’d spotted the tiniest label she’d ever seen sticking out from one side of the mattress. She got up and rummaged around until she found the label, but even in the light of three moons and a distant second sun, the print was too small to read.
She shone her trusty Epicbeam on the label. In barely readable print it said, “Made in Winteland using materials from Fiereland.”
Isalen’s heart skipped a beat.
This shouldn’t seem ominous. She should be grateful to live in an era when at long last there was a mutually beneficial alliance between the two great continents. Previous generations had only dreamed of such a time, even sacrificed their lives for it.
The next morning, her mother was dead. As she watched strangers carry her mother’s body away in a mycelotree box, Isalen felt as if her heart were being ripped out.
That evening, she sat on the dilapidated back step watching blustery skies melt into indigo blackness. At first, she wasn’t completely sure, but the darker it got, the more unmistakable it was: a warm, shimmering light on Druinith, just as the elders had said. The light was achingly familiar. It was her mother. And her mother’s light was seeing her too. She fell asleep on the back porch bathed in her mother’s essence. At long last, a light rain fell. Not enough to make the farmers happy, but enough to cleanse the air.
The next night Isalen looked for the light, but it was gone.
Isalen and her father each shrank into their own private void, barely registering each other, barely registering anything. Isalen knew that his grief was as immense as hers, and occasionally she wished she knew how to reach him, but she found herself getting angry at him for no reason. They had different views on everything, especially the stunning news that the mines had reached the planet’s mantle.
“Our planet is tiny,” Isalen said. “This digging and hauling must stop. It stinks. It’s degrading the environment. It’s releasing toxic chemicals that make us sick.”
“Nonsense,” her father said. “The economy is booming!”
They weren’t the only ones arguing about it.
“It’s causing earthquakes and tornados,” said geologists.
“It’s making glaciers melt and oceans rise,” said environmentalists.
“We’ll move the garbage from the dump to the shorelines where it will block the rising seawater,” the head of state announced on the telemputer.
“Hurrah for Wintelian ingenuity!” Isalen’s father cheered.
Isalen’s eyes widened.
“Honey, you’re trembling!” her father said.
“The Labyrinth Reefs will die! The whistling fish will die! The amber beaches will be smothered in trash!”
“Don’t worry. It’ll take them ages to haul all that garbage. We’ll take a trip to the beach before that happens.”
“What about the whistling fish?” Isalen’s eyes flashed. She stomped away, or tried to, but between each stomp she floated, which looked and felt ridiculous, and angered her more. She locked her bedroom door, and wept at the thought of a trip to the beach without her mother.
“Please come out,” her father begged. There was a note of desperation in his voice. “I didn’t want to work in the mines. But when you were born, I had no choice. I had to support us. So we could eat, with a roof over our heads.”
Isalen felt nauseous.
“Please,” her father said again. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
Isalen whispered very softly, “What I want is to be with mother.”
The next day, her father brought home a new mattress.
“You’ll sleep great on this!”
A big banner across the mattress read, “Made in Winteland.”
Isalen beamed at her father, and he looked back at her with tenderness in his eyes.
That evening, even with the new mattress, she couldn’t sleep. An aeroship roared, leaving a bubbly streak in the sky. As she watched it dissolve, she recalled how, while making the bed with her father, she’d spotted the tiniest label she’d ever seen sticking out from one side of the mattress. She got up and rummaged around until she found the label, but even in the light of three moons and a distant second sun, the print was too small to read.
She shone her trusty Epicbeam on the label. In barely readable print it said, “Made in Winteland using materials from Fiereland.”
Isalen’s heart skipped a beat.
This shouldn’t seem ominous. She should be grateful to live in an era when at long last there was a mutually beneficial alliance between the two great continents. Previous generations had only dreamed of such a time, even sacrificed their lives for it.
The next morning, her mother was dead. As she watched strangers carry her mother’s body away in a mycelotree box, Isalen felt as if her heart were being ripped out.
That evening, she sat on the dilapidated back step watching blustery skies melt into indigo blackness. At first, she wasn’t completely sure, but the darker it got, the more unmistakable it was: a warm, shimmering light on Druinith, just as the elders had said. The light was achingly familiar. It was her mother. And her mother’s light was seeing her too. She fell asleep on the back porch bathed in her mother’s essence. At long last, a light rain fell. Not enough to make the farmers happy, but enough to cleanse the air.
The next night Isalen looked for the light, but it was gone.
Isalen and her father each shrank into their own private void, barely registering each other, barely registering anything. Isalen knew that his grief was as immense as hers, and occasionally she wished she knew how to reach him, but she found herself getting angry at him for no reason. They had different views on everything, especially the stunning news that the mines had reached the planet’s mantle.
“Our planet is tiny,” Isalen said. “This digging and hauling must stop. It stinks. It’s degrading the environment. It’s releasing toxic chemicals that make us sick.”
“Nonsense,” her father said. “The economy is booming!”
They weren’t the only ones arguing about it.
“It’s causing earthquakes and tornados,” said geologists.
“It’s making glaciers melt and oceans rise,” said environmentalists.
“We’ll move the garbage from the dump to the shorelines where it will block the rising seawater,” the head of state announced on the telemputer.
“Hurrah for Wintelian ingenuity!” Isalen’s father cheered.
Isalen’s eyes widened.
“Honey, you’re trembling!” her father said.
“The Labyrinth Reefs will die! The whistling fish will die! The amber beaches will be smothered in trash!”
“Don’t worry. It’ll take them ages to haul all that garbage. We’ll take a trip to the beach before that happens.”
“What about the whistling fish?” Isalen’s eyes flashed. She stomped away, or tried to, but between each stomp she floated, which looked and felt ridiculous, and angered her more. She locked her bedroom door, and wept at the thought of a trip to the beach without her mother.
“Please come out,” her father begged. There was a note of desperation in his voice. “I didn’t want to work in the mines. But when you were born, I had no choice. I had to support us. So we could eat, with a roof over our heads.”
Isalen felt nauseous.
“Please,” her father said again. “I’ll give you anything you want.”
Isalen whispered very softly, “What I want is to be with mother.”
#
As Isalen approached adulthood, Marylith started wobbling. At first, just a little. Then the wobbles caused buildings to topple. Eventually even the strictest building codes proved insufficient. Every night the latest wobble damage splashed across the news.
Isalen had a theory that the wobbles were due to the ever-increasing depth and breadth of the mines. But she had no proof, and the mines were off limits.
“I want to fly to Fiereland so I can measure the depth of the mines from the aeroship,” Isalen told her father.
“The aeroships don’t fly over the mines anymore. They take a different path.”
“There must be some way you can look down on them.”
“Not unless you become an astronaut.”
“Yes!” Isalen exclaimed. “There’s nothing in the world I’d rather be.”
“That’s my girl!” Isalen’s father exclaimed. “You’re perfect: small and smart, just what they need. And there’s never been a better time for it. Thanks to Winteland’s prosperous economy and technological advancement, space exploration is booming.”
Isalen had a theory that the wobbles were due to the ever-increasing depth and breadth of the mines. But she had no proof, and the mines were off limits.
“I want to fly to Fiereland so I can measure the depth of the mines from the aeroship,” Isalen told her father.
“The aeroships don’t fly over the mines anymore. They take a different path.”
“There must be some way you can look down on them.”
“Not unless you become an astronaut.”
“Yes!” Isalen exclaimed. “There’s nothing in the world I’d rather be.”
“That’s my girl!” Isalen’s father exclaimed. “You’re perfect: small and smart, just what they need. And there’s never been a better time for it. Thanks to Winteland’s prosperous economy and technological advancement, space exploration is booming.”
#
After years of astronaut training, Isalen was chosen to journey alone to Zera, Marylith’s largest and closest moon.
“I’m so proud of you honey,” her father said, hugging her tightly. He looked down. There were tears in his eyes.
Isalen’s heart skipped a beat. She looked back at him before entering the spaceship, and strapped herself in. The ship’s interior was adorned with instructions on what to do in various possible emergencies.
Why am I doing this? she asked herself. I might die.
With a deafening blast, the ship thrust abruptly upward. She lurched back, vibrations shuddering through her. The atoms of which she was composed seemed to spiral out in all directions; together they constituted not a body but a blur.
Hurtling through space, terror gave way to exhilaration. With no atmosphere or pollution to dull the view, the sky was an ethereal wonderland of celestial forms.
As the spaceship approached Zera, it accelerated. The control panel flashed and blared. Isalen reached out for the deceleration button but was hurled violently backward, and her finger brushed across it without depressing it. There was an earsplitting crash followed by a horrendous sizzling hiss, and metallic pops and scrapes as the spaceship crumpled around her. Then, silence and darkness.
Her pain was so unbearable that she felt herself drift, until she seemed to occupy a space not strictly confined to her body. She was unsure whether she was dead or alive.
Her heart was beating wildly. Which seemed to indicate that she was alive.
She could wiggle her fingers. And her toes.
Something primal and instinctive and dead-set on survival surged within her. It made her think of her father. Limb by limb, she extricated herself.
Stepping out of the spaceship and onto the ladder, the first thing she saw was Marylith’s sister-planet, Druinith, hovering above, larger and more inviting than ever before. Magnificent silvery mountains with jagged edges peeked through a shroud of mist. For the first time in years, she thought of the little Druinith girl she used to daydream about as a child. Perhaps that girl was now a young woman like her, living on one of those silvery mountains. Perhaps, right now, she was looking up at Zera through a momentary aperture in the mist. Was she as lonely as Isalen? Did she too feel like a foreign presence on her own planet? Was she too consumed by the fear that her planet was hurtling down the wrong path?
This was no time for reverie. Isalen held tight to the rails as she descended the ladder. Her limbs were shaking, and she felt even more than usual that she might otherwise float away. But, despite a gnawing headache, she was elated to be alive.
She set foot on Zera, and then took a step back to observe her footprint, but her space boot left no mark on its hard, opaline surface. The shadow of the spacecraft stretched out across the flat, dimly shimmering expanse, and above the horizon, breathtaking nebulae billowed from the bottomless obsidian of space. It looked so surreal that she wondered if she had died after all.
Then her gaze fell upon the strangest sight of all: her own planet, Marylith.
“Isalen, come in. Hello, can you hear me?”
Isalen gasped. Did she just see the mine in Winteland connect up with the mine in Fiereland?
“Isalen, is that you? Are you ok?”
She tried to respond, but her lips would not move. It was hard to tell from this distance, but her home planet looked almost donut-like.
She rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she was imagining it, but Marylith seemed to have become a torus.
“I’m so proud of you honey,” her father said, hugging her tightly. He looked down. There were tears in his eyes.
Isalen’s heart skipped a beat. She looked back at him before entering the spaceship, and strapped herself in. The ship’s interior was adorned with instructions on what to do in various possible emergencies.
Why am I doing this? she asked herself. I might die.
With a deafening blast, the ship thrust abruptly upward. She lurched back, vibrations shuddering through her. The atoms of which she was composed seemed to spiral out in all directions; together they constituted not a body but a blur.
Hurtling through space, terror gave way to exhilaration. With no atmosphere or pollution to dull the view, the sky was an ethereal wonderland of celestial forms.
As the spaceship approached Zera, it accelerated. The control panel flashed and blared. Isalen reached out for the deceleration button but was hurled violently backward, and her finger brushed across it without depressing it. There was an earsplitting crash followed by a horrendous sizzling hiss, and metallic pops and scrapes as the spaceship crumpled around her. Then, silence and darkness.
Her pain was so unbearable that she felt herself drift, until she seemed to occupy a space not strictly confined to her body. She was unsure whether she was dead or alive.
Her heart was beating wildly. Which seemed to indicate that she was alive.
She could wiggle her fingers. And her toes.
Something primal and instinctive and dead-set on survival surged within her. It made her think of her father. Limb by limb, she extricated herself.
Stepping out of the spaceship and onto the ladder, the first thing she saw was Marylith’s sister-planet, Druinith, hovering above, larger and more inviting than ever before. Magnificent silvery mountains with jagged edges peeked through a shroud of mist. For the first time in years, she thought of the little Druinith girl she used to daydream about as a child. Perhaps that girl was now a young woman like her, living on one of those silvery mountains. Perhaps, right now, she was looking up at Zera through a momentary aperture in the mist. Was she as lonely as Isalen? Did she too feel like a foreign presence on her own planet? Was she too consumed by the fear that her planet was hurtling down the wrong path?
This was no time for reverie. Isalen held tight to the rails as she descended the ladder. Her limbs were shaking, and she felt even more than usual that she might otherwise float away. But, despite a gnawing headache, she was elated to be alive.
She set foot on Zera, and then took a step back to observe her footprint, but her space boot left no mark on its hard, opaline surface. The shadow of the spacecraft stretched out across the flat, dimly shimmering expanse, and above the horizon, breathtaking nebulae billowed from the bottomless obsidian of space. It looked so surreal that she wondered if she had died after all.
Then her gaze fell upon the strangest sight of all: her own planet, Marylith.
“Isalen, come in. Hello, can you hear me?”
Isalen gasped. Did she just see the mine in Winteland connect up with the mine in Fiereland?
“Isalen, is that you? Are you ok?”
She tried to respond, but her lips would not move. It was hard to tell from this distance, but her home planet looked almost donut-like.
She rubbed her eyes. Perhaps she was imagining it, but Marylith seemed to have become a torus.
THE END
Dr. Liane Gabora is a professor at the University of British Columbia. She has over 200 scholarly publications. Her short stories have been published in Bewildering Stories, Catamaran, Fiction (City College of New York), The Fiddlehead (University of New Brunswick; Canada's oldest still-in-print literary journal), Maple Tree Literary Supplement, and Metapsychosis (journal of consciousness, literature, and art), and Schlok! Webzine. She has another short story in press in Frontiers in Psychology (Supp Info). She studied creative writing at Humber College, Toronto, the University of California, Berkeley, and the Masters Review Online Workshop. She lives in the realm of abstract ideas, surfacing occasionally, hair glittering with the dust of an unknown mineral. https://people.ok.ubc.ca/lgabora/