"If I show people something so incredibly beautiful as if made by the very hand of God then maybe those people will feel, and most importantly be, better than they were." |
Tytti Heikkinen, Things That Fly, photography and digital painting, 2024
Whenever I go to a science-fiction convention—several times a year—at least three of the five come with me. That leaves two to look after the forest. These three are invariably the stars of the entire convention. They are natural dancers, swaying hypnotically like underwater fronds, twirling with feline grace, and swirling together like the finest ballet company. The crowd loves them, and they love the crowd, the lights, the action, and the music. But still, by weekend’s end, they are always eager to return to the forest. I see in them a listlessness and lack of energy and an anxiety to be home.
I am always told they look so realistic. They are the same size, all petite, and the costumes I have had sewn fit them equally. Lonely incels have asked, are they real? I usually laugh and say, of course. Is Superman real? No? But you know the name of the planet he was born on. You know the name of his number one enemy. You even know the name of his girlfriend. And now you tell me he isn’t real?
What dye do the girls use? Chlorophyll, I laugh. They enjoy the conventions. They take turns, staying home or playing the part of green Orion slave girls, dancing sensuously and trying new things that big cities offer. But there is never any question. They will return to the grove. The conventions are entertainment and distraction. And when lonely men ask, are they single, I always answer, no, they are all married. Which is true, really, in a far more intimate and permanent way than any human institution.
The orchard was old when I purchased the farm. The apple trees had seen their best years. The pear trees blossomed but never fruited. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Certainly there seemed ample firewood and maybe even lumber in the old orchard. But there were so many trees. I would contract it out. And with that I settled down to make the farm my own.
The trees troubled me. They were alive but decrepit. One night as I sat on the front porch, I got up and went down to the end. I had a good view of the old orchard. The sun was going down and many of the trees were silhouetted against the dying light. I felt both sympathy and resentment for these mere stumps of their former selves.
On random impulse, pure desperation or pure whimsy, I spoke Merlin’s charm of making from Excalibur. I looked out at the trees and repeated it several times, and on the third time, I truly meant it, no joke. I blinked back a tear. It was so sad to see this old stand of trees reduced to impotent barrenness.
A week later they arrived. I don’t know what day, or hour. But I was again on the porch when I saw a strange flash of green. I dismissed it, that first time.
Somehow, the leaves were thickening. The dark wood was looking a lighter brown. The buds were bigger. In every way the trees seemed more alive. And I kept seeing fleshly flashes of green. What followed took years. Over slow months I would see them more and more, until one day, while walking through the now lush orchard I realized that three of them were watching me covertly from cover. I froze and smiled and held out my empty hands.
Slowly, like deer, they emerged, tentative yet curious. I just stood, patiently, letting them explore. They seem to be young women in their twenties and they are green and naked with only garlands of leaves. But their nakedness is not sexual or vulnerable. It is beautiful. They are innocent, gentle creatures that care for the grove they love. They are so exquisite that they stop my breath at times, and it is this which I seek to share at conventions. If I show people something so incredibly beautiful as if made by the very hand of God then maybe those people will feel, and most importantly be, better than they were.
The charm of making in the movie has been butchered and twisted. But maybe it is a measure of the old ways that even so mangled the charm can be an invitation. I asked and they answered. I offered and they came. Mere words are invocation. Is not every statement an attempted magic spell? Incantations can’t be true until they are.
And so they live and play and dance in the old fruit orchard which is now the new fruit orchard. Over the years a few of them have learned English well enough that we can communicate. I know nothing of their native tongue. They have learned my habits. I know nothing of them. I am a dullard in comparison. They come to me. They are welcome in my home although I have warned them of others. Only at the conventions, under cover of play, are they truly free to be what they are.
In the middle of the orchard is a clearing. In the center of this clearing is a fire pit, and circling that, a fairy ring of stones to sit upon. None of this was present before them. It is all magic. Even in deep winter it is green and warm and sunny in the fairy ring. I have spent many hours here, days here, day and night, as the stars spin overhead, watching the dryads dance. I love them and—be warned—I would die to protect them.
I am always told they look so realistic. They are the same size, all petite, and the costumes I have had sewn fit them equally. Lonely incels have asked, are they real? I usually laugh and say, of course. Is Superman real? No? But you know the name of the planet he was born on. You know the name of his number one enemy. You even know the name of his girlfriend. And now you tell me he isn’t real?
What dye do the girls use? Chlorophyll, I laugh. They enjoy the conventions. They take turns, staying home or playing the part of green Orion slave girls, dancing sensuously and trying new things that big cities offer. But there is never any question. They will return to the grove. The conventions are entertainment and distraction. And when lonely men ask, are they single, I always answer, no, they are all married. Which is true, really, in a far more intimate and permanent way than any human institution.
The orchard was old when I purchased the farm. The apple trees had seen their best years. The pear trees blossomed but never fruited. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Certainly there seemed ample firewood and maybe even lumber in the old orchard. But there were so many trees. I would contract it out. And with that I settled down to make the farm my own.
The trees troubled me. They were alive but decrepit. One night as I sat on the front porch, I got up and went down to the end. I had a good view of the old orchard. The sun was going down and many of the trees were silhouetted against the dying light. I felt both sympathy and resentment for these mere stumps of their former selves.
On random impulse, pure desperation or pure whimsy, I spoke Merlin’s charm of making from Excalibur. I looked out at the trees and repeated it several times, and on the third time, I truly meant it, no joke. I blinked back a tear. It was so sad to see this old stand of trees reduced to impotent barrenness.
A week later they arrived. I don’t know what day, or hour. But I was again on the porch when I saw a strange flash of green. I dismissed it, that first time.
Somehow, the leaves were thickening. The dark wood was looking a lighter brown. The buds were bigger. In every way the trees seemed more alive. And I kept seeing fleshly flashes of green. What followed took years. Over slow months I would see them more and more, until one day, while walking through the now lush orchard I realized that three of them were watching me covertly from cover. I froze and smiled and held out my empty hands.
Slowly, like deer, they emerged, tentative yet curious. I just stood, patiently, letting them explore. They seem to be young women in their twenties and they are green and naked with only garlands of leaves. But their nakedness is not sexual or vulnerable. It is beautiful. They are innocent, gentle creatures that care for the grove they love. They are so exquisite that they stop my breath at times, and it is this which I seek to share at conventions. If I show people something so incredibly beautiful as if made by the very hand of God then maybe those people will feel, and most importantly be, better than they were.
The charm of making in the movie has been butchered and twisted. But maybe it is a measure of the old ways that even so mangled the charm can be an invitation. I asked and they answered. I offered and they came. Mere words are invocation. Is not every statement an attempted magic spell? Incantations can’t be true until they are.
And so they live and play and dance in the old fruit orchard which is now the new fruit orchard. Over the years a few of them have learned English well enough that we can communicate. I know nothing of their native tongue. They have learned my habits. I know nothing of them. I am a dullard in comparison. They come to me. They are welcome in my home although I have warned them of others. Only at the conventions, under cover of play, are they truly free to be what they are.
In the middle of the orchard is a clearing. In the center of this clearing is a fire pit, and circling that, a fairy ring of stones to sit upon. None of this was present before them. It is all magic. Even in deep winter it is green and warm and sunny in the fairy ring. I have spent many hours here, days here, day and night, as the stars spin overhead, watching the dryads dance. I love them and—be warned—I would die to protect them.
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Bill Suboski is an aspiring fiction writer with a background in computer programming. He is still trying to decide what he wants to be when he grows up. Born in Indiana, Bill is a transplanted Hoosier living as a Buckeye by way of Canada and the Netherlands.
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Tytti Heikkinen is a Finnish visual artist, who has graduated from Turku Art Academy. She has participated in exhibitions in Finland and Denmark. In the USA, her latest visual pieces have appeared (or will be appearing) in Arkana, Lumina Literary Journal, Miracle Monocle, Mayday, The Ana, and Memezine. Heikkinen's works combine photographs, painting, and sometimes sculpture with the possibilities of Photoshop and other digital tools, such as vector graphic and animation programs. She is interested in both abstract and figurative art. While doing her artwork, she enjoys listening to art history lectures.
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