Miles From Nowhere

I just wanted to take the mail to the mailbox. The last thing I needed was trouble at work. Five o’clock, with the envelopes tucked into my purse, I stepped out the office door, and my foot sank into sand. Sand. In place of our shabby East Toronto street, yellowish-grey sand stretched to the horizon where it met an empty, bluish-grey sky. Not a soul in sight.

I turned back towards the door I'd just exited, but of course, it was no longer there. Only more sand, more sky. And me. What could I do? I started to walk back through the disappeared doorway, into what had recently been my workplace. Another job down the tubes.

Counting my footsteps, I paced off the length of the office corridor, and in a couple minutes, I was passing through what had been the parking lot behind the building. For a time, I continued to measure my progress in remembered landmarks, against the glare of the sun: here had been the walkway to the asphalt-covered playground, here a red-brick church, here a row of small houses, and then the low-rise apartment building where my supervisor lived. I remembered a fresher Toronto, years ago, when a bylaw required developers to include green space around every new building, but that was long gone. More recently, our mayor passed out contracts to his buddies to “renovate” our parks, which meant digging them up and paving them over. These unhappy reflections buffered my brain against the overwhelming nothingness as I walked.

It had been a warm day in Toronto. I was dressed in linen trousers and a pale green blouse that had belonged to my mother. On my feet were flat sandals, a style popular in Mediterranean countries. The sand sifted easily through these as I walked, feeling soft and slightly warmer than my skin. In addition to the leather purse slung across my shoulder, I carried an umbrella – a light blue one my father gave me before he died – because rain was predicted in Toronto that day. Rain always meant floods in the new Toronto; with the green space gone, the water had nowhere to go. Anyway, there was no sign of rain here now, either in the past or the future, but I opened the umbrella to get some relief from the unrelenting light.

I was also wearing a watch. I’d left the office at five, but both hands now pointed to the topmost number on the dial. No, I thought. It is not twelve o'clock. I have not been walking for seven hours. So I paused to reset the time to something more reasonable. Five-thirty would do, I thought. That made me feel a little better.

I was becoming uncomfortably warm, and my long, thick hair weighed down on my neck. Suddenly, I remembered the little collapsible scissors that Paulina gave me on my last birthday. As I dug it out of my purse, I saw the pile of envelopes from work. I wondered why they hadn't disappeared along with the office. I pulled them out and dropped them, scuffing sand over them with my foot. In a moment, they dissolved. Something else to not think about.

Folding the umbrella, I clipped away at my mane until there was a pile of grey-streaked brown hair at my feet. Some atavistic impulse made me try to bury the fuzzy mass in the sand, too. It was a wasted effort. A moment later, there was no trace of it. I repositioned the umbrella above my head and resumed my walk.

I wondered where Paulina was. I didn't know if we were on the same planet, at this point. I didn't know if we were in the same dimension. I couldn’t even speculate. I had no idea where I was, and my sister had disappeared a few days ago. Or was it weeks? My mind recoiled from that subject, too. 

I distracted myself by reviewing the remaining contents of my shoulder bag. There was a plastic bottle of orange juice and an almost full pack of cigarettes. With matches. A tin of lip balm, which could double as skin salve, and another tin of pills that made a dull jingling sound as I walked. I knew I had aspirin and a few different naturopathic remedies. And a packet of tissues. Also, my dog-eared copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, signed with love from Paulina. It was our favorite novel, and I always carried it with me. 

That was where the useful things ended. I couldn't see how my wallet or my address book was going to be much help in my present situation. Even in my regular life, they weren't of great utility, since both were nearly empty. I didn't even have a towel.

As I'd been walking, the sun had been lowering towards the horizon directly in front of me, shrinking down to a yellow dot. When I'd set out, its light was so diffuse that I couldn't locate the orb itself, but as it lowered, the area of washed-out blue around it intensified into shades of teal, cerulean, and indigo. I stopped in my tracks as the sun intersected the horizon and dropped out of sight. Suddenly, the sky was completely dark. 

I crouched down on the sand, propping the umbrella next to me like a small lean-to and taking what shelter I could. I did this by feel since I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. I hoped that the sand only ate discarded objects, since my feet were still attached and my sandals intact. Finally, my mind quieted, and I became intensely aware of the silence, and in the silence, a whistling sound high above that was dropping quickly.

I'd heard this same whistling earlier that day. It was a quarter to three, and I was just about to go for a break, and a plain-clothes policeman was standing on the sidewalk outside the office door, a solid-looking fellow with mild brown eyes and silver-black dreadlocks pulled back from his face. He said he was looking for Daniella Bershatzky, and I said I was her. He introduced himself as Detective Brooks. I liked the sound of his voice, and I invited him to come in, but he stayed on the threshold with the door half-protecting him. 

It was about my sister, he said. He hadn't called me, he said, because there was no news. He came by to tell me that there were no leads on her disappearance. He said. He was still trying to make contact with the Space agency where she worked, he assured me with a semblance of a smile. He’d turned to go, and that was when I’d heard that whistling sound from high above my head, growing louder. Not wanting to find out how many tons it weighed, I’d walked briskly to the corner store to buy a pack of cigarettes. After smoking one, I went back to the office, and two hours later I’d gathered the mail, punched my time card, and left for the day.

And now here I am, cowering in the darkness, with some unidentified object coming towards me out of the sky. I consider leaving the mostly imaginary protection of my umbrella and running somewhere, but I can only picture myself running to and fro, "like a chicken with its head cut off," like my mother used to say. So I stay. And I wait.

As the whistling continues – dropping steadily now, not fading, but not getting louder, which is some comfort – I think about my sister Paulina, born four years before me and my opposite in almost every way. She was bold and athletic, while I was chubby and awkward; she was an outgoing charmer, while I was shy and tactless. I spent most of my time alone, and Paulina was rarely alone. She thought and acted; I felt and dreamed. Not surprisingly, then, she'd excelled at sciences in school, and while I'd clung to my useless arts courses, she had literally become a rocket scientist.

As a child, I'd looked up to her, and she’d laughed at my jokes and been enthralled by my stories. It was somewhere in our teens that we grew apart. We’d recently reconnected, but that's when she started to disappear. It didn't happen all at once, and I don't think it was my fault, though I’m not sure. Maybe she just got so involved in her work that it absorbed her completely. I wish I’d paid more attention when she told me about her work. All I knew was that it had something to do with botany. Space botany?

Coming out of my musings, I can feel that my head is still intact and so nothing has fallen on it yet, though the sound like doom from the sky has not abated. I tip my face back and see lights above me. Gentle twinkling lights. Stars. I can also see my hand in front of my face now, which is an improvement, until a massive concussion shakes the ground, sending up a cloud of sand and blocking out the stars. The whistling noise ceases abruptly.

I huddle under my umbrella until the shaking stops – I don't know if it’s the ground vibrating or my own body – and then I peer over the stretched fabric. The dust cloud has settled, and I can see the stars again. It felt like the Thing landed a few meters away, but I saw nothing there except pale sand by starlight. Maybe whatever it was dissolved, like the envelopes and my tresses.

And then I hear a voice, a woman's voice with the same warm timbre as my sister's, though muffled. It sounds like she’s calling “Lina! Lina!” Why would she be calling herself? And where is she?

The sound of that familiar voice gives me the courage to rise to my feet, stretch my muscles, and turn to look in all directions. Nothing, anywhere, but at least it’s quiet. With a sigh, I fold myself back up under my umbrella and fall into an exhausted sleep.

Some time later, I awaken to a brightening sky. I uncurl myself, stand and stretch, and look disbelievingly towards the horizon where the sun set hours before and where it’s now rising again, from the exact same spot. I have a sudden urge to turn and run back the way I came, too.

But as the sun rises through lightening shades of indigo, cerulean, teal, and finally into a sky the colour of a robin's egg, I notice something I didn't see before. It’s buried, not ten feet from where I stand, in a crater that makes the top of it level with the surface. That’s why I didn't notice it in the dark last night. Now the sunlight reflects off its skin.

I look around, wondering if it’s safe to explore, and suddenly my hesitation makes me laugh. There’s no safety in the Plains of Doom. I’m dependent upon a miracle to get me out of here. I have nothing to lose.

After wetting my throat with some juice, still cool from the night, I venture over to have a closer look. The part of the Thing I can see, through a fine layer of grit, is a huge, tapering cylinder. Wondering why it hadn't exploded, I run my eye along the length of it and see two flattened appendages, one on either side, and beyond those, something like a broken fin. Is it some kind of Space beast?

As I stand there stupidly, the Thing's belly heaves and displaces a piece of itself, revealing dark depths. With a curious detachment, I watch as a hand, a human hand, reaches out of the opening. The hand is attached to a human arm and a human body, which it hauls out of the beast's belly. It’s a man. A policeman, to be exact.

There’s a head atop the body. I want to be clear about that. And it’s a head I recognize.

“Detective Brooks!” I croak, immediately apologizing for the state of my voice. I don't tell him I wasn’t sure I'd ever use it again.

“Ms. Bershatzky,” he greets me, squinting against the light. “I don't think we're in Toronto anymore.”

I giggle at the Oz reference, then pause again. Giggling hadn't been on my agenda for today, either.

Detective Brooks pulls himself clear of his odd vessel. As he walks towards me, I notice he’s limping. I shelter him with my umbrella and ask if he’s injured.

“It's not going to be pretty,” he warns, lifting his gimpy leg. And it isn't. The creatures are small but hideous, slimy and pale, and writhing. Fortunately, there are only a few of them.

“Space leeches!” I gasp. “You're lucky they're just attached to the fabric and not to the flesh.” Reaching into my purse, I pull out the pack of cigarettes and extract one. 

“Space leeches?” he repeats. “Is that even a thing?”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “and don't ask me how I know.” I light a match, take a drag to ignite the cigarette’s business end, and spit out the foul-tasting smoke. “I don't know how I know. Now, stay still while I get the little monsters off you.”

He stays still, but he doesn't stay quiet. “How did you get here?” he asks. “You weren't in the car.”

I think about his question while I save his life. The cigarette’s coal works efficiently, just like it does on Earth leeches. The Space leeches let out a tiny, ugly noise - probably an alien swear word - and disappear after I burn them. At least, I hope they’re really gone. Some aliens are sneaky. I don't know how I know that, either.

“You came here in a car?” I ask Detective Brooks in answer to his question. 

“Well,” he says, rubbing his ear to cleanse it of leech curses, “I got into my car. A call came on my radio, and it had something to do with your sister. And then I closed the car door and reached for my seat belt, and there I was, inside of that Thing.” He indicates what I now recognize as a spaceship. “And then apparently I fell to Earth. If this is Earth. So how did you come to be here?” he repeats.

“I didn't even close the door,” I say vaguely. I meet his steady gaze and amend, “I don't know. How are you feeling now?” I inquire, as I stub the tobacco stick in the sand and watch it disappear.

He looks over his shoulder at the spaceship. “Not bad. There are some things you should know, since we seem to be in this together. First of all, when those leeches came at me, I heard a lady call my name and tell me to play Pied Piper. I thought she meant for me to lead the little pests out of the ship. Second, there was no lady in the ship. It was just me and a whole lot of plants.” 

“Space lilies,” I say. This time, I know how I know: it was one of Paulina's more esoteric areas of research. “A lady…” Of course, I hadn't believed her when she told me about them, and of course, now they turn out to be real. Space lilies and - “Space leeches are parasites. They hitch rides on spaceships, looking for new worlds to suck the life out of. You can imagine what her colleagues said when Paulina described that to them. But when her own sister, her dreamy-eyed sister, didn’t take her seriously, that must have really hurt.”

I blink back tears and stand up. 

“Where do you think you're going?” Brooks asks, scowling. 

“Into the ship, of course. You don't have to come with me, Detective.”

He reaches out a hand to lean on me for a moment, steadying himself. “My name is Leland, and I'll call you Daniella, if that's all right with you, Ms. Bershatzky.”

“Oh. Leland. Not Lina. She was calling you. The lady who wasn’t on the ship. Never mind,” I say when he looks at me funny. “It’s fine. Let's go.”

When we reach the ship, I boldly stick my head in the door. It’s dark, and at first that's all I see. But I feel a cool breeze, smell a fresh green scent, and as I wait for my eyes to adjust, the soft whispering of rustling leaves resolves into something like language. Something I can almost understand.

“I’ll go in first, if you like,” Leland proclaims, sounding brave and scared. “I am a first responder.” 

“Thank you,” I say sincerely, “but I don't think the danger is inside here. In fact, I think they've come to help us. I wish I'd listened more to Paulina's crazy ideas. Not crazy,” I correct myself. “Clearly not crazy.” 

I swing my legs over the lip of the portal and drop down into the ship. Over my shoulder, the sight of Leland's face watching me is comforting, even though I know I’d be okay without him.

The inside of the ship doesn't look anything like the bridge of the Enterprise or any other Space vessel I've seen on TV or in the movies. There’s no control panel. No swivel chairs. No screens. Instead, it’s very much like the inside of a greenhouse. The walls, which appear opaque from outside, are actually translucent, allowing in a diffuse golden light.

“I'm feelin’ a little faint,” Leland says plaintively from the doorway. 

“Well, come in. There’s refreshments,” I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows, but he wipes perspiration off his brow and climbs into the ship. 

“That was not here before,” he says. “How do we know it's safe?”

There’s a tea party set for us in the center of the greenhouse-like room, on a table with a low seat on either side. I sit on one seat, finding it cool and comfortable, and motion for Leland to take the other. Delicately lifting one of the shiny green cups, I sip. The liquid tastes like fresh water, only better. 

“I will explain to you how I know it's safe,” I say, “but it will take a while.” I push the second cup towards him. “Try this.”

He does, hesitant at first, but then he drains it. “Mmm. What was that?”

“The best name I can think of is Space-lily juice. They made it for us. Look, the cup is full again. You can drink some more.”

As Leland quenches his thirst, I tell him Paulina's story.

I begin by closing my eyes and trying to picture her. My imagination cooperates too well. Instead of seeing her face, with its high forehead, wide eyes, and strong jaw, I feel my own face change as my mind sorts itself out and words form on my tongue with a new assurance. I open my eyes and regard Leland candidly. 

“I should have taken Paulina more seriously,” I tell him. “The truth is, I didn't understand what she was saying. I mean, I knew that the human race was busy turning our fabulously hospitable planet into an inhospitable one. But Paulina said it had been going on for much longer than we realized, and that it was the trees that had saved us. So far. But they were becoming exhausted, she said, both emotionally and biologically.” 

“Just to clarify - your sister talked to the trees,” Leland says.

“Mostly she listened to them. They don't really need us to talk to them, though they don't mind.” 

“I can see why you had trouble believing her,” he says. Then he looks around and sighs. “And also why you've become more open-minded. Please continue.” 

“Paulina thought I was open-minded. That's why she confided in me, but I didn't understand that then. But as her research became more ecocentric, she became less popular among the other scientists. I should have been there for her. And then to top it off, she asserted that we shouldn't be launching our ignorant, unevolved selves into Space at all; we should be trying to attract friendly aliens to come here so we could learn from them.”

“E.T. phone home,” Leland murmurs.

“It was actually in Close Encounters of the Third Kind where they built a landing pad to welcome extraterrestrial visitors. But I'm glad you get it. Unfortunately, in recent years, the Evil Alien trope has had a resurgence. Though why people think intelligent creatures would want to wreck our planet when we’re already doing such a bang-up job is beyond me.” 

“You know, I've worked up a bit of an appetite,” Leland tells me. “Any chance your chlorophyll friends would offer us a bite to eat?”

Before he finishes his question, a small green object appears before him. It looks like two fresh leaves with moss between them, and the aroma makes my mouth water.

“Want me to test that for you?” I ask, reaching for it.

He gently swats my hand away, saying, “Get your own, girl.”

Immediately, an identical object sidles up onto the table before me. Leland and I look at each other, nod, and pick up our Space lily pastries. They are delicious.

“If that was poisoned, I don't care,” Leland declares, patting his stomach. “I'll die a happy man.” 

“It wasn't,” I assure him, licking a last frond of moss off my lips. “They only want to help us. Which is as inexplicable to me as the idea of aliens wanting to destroy us.”

“Maybe these Space lilies are like a kind of loving Higher Power,” he suggests. “Did your sister think they were related to the trees?”

I pause before answering, sensing our hosts want to join the conversation. Of course, I don't hear any voices - even Space lilies don't have vocal cords - but I do sense a message. 

“They want to show us,” I tell Leland. “Grab a green friend and let's go back outside and see why they’re here.” I suspect they could get out of the spaceship themselves, but they don't want to overtax us.

The lilies are growing rampant all around the inside of the ship. Their growth medium looks like the same kind of moss that was in our snacks. When we get up close, we see that their pointy single-lobed flowers aren't white, like peace lilies on Earth, but contain every hue of the spectrum, blending to appear white from a distance. Their oblong leaves are a dark, dark green, almost black, that shines with reflected light.

The two plants closest to us separate themselves from the throng, waving their appendages in an inviting fashion. Leland and I each take one. They are weighty and yet easy to lift.

“This is kind of cool,” he tells me, “though not what I expected to be doing today.” 

“It's always a good day to save the planet. That's what Paulina used to say.” And one of the lily’s leaves brushes my cheek like a kiss as Leland boosts me back out the door and follows with his lily tucked safely inside his jacket.

Outside in the sand, I’m not surprised to see that a few of our little green friends have, indeed, preceded us. Although they look immobile, they have the air of creatures that arrested their movement at our approach. Out of the corner of my eye I’m sure I see one of the lilies wiggling its roots under the sand, the way humans wiggle our toes.

“Did you see -” Leland begins.

“Yup,” is my only answer at first. I take a deep breath. “They probably shouldn't be wasting their energy trying to hide their true nature.” 

“Oh,” Leland says. “Oh! I see. Well,” he carefully addresses the plants, “dear lily friends, we totally respect your true nature, whatever that may be. And thank you for the delicious meal.”

The lilies’ flowers turn various shades of pink, and their leaves wave gently.

Leland chuckles. “It felt like this one gave me a little hug, just then,” he tells me, stroking the leaves of the plant he carries. Then he tells it, “There you go, hon. You go and be you.” 

And as we set our plant friends down, the rest of their buddies decamp from the ship. Their movement is a combination of delicate walking and graceful swimming, though their element is air rather than water. Leland and I observe them wide-eyed, like happy children.

They are careful not to come too close to us, as if still cautious about our reaction. Clearly they know something about humans.

“How come you're not more xenophobic, Leland?” I ask.

“My family came here when I was small. I've had plenty of experience bein’ the Other, myself,” he points out.

“Yeah,” I acknowledge, “but you know that's no guarantee.”

“I guess my momma raised me right. When she pointed out all the variety of God’s creatures, I could see the beauty she was showing me.”

The lilies join our conversation, at this point, with a deeper rustling over our heads and a cool, delicious breeze caressing our cheeks. As if to illustrate Leland’s comment, they’ve quickly grown from small, lovely flowers into full-figured beauties towering over us, sheltering us with their cool, oxygen-laden shade.  We’d missed the start of their change because we were looking at each other as we talked. And they don't look so much like lilies anymore, or not like Earth lilies, anyway. Who knows? Maybe this is what Space lilies always look like when they get out in the sun. 

They are shifting the sand, too. With the assistance of the moss they brought with them, the lilies are becoming tree-like creatures with thick trunks and spreading boughs supporting masses of fluttering leaves in shades of crimson, amber, and emerald. We see them pulling at the sand, drawing it up into their bodies and recreating it, making it fertile. And there are sounds too. Sounds of grief. I hear them before Leland does. They tug at my heart.

“Listen,” I tell him, as he seems about to speak.

After a moment, he says, “Oh, my God, do you think these poor lilies are suffering? I always wondered if plants’ growing was as easy as they make it look.”

The sobbing grows louder. Trickles of brackish liquid flow through the sand towards the lily-trees, which absorb the liquid with soothing sounds of hum and hush. And then all the sounds draw together, and the trees begin to sing like a natural symphony.

“May I have the honor, Ms. Daniella?” Leland lifts his left hand invitingly, palm up, and his right arm curves out, waist high. 

I hesitate. “No one's ever asked me to dance before. I once asked a boy at a school dance, but he just laughed at me. Forty years ago. It clearly left a scar.” 

“Those days are long gone now,” he says as he embraces me. “I think these lilies are all about healing.”

As we dance, I remember more of what Paulina said. “There’s evidence that most of Earth’s deserts are man-made, you know.”

“I didn't, but I have no trouble believing that.”

“Back to the Romans deforesting the Middle East to build the vessels they needed for world domination -”

“Chariots and ships. Of course.”

“- to the desertification of parts of Africa in the late 20th century -” 

“Also to do with men’s wars.”

“Yes. And cotton. Several countries around the world have desiccated large areas recently to feed cotton production. Among other things.”

The tree music fades out. We sit down on the mound of fresh moss that surrounds the biggest tree. 

“Do you think we’ll ever go home again?” I ask Leland.

“What do you mean by home?” he counters. “I never felt myself at home in that world. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the same for you.”

“You’re right,” I say. “But can we really just stay here? That seems too easy. What -”

“Now, you listen,” he interrupts me gently. 

“Are those voices?” I ask after a few moments of attention. “Real live human ones?” 

I hear a familiar woman's voice call, “Here it is! The oasis!” And then my sister Paulina bursts through the foliage, leading a small group of grimy, confused humans. She seems a little the worse for wear, herself. Her short, dark hair is tangled with twigs and leaves, and her bronzed face and arms are covered in a film of sand.

As soon as she sees me, she sweeps me up in a bear hug, exclaiming, “I knew I could count on you! And your friend,” she adds, beaming at Leland. 

“Ma'am,” he says, rising politely to his feet. 

“As I already explained to those guys,” she tells us, “the human part of the world finally reached the tipping point, and then, ka-poof. I'd been predicting it for years, though no one would believe me.” 

“So... where are we?” I ask, though in my gut I know the answer.

Paulina looks at me wisely. “Like to hazard a guess?”

“We're still in Toronto, aren't we. But how did I - we -” I indicate me and Leland, unable to find words. 

“This cohort of Space lilies,” she explains, taking pity on me, “was already on its way to replace our exhausted trees. If the leeches hadn’t delayed them, they might have arrived in time, and we never would have known the danger we were in. Still, before they succumbed, our old trees did manage to save a few more of us, and here we are. The lilies thought it was good for us to see the sand, anyway. They’re still hoping we’re teachable.”