“The Ones Who Looked Back.”
Just a heads-up: this first Field Note is a longer one.
If you’d like to stay awhile,
this is the fruit we have to offer today.
The Ones Who Looked Back is a story from the world you may have already wandered through here—or one you can meet entirely on its own.
It takes a little time to make its way around the hill. There’s nothing you need to know before beginning, and nowhere in particular you need to arrive.
The Ones Who Looked Back
Beyond the dark woods was a round green hill.
Near its center stood a crooked tree.
Green and blue leaves grew together among its branches. The green leaves held on. Only the blue leaves sometimes released their hold.
Roundish green things—a softer green—also grew among the branches, swaying gently, getting bigger and riper by the moment.
Pink clouds wandered through the morning sky above, seemingly with no particular direction in mind.
Beneath the hill, tucked into the damp soil among the tree’s roots, lived a little worm.
He was asleep when—
THUD.
The soil trembled around him.
The worm woke.
That sounded promising.
He knew that sound well—the sound he craved.
Every so often, one of the juicy green things above grew soft and ripe enough to release its hold. When it reached the ground, the earth gave a satisfying little—
thump.
The worm loved that sound.
Then—
THUD.
The roots shivered.
His senses heightened.
That sounded even bigger.
He hurried upward through the soil.
Another tremble rolled through the roots.
Whatever had fallen must have been enormous.
Possibly magnificent.
Possibly the juiciest green thing the tree had ever produced.
The worm pushed his way upward until dirt became light and poked his head into the morning.
Something enormous came down beside him.
THUD.
He flattened himself against the ground.
Another enormous thing landed ahead.
THUD.
The worm stared.
Ridges underneath.
Crossings and loops above.
Pieces tucked into other pieces.
Entirely too much shape.
And not green at all.
The enormous things rose and fell, rose and fell, with something even larger rising above them.
The worm slipped quickly back underground.
The trembling moved away.
Little by little, the soil became quiet again.
When he surfaced, whatever had passed was disappearing into the woods.
The worm watched it go.
Well.
That had been disappointing.
He turned toward the tree.
Somewhere around this hill, there had to be something ripe.
There was only one reasonable thing to do.
Find it.
He wiggled off around the hill in search of something green, juicy, and hopefully already fallen.
From far enough away, this may have looked suspiciously like a perfectly straight line.
The worm would have disagreed.
The morning grew warmer as he traveled.
Something loosened above him.
The worm froze.
He tipped himself upward.
A blue leaf turned slowly through the air.
Down it came.
Lower.
Lower.
It landed beside him.
The worm studied the leaf.
Then the tree.
Then the leaf again.
“Oh, come on. How about a little help down here?”
He chuckled at the request he had just exclaimed to the skies and continued on.
Shortly after, he noticed a ladybug dancing across the hill.
The ladybug gracefully floated one way, then another. Higher, then lower. Around the tree, behind it, and back again from somewhere else.
The worm watched for a while.
Someone who moved around that much might just know some things.
Eventually, the ladybug settled beside him.
“Have you seen any roundish green things on the ground?” he asked.
The ladybug turned toward him.
“Roundish green things?”
“Ripe and juicy, too. They grow up there.”
He stretched toward the tree.
“Then sometimes they fall down here.”
The ladybug looked toward the branches.
“Oh, I noticed those.”
“On the ground?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Anywhere?”
“I don’t believe so.”
The worm sagged a little.
“How far have you been?”
The ladybug turned toward one side of the woods, then the other, then up at the sky.
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you been all the way around?”
“Around what?”
The worm curved himself toward the hill.
“This place.”
The ladybug considered it.
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
The worm found this troubling.
So he told the ladybug about the enormous things from earlier. The ridges. The loops. The impossible amount of shape. The way they had shaken the ground and briefly given him unreasonable hope.
“How enormous did they feel?” the ladybug asked.
“Very.”
“How strange?”
“Extremely.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
The ladybug grew quiet.
“I had a strange experience too.”
Earlier, the ladybug explained, something had looked from above like another hill lying across this one.
So the ladybug had gone down to investigate.
Naturally.
“It felt warm,” the ladybug said. “Hair in some places. Smooth in others.”
Then the ladybug rocked gently.
“And everything beneath me moved like this.”
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
The worm stared.
“It felt like it was breathing.”
“You traveled over something that felt like a breathing hill?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to know more about it.”
“Did you?”
“A little.”
“What was it?”
“I still don’t know.”
The worm nodded.
He wasn’t sure whether this was a good argument for wandering or a very bad one.
The ladybug settled beside him.
“I’m Dottie, by the way.”
“Tucker.”
“Nice to meet you, Tucker.”
Tucker tilted toward the tree.
“You know, Dottie, you’re a pleasant surprise.”
“Am I?”
“There seems to be a serious shortage of ripe green things on the ground today, and you cover considerably more ground than I do.”
Dottie looked up into the branches.
“Would you like me to keep an eye out?”
Tucker perked up.
“Very much so, yes!”
“All right,” said Dottie happily.
“Then I’m very glad we met.”
Dottie laughed and rolled her eyes.
“Me too.”
They stayed there together for a moment, which is sometimes what happens after two strangers become slightly less strange.
Tucker tilted himself toward the tree.
Round green things swayed among the leaves.
Some were small.
Some were large.
One looked especially promising.
He stared.
Dottie followed his gaze.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
Tucker stretched toward the branches.
“That one.”
“What does it do?”
“If I’m lucky? It falls.”
“And then?”
Tucker perked up.
“Then I eat the soft part. The juicy part. The sweet part.”
Dottie waited.
“Aren’t those all the same part?”
Tucker considered this.
“Yes and no.”
Dottie waited.
“That’s what makes them so good.”
Dottie laughed.
The afternoon wandered on.
Dottie explored.
Tucker stayed near the tree.
This arrangement suited them.
Dottie ranged across the hill, around the tree, and behind it.
Tucker stayed close to the soil.
At first, whenever she returned, he asked.
“Anything?”
“Not yet.”
Later—
“Anything?”
“No.”
Eventually, Dottie settled in beside him.
“Tucker.”
“Yes, my new friend?”
“If I notice one on the ground, I’ll tell you.”
Tucker went still.
He hadn’t considered that.
Dottie could look.
Which meant Tucker could listen.
He rested more fully against the earth.
“I really appreciate you, Dottie.”
After that, he listened.
To the roots.
To the tree.
To the tiny sounds that traveled down through the hill.
Above them, the pink clouds had wandered to new places in the sky.
Something shifted in the branches.
Tucker lifted the front of his body.
He listened.
A blue leaf floated down.
Tucker watched it land.
Dottie settled nearby.
“Still no luck.”
“Apparently not.”
By then, the light had begun to change.
Shadows stretched farther from the woods.
Even the tree looked different without having moved.
“Tucker?”
“Yes?”
“Does this place always do this?”
“Do what?”
“This!”
Tucker curved himself around to look.
“Well … it seems to.”
Dottie turned toward him.
“You sound very certain.”
“I am trying something new.”
She laughed.
Just then, a shadow rushed over the hill.
Dottie tucked herself low.
Tucker slipped halfway into the soil.
Something large passed behind a cloud.
Then behind the tree.
Then out again.
Broad wings stretched through the darkening sky, though parts of them seemed almost to belong to the night itself.
The large thing settled onto a branch.
Dottie looked up.
“You scared us. What are you?”
“Yeah, no,” said the owl. “Didn’t mean to startle you. But I am an owl, and sometimes we do that.”
“You seemed very large all of a sudden.”
The owl folded his wings.
“I feel like I’ve been this size for quite some time.”
“That does not help.”
“Yeah, no. But it’s still true.”
He tilted his head toward them.
“I wasn’t trying to scare anybody. I just hadn’t noticed you there.”
He paused.
“Glad I did, though.”
“I’m Dottie. That’s Tucker.”
The owl gave a small nod.
“I’m Greg.”
Dottie waited.
“Greg?”
“Yep. Greg. You betcha.”
Greg settled more deeply onto the branch.
Tucker stretched upward.
“Greg?”
“Yeah?”
“How much can you see from there?”
Greg turned his head toward the clearing.
“Depends.”
“Can you see the other side of the tree?”
“Some of it.”
“The ground?”
“Some of that too, yeah.”
Tucker inched closer to the trunk.
“Anything round and green?”
Greg peered down.
“Nope. Not on the ground, as far as I can tell.”
Tucker sank back toward the earth.
Dottie tried not to laugh.
Night gathered around them.
Stars appeared.
The pink clouds darkened against the deep blue sky.
Tucker and Dottie were starting to see less.
Greg seemed to have the opposite experience.
“What do you see now?” Dottie asked.
Greg turned toward the woods.
“Hmmmm … stuff and such?”
“That is not helpful.”
Greg winked at Tucker and chuckled softly.
Tucker liked Greg immediately.
Dottie wasn’t sure what she thought of him, but she could tell she didn’t feel afraid.
Then—
THUMP.
Dottie tucked herself low.
Greg opened his wings.
Tucker did neither.
His whole body went still.
He knew that sound.
“That’s one.”
He wiggled quickly toward the tree.
Something round and green rested beneath the branches.
At last.
Tucker hurried closer.
Then the green thing opened an eye.
Tucker stopped.
“Oh.”
The green thing blinked at him.
Tucker drew himself backward.
Dottie crawled closer.
Greg leaned down from his branch.
The green thing turned its eye upward.
For the first time in its life, it was looking at the branch where it had grown.
“Well,” it said.
Tucker stared.
“What are you?”
The green thing looked at him.
“Apparently, I’m known as a pear.”
Tucker tried the word.
“Pear?”
“Yes.”
He curved toward the tree.
“All of those are pears?”
“The ones like me.”
Tucker turned back.
“What about the ones without an eye?”
The pear looked toward the branches.
“They seem like pears to me.”
Tucker went still.
Dottie turned toward him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
This was new information.
Dottie crawled nearer to the pear.
“Excuse me, but did you just fall from way up there?”
“It seems so. And my, oh my, what a thrilling experience it was, too.”
“Were you up there all day?”
“Indeed I was.”
The pear looked toward the branches.
“And for many days before this one.”
Tucker edged closer again.
“Did you also see the enormous things that passed through this morning?”
“I saw something pass through, yes.”
“The things that shook the ground?”
“They did indeed.”
Dottie leaned toward the pear.
“What about the breathing hill?”
“I saw you exploring something.”
The pear looked at all three of them.
“What each of you noticed seems connected to what I saw.”
“My part shook the ground,” said Tucker.
“What I was on moved beneath me,” said Dottie.
Tucker stretched toward the pear.
“What did you see?”
The pear was quiet for a moment.
“I experienced beings passing through the woods, crossing the clearing, and continuing elsewhere.”
Dottie turned toward Greg.
“Did you see them?”
Greg tilted his head and grinned sheepishly.
“Who?”
Dottie stared at him.
“The beings.”
“Yeah, no.”
Tucker turned back to the pear.
“That tells me what they did.”
“It does.”
“What were they?”
“I don’t know what they call themselves.”
The pear paused.
“I can only offer what I experienced.”
Tucker edged nearer.
“And what did you experience?”
“They seemed very large from where I was.”
Tucker lifted the front of his body in agreement.
“They moved across the ground.”
Dottie shifted closer.
“And they seemed to have eyes.”
Greg became very still.
Something pale had appeared between the trees.
A small light moved through the woods.
It disappeared.
Returned.
Passed across one trunk, then another.
A tall shape followed behind it.
The ground trembled beneath Tucker.
His body tightened against the soil.
“That.”
Dottie watched the shape above it rise and fall.
“That,” she said.
Greg fixed his gaze on the light.
“It looks like the moon is connected to them.”
Nobody corrected him.
The being stepped into the clearing with the little moon held out in front.
Wherever it pointed, a piece of the clearing appeared, then slipped back into the night.
The light found Greg.
Then Dottie.
Then Tucker.
Then the fallen pear.
The pear shut its eye.
The little moon lingered.
Then moved away.
The pear opened its eye a teeny-tiny bit.
The being had stopped.
The pear opened it farther.
The being seemed to be looking directly at it.
For one quiet moment, neither moved.
The being leaned closer.
The pear looked back.
Then the being smiled.
The pear blinked.
The being exhaled, long and slow, as though the breath had been waiting for somewhere to go.
They touched the little moon.
Suddenly, its light was gone.
The clearing returned to night.
The being lowered themself beside the tree and rested against its bark.
Nobody spoke.
The clearing had been full of questions all day.
In that moment, watching felt like enough.
The being breathed.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Dottie turned toward Tucker.
Tucker turned toward Dottie.
Then—
crack.
Tucker tilted toward the tree.
He knew that sound too.
Something had released its hold above them.
A pear dropped through the leaves.
Round.
Ripe.
No eye.
Tucker stretched upward.
At last.
It fell lower.
And lower.
Tucker followed every inch.
Then—
plop
—it landed directly in the being’s lap.
Tucker went completely still.
The being startled.
Dottie turned toward Tucker.
Greg leaned forward on his branch.
Tucker kept staring.
He had been waiting all day for that pear.
Greg shifted his feet against the branch.
“Yeah, no,” he said softly. “That’s tough.”
The being picked up the pear.
Turned it slowly.
Breathed in its smell.
Tucker edged forward.
The being smiled.
Then took a bite.
Tucker curled in on himself.
Dottie crept a little closer.
“You all right?”
Tucker lifted the front of his body just enough to see.
“It looked very ripe.”
Dottie stayed beside him.
Another bite.
Juice ran down the being’s fingers.
Tucker uncurled.
He watched.
Now he knew exactly what the being was eating.
The soft part.
The juicy part.
The sweet part.
All the same part.
And not.
Another bite.
Tucker watched that one too.
The being settled more deeply against the tree.
Soon there was no sound of eating.
Only breathing.
Up.
Down.
Slower.
Up.
Down.
Their head settled against the bark.
Their eyes closed.
The four watchers stayed quiet.
After a while, Tucker whispered, “What are they doing?”
Greg looked down from the branch.
“They seem tired to me.”
Dottie crawled a little nearer to the being.
“I wonder if they feel safe here.”
Tucker studied the enormous things at the ends of the being’s legs.
The ridges were still there.
The crossings.
The loops.
But none of it was moving now.
He rested more fully against the ground.
“Maybe they wanted to stop.”
The pear watched the being breathe.
“It feels that way from here.”
Nobody spoke for a while.
Tucker looked toward what remained of the pear in the being’s hand.
That morning, he had known the juicy green things by how they tasted and by the sound they made when they fell.
Now he knew their name.
Pears.
He knew some had an eye.
He knew the pear beside him had watched from the tree for many days and had seen things Tucker could only feel from below.
Tucker was still hungry.
Very.
But for the moment, he wondered something else.
He curved toward the pear with the eye.
“How many of those beings have you seen?”
The pear was quiet.
“Many.”
Dottie turned toward it.
“Did they all seem like this one?”
“Not particularly.”
Tucker looked at the sleeping being.
“How interesting. Do you remember them all?”
The pear did not answer right away.
The clearing had grown very still.
Stars rested above the hill.
The green leaves stayed with the tree.
Somewhere among the branches, another pear was ripening.
Tucker rested against the earth.
Still listening.
The being breathed softly against the bark.
The fallen pear watched them.
“I do not, but …” it said.
A little more night passed through the clearing.
The pear blinked.
“I remember the ones who looked back.”
Tucker rested against the earth.
Still hungry.
Still listening…
