They Who Hide Under Top Hats - March 2025 Retrospective!

 

 Some Things Never Change

By Sayuru Dabare

 

At the bottom of a hill in a lonely field located between somewhere and somewhere, there stood a great tree. A mighty it was, standing strong, stoic, tall and proud amidst an endless expanse of tall grass. It towered over them like a mighty lord of the land, its branches reaching into the air in a pose akin to a battle cry, with its leaves swaying like a thousand banners. Its kingdom was marked by the distant hilltop, which rose up from the flat ground and met the bright blue horizon. It was here that the tree lived in a quiet existence, only ever bothered by the occasional adventurous rodent or wandering bird. Creatures to whom it gave peaceful sanctuary under the shade of its sturdy old branches. The only fear it knew came from the occasional thunderstorm, when great spears of light would fall from the heavens, leaving behind what all the denizens of the field dreaded, fire. Yet, when the sun was bright and the sky was gleeful, there would come a gust of wind blowing steadily from the east and to its merry melody the grass would dance and the leaves would rustle an accompanying tune. Blissful was this utopia, every spring, flowers would rise and fill the air with their fragrance, every summer the land was peaceful, every fall would be quiet as the leaves fell like rain, and even the dreaded coldness of winter was but a door to a new spring. Such was this perfect piece of creation. Simple yet majestic, unchanging yet never boring. It was here that the tree felt whatever joy a tree could feel.

However, one day, while the wind blew with its usual harmony, both the dancing of the grass and the symphony of the leaves were rudely interrupted by the rhythm-less sound of steel and rubber. For, from the hilltop, emerged a great beast, larger than any rodent or bird the tree had ever seen. Its orange body glowed blindingly in the sunlight. Instead of walking, its four black legs rolled across the ground like tumbleweeds. Its pupil-less eyes didn’t blink and blankly stared off into the faraway brush, whilst each sometimes emitting light of their own, as though they were copying the sun. It stopped at the hilltop where two sides of its body unraveled like wings. Yet stranger still, from inside this beast came two odd creatures, who stood up straight like the tree, yet they had not roots and moved around like the rodents. They each had two branches, flimsy and leafless, that hung from both of their sides. Their tops were shrouded in thousands of tiny vines, with one of the creatures having longer vines that the other. Their trunks were neither brown nor green, or any other color the tree had ever seen. Odder still, their trucks would periodically change color, as though on a whim. Utterly perplexed was the tree, at the sight of these things. Disgusted was the tree by these tall, unholy beings, these…fraud-trees.

As time passed, the odd occurrences continued to occur. For days after the arrival of these strange fraud-trees into the tree’s domain, a strange structure began to rise from the hilltop. At first it was just a bunch of thin sticks coming together from a leafless frame that looked like the dead skeleton of a burnt bush. But as the days went by it began to grow, slowly forming a sort of rectangular box that even surpassed the tree in height, a fact that the tree took as a grave insult and an affront to its pride. But despite being made of wood, the box looked quite dead and lifeless. Its top was sloped and it had no branches. It even had strange holes in its flat, even walls. Behind it, a strange column of red stone rose from its base to its peak, like a very tall, brutalist termite nest. The root-less fraud-trees would even cover it with a strange fluid that changed its color from the natural reddish brownness of lumber to a rich yellow and white.

Once the structure stopped growing, the tree would often see the two vine-riddled fraud-trees go in and out of it multiple times every day. Every morning, they would board their metal beast and ride off past the horizon away from view only to return in the evening, to the tree’s dismay. At dusk, grey clouds would come rising from the column of red stone like a silent, disorderly marching band. In the night, the tree would see light emanating from the holes in the structure; light that would often loom over the field and engage in bloody warfare with the shimmering pale glow of the moon up in the heavens over who could better illuminate the earth below.

Such was the routine of these repulsive invaders; the tree would at first find their presence a gross act of vandalism against the beauty of its once perfect home. Yet in the succeeding months, as the sun set hundreds of times behind the shadow of their ugly abode, it felt more and more like it was a part of the emblematic orchestra of the lonely field. Better yet, every seven sunsets the fraud-trees would break from their usual routine and they descend from their solitary nest down onto the field. There they would run around, tearing flowers from their roots and stomping the grass with their unbound roots (and though the tree would never admit it, the sight of these deeds made its leaves shiver with jealousy).

Once they were done with their ravaging, they sat amongst the roots of the tree in the shade and made strange sounds at each other. The tree did not understand the sounds they made, for they were far more complex that the chirps of a chipmunk or the screeches of a swallow. Yet it could still feel their true meaning, joy. A type of joy the lonely tree had neither felt nor could comprehend, for it was the joy of companionship, the euphoria of a non-solitary existence, the happiness of affection. To the lone tree, it was a mesmerizing concept. It watched as they tore flowers from their roots in the spring, frolicked in the summer and played in the snow during the winter. Before long, it was all that the longed to see, and so it would find itself waiting, counting seven sunsets until the duo of mysterious fraud-trees returned.

However, one day the fraud-trees did not come on the date they were due. The tree waited yet they never came. The tree then counted seven more sunsets and on the next day they were due they once again didn’t come. Therefore, the tree counted seven more sunsets, and then seven more after that. Every morning and twice a day, the great metal beast would roar, every night the holes would shine and smoke would march out of the red tower, yet something seemed…different. However, four sunsets later, at the dawn of twilight, the two fraud-trees emerged from their box and walked down the hill once more. Yet, this time something was indeed different. For one of the fraud-trees carried with it a small being wrapped in a strange colored bark, and shaped like a seed. It did not move in any way, yet it was most definitely alive, for every now and again it would emit a scream so vile and loud that it would completely silence the symphony of the wind. Yet, despite these negative characteristics, the fraud-trees seemed to adore it. Which led the tree to conclude that the small, screaming menace was yet another fraud-tree, perhaps maybe sapling of one. Sure enough, time would go on to prove that conclusion correct.

As the sunsets passed like they always had, the small sapling grew taller and larger, just like the tree had expected. Soon it began moving around faster than the two large ones. Its top vines grew until they reached almost half its height, and its truck would change color even more often than the big fraud-trees. Its screams became less vile and more pleasant. It seemed like its very existence seemed to exude a sort of bliss that even the songs of the grass and the field could not capture. The tree was quick to develop a fascination with this strange new creature, a fascination that was deepened by the fact that the fraud-trees would come down onto the field much more often, and more unpredictably, now that the sapling was with them, which the tree found very amusing. It would watch as the little one would accompany its seniors on their frolics through the field and it would even run around in the dreaded winter snow and the autumn leaves. Eventually, one of the large fraud-trees would even attach a piece of wood to one of the tree’s branches where the sapling would swing back and forth from midday to dusk. Glorious times, these were. For, despite all the doubt and hate the tree had felt, it seems as though utopia had finally found itself once more, and the times of bliss had returned. For it was now complex yet full of happiness, full of change yet never overwhelming.

Soon the sapling began to behave like its seniors. On most days, it would join them as they disappeared behind the hill on the metal beast. Then came a time when only the sapling would go on the metal beast, leaving the other two fraud-trees behind. The tree had seen birds do something similar, yet, by comparison, what the fraud-trees did seemed entirely contradictory, even somewhat illogical. But it was clear, as the sapling grew stronger, the large fraud-trees only grew weaker. Soon the vines on their heads went from rich, lively black to a cold, shiny white. Their trunks and flimsy branches became wrinkled and withered, they moved slower and made less energetic sounds. Yet, in spite of this decay, this change at the hands of time’s ruthless march, their happiness remained unshaken. They would often sit together below the tree, as they had done since the beginning, only now they would watch, as the sapling turned full fraud-tree would run around the field by itself, occasionally bringing them flowers and occasionally swinging around on the wooden plank hanging from the tree’s branch. The tree had never seen such rapid change before, for it and the field had remained the same for centuries, yet the sight of such shifts only deepened its curiosity and love for these strange creatures.

Sometime later, there came a day with dark clouds and winds that echoed ominous tunes. That noon, when the tree saw the fraud-trees come down from their nest, with one of older fraud-trees, specifically the one with short vines, being strangely absent. Stranger still, the other two had not a drop of their usual joy. That day they rested beneath the tree, but they never made any of their usual sounds, and worse still, they did not stay for long. It seemed as though something evil had crossed their nest, and left them both in misery; something had made one of them disappear. On the eve of that day, the tree saw more fraud-trees appear on the hilltop, each clad top to bottom in black. They did not move much and they did not come down to the field, they simply congregated near the nest for a short while and left before the end of dusk, leaving the tree feeling a haunting sense of dread.

The following day, once again, only two fraud-trees returned. However, they brought with them a strange container filled with what looked like soil, except it was grey instead of brown. That day they would spend their time spreading the grey soil across the field, letting it blow away in the wind. Their somber attitudes had not disappeared, and once again, they did not stay for long before they once again retreated to their nest. The tree never saw the missing fraud-tree again, and the two remaining fraud-trees would not come down onto the field for many sunsets.

A long time later, on an unsuspecting day, the two fraud-trees would once again return. Whatever wounds they had sustained that day had seemingly been healed by the uncaring flow of time, however, it was clear that it was never the same. The remaining older fraud-tree seemed to have grown far weaker, to the point where it could barely move without the help of the former sapling. The plank of wood that hung from the tree branch now only swung during storms, and whenever the fraud-trees came down to the field there wasn’t nearly the same amount of frolic or joy. It was frankly depressing, as though autumn had come early and never left. Yet despite the obvious trouble in paradise, there still existed some glimmer of hope, for woven in between the bleakness were moments of joy, when the air would once again feel the rhythm of laughter.

Yet soon it became clear that the evil was unsatisfied, for barely seven hundred and thirty sunsets later, it returned once more, for one fateful morning, only the former sapling came down onto the field, where it sat down on the roots of the tree and emitted painfully annoying sounds whilst water leaked from the top of its trunk. It wailed so loudly that it made all the birds who stood amongst the branches flee into the sky out of fear. That day, once more, the fraud-trees dressed in black appeared at the nest and the following day grey soil was once again scattered in the wind. And once again, the tree did not ever see either of the original fraud-trees ever again. Once more still, the only remaining fraud-tree did not come down to the field for many sunsets.

At this point, the tree still had no clue as to what had occurred, for the tree, which had stood for many centuries, had never seen creatures so large simply vanish. However, sometime after the ominous tunes of the wind had returned, just when the bleakness seemed to reach its deepest extent, the last fraud-tree returned. It then beneath the tree and looked off into the field silently whilst running its branch across a very, very thin slice of woods, leaving markings that seemed to have some sort of meaning, but none the tree could reasonably deduce. The last remaining fraud-tree would visit the field nearly every day from that day forth. Moreover, it continued to do so for thousands of sunsets. Sometimes other fraud-tree saplings, ones that came from beyond the hill, would accompany it. They would then frolic around the field like the original sapling had done long ago. And, once again, the tree felt as though paradise had finally come again.

This was the state of things for a very long while. The longer time’s merciless wheels turned, the more the former sapling started to look like its seniors. Soon even its hair began to gray, and its skin wither. Soon even it could not walk by itself, only doing so with the aid of a long, thin wooden pole, which it kept attaching and reattaching to one of its branches, or with the aid of one of the saplings from beyond the hill, who themselves began appearing less and less as the days went on. But despite the signs that time was about to repeat itself, the former sapling did not seem to lose any of its spirit, for, even as its own nest began to show signs of withering, it continued to come down to the field every day without fail. This time, the looming bleakness could not hinder utopia’s bliss, at least for a short while. But soon the tree began to feel a familiar sense of dread, even though the last of the original fraud-trees remained by its side.

Finally, on a cold autumn day, nearly eight thousand sunsets after the disappearance of the last old fraud-tree, at a time when even the saplings from the beyond the hill had not graced the field with their presence for more than a five hundred sunsets, the former sapling did not come down from its nest. The tree then anxiously awaited another day, and once again, it did not come. It was then that the tree felt a great sense of longing and grief, as it kept on waiting for something that it knew would never come again. Its hope was only kept alive by the fact that the mysterious black fraud-trees had not yet arrived. But, soon after the last fraud-tree had vanished, a storm would erupt in the heavens and that night a bolt of fire would come down from the clouds and strike the now old and crooked nest, setting it ablaze and creating a light that rivaled even the sun. By the next morning, the nest was no more and the hill had returned to having no distinct features. It was then that the tree finally accepted that it would not see its beloved invaders again.

Even after the nest, and the fraud-trees who dwelled within it, had gone. The melody of the field continued, returning to what it had been before the invaders had arrived. It was as though they had never existed, like they had been forgotten completely. The tree had once again returned to its solitary existence. But despite this, it did not feel the same. The tree, who had once felt nothing but bliss in the unchanging utopia, now found nothing but boredom. Boredom so severe that soon, it became all consuming, with even the eternal symphony of the wind had become dull and repetitive. Loneliness, though a familiar feeling, now felt more akin to despair, and the maddening pain it brought with it sank deep into the tree. Soon, the darkness that had previously brought evil to the land would rear its vile head once more. But this time the tree did not fight it, for it had felt the touch of change ripple throughout its suspended reality and it had felt deeper than if it were the hand of heaven itself. Eventually, the darkness would overtake the tree, and when it shed its leaves that autumn, it did not grow them back once winter ended. With that, the field was changed once more, and even after the tree had withered away into dust, the field would keep changing, for the only thing that never changed, even to the cold march of time, was change itself.