Only One crawled out onto the poisonous stretch of bitumen road and into the life of a weekend conservationist. She stuck to the ground before him, gripping its flatness with her hands and feet, becoming more and more distressed. She was still warm from rainforest. Thick clumps of humus fell from her back as she dried in the heat. Her sun sensitive skin began to burn on the bitumen and she gulped like a tree frog in the wet season.
MY GOD, the figure stepped away from the 4WD. WHAT'S HAPPENED TO YOU? YOU'RE FILTHY. He felt suspicious but she seemed quite harmless.
Only One had come too far. She could still feel the charges and impulses of forest creep along her skin, weakening and in tiny currents fading. She gripped the road for support finding nothing. She began to squeal her pale fingers burning together. She was steaming like forest, her small mushroom eyes, like brown pools of water, sank into her forehead. She half understood his tones, but could not make sound, in fear of losing moisture. She began her painful retreat back into the undergrowth.
WAIT, called the weekend conservationist, moving after her. YOU'RE ALL WET. YOU'LL CATCH COLD. WHERE'S YOUR CLOTHES?
He came towards her quickly with his huge hands. He grabbed her from behind. She squirmed violently at the force of being dragged suddenly upwards. But it had been worse on the bitumen beneath the heat of the sun. The weekend conservationist no longer liked the look of her. Nevertheless he was feeling pleased with his recent completion of a wildlife rescue course. He handled her gently, within the folds of an old cardigan, in case she bit him or fell apart in his arms. But she only sweated and dribbled like a slug.
She was quietly bundled into the back of his truck. He placed her on an old stained rug. Only one blinked smelling the focused excitement of dog. She urinated all over the rug, fading into shock. Her tiny head throbbing with car fumes and paint. She tried to concentrate but the forest was gone. For the first time during her brief life she was totally alone. Her skin had already begun to turn pale. Snails dropped from her legs in a flood of slime. Leeches living beneath her arms slipped out and began their journey in search of new blood.
The weekend conservationist drove speedily homewards, making up his mind to tell no-one. He turned around now and again to check on her at the traffic lights. There wouldn't be any fighting over her. He had discovered her. She blinked at him and was crawling and dripping. Parts of her being were closed like the forest. She has made his clothes earth smelling. She was timid, drifting from her body and not of herself. She had deep set features like water and darkness. He drove faster.
THIS IS REALLY WEIRD, he said, eyeing her through the rear vision mirror. WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LIKE THIS? She hissed into the rug.
He increased speed as she spat. Perhaps he should hand her in to the police. But curiosity got the better of him. Afterall, who was to know, if he kept her. He certainly didn't think she belonged to anyone. Anyway, she would probably die between home and here. What the world didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He told her that he was Ian and into sex and weekend conservation. She could half comprehend him. She buried her head beneath the rug.
She drifted out of her being - around the rear vision mirror - to the back of his head. She was comforted and confused by pockets of Dwindling Forest along the roadside. Spidery ferns so huge that they swayed and brushed the side of the truck - she became almost relaxed. Almost leaving the truck as her floating self, but was fearful of becoming lost. Then quietly she sank back into her sleeping - forgetting the passing scene at last. It was beautiful but it was not the forest.
Ian weekend conservationist frowned and shook his head, considering what to do next. She was young adolescent by the feel of her, but his eyesight told him half tree and half woman. He was half in a daze from this strange experience. Yet soon he would be safely at home. He tried to take hold of himself, for her sake as much as his own.
I'LL PUT YOU IN MY HOTHOUSE, he said to the rear vision mirror, not sure whether she understood English. Perhaps she was some super intelligence. Some back to the forest feminist. He began to frighten himself. He had been in the Dwindling too long this time. Next time he would take a mate and some reconstructed orange juice.
He talked of heat and freak weather around the world - that was drying up forests and raining on cities. And the way in which mountains appeared to move of their own accord. She was drifting again and only half breathing. She dimly comprehended that his very own noises appeared to excite him. She thought she was the forest, but felt not of herself as she thought it.
She watched the leeches as they slipped into his shirt, and he blamed the climate on the comet. But of stars he wasn't interested. It had been like an asprin to him - one that had fizzled. He slapped at his neck. It was stinging from forest. It was turning pink. He would have to shower. He smiled at the Only One in the rear vision mirror.
