Long ago, on an island in the Pacific, chanting filled the cloudy night sky. It was a curious tune, one whose syntax seemed a parody of any known Earthly language- when it could be heard. For as steady as it was, rising and falling like the waves lapping the shore of the distant coastline, at times the crescendo reached so high a pitch it became inaudible to all but the most acute ear, a noise that bounced off every mosquito, moth, and dark, flying object in its’ path to return to its’ creators. These creators were no less curious, collectively standing on the rim of an ancient caldera, hands held in a giant ring, facing the center. Cast in shadow, they bore a passing resemblance to human beings- a resemblance that, if the spikes that occasionally forced their way out from under their robes was any indication, was only superficial. But no matter. This was a momentous night, and all involved, from those whose backs failed in old age to those so young they were lifted off the ground by those beside, stared at the lone plant growing at the base of the caldera with rapt attention.
To an outsider, it would have appeared unassuming: a bush of pointed, turquoise leaves lined with small spikes, unique only in being especially large as far as desert succulents went. No other plants grew in the caldera, although intricate little canals had been etched into the sand as if to direct the melting snow at the rim to the plant.
The ancient chant went on, and as if in response, a solitary stalk emerged from the heart of the succulent, reaching into the night. It rose and rose in defiance of natural physics, eventually rivaling the skyscrapers of New York in height, yet remained only wide around as a quarter. On and on it grew, higher and higher. As the gap between the stalk and the clouds narrowed, branches unfurled from its’ sides, uncoiling outward to reveal glowing gold masses crackling with static, electric as the mood among the chanters far below.
The leader of the procession, so tall the second highest only went up to her chest, ceased the celestial hymn. One by one the others followed suit, until not even the wind blowing up from the sea below could be heard. A faint chill lingered in the night air.
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Miles above the chanter’s heads, luminescent pollen darted from branch to branch, generating sparks of light as they rushed against each other, faster and faster, until in their jockeying they created one continuous ball of light, igniting the tip of the stalk like some otherworldly streetlamp. Flying insects, drawn to this new sun, courted it, only to be vaporized by the force of one trillion volts. Below, the chanters flinched as invisible pricks of static danced across their robes.
And still the stalk’s glow intensified, far too great to view directly, until-!
A column of pure light shot into the sky with the ferocity of a hurricane, tearing a massive hole in the cloud cover. Stars now shimmered in the night against an indigo backdrop, an inverted sea in the clouds. But all these paled to the shimmering white dot, far larger and more radiant than all the rest, which lay directly in the path of the beam. All across the island, creatures shrieked in horror as their hair stood on end. The chanters gazed upward as the beam made a direct beeline to its destination, the massive light torpedo shrinking amongst the stars until finally becoming nothing more than a spark in the cosmic ocean. Thunder ripped the celestial night.
Hours passed, and slowly, clouds filled up the hole in their cover. The chanters kept their posts, waiting for a bright spark, a sound, any reply from the evening star that was their homeland. Even as the first trepid drops of rain rippled the sand, bringing waves of cool air, they held faith. It was only when the few drops had increased to torrents, bogging their robes that they finally slinked down the mountain to their ancient monastery, shoulders slumped.
The dispatch had fallen on deaf ears.
Still, they would return, again and again, as long as it took. Just as they had for the last fifteen million years.
. . .