The weeds along the pathway clung to my IMRA uniform. The High Witch glared at me as I stumbled over diamond-patterned sticks. “We have no cause for your people here,” she repeated. Her staff—a branch braided with moss and who knew what else—swung toward my head.
I reeled backward, almost tripping over a row of wilted flowers. These people were worse than I thought. After IMRA had sent my colleague, Winston, last month, I wasn’t keen on visiting. But now it was my turn to do the convincing.
“Be gone, lest a curse fall upon you!”
“Ma’am, believe me, IMRA and I only have the best interest of humanity at heart. But the last of the federally mandated rockets are being launched within the next year. Earth isn’t sustainable for humanity anymore. We must relocate.”
I finished my speech with a grunt, a puff of air fogging up my mask. If this High Witch struggled for air, she didn’t show it.
I turned to the orange sky. Through the empty branches, streaks of black clung to the horizon. I tried distinguishing the rotting, empty buildings of the Upper East Side. As if on cue, a soft rumbling rose from miles away.
Several cultist members suddenly leaped out of the park rocks. Their potato-sack robes were sewn with oak branches and acorns, making it easy to blend into the trees. They barreled toward me, some with even larger sticks. I bit my lip.
“We’re reclaiming the earth!”
“This is our home!”
“That’ll be another IMRA rocket!” I shouted over the noise. “Our New York division has one more available in August.”
The High Witch scowled at me.
“Please, I have the information packets—we can provide supplies in the meantime—”
The High Witch threw up a calloused hand. The group forming behind her quieted in a breath. I glanced at each one. Most were older, wearing the tattered hoodies and scarves from their homeless days. Others were more like the “earthers,” as we called them. Some of the many hundreds who refused to leave their farms, villages, and homes. IMRA welcomed them, but they made it clear that they’d rather brave earth’s harsh elements than whatever lay beyond.
“They can send whatever agents they like, even the less experienced ones like you. But we won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
I was more impatient than intended, but the High Witch only shook her head.
“We said this to the last one. The trees are dying, it’s true. Yet they still speak. They seek our help. As we become one with nature, we speak for them. If you are to take the coward’s way out, fine. We will speak for nature and build from the ground up.”
I sighed, lingering on her words. “Can I at least offer you some blankets?”
***
*International Martian Relocation Association, Rocket 8674, prepare for launch.*
I stood on the slick front deck of the ship, gazing out the window at the sea of brown. Behind me, the aisles of seats trembled.
Please locate your designated seat.
Winston turned to me as we strapped ourselves in. “A record of five thousand plus. Have any luck with those Upper East Side earthers?”
“No.” I tossed my head back.
We stared at the fiery smog underneath the long window. “Hopefully the last few come to their senses. Nothing but insanity down there now,” Winston remarked.
I remembered the High Witch’s words.
“No,” I murmured. “There’s some hope.”
This story previously appeared in 365 Tomorrows.
Edited by E. S. Foster.
E. S. Foster is a writer and graduate student at the University of Cambridge. Her work has been featured in a variety of literary journals and small presses. You can find out more about her and what she does at her blog, E. S. Foster.