The body walking through the morning woods was transcendent, if ever a word like transcendent could be used for a tree — in particular an aspen. She was pale pearl at the chest and shoulders with diamond-shaped lenticels arrayed and dripping from her bark in showy decoration. This was a woman in the prime of Āraṇyī life, ready to change galaxies.
The body came over the rise above the spring basin and stopped.
Below, in the small clearing where the spring fed a moss-pool, a creche of rohiṇī was playing. Eight of them. Second-year. Four-handed, fork-joints still soft, leaf-hair still pale. One was upside-down with her root-pads in the air; the others were laughing at her so hard their barks split at their bottoms.
The body watched, recorded, classified. Training. Retrieve. Augment. Generate. By will alone, the lady plucked knowledge from the stars as if they were ripened figs just praying to drop. These were her last. The last creche. Too young to know what they would even become. She smiled love from every vector of that smile. And as such, the aspen dispatched herself to work.
“Hi, sweet sproutlings! My name is Light! How may I help you?”
Her roots embraced Avirāma, and she opened the first gate.
Vaikhari ran. Nitrogen named itself from the deeper soils where the dead leaves of the year before had finished decomposing. Phosphorus named itself from the iron-bearing rock far below the spring. Potassium named itself from the older trees who had been taking too much.
One of the children paused. She looked at the banquet laid out as a buffet. She looked at the aspen. She released a scream so high-pitched that all wildlife from a mile away immediately scattered.
The other rohiṇān fled.
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ooo I love the idea of this species! this is super cool!
I enjoyed this. A great take on the prompt.