The Subterranean

It was warm and snug underground. Some of the wooden trusses were beginning to crack overhead from the weaving tree roots. The ceiling in the south-west corner was dripping steady. The thaw of the frost above had begun. The potbelly stove maintained the heat. There were two seasons; cold and warm. The warm only lasted two months or so. 

Most of the paper stacked against the surrounding walls had turned umber. I knew paper well.  

The Historian dug his hovel some time ago now. His hand spasmed often. The cramps were from a perfected ability to print in an almost microscopic size, which was fine by me. His current effort was minimal, however. A short treatise on turf management. I knew turf well too. 

Yet, there was a far more pressing problem at hand, according to the Historian's priorities anyway. He had only two sheets of paper left. Ink and pens were plentiful. He crafted splints of wood for pen tips and concocted ink from berries, honey, sap, tea, or soot. I loved organic matter. 

He did not see the utility in keeping prints of history secret. Most of the Great Delete began with hoarding. All original antiquity copies were incinerated. Crying shame. Maybe they didn’t like the font. Some called it the Grand Fall. 

However, Earth indeed did not fall. According to the Historian. Its pillars and foundations did not crumble into the mantle for the colossal weight of its own lofty heights and stature. The world was borne to perdition. Cradled by mountebanks and fools. The pillars and foundations were systematically picked apart by scavengers. I would know. Only a world so great could die so catastrophically. All depends on one’s world view I suppose. Much like a soil profile of a perched water table, there are many levels. It is safe underground, but things tend to fester. 

Resentment is a sin against humanity the Historian muttered once. It was only happenstance that the clandestine overlords fed on the scraps after their patient waiting. I feed on scraps, but not with any malicious intent. 

The Historian came to a troubling task of cataloguing the various legislations brought forth or enacted following the Treaty of Versailles. Which proved quite difficult. His current script on turf was merely procrastination. Turf was interesting though; he didn’t mind too much writing the more esoteric topics. The true historical writings were a feat and tedious. 

There were countless events he knew of, but not necessarily about. For example, he knew of; the Rwandan massacres; 500,000 slain, 250,000 women raped; he knew of the Peloponnesian Wars and the victories of Alexander the Great; the Irish famine and indentured servitude and serfdom to British landowners was of particular interest due to his lineage; and exploits of Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Pol Pot, Mao, Nero, all the biggies. Yet, he knew little to nothing on the whys. Yet, he wrote on them, nevertheless. Limited was his rationale. He could not surmise. He once wrote on one Chauncy Gardner, a politician I think, who spoke poetically on the components of a thriving economy. He found the poetic metaphors helpful in rationalising events. 

This was not a task by arbitrary choice. This was a responsibility thrust upon him I assume. A responsibility purely by virtue of his circumstance. He had survived; therefore he had a duty. 

His hand would often contort into a claw as it did now. Yet, he rather enjoyed the weighty relief of stretching the cramp out, only to watch and feel the sensation of it slowly resume its paralysis like an alien creature. People think me alien, and for good reason admittedly. Just a mouth, no ears, no eyes. Overrated by my mind anyway. 

The Historian looked forward to the warm. This is when he had found time. Time to rest, time to potter about, and scheme in the process. This season would be spent on recalling an activity his year 8 class did on camp that he jotted down once for his own amusement. He would pulp some wood and make paper from memory. I devour books, though too many wear me down. 

Two sheets left. As many as those books which survived, that he kept on his makeshift desk of four planks wedged into a small alcove in the north wall. One in taters and the other incomplete. The tattered one, printed in Consolas font, contained edits in heavy black ink on its loose faded dot matrix paper. It was named and corrected ‘The Ant that did Otherwise the Little Ant with a Big Problem’. I could relate to the ant I suppose, even if it was just an extended metaphor. 

I did not favour this one too much. It was lacking for its damage. Pages were torn or missing and eaten; my fault. The edits only added to the confusion. Not to mention, I was perplexed as to why ‘that’ and ‘did’ were not capitalised on each page’s header. The incomplete work, I figured, was far more savoury. It was straightforward enough, ‘The Cloud Watcher’. It consisted of chapters 1, 2, 3, 5, and 7. All were exact and to the point. No hidden meanings or allusions, simply a story of a man who enjoyed watching clouds. 

The Cloud Watcher was printed in a font I did not recognise. The pages were coarse and ochre. Clouds don’t mean much to me, other than the rain. The clouds rain, hail, or snow all the time, so why dwell on it. One chapter read: 

Chapter III 

There are many types of clouds. Cumulus being the most common, or at least the most recognised by the layman; in shape alone. How does one keep track of each name, Joseph thought. Most were indistinguishable to him. 

“How can the naked eye gauge what layer in the atmosphere a cloud floats in?”, Joseph asked. 

“Well, it can’t!” Jason laughed. “Basically, it’s guesswork without measuring instruments, but there are some physical characteristics that give you a clue as to how high. Some types of clouds only, well, mostly occur only in the one sphere. Therefore, the characteristic tells what atmosphere. 

“How many spheres are there?” Joseph’s face now displayed a cynical worry. Jason inhaled softly, readying his answer. 

“Plenty, but only 2 pertinent to clouds. Troposphere and stratosphere. Most occur in the former”. His body reeled inward as he sat his weathered self, down. The dog park was empty. The bench was tarnished by the elements, lending its charm. He sat with a soft stare at the ground. 

Joseph asked, “Are you ever sad when the sky is empty– no clouds at all? 

“Never. Just look forward to the next day or just marvel at the shade of blue that day. 

“Do you still see shapes or pictures in the clouds?” 

“Oh yeah! I never stopped” 

“I still spot bunny rabbits – every time” 

“Ha! Yeah, that’s a popular one! I’ve always seen the profiles of bearded old men. They usually look like my dad. I see the same in most things; air space in tree canopies, tile patterns, rock walls, shadows”. 

36 

What a time to have time to dream. Why did people resent it so? I guess they stopped dreaming when the Agents took over and gave them dreams for nothing. So, by that logic the Great Delete made sense. Dream in the present. What of the past. The future is bound. Far less violence as well. If what he wrote was true, the world today by those standards is a far more docile place. So maybe it was worth it. In pursuit of unity, cohesion is inevitable. The ‘how?’ is what matters. According to his entries, he and his kind had pursued it copious times to no avail, and sometimes to extreme detriment. His hand twitched in a pulse, and he downed his pen. Finished, and glad too. His hand was a fuzz. He took gulps at his wooden cup and tore at his dried meat with his blunt teeth. He was a gangly creature; all limb and no body, curled together like a crustacean. Hated mosquitoes just the same as I. His chapped palms swipe at them furiously. 

His entry on turf management interested me as you would expect. However, I’m not sure it was a necessary instalment from his angle. He was the Historian after all. It read more as a manual. I can’t complain, a little light reading over a meal will always suffice. It read: 

#

The Fundamentals in Turf Management 

1. Rhizomes and Stolons 

There is a myriad of turf types. There are sports, ornamental, recreational, and even fabricated. However, there are only two grass types according to growth habits; rhizomes; and stolons. A rhizomatous grass grows in clumps, and so typically only up above the surface. It has no runners on the surface, only roots and sub-roots that grow downward through the soil profile. Stoloniferous turf sends roots and runners across as well as down. Above the surface, a stolon may even climb. 

Typically, rhizomatous grass grows downward by the roots and stoloniferous across at the surface. Ordinarily, all grasses have seed heads, and so propagation can be determined manually, or naturally, either upon the wind, cuttings, or the digestive systems of birds and bovine. 

Unchecked, rhizome turf will keel over at length, attracting various vermin like snakes and rodents that reap the haven of its thick thatch. Rhizomes clump together, creating a robust and dense surface, yet the unseen mat layer beneath breeds disease. This in turn can cause water logging and anaerobic soil. 

Given the growth habits of stolons, they can cover great masses of ground. However, with this broad spread, may leave patches of bare earth. Not to mention, stolons can very well be considered an invasive species, infiltrating other environments, gardens, and even other turf surfaces. Yet, stoloniferous grass wears well, is drought tolerant, salt tolerant, repairs quickly and accommodates for a wide range of utilities and seasonal conditions. Stolon grass requires consistent maintenance and without annual renovation can develop worn conditions increasing compaction, heat stress, and microbe or organic matter deficiency. 

It is easy to resent one turf over the other. Both species have their positives and negatives, but perhaps an amalgam of both is best demonstrated in our sporting leisure. Most sporting surfaces at the professional level have specified constituents of turf. It may be a ratio of 2-parts couch, 1-part fescue, and 3-part ryegrass. What better demonstration of harmony can we propose than a diverse arena, consisting of a purposeful variety of specimen, existing only for the play of 2 opponents to tough it out in a grand theatre, in pleasure and will to achieve. 

#

The Historian breathed in deeply, as he often did at nightfall. He was done in. I needed some air. Some pockets of soil had turned fetid putrid. I made my way to the surface. I’m a worm after all.