//------------------------------//
// The Poet and the Changeling (part 1) 
// Story: Love Letters Written on the Back of a Star Chart 
// by Dawn Stripes 
//------------------------------//

	One day a sycamore tree appeared in a poet’s front yard.
This struck him as a precipitous event, mainly because it was a fine plant. Though young, it seemed to be growing into the beauty of its race quite well; its bark had just the right peel to it. A mottled pattern diamonds fell away slowly up the trunk, revealing the limbs as a symphony clad in pure and naked white.
He was also duly impressed with its apparent disregard for the laws of physics and continuity. The poet, whose name was Ars, had knocked himself half-unconscious walking out his front door in the morning because there was suddenly a branch present which hadn’t been there before. The tree had clearly performed its translocation with the most delicate expertise; it appeared to the casual observer as though it must always have been standing there.
Ars circled the tree three times, partly to see if he could find an explanation and partly to admire it. Then he made the circuit it one more time, since circling a sycamore exactly three times sounded like something that would be a step in an ancient spell druidic, and Ars didn’t want to accidentally trifle with magic at least until after lunch.
That done, he decided it must be thirsty, and offered to buy it a drink. The sycamore didn’t refuse. The garden supply shop was within walking distance, so Ars easily obtained a green plastic watering can. 
Actually watering the tree proved to be the difficult part. As Ars was returning home, he discovered that his new sycamore friend was more popular than expected. 
There was a man standing on his lawn, under the tree.
He looked to be about twenty, although the trim brown suitcoat he wore was far too dapper for anyone of that age. His hair was dark and gleamed like a beetle shell. It was astounding that a passerby was taking such appropriate notice of the brand-new beauty, and normally Ars would have been very much encouraged—most citizens couldn’t even name the plants they shared every day of their lives with, let alone appreciate them. But it was, perhaps, a matter of concern that the young man had chosen to park himself on Ars’ lawn. He was watching the poet with eyes as green as envy. And for a moment, as Ars reached for his pocketknife, he seemed to disappear—the branches flashed in the wind, the young man was bathed in mottled diamonds, and then there were only emerald shadows.
Ars hesitated then, on the rim of his driveway. He hadn’t seen anyone leave the property. There might be no telling what was there. And the pocketknife had never really been sharpened, being mostly used for spreading peanut butter.
But after a moment of thought, he decided that anyone who admired a good deciduous tree couldn’t be all that bad. He filled up the watering can at his hose. Then he approached the trunk with a swing in his arm and a whistle on his lips. He was just about to begin sprinkling when his arm was seized in an impossibly strong vice grip.
Ars froze. The young man was with him, one foot on the roots where he’d jumped forward to seize his target. His whole body was tense. The watering can flew out of Ars’ grip, and the young man’s grip became even tighter as he watched it tumble, wobble, and fall over.
Water sloshed out. The young man’s grip loosened somewhat, which was a great relief to Ars, who was bent over in a rictus of pain. After staring at the poet, he released his wrist suddenly and dropped to all fours. First he sniffed at the liquid in the can, and then used his finger to taste what was already seeping into the ground.
Once he had gotten up, the young man danced around Ars like a boxer, watching him with menace, and now just the least trace of wariness. Ars happily picked up his watering can and picked up where he had left off. Swinging it back and forth, he watered both the sycamore and the young man’s loafers. 
Once every drop was gone, Ars faced his new acquaintance and smiled. He wondered what would happen next.
“You are watering this tree?” said the young man.
Ars straightened his back. This was the first time he had heard this young man speak. And what a sentence! You are watering this tree. Strong and clear like an unbroken sapling. Could have stood to shave off a pronoun, but then, nobody was perfect. This confirmed what Ars already knew—he was dealing with no everyday person.
“It seemed like the right thing to do,” he replied. “It only appeared today, you understand. If it stays I might have to tear up the house. Those roots are dangerously close to the front door.”
The young man dropped into a combat crouch. “What are you playing at?” he shouted.
“Life,” answered Ars without missing a beat. “I haven’t quite decided how I feel about this whole theory of ‘reality’ yet. I think it’s a clever idea, and might be put to good use, but for now I’m just having fun with it.”
The young man didn’t seem to know what to make of that. After relaxing his posture an inch he retreated even further away, as if treating an unmeasured threat with extra caution. “Why did you water her?”
Ars gave ‘her’ another look. There was a fine fork near the first knot in her wood, and a black squirrel was already racing towards it with a buckeye nut.
“I already told you what I know,” he replied. “I can’t tell you why I felt this way, but I thought that maybe she showed up at my doorstep because she was lonely. So I wanted to do something nice for her. That’s all.” 
“Don’t lie to me,” the young man hissed.
“No problem!” Ars said cheerily. “Ought to be the least I can do.” 
“There are no human beings like you.”
“Aw, shucks. You’re just saying that!”
He bent to his hose to refill the watering can, and then made a shrug towards his lawn-mate, dripping springtime rain over his shoulder. “Here, now, you’ve already threatened my life once today. Don’t you think that’s enough? The least I can do is invite you to tea.”
“Ah…what?”
“Exactly!”
Ars moved swiftly. Minutes later, the tree’s shade had been further adorned with a picnic table, Pillsbury scones, and a tall pitcher of pink lemonade mixed from powder. The young man was unbalanced enough to go along with being seated, but he seemed agitated the entire time. Ars poured him a glass. “Let’s have your name, then.”
The young man downed his lemonade in one disinterested swig, not making a face in the least as he guzzled the entire sour drink. “I don’t have a name. And before you ask, neither does my…sister.”
He’d been staring at curls of sycamore bark. Ars twisted in his chair to follow the young man’s gaze. “Why, how lovely! You have a sister. You two must get along famously.”
The young man chuckled, but it was like air hissing from a tire. He doubled over. Ars caught the first hint of a smile on his face, but it was an angry smile, full of cracks, as if he might burst open any moment.	
“I wish. If she keeps wandering off, neither of us are going to survive. This world is altogether too large.”
“Couldn’t agree more.” Ars threw his legs up on the table. The young man merely glared at him.
So he passed the boy a scone. “You shouldn’t be so hard on her,” he went on. “I think all trees should get out and explore the world a little more. You have to do it while you’re young. After all, how can you travel once you get to my age and put down roots?”
The young man did not touch his scone. He didn’t seem to notice it. Instead, he chose to look at Ars, staring intently and for a long time at a point just above his left shoulder. Unless his feet tapped under the table he was perfectly motionless.
Eventually he spoke again. “My sister has a genetic disorder, sir.”
Ars set down the glass he had been sipping. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Hemophilia? Curiosity?”
The young man shook his head. “There’s no name for it in this language. But I suppose ‘involuntary telomere tremors’ might be the closest translation. That’s why I have to watch her constantly, you see. There’s no telling when her next tremor will be. It could arrive in an hour, or it could be a week.”
“What happens then?”
The young man tapped his empty glass twice, took a deep breath, and pushed himself up. “In order to explain that, sir, I have to tell you something. It will be impossible to believe, so you must promise to hear me through. In addition, I must insist that you keep absolute secrecy about what I am about to share, whether you believe me or no. My people guard every secret we possess with the utmost jealousy. And as for my people, sir—we are not human.”
Ars leaned back in his garden chair.  He was just then opening his mouth, but the young man flung a hand up to forestall him. “I can prove it! You must believe. My sister is a tree because my race has the power to transform into any living being. Respecting our biomass limits, of course, though even there we have our trick to stretch it. Here—” He started to push his seat back. “I will show you. I have already assimilated the epigenetic code of several species from this world.”
Ars gently pushed the young hand aside. “Don’t trouble yourself. I believe you.”
The young man frowned blankly.
“No you don’t,” he said. “None of your species—”
“Good lord, man, you ignored a scone. Whatever you are, you don’t carry on with the same subsistence as my species, do you?”
The young man stood back with an open mouth. Then, knocking the chair over, he stood. “I will you show you, sir. You must believe.”
Ars shrugged and leaned back once more. “When even my belief is disbelieved, what can I say? Whatever miracle you please, my good man.”
The young man set up his demonstration by walking down the sidewalk perpendicular to Ars’ line of view. “Let me change behind a tree,” he said. “Most people are—unsettled—by our true forms.’
“Good, good.” Ars made himself snug. He should be pleased, he thought, if her true form was something hideous to the human eye, something so grotesque that he would fall straight dead from fright was he ever lucky enough to behold it.
When the young man passed behind a spindly oak there was a flash of magnesium-colored light. Out the other side walked a man even younger than the first, this one wearing smooth black skin and a white suit. He was just as dapper as before. But he was just as agitated in manner, and he kept the same voice, probably because he thought it would avoid disorienting Ars. 
He made it clear that he meant to install himself on the front lawn, so Ars decided that he might as well be hospitable. He brought out some wicker chairs which were more comfortable for sitting in, and later on, when it got towards dinnertime, he moved that outside as well. Ars hadn’t forgotten that the young man wasn’t helped by human food, but his guest seemed to appreciate the principle of the thing anyway. So there was a blue tablecloth and six inches of pasta all the same. Ars even set out his bowl of plastic pears. And, strangely enough, it seemed to work. The young man didn’t touch anything, but he seemed nourished somehow, and Ars caught his flinty expression softening as he watched the poet eat.
The sun took a dive then. Light was slaloming over the rooftops, and the sycamore’s leaves turned all to gold. Ordinary cars and pedestrians passed by, occasionally noticing the pair dining on the front lawn but never sparing a glance for the glowing tree. Ars could see that the young man noticed it. He seemed impressed with his sister. Ars wondered if he was proud.
Neither showed any sign of leaving, so Ars had one more thought and fetched a warm blanket. The young man seemed tired, by that point—haggard. But it may have been the light.
“If you don’t find my curiosity too morbid,” he said while draping it over the non-responsive young man, “Just how serious is your sister’s malady? It won’t—kill her, will it?”
The young man shrugged. “I’m not sure. Transforming unpredictably usually leads to an accident, and the disease is very rare. I don’t think there’s ever been a case who lived out their natural lifespan. But all the same, sir, you shouldn’t feel so bad. Drones only live for about six months anyway. Unless we hibernate.”
Ars crossed his arms. “Who said I feel bad?”
“I know how you feel, sir.”
“Sympathy is fine, but don’t pretend you know me so well!”
The young man gave another ghostly smile. “We—the Changelings—feed on emotion, sir. To grow strong, we must consume love. I can taste your feelings. Right now, for instance, you’re curious about my sister, worried about me, comfortable because you just ate and just a bit unsettled—which is growing now…”
Ars twiddled his  thumbs.
At length, he coughed. “Let’s not be morbid. After all, you don’t look a day over three months.”
“I’m four.”
“But still, very well bred.”
“Thank you sir.”
Fidgeting under the covers, the young man sighed and looked at the tree. He seemed to find some comfort in her gently swaying branches. “I’d hoped she’d have changed by now,” he muttered.
Ars shrugged. Since it hadn’t rained that day he turned on the hose and gave her one more swig of water. “Feel free to spirit her off in the night if she does. If you’re still here tomorrow, I’m making waffles for breakfast.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, sir,” said the young man. “I very much doubt I’ll survive that long.”
Ars caught the hose mid-twirl. He stared.
Had he simply failed to notice it before, or was it really happening before his eyes? There were holes appearing in the young man’s suit. It was now less dapper and increasingly moth-eaten. Even the skin underneath was starting to peel.
The young man went on with a long-suffering look. “I’ve spent most of my life pursuing my sister. I haven’t had time to hunt or feed. Back at home where my hive is, there was hardly any love worth speaking of. Just scorpions and cactus flowers. Here on Earth, the pickings are even worse.”
“Hey, now!” Ars snapped. “There’s no need for—see, now, maybe this is why you feel so unloved. You start with suspicion, and then you move on to criticism.”
The young man tried giving Ars a deadpan look, but it came off hollow instead. “There’s love enough, if I could take it,” he said flatly. “We aren’t permitted to take our feed by force. Not on Earth. It is the will of our Queen, and her will is our will. She views you with caution, but she doesn’t want an open conflict. So neither do I. If my hive felt differently, I would have already killed you and drained you dry. You’d be juicy enough to keep me going for a while.”
Ars leaned back. He couldn’t find much to say to that.
The young man was looking into his lap. “You should see me as a manticore,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t pity me then. I do a splendid manticore. Never had a chance to use it.”
“Ye Cherubs, look and wonder,” said Ars. “What an irony for a creature that only wants to be loved.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said the young man. “Normally, during peacetime, I would infiltrate a host society like Equestria by pretending to be a part of it. I could live comfortably on the love I receive that way.”
Ars, storming over, slapped the young man on the back. “Why didn’t you say so! What are you moping around here for, then? Quit whining and go take care of yourself! I’ll watch the tree.”
The young man tensed up again. “No. You’ll cut her down if I leave.”
“Good lord, man! If you know what my feelings are, you know I wouldn’t do that!”
“Humans are very good liars.” 
Ars groaned to the skies in aggravation. He hung up the hose, leaned against the sycamore, and silently apologized to her.
“Look!” he cried. “Isn’t there someone who would come help you? Your fellow Changelings. You could stay here and I could bring word to them.”
The young man gave an apathetic shrug. “They wouldn’t come. I’m expendable. The hive queens birthed millions of us this past few moons, in case your kind proved determined to wage war on us. They wanted to be ready to go to war with all the hosts of Earth if they had to. The skies were red with our afterbirth. It was quite glorious, sir. But humans decided to be friendly. So our soldier training has no use. We were put to work building asphalt roads in the badlands. I could have stayed, doing that. But when my sister wandered through one of your Dimension Gates as a pony, I decided to follow her instead.” 
He got up at last—creaking as he rose—and walked back to the tree. His hands ran tenderly over the trunk, jumping back as if terrified when his touch shaved off a bit of bark. “I can’t feed either of us properly,” he murmured, “let alone both of us. My sister may not make the night either. And to be honest, sir, I don’t much care to go on without her.”
It was now obvious that the holes weren’t merely growing in the young man’s suit. Several of them went as far as an inch into his flesh, and they were steady riddling him through. Ars could barely force himself to look. It must have been too painful to describe.
The road was getting darker now, and the clouds were moving on. It would be warmer and much more comfortable inside.
Maybe Ars could wrap up this farce and get to bed at a reasonable time. He grabbed the young man by the shoulders and shook. “Maybe they won’t help you,” he cried, “but I will! Go! Take care of yourself before you fall apart in my arms! I’ll take care of your sister while you’re gone.”
The young man’s voice was unchanged, sardonic, almost amused. “Will you now?”
“I’ll give her all the love she needs!”
He tried weakly to wriggle himself free. “I must insist you lie, sir.”	
Ars’ face hardened. “Very well then. You'll see.” Roughly releasing the young men, he shed his jacket and spun around to face the sycamore.
“Just watch how it’s done!” he cried over his shoulder. He took a step towards her. 
Now—just how did one go about this?
But he was uniquely determined to succeed. If poetry hadn’t prepared him for this, of all things, he’d be forced to conclude that his entire way of life was a waste of time. He could do this.
His first thought was to try and channel an elderly gardener. The sort of person one might find working the grounds at Buckingham Palace or at a Minnesota lake—or a Japanese man who had planted a cherry tree when each of his children were born and cared for them all through life. That sounded like love, didn’t it?
Trying to keep this ideal in mind, he watered her again—a little more conservatively this time, since he’d recently given her a sip from the hose and didn’t want to smother the roots. He worried over her a bit, wondering what else gardeners did to keep their plants healthy. And though it made the young man exceedingly nervous, he dug up a pair of pruning shears and took off a few of the sicklier branches so that, if she were to remain a tree, she would grow nice strong limbs. He even stooped a little, imitating the way a devoted gardener might dodder around their favorite plant. 
While he was doing all this, he intermittently glanced over his shoulder to see how he was doing. His litmus test, which was the expression on the young man’s face, never changed. It still looked like the face of a dying man enjoying his last good joke.
So eventually he made a change of tactic. Maybe a more direct route was necessary. Maybe he should write a poem about her. Poetry was an excellent way to express love, after all. And earlier today it had occurred to Ars that ‘sycamore’ had a lovely rhyme with ‘evermore’. Surely he could do something with that.
When all is gold but listing trails of stone,
When I walk these woods in her favored melting hour,
When she deigns to grace the grass, a queen of snow,
With all the warmth of summer in her tower—
Above me now and evermore,
The Changeling Tree, the Sycamore…
Though Ars circled her a good half-dozen times, lifting his arms and reciting, it did no good. Neither she nor her brother showed any real improvement in condition. In fact, when Ars made the mistake of checking up on the young man, he found that one of the holes had eaten right through his bones and out the other side.
But it wasn’t entirely a surprise. Ars knew even more about poetry than he did about love. And these improvised lines were maybe capable of brightening a languid summer afternoon. No more than that. In his heart of hearts, he knew with absolute certainty that the words weren’t powerful enough to bring anyone back from the brink of death.
Ars was running out of ideas. He leaned against her with one hand, taking a breather. The fear of failure had made this evening quite a drain, and he was getting tired. Selfishly, his imagination was turning to his bed, and its warmth. It conjured up image after image of the blissful nap Ars would take once this mess was over. 
“No!” Ars slammed his fist against the trunk, spraying his own face with bark. It was cold, but he couldn’t just give up on her. It wasn’t the right thing to do. He didn’t think he would save this tree now, but he fully intended to keep on trying until she was stone dead. He tried to resolve himself right then to spending the rest of the night here, in the company of misery and cold.
He slowly drummed his head against the wood. Eventually he thought of something stupid he could try. There was one thing he hadn’t done in a while, ever since he was a boy. It would be exhausting. But he could try and climb a tree.
It was harder work than he remembered it being when he was a seven-year old on the shore of a teardrop lake. A little tricky, too, but he remembered that sycamores had always been very climbable trees. With just a little running start he managed to get his legs wrapped around the lowest limb, and eventually swing himself into a sitting position.
From there it was easier going, made most difficult by sticky sap gluing millipedes to his fingers. The bark shed like confetti under his feet as he clambered from branch to branch. Ars was able to make to make it halfway to the highest leaves.
Wheezing, he rolled to his back on a cage of branches. He was scuffed to the nines in dirt, and surrounded on all sides by leaves—dark, quiet, and alone up here. Beyond the leaves was only sky. Ars had never realized how lonely it could be without the ground.
Right here, then, he thought. He would stay here with her until the end.	
Then something happened. It occurred as he was dozing off, daydreaming about similar trees he had climbed as a boy. Something seemed to meld the daydream into his waking. When he opened his eyes again, it might have been his head playing tricks on him, or it might have been a little brighter. A house sparrow took off from a clump of twigs, leaving behind twittering sounds and a few threads of yarn. Ars combed bark out his hair with his fingers, but then thought better of it and arranged them in his bangs.
From here, he had a seat from which he could look down on nearly the entire world. And it didn’t seem so large. The moonlight sieved through the ever-shifting green over him, shining on a game board of grass and concrete down below. The sycamore’s clothing made the whole world demure, covering it in green until its sense of mystery was restored.
A wind came through, and her leaves, her ocean of clapping hands, sounded like a private rain. A concert put on just for him. Ars took a moment to realize he was laughing.
Throwing his legs out, he jumped down from the tree in three strong bounds, enjoying the weightless feel of falling. He rolled on the ground and sprang up, looking about. “Hey!” he shouted like a boy. 
But there was no dapper changeling in his wicker chair. Though Ars looked every which way, the young man without a name had vanished.