A Gift of Trees
By Joshua Grasso
The bright-eyed student entered my office, offering the chirrupy greeting, “good morning, Dr. McAndrew!” A smile spread over both cheeks, the green skin smooth and unblemished.
Skohla-11, as they called themselves, was one of my most enterprising students, always sitting in the front row, taking notes the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper, while everyone else watched serials on their I-screens. But this one wanted to learn, since their kind prized the acquisition of knowledge—the more obscure, the better—as the greatest accomplishment a lifeform could boast.
Though that’s exactly what troubled me, and why I asked them to visit during my office hours. I always found it odd when a ‘visitor,’ as we called them, enrolled in my Introduction to Shakespeare course, since it wasn’t required in their degree plans, and teaching Shakespeare’s language to Earth-dwellers was tricky enough, not to mention the vicissitudes of translation required for someone born light-years from Earth who had never seen a play or read a poem.
“Please, sit down,” I gestured.
“Thank you, Dr. McAndrew!” Skohla-11 piped, their eyes settling on a vintage paperweight of a redwood forest.
“Just Lydia, if you please,” I said, pushing my screen aside. “I hope you don’t mind my request; I know you’re very busy.”
“Not at all, Lydia,” they said, looking reluctantly up from the paperweight. “We hope you have no concerns over our performance in class. Have we met your expectations in our recent essay over Portia and The Merchant of Venice? She is a familiar type among our people, very amusing.”
I almost laughed, trying to imagine their people as cross-dressing lawyers who defeat Shylock and Bassanio with salty Renaissance wit. Maybe what Samuel Johnson wrote hundreds of years ago still held true: “In the writings of other poets a character is too often an individual; in those of Shakespeare it is commonly a species.” Though I doubt he had a species from the Orion Nebula in mind.
“I’m so delighted you’re enjoying it. Which brings me to the reason you’re here,” I said, awkwardly scratching my neck.
Skohla-11 watched me without concern as their smile broadened. I always wondered whether they were truly experiencing delight, or it was a highly effective act of mimicry to set us at ease. The humans always smile, both as a welcoming gesture and a defense mechanism. They smile when greeting, when sad, in triumph, in defeat, when their loved ones graduate, when their loved ones die…
“Even though you attend class regularly and your grades are superior—truly, the best in class—there’s a slight problem. You see, it seems...you’re not actually registered for the class.”
Skohla-11 seemed to weigh each word, nodding carefully, waiting for a clue to proceed. I smiled (of course I did, don’t we always?) and leaned back in my chair, hoping the question would settle. Instead, their eyes wandered back to the paperweight, finding something inside the mass-produced bauble that eluded me.
“On the course register, someone named “Silkum-Bitrud” has your student ID number, and is supposed to be attending the class,” I said, folding my hands together. “But instead, you’re here, and while you’re an excellent student, you’re technically not enrolled in the class. Do you see my dilemma?”
“Oh yes, we see your dilemma, quite,” they nodded. “We are the living representative of Silkum-Bitrud of The Great Name. They are having many responsibilities and are so unable to attend the class. So we perform this duty for them to Their Great Glory.”
“I don’t understand…you’re taking the class for someone else? As a kind of proxy?”
“Yes, the Great Ones do not attend classes or travel from the Homeworld. They send us instead, their loyal Skohla, to perform such duties. We are bred to learn, to execute the duties of the class and bring it back to the Homeworld, to The Great Reverence Silkum-Bitrud. It is our sole achievement and responsibility.”
Something about their statements made the room feel small, my blood run cold. Were they hatched as slaves to perform these thankless tasks so that this creature, this Silkum-Bitrud, could win everlasting glory and a stellar GPA? I had always found Skohla-11 extraordinarily unique, profoundly inquisitive; was I now to believe they were merely one of many hundreds (or thousands) of such being shipped to Earth to lap up the scraps of knowledge for a master intelligence?
“But Skohla…the grade I assigned is for you,” I continued, meeting their gaze. “Don’t you understand? It’s your thoughts, your effort. In our culture, a grade represents the work of an individual student, and in this case, you. He can’t take possession of a grade, any more than he could take possession of…” I trailed off.
Strangely, Skohla-11 began to laugh in a manner that seemed utterly inconsistent with laughter. It lacked enjoyment or merriment. They seemed…frustrated? Annoyed?
“We think you misunderstand his intentions,” they said, still chuckling. “How can we explain? Perhaps we can use the example of Shakespeare? My master is a kind of Prospero…a magician who creates illusions and wonder. We are merely one of these illusions. Here, but not here.”
“Not here?” I said, clutching the redwood possessively. “What do you mean? You’re not real?”
“We have come in this form to be instructed; we serve no other purpose. When we return home, we will report our knowledge, the Master will listen, and then…we disappear. No more Skohla-11. If The Most High values this learning, they will send a new Skohla to subsequent classes; perhaps in the future you will meet Skohla-12 or 13?”
I honestly felt sick to my stomach. This wonderful, intelligent creature before me was no more than a glorified data recorder? A soon-to-be outdated model that would be used and discarded? And never seen again?
“Actually, that sounds a lot more like Caliban or Ariel, a creature enslaved to do their work under threat of extinction,” I explained.
A radiant smile washed over their face, as if I finally understood. But understood what? That this was their only hope of liberation?
It suddenly terrified me to think that we were approaching mid-terms. With each passing week, each new play and discussion, the Skohla was nearing their doom. With each new insight about Macbeth and Shylock, alien witches were prophesizing their end; an interstellar Venice was already laying snares to convert them.
My brain danced with my own Portia-like plans, conniving ways to extend the semester, flunk Skohla and demand they retake the course, persuade the president to grant them asylum and even bring charges against Silkum-Bitrud.
“But with a degree you could do something else…be someone else,” I said, almost desperately.
Another smile, another burst of exotic laughter.
“We are only a Skohla, designed for a single purpose, a single life. Surely you, too, wish to do many things, go many places. But your kind lives such a short time, not enough time to do everything you wish, is it not so?”
“But that’s different…” I began.
Our eyes locked, and they knew, and I knew, that it wasn’t. That I had never meant to stay here as long as I had. That I would never get back to my research or find the time to travel off-world. Had I also run out of time, out of lives? Was I just another spell that had outlived its purpose?
“I’m afraid I will soon be late for a study session, Dr. McAndrews,” they said, timidly. “Perhaps we can talk after our class this week? Over As You Like It?”
I gave a defeated nod. I had fooled myself into believing this was different, that an alien life-form would somehow elude the cycle of disappearing students. Because once the semester ended, I rarely saw them again. They became a mere list of names and a few flickering memories of conversations shared in a cramped, cellblock of a classroom. How did I know whether they lived or died, traveled across the stars or settled down and sold insurance? If given the chance to follow each student’s life, to know everything they would do and experience, I would gladly do so. But my limits were fixed in space and time. I could go no further.
“Wait, before you go…take this,” I said, pushing the paperweight across the desk. “Speaking of As You Like It, it’s like the forest of Arden.”
Skohla-11 seemed to collapse in wonder over this divine object. They held it reverently, turning it over and over, reading the words: “Northern California Redwoods” just above a whisper. Then, looking back up at me, the eyes flashing with gratitude (and something deeper), they said, “we will treasure this always. And so will The Most High!”
With that, they got up from the seat and backed out of the room, giving a little bow of thanks and departure. As I watched them go, I wondered how many more of them I would have over the years, and if the others would strike me as deeply. Or would I become immune to the pangs of regret and conscience? I hated to think of myself becoming so cynical, of seeing someone as magnificent as Skohla as commonplace, just another name and model number, another grade.
That was the high-wire act of teaching, after all: to catch each student before they fell, but still be willing to let go. Even if they fell a thousand light years short of everything we knew of home.
Joshua Grasso is a professor of English at a small university in the middle of Oklahoma, where he teaches classes in everything from Beowulf to Batman. He is a father to two wonderful boys, both close to college age, and owns an aging house which houses many dogs and cats (all rescued, and all terribly spoiled). His stories have most recently appeared in On Spec Magazine, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, Tales to Terrify, and JAKE.