Little Green Men by Jason Abshire

Young Toche, “the bird,” slight of stature and weighing no more than a bundle of palm leaves, was forever a dreamer. In his tiny village, deep in the jungles in Colombia, time moves slowly. He lived the life of his ancestors. Dinner came at the end of a spear, and fire and a thatch roof were luxuries. Modernity was yet to invade.

Toche was educated by a shaman. His training set him apart from the rest of the villagers. He lacked any formal education, but he did have the ability to recognize letters and construct words from text. Regardless of his level of learning, he was an impressive young lad.

About a century prior, a man, hailing from Spain, came to the village and brought God—and a small amount of education by way of a Bible, and some other reference material provided to the clergy for just such an expedition. Little did the priest and his ghostly friends know that his convoy’s demise would be certain and almost instant. No sooner had they arrived, spears pierced the chest of all but himself. Their sun-bleached skulls were crudely lashed to the imposing metal cross that they so needlessly lugged through the jungle. There were a couple of expeditions launched to find their whereabouts, but the cross served as a warning to others, and upon its discovery, the rescue parties quickly retreated into the jungle — never to be seen again. Were it not for a shaman with interest in the priest’s library, his skull would have found its resting place on the cross, too. A shaman held him captive long enough to ascertain a small amount of language and a rudimentary understanding of literature. He carried on the shaman tradition, mixing Mark and Luke with stories of magical darts and tales about monstrous, gray, trunked creatures from foreign lands. His attempt at “saving their souls” failed, but understanding was not lost on the shaman. These gave fodder to lore—and their skulls made lovely ornamentation and continued to adorn entry to the village for ages.

The weathered, blood-stained Bible, a hand-drawn map of the region, an assortment of photographs, and a 17th century book on Africa were all that survived time and the elements. Toche’s jungle home remained isolated, and their limited contact with outside civilization provided little opportunity to acquire new knowledge. But occasionally, explorers from the West—more ghosts—would happen by the village, and to eliminate the outside threat, they were forced away by skirmishes with war parties, often fleeing absent of their supplies. Though fierce at first sight, the people of the village were not of a violent nature. Their violence was merely a product of self-preservation, not aggression. Most simply farmed the cassava tubers and hunted small game in the jungle. The village elders would often tell legends about the outsiders and all of the trouble they brought to their ancestors. They encouraged the youth to not interact—there was always uncertainty as to whether the outsiders were humans or ghosts. Their cautionary tales fell on Toche’s deaf ears. Over time, spoils from invaders made their way back to the village and added the occasional pot, machete, or book to the library. Anytime a new book or collection of papers would arrive, Toche would devour it, often neglecting his chores and duties as a young shaman. Toche would peruse the texts, fighting to decipher each word and add meaning. The texts were not like the ones he originally studied. These contained objects that were even more curious. There were flying machines, metal objects that made fire, and monstrous looking animals that devoured everything in their path. He would pass hours clumsily fighting to make sense of the stories. Many evenings, he would collect groups of the villagers and attempt to explain his findings. Excited and animated, he would offer the village stories about ideas that were so foreign that he would often be laughed at and ridiculed. He spoke about the people from the sky, villages with vast populations, glowing huts that reached high into the sky, aliens from other lands, and animals that didn’t exist in their jungle. Though entertaining, his tales were dismissed as imaginative and untrue. The elders especially discouraged his efforts. They felt he undermined their teachings. Toche, however, accepted the literature as absolute truth and swore by it. But even with Toche’s imagination, he could not understand how men could be carried through the air and fall to the ground and survive, or how fire from a stick would take the life of a man at a distance. Granted, he had seen many a Capuchin and Squirrel Monkey glide through the canopy, but never had he witnessed a human do anything beyond shimmy up a tree, and he understood full-well the calamity of a fall. Excited by these tales, he kept his eyes toward the sky in hope that he would one day have the same experiences as the characters in his books. These ideas made their way into his dreams, and he would wake at night after seeing vivid images of shiny planes above. On occasion, they came to life. He would hear the distant rumble of an engine and props. They would appear and then disappear into the clouds and shone brightly against the sun. Anytime a plane would pass in the distance, he would hurriedly collect the villagers and explain that the soaring aircraft were evidence of the validity of his tales. The elders dismissed his accusations and explained that the planes were nothing more than the “tall birds,” and that Toche’s silly notion that they carried humans was absurd. It wasn’t until one summer night when Toche’s tales would finally become a reality to all.

The evening air began to chill, and the villagers were relaxing around the campfires. These evening fires offered cohesion to the village, and they shared in delight. Toche, by the firelight, was retelling a story from a book set in Africa. It was an explorer’s account of an excursion in the Congo and the Serengeti and referenced his travels and interactions with the local fauna and culture of the people. Due to frequent mention of the exotic animals, this was Toche’s favorite region of study. The proper names of places were incomprehensible—they did not exist in his language—but he did understand animal names. In awe, he chuckled quietly as he read about the enormous gray creatures they called “elephants”—his favorite. He was ever so amused, and his heart pounded with excitement.

On the horizon came a roar that continually grew closer. It was a familiar sound that until now was only heard at a distance; this time was the first occurrence that it was directly above his small village. Three “tall birds” beaming firelights hovered above. The winds created from the sky fanned the flames of the night’s fires, and embers were scattered, and the fuzzy, red fireballs danced across the village floor, setting fire to the huts. As the villagers scattered in a panic, Toche watched in awe as the green men descended from the sky. The books he read were coming to life. Chaos consumed the village. The women scattered, shielding their children from danger, and attempted to disappear into the forest—they too met their end. His initial curiosity and excitement now morphed into terror. But still, curiosity drove him. He started toward one of the little green men, but as he approached, he heard a loud boom followed by a flash. A few feet away, he witnessed a fellow villager collapse to the ground in agony. As he fell to the ground, blood spilled from his chest; his body lay lifeless, still clutching his spear. He had witnessed death before; he often saw monkeys pierced by arrows and darts. They would fall quietly from the canopy and hit with a thud. But never had he witnessed the morbidity of the fall of a fellow villager, screaming in pain as life left their body. Now, questioning his own bravado, he withdrew and hid behind a stack of fallen palms. Camouflaged, he silently watched as the green men drew near; he could see that, with the exception of their green patterned covering, each resembled himself in shape and size. Out of their mouths came sounds he had never heard, but each, in unison, seemed to coordinate their movements and actions by the given sounds and instructions in an unfamiliar language. The men of the village collapsed, one and all, and the women who couldn’t escape were hurriedly tossed into the belly of the “tall birds.” The children wailed, and tears fell from their cheeks. In an instant, the horrific event that had befallen the small village ceased. The “tall birds” took to the sky and fled until the drone of their motors was once again replaced by the silence of the jungle. The carnage was over. But Toche remained hidden for the remainder of the night.

The next day, Toche quietly emerged out of his makeshift bunker to inventory the devastation. The village lay in ruin—death and despair were all that remained. The stench of burned bodies filled the air. No sounds were to be heard other than the light crackling of fires lit the night before. The village that he called home was no more. Even the small hut that housed his book collection was reduced to ashes. He whispered, fearing his voice would conjure the men that fell upon them in the night, but after a moment his fear subsided, and he cried loudly, hoping to hear a call returned to himself. But there were none. In the distance, he could see the slain bodies of the villagers who attempted escape.

Tochel had never been truly alone; even when he wandered through the jungle, he knew his fellow villagers were just a cry away. He sat cross-legged and stared at a smoldering fire. Picking at the embers with a stick, he began to sob. It wasn’t until now that he understood why the elders had always told everyone to heed caution from the outsiders and ghosts. All of the excitement he had gained from the books was now vanquished, and only despair remained. As he sat there, he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to dry away the tears and erase the memory of the night’s horror.

With few rations available, Toche knew that the village would no longer be his home. He collected his meager belongings and decided to escape the memory of the attack. He wanted to put distance between himself and the lingering stench of death. Toche prepared himself for his impending journey and inventoried his supplies. He had no destination in mind, only the desire to escape his current state. There came a rumble from the trees. A hoard of yellow monsters, armed with sharp silver teeth and operated by more green men, chewed their way through the forest and approached his village. With his spirit completely broken, he quickly escaped deeper into the jungle until the sounds of the beasts were reduced to only a light murmur. From the hilltop, he shimmied his way up a tree to scan the horizon above the canopy, aside from the only companions left—the capuchin and squirrel monkeys. In the valley below, he could see that the yellow monsters had carved a giant swath through the jungle. Never in his life had he witnessed such a barren piece of the earth. What was once lush and green was now reduced to a rich, dark-brown forest floor devoid of undisturbed life, he knew. He watched as the green men, appearing like ants, covered the great charred valley. He finally understood that modernity had reached his home and his life was never to be the same. The books from which he drew so much inspiration were now a reality. The images printed on the pages came to life and were right in front of him. He was sick with emotion. He eased himself back to the ground and wandered deeper into the forest. He quietly thought to himself, “Where were the elephants?”

Jason Abshire

Image: Felled forest at Deadwater steaming after rain by Andrew Curtis https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Creative_Commons