A Fable For Yesterday

Bold Little Sun

by Camilla Lizundia

This series of vignettes reimagines the first chapter of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring (1962) entitled “A Fable for Tomorrow.”

I. Quick Poison

There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example–where had they gone? Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund; they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. In the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was now no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh. –Rachel Carson, Silent Spring (1962)

Spring came in September that year. I had gathered my mere sum of belongings and traveled to the Southern Hemisphere for a few months to New Zealand. Fields of rolling green hills and melting mountaintops were nearly an everyday sight. They call it the land of the long, white cloud. It was true. What was supposed to feel like a short escape from my responsibilities at home turned into a series of prolonged conversations with the earth and the sea, all floating above my head in a cloud of unadulterated bliss. Of course, there were some days when the rain would fall and I wouldn’t stop to stare at the ripples within the puddles, but those were few and far between. I embarked on this journey to explore my alter ego, the scientist from within. I sought out nature as my teacher and planned to spend my days observing leaves and fish and bird nests. I had fallen in love with ecology from an early age, making dirt pies and flower crowns until dusk. I felt drawn to dig my feet in the grass. Oh, the cool, slippery grass. It felt like butter between my toes. On a brisk afternoon halfway through the spring season, my fellow budding ecologists and I traversed through a vast park of birch trees, which lay at the foot of the country’s southern mountain range. I was instructed to find a seat in the forest and simply observe the surrounding landscape. And so I did. I breathed in the cool forest air, stroked the mossy log at my feet, and exchanged greetings with the mountains peeking out from behind the gangly trees. While scribbling down a few notes, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a white object poking out from under a young sapling. Looking closer, I determined it was the skull of a stoat—one of the most despised creatures in New Zealand. This invasive weasel has a reputation of preying upon New Zealand’s beloved native birds, and by my reckoning, this little fella died from a pest trap sinking one clear bullet into its brain.

I brought the skull back to camp. It sat on the classroom windowsill for the remainder of our trip. Death is interesting, you see; it is quite peculiar that us humans intentionally kill to let other beings live. To pull the weeds of nature’s beasts and dispose of their remains as fertilizer for new life. That day, my mind grappled with the implications of these paradoxes. In bed, I stared into the bunk above me, silent and waiting for answers to appear.

Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything began to change. Some evil spell had settled on the community: mysterious maladies swept the flocks of chickens; the cattle and sheep sickened and died. Everywhere was a shadow of death.

It was July, just over a year before my trans-Pacific voyage. And it was hot. Even for someone who has spent the majority of her lifetime under the California sun, Ann Arbor heat puts up a fight. That night’s Cheshire Cat moon cast a distorted array of reflected slivered smiles along the deepest parts of the Huron River. Little hiccups of moonbeams glimmered along the riparian vegetation and tickled my cheeks and forehead, which bobbed just above the water line. I wore a floral swimsuit, but my friends decided to submerge their bare bodies—seeking a deeper, purer connection with Mother Earth. The gentle waves felt refreshing on my overheated body. My neck ached from a fresh sunburn, and with every wading limb pushing farther from the docks, my body felt more at ease. I had abstained from the psychedelic mushrooms my friends had eagerly consumed, and I listened in awe as they spoke of bright colors and synesthetic sensations. They jabbered on as I absorbed the night’s bold surroundings. Sneaking into parks after hours wasn’t a hallmark of mine, but it certainly felt invigorating. During the day, I volunteered at the local watershed council. Wading through creeks and collecting water samples was tedious yet serene. I was warned of the dangerous chemicals and pathogens that brewed beneath my waist and scolded for not washing my hands after work. But the murky waters here didn’t scare me. Of course, there were still crayfish and smallmouth bass that startled me when they brushed my legs. And runoff and E. coli were only major issues after heavy storms.. Perhaps my passive demeanor was the true poison. Here I was, eager enough to devote my summer to water quality assessments, and yet I could not confront the fact that my body was just as susceptible to the toxic substances that harmed countless species of flora and fauna. For someone who had sworn off the consumption of hard drugs, I was quick to agree to submerging myself in pools of perfluorooctanoic acid and algal blooms. In high school, I learned of bioaccumulation and the alarming quantity of mercury amassing within fish. I immediately cut fish from my diet, as if that would get to the root of the issue. Even with the most granola of approaches I could find, the poison remained. Still in the degrading pipes of rustbelt cities, still in the breastmilk of new mothers, and still between the two halves of my lips. As someone who claims to be one with nature, I often think my own body is impermeable to the woes of our modern-day environmental catastrophe. My body may be a temple, but it’s slowly dying, and all I can do is wait.

III. Baby Killer

On the farms the hens brooded, but no chicks hatched. The farmers complained that they were unable to raise any pigs – the litters were small and the young survived only a few days. The apple trees were coming into bloom but no bees droned among the blossoms, so there was no pollination and there would be no fruit.

It was another July night. July 3rd, to be exact. The U.S. capital was illuminated by flashes of red, white, and blue. Rectangular swaths of patriotic fabric waved outside every other window. I was lying on my back when the condom broke. His arm shook, pulling a piece of slippery latex out from inside me. He looked at my face with wide eyes. I felt glued to the bed, as if to move would somehow make the situation worse. Silence filled the room.

Twenty minutes later, we were at CVS. What do you call the morning-after pill when it’s only 10 PM and you’re not hungover and the sex was not a mistake? “I just need to call my mom,” I said, walking toward the motion-sensor sliding doors

as he paid for the magical pill and two pregnancy tests. He nodded. I could feel his concern bubbling underneath his worn plain tee. I swallowed a hefty dose of hormones later that night and contemplated every inch of my body. I had just consumed death, eradicated what could have been. I had terminated a major question mark that continued to leave me wondering what my body was truly meant for. You see, I never wanted my own children, but I felt the primal urge to protect my progeny. I wanted to know my question mark child, even if in 48 hours it would be dead.*

I got my period two weeks later. Numb but relieved, I felt guilty that the poison was still inside me. Perhaps a large part of it is that I’m a firm believer in the idea that we hold all experiences within our flesh—past, present, and future. Like the scar from the time I slipped on pavement, the emergency contraception that battled my sex cells so my body would not perform the way it’s supposed to, and any other trauma I’ve yet to experience. All of it is inside me. I like the way my body carries things, but sometimes I feel heavy.

IV. Yesterday, and Other Odes

No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of new life in this stricken world. The people had done it themselves.

The Beatles got it right: yesterday came suddenly. There was once a time when it seemed all life lived in harmony with its surroundings. Now toxins rise from beneath the soil and into the air that shrieks of neglect and unwanted particulate matter. 350 parts per million of atmospheric carbon dioxide used to be the cutoff, but as of yesterday, we hold 417. Mother, oh, she cries. She weeps and howls, and we do nothing. Well, actually we do everything to hurt her, to let her suffer. And in return, we only add the gaping wound that torments our lives, too. Mercy, mercy me. What was once abundant is now stricken with lack. Floods and superstorms terrorize the seaboards, bulldozing street signs and picket fences until there is nothing left of ourselves. Yesterday is absent. Yesterday is bareboned.

Yesterday, but really several months ago, I looked up at the sky to see a pink moon. I saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way. It was fiery, almost scarlet, and it illuminated a ring of sky with softer raspberry clouds. From a country over and hundreds of miles of ocean away, I could see the reflections of Australian bushfires within the man in the moon. The moon, too, consumed the terror. The poison. This year, spring came in March. I feel more poisoned than ever. Not simply by the broad-spectrum pesticides that still roam our earth, but by our own willingness to destroy. These lyrics that haunt my mind speak of grim tall tales that have become a reality. I am sorry, Rachel, that we did not listen. You spoke the truth of our twisted nation, and we have since only accelerated down the spiral. I put up a fight, but the woes of our world silence me some days. I lay in bed too tired to move. I face my impending doom, feeling more victimized than ever. Your silent spring speaks volumes, but are we really listening?

*Editor’s note: Emergency contraception does not terminate existing pregnancies but rather prevents fertilized eggs from implanting in the uterus in the first place.

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