E.T. The Book of the Green Planet

by William Kotzwinkle

  Botanicus leaned back in his chair, leaves folding themselves around his head. “My fields hold many secrets.”

  The walls of the chamber of Botanicus were tapestries of living blossoms, day-and-night blooming. He rose from his chair and walked to one of these tapestries, whose design was concentric circles of flowers, their stems all intertwined. He touched a leaf, adjusted a petal. “My fields hold many secrets,” he repeated, as if to himself.

  E.T. knew the interview was at an end, but the Flopglopple had the strangest feeling, of something known by him, yet lost in the trails of time. He backed out of the chamber, eyes still on Botanicus, and on the tapestry of blossoms. “What feelings are these?” the Flopglopple asked himself, as a little ripple passed through him, of a dream not yet dreamt and yet having the trace of a thing so old—of a plant, one plant, so old, so powerful—and very important to his beloved friend.

  He looked at E.T. “Many moments of my long life seem to be converging, around a nebulous center.”

  “Why are your toenails glowing?” asked E.T., and then, looking at the Fluorescents and discerning a few broken petals, he knew why. “You’ve not behaved!”

  “But—but—but—” The Flopglopple tried to stammer out the feeling, of just what E.T.’s solution was. I almost have it, but because of my unpredictable and flamboyant nature it keeps escaping me. But I’ll come up with it.

  Then, seeing the lizards in the arching arbor, he tried to catch one, and in his chase down the path he forgot about the almost-perceived solution to his friend’s problem because chasing a lizard is so all-engrossing.

  E.T. took the other fork of the path, which was bordered with pointed crystals pointing to the sky. The charge within them would build until it drew thunderhead storm clouds, and give rain to Botanicus’s central garden. Attending to these crystals were a number of apprentice botanists, youngsters who shied away from him now—for his attempt to borrow a starship was common knowledge and they were reluctant to be seen with him or to suffer from his influence.

  The Flopglopple, feeling this insult to his friend, came racing back to E.T.’s side. “Don’t pay any attention,” he said.

  “I shall handle myself with perfect dignity,” answered E.T. He elongated his neck to the extreme, until his head was towering; then he put his thumbs in his ears and waved his fingers at the young botanists, who drew back in shock.

  “That’s wonderful!” cried the Flopglopple, immediately imitating it.

  “I learned it from Gertie,” said E.T. He continued staring defiantly at the young botanists, and added, “Give me a break.”

  Then he walked on, lowering his neck and twiddling his thumbs behind his back. “These youngsters, only five-hundred years old—”

  “Yes,” said the Flopglopple, putting his own thumbs behind his back and twiddling them. “They think they know what life is all about.”

  “But one day,” said E.T., “they may find temptation in their path, and be kerflummoxed.”

  “Kerflummoxed?”

  “An Earth word,” said E.T. “They say things so perfectly there. And if I continue to study like a real Drop Out, one day I will master the language. I will be able to talk to anyone on Earth—to mathematicians, astronauts, lawmakers, botanists, and—and nerds.”

  “Nerds?”

  “They are a small but important group. Elliott said there is always one in every neighborhood.” E.T. extended his arms, to show the Flopglopple how he would speak to an Earth gathering. “Ladies, gentlemen, nerds, good afternoon. I come from the stars to greet you.”

  “Inspired,” said the Flopglopple, clapping.

  “With practice I’ll have every nuance of the language at my command and will be able to fan the breeze like a real numbhead.”

  “I’m certain of it,” nodded the Flopglopple.

  “But,” said E.T., “if we never get to Earth, what good will my mastery of fanning the breezes do? How will I ever help El-li-ott?”

  His voice died on the wind, but his inner feeling went beyond the atmosphere, and crossed the airless gulfs of space, descending to Earth in a parking lot, where the attendant ran over it while backing a customer’s fender into a wall. “. . . got ’er, she fits snug . . .”

  The tiny bit of telepathy, a miniature of E.T., picked itself up and brushed itself off. It looked around, trying to figure out where it was, as the attendant bore down on it in a new Mercedes, whose clutch he was destroying.

  El-li-ott, said the little telepathic entity, as it was struck by the Mercedes and sent flying across town.

  It landed on the high school football field, where it felt a familiar vibration. It was emanating from Elliott’s brother, Michael. Tryouts for the varsity team were in progress, and the coach was watching Michael from the sidelines, trying to decide whether or not he was varsity material. He turned to his assistant, who had just warmed himself in the locker room with a swig from a bottle marked liniment.

  “Whattya think of him?” asked the coach, pointing toward the kicking tee, where Michael was placing the football.

  “Naw, he’s a washout,” said the assistant. “No lift in his kick . . . kiccup . . .” The assistant turned away, covering his mouth.

  “Munsterweich, have you been tapping the rubbing alcohol again?”

  “Naw, my sandwich went down the wrong way.” Munsterweich faced back toward the field, where Michael was nervously getting ready to kick off. “He’s not first-string material,” said Munsterweich. “It’s all in the toes.” Munsterweich gave a brief demonstration of his own kicking style, with a slow motion move toward an imaginary football, pretending it was his wife’s Chihuahua. “The kid don’t have it. No punch in his kick.”

  Michael was standing in place now, looking left and right at his teammates as they lined up, awaiting his boot. A few yards ahead of them, E.T.’s telepathic form had found its way to the kicking tee, and had climbed onto the football, for it saw that Michael was very attached to it, and at this very moment considered it the most important object in the world.

  “. . . no wallop on his follow-through . . .”

  The signal was called and Michael ran toward the ball, praying that he’d get a good one off, for if he didn’t show something today, his name would not be posted on the tryout list tomorrow. It was his last year of school, and a place on the team meant everything to him. Please, he prayed, please, please, please . . .

  “. . . timin’ . . . all a matter of timin’ . . .” observed Munsterweich as he reflected on the fact that it was time for some more liniment on his gums.

  The players moved with Michael, and E.T.’s little telepathic self observed that Michael needed to relax, needed to do something special with all body parts coordinated for one split second, during which the full internal power-thrust could manifest. A double beam of mental equilibrium shot forth from the tel-entity, and hit Michael in the knees, from which it spiraled through his body, adjusting each joint and muscle in a single perfect flex, as Michael brought his arcing foot to the ball.

  “. . . hasn’t got any dynamite in his kick . . . kiccup . . .”

  KA-BLAMMMMMMM

  “Munsterweich, look at that kick! Look!”

  The ball was lifting at spaceship velocity and hurtling down field, over the heads of the two waiting receivers, over the goalposts and out over the stone wall surrounding the stadium, where it disappeared from view.

  “Put that boy’s name on the first team roster, Munsterweich.”

  E.T. and the Flopglopple sat in the ornamental gardens of Botanicus. The garden was art, mathematics, and botany. The beds were arranged in subtle geometric forms: flower ellipses, and spiraling cones of floral design climbing overhead; expanding octahedrons of transparent plant membrane.

  “A sense of infinite peripheries,” said the Flopglopple.

  “A flower is the geometry of the universe,” answered E.T.

  They stared at the teacher’s displays—vines in parabola suggesting tunnels to other dimensions
. “Central gold buds,” said the Flopglopple, peering into one of the garden displays. “The functioning inner infinitudes.”

  “Many a student has wandered here,” said E.T. He nodded toward floral transformation rays, that made the eye believe it had come to a place beyond measure, to a plane of hedgerows infinite in extent. “But we mustn’t tarry,” said E.T., and he led the Flopglopple away, though his thoughts continued out loud as they walked. “Only the foremost students can solve the riddles of Botanicus.”

  The Flopglopple reflected on this, then spoke. “He gave you one of his riddles just now in his chamber.”

  “No, he was only talking,” said E.T. “I should know, for once I was his foremost student.”

  “A riddle . . . most important . . .” The Flopglopple had his toe in his ear, trying to understand it. My fields hold many secrets.

  E.T. smacked his fist into his wrinkled palm. “I must retrieve my high intelligence, my great awareness, my cosmic scope. Then, should I ever return to Earth, I will be a real—doubleheader.”

  “The advanced students on Earth have two heads?”

  E.T. didn’t hear. “After all, I’m a Doctor of Botany. This signifies that my mind has become a high-power source, able to make profound leaps. I’m a mental athlete, a real—how did Elliott call it—a real jockstrap

  The Flopglopple stared at him, awaiting an explanation, but E.T. had fallen into deep reflection, on the most advanced theories of plant growth, his speciality.

  He wandered on thoughtfully, out of the gardens of Botanicus and onto a path leading to the forest. The Flopglopple followed, and observed the faint aura shining around E.T.’s body, and remarked, “This is the doctor of old, pondering the mysterious.” And he observed that leaves were unfolding from their silent centers as E.T. passed. “Drawn by his concentration,” said the Flopglopple.

  Tiny lizards came out upon the leaves, to listen to the Doctor of Botany’s thought. E.T., absorbed in himself, began to think out loud.

  “. . . energy, mass, paradox of the plant. Innermost seed, infinitude of the compressed . . .”

  The lizards nodded, following his words closely.

  “. . . open soil of the Parent Ground . . . seed transfer . . . drop one’s cookies, doing diddly-bop.”

  The lizards looked at each other, frowning. What did he say?

  I don’t know. Sounded like a new incantation.

  Truly, he has traveled and learned.

  E.T. walked on, hands behind his back, webbed feet shuffling slowly, still talking to himself . . . then the crystals of lightning flash. The seed rejoices in itself, holding a universe within, preparing to be born. Soon the seed will make the scene at Fat City.”

  The lizards twitched their tails nervously, scratching the sound into the ground, as odd images came to them from some place far off. Contemplating these images, they fell back into their leaves and remained there in stillness.

  E.T. and the Flopglopple continued on through the wood above the garden. The path turned, along a natural wall of rock, which rose like a dragon’s scaly spine out of the ground. It was filled with cracks and fissures, one of which had suddenly claimed the attention of the Flopglopple. “Emanation. Mind from the deep!”

  E.T. froze with the Flopglopple, as their subtle mental receivers came on, and they heard dark voices, echoing in the planet’s depths and traveling along through subterranean seams, and exiting from the fissure in front of them.

  we never got our bicycles

  “Sinistro,” said the Flopglopple, and he and E.T. fell to their knees in front of the fissure, and listened to the next transmission:

  nor our ballfoot helmets

  “Electrum,” said E.T. softly.

  nor our own closet

  “Occulta,” concluded the Flopglopple.

  The sound of the dark voices grew faint, and traveled on, through other veins. “I wish,” said E.T., “I could do something for them to make up for all the trouble I caused. They were chastised, stripped of their mining guns and sent back to the depths in disgrace.”

  “I’m always in disgrace,” said the Flopglopple. “It has its advantages.”

  “Those poor old miners,” said E.T. “They were good company, if a little impetuous. And what did they get from me?”

  “The shaft,” said the Flopglopple.

  “I’ll make it up to them somehow. After I get myself out of the House of Dogs. For that is what I am in, once again. But do you know something?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t give a fudge.”

  “I am observing a tone of stubborn aggressiveness in your nature, heretofore unknown.”

  “Life on Earth has given that to me,” said E.T.

  The Flopglopple followed him, along the stony ledge, and out of the forest, their direction taking them into another part of Botanicus’s vast agricultural region. “Where are we going?” asked the Flopglopple.

  “Back to the fields,” said E.T. He led the way, down into the patchwork of different crops. Each patch was bordered by irrigation ditches, and footbridges crossed at regular intervals.

  “No other workers,” said the Flopglopple.

  “Yes, the area is for us alone. The Court of Lucidulum has ordered that I work with the most difficult plants, to keep me out of trouble.”

  “Trouble is a thing out of which I’ve always derived much interesting knowledge,” said the Flopglopple.

  They started across one of the little footbridges, when a hideous shrieking filled the air and agi Jabi, the scarecrow plant, leapt out at them, waving its arms. E.T. and the Flopglopple wobbled, and fell backward in fright into the irrigation ditch, in nutrient up to their ears.

  E.T. gazed at the scarecrow plant, whose bright kernel eyes were glistening. “Must you?” asked E.T.

  I must, said agi Jabi, and folded its stalks back into stillness, something like a smile crossing its countenance.

  E.T. and the Flopglopple picked themselves out of the ditch and climbed back onto the bridge. E.T. pointed to the garden patch ahead of them. “It contains one of the most difficult plants in the region.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Other than agi Jabi.”

  He led the way into the garden, where row after row of tall, simple-looking plants grew. But no sooner had he started down the first row, than one of the green stalks swung out, forcing him to his knees.

  Duck or be struck, said a soft vegetal voice.

  Then another of the plants, and another, lashed out their sinewy limbs, and E.T. and the Flopglopple had to move in a crouch through the wildly whipping row, running it as if in a gauntlet.

  “The garden of Antum Tadana,” said E.T. “It is my punishment.”

  The tall violent plant, Antum Tadana, continued whipping its long, sinewy branches back and forth.

  “B. good,” said E.T.

  But one of the branches crept beneath him, grabbed him by the leg and lifted him in the air. He hung there, upside-down.

  The Flopglopple addressed the plant: “Antum Tadana, this is why no one wishes to attend to your needs.”

  They attend to me? It is I, mighty Antum, who attend to them. The only good ideas the Lords of Lucidulum ever had came from me.

  And to make this point, Antum Tadana shook E.T. in the air by one foot. E.T. groaned to the Flopglopple. “Don’t antagonize him. Flatter him. That is how you handle Antum Tadana.”

  The Flopglopple nodded, and moved closer to the tall plant. “Antum Tadana, allow me to feed you. Permit me to minister to your great, powerful, wonderful exalted rhizome. Give me five seconds to turn on all your nutrient valves, for you are the true source of all inspiration, here, there, and everywhere. The only good idea anyone ever had came from you. You are the wisest, most vigorous and charming of all plants in the universe.”

  I like that kind of talk, said Antum Tadana.

  His long branches lowered, the tendrils opened, and the plant set E.T. back on the ground.

  E.T. joined the Flopglopple, opening
the nutrient valves, and whispering quietly, “If the truth be told, Antum Tadana is one of the ingredients used in breakfast cereal.”

  “I see,” said the Flopglopple.

  “He must never know,” said E.T., and crept to the next row, mumbling praise and flattery, and Antum Tadana watched, branches folded, basking in the sound of praise of his most high and mighty self, never dreaming he was Tum Tad’s Crunch Flakes.

  They finished ministering to him, and turned to leave Antum Tadana’s patch, but the Flopglopple suddenly paused, thoughtfully. “I can’t help feeling there is an answer for you here.”

  “Yes, a branch in the face,” said E.T., and walked on, back over the little footbridge. He led them to the next great square in the garden, from which a sultry perfume emanated.

  “But why, with such perfume, are these plants so drab and colorless?” asked the Flopglopple as they entered. He pointed, to the row of tall stalks, folded in upon themselves.

  “This is the garden of Magdol, the Sulking Beauty,” said E.T. “Her flowers are the most prized in the capitals, but she’s a plant who likes to be coaxed.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We sing to her,” said E.T. And he began to croak in his rasping voice, an ancient lullaby of the planet.

  “Opis nazbeth, shipta-ba’lu

  Urumolk, opi majo vashnu . . .”

  The central plant in the row lifted one of her stalks very slowly. I’m tired of that old junk, said the Sulking Beauty.

  “Her petals are drooping,” said the Flopglopple. “Her shoots are bending.” He looked at E.T. “She wants a new song.”

  E.T. pondered, hands clasped behind his back. A new song, a new song . . .

  He turned, put out his arms and sang:

  “Going to Kamsas City

  Kamsas City, here I come . . .”

  and snatches of everything else he’d heard on Elliott’s Fabulous Fifties album, which he’d played in the closet.

  The Flopglopple joined in, and began to dance. E.T. pointed his own toes in a tap step and turned. They linked their arms and did a side-shuffle, elbows out.