August 8th, in the not-so-distant future, just before dawn.
In a remote rain forest on the North Island of New Zealand, overlooking the constantly moving ocean, stands a very large, very old Kauri tree. The air is cool and wet, the drizzling rain briefly interrupted by the thick green canopy high above the forest floor. There, it gathers into larger droplets, preparing for the forty-metre plunge to the earth below.
Covered in an immensely dense layer of wet moss, this tree trunk is fifteen metres in diameter. The trunk towers steeply upward, void of any branches for the full forty metres, before strong, thick branches, holding dark green foliage, erupt haphazardly from the trunk to form the tree’s canopy. Towering above the rest of the forest are the uppermost branches of this tree.
Many trees similar to this magnificent specimen, in forests worldwide, have died off in recent years. Humanity’s lack of understanding, no, humanity’s inaction to rectify the damage they have inflicted on the planet is the cause. Climate change, land clearing and ecosystem poisoning are but a few of the prime culprits.
This area of the forest remains mainly unaffected by the drastic climate changes affecting the planet. Aside from experiencing slightly hotter days and cooler nights, the forest ecosystem continues as it has for eons.
Long before humanity crawled out from the primordial ooze, the life-giving growing medium dirt beneath the forest floor was already preparing itself to be the major supporting instrument for this forest now towering above it.
Five people approach from different paths within the forest, the wet deadfall and moss beneath their feet muffling any sound their steps might make.
The steady bombardment of the forest floor by large droplets falling from the canopy above is deafening—especially in the absence of the usual forest sounds: no frog song, no foraging kiwis scratching, no hooting owls.
Both pant legs on Michael’s jeans are completely saturated from the almost consistent contact with the widely spaced ferns on the forest floor. He grimaces as he feels the moisture from the bottom half of his pants make its way down to the top of the thick woollen socks inside his newly acquired hiking boots.
Just one week earlier, he had been fastening metal G-clamps to three men’s ball sacks, duct-taping their naked bodies to three metal swivel stools and connecting the lot, to a power supply capable of delivering life-ending amounts of electricity. At least he had been dry.
Michael hated being in wet clothing; it made him feel claustrophobic. He would often change out of sweat-infested clothing whilst working. It upset him deeply; he utterly hated the way any type of wet clothing would just cling to his skin.
Michael keeps the forward momentum of his stride going, soon forgetting again the wetness of his clothing, the fatigue in his leg muscles, and the pain from his sprained ankle, which had occurred just as he left the designated walking trail about thirty minutes prior.
He still cannot understand why he is forcing himself to take this early morning bush walk on his birthday. Michael also hates his birthday, and he thinks that maybe it is to take his mind off their deaths.
A grotesque scene manifests inside his mind: six bloodied bodies lying on the ground, their faces no longer recognisable, next to pools of their congealed blood.
Michael feels the tears welling up in his eyes. He quickly wipes them away and again focuses on his next step.
The five people in the forest reach the magnificent Kauri tree at the same moment, oblivious to one another, each lost in their single-minded focus and deafened by the constant percussion of large water droplets striking the forest floor.
Each hand touches the trunk; the message is identical for all.
“IT IS TIME NAMUH, YOU ARE NOW THIS WORLDS ONLY HOPE.”
On their approach to the tree, the five individuals had remained unaware of one another. But upon realising they are not alone, they move around the massive trunk to see who else has arrived.
Everyone in the group looks at Apollo, who appears to be having a conversation with the air next to the Kauri tree.
Apollo has the physique of a career bodybuilder and stands at an impressive 191 centimetres tall. As he speaks into the cool, moisture-filled air, his youthful, light brown face is pointed almost straight up.
Each person edges closer, except for Sophia, who is now leaning against the tree. Unlike the others, she can hear both parties in the conversation, not just Apollo.
“But I don’t know these people!” Apollo cries in a deep voice, his strong New Zealand accent informing the rest of the group that he is a local.
Apollo converses with a Sprite, a forest spirit who oversees the energies within a section of the forest.
A Sprite is the energy being, the soul of a garden, a group of trees, a forest, tidal current in an ocean, or a section of a river. Normally, the bigger the Sprite, the more area it looks after, and this one is monstrously huge.
Apollo views this Sprite as an extremely large tree formation with an overall humanoid look. The tree trunk splits into two parts, functioning as legs. Many branches are protruding from the trunk, but the largest two represent arms; beneath the top leaf-covered branches are the vague makings of eyes and a mouth.
Apollo has grown up with the ability to see these entities, and many others, inside his mind. This ability has brought him tremendous information, and ridicule from his family and friends.
Sophia, a very attractive, porcelain-skinned, blonde-haired beauty, can hear the voice of the Sprite as clearly as crystal, without seeing who or what is talking, says to Apollo, in a heavy European accent. “Just tell them what the fuck you are talking to already. And you had better explain what it is asking of us.”
The rising sun has illuminated the entire area, casting distinct beams of light that pierce through the mist hanging between the trees. The persistent drizzle, responsible for the heavy droplets falling from the canopy, has stopped, easing the downpour and bringing an end to the constant drumming on the forest floor.
Apollo looks at Sophia, shocked that she can hear the conversation. He has never met anyone who can confirm that what he is seeing is not just his imagination. Another person has now validated these entities he sees.
He soon recovers, turns to the others in the forest, and mutters, “Well, you might think I’m crazy, but there is a very large entity in front of us, wanting us to work together, to direct humanity in a different direction somehow, and it keeps referring to us as the Namuh.”
Brahma, Bollywood movie-star handsome, excitedly replies in a Southern Indian accent, “I do not think that you are fucking crazy at all. The energy signature that thing is giving off is fucking insane. Hi everyone, my name is Brahma.”
Brahma’s 172-centimetre frame, slender build, and young, handsome face don’t bother Michael. It is the permanent smile upon his face, his whole mannerism giving off the ‘I want to get to know you’ vibe, in a friendly, excited way, that annoys the crap out of him. Michael has no time for adults who act like children.
“Hey, we’ve got Brahmas back home in Texas, only they’re bulls. Where are you from?” Michael says to Brahma.
“I’m from India, the same place as the bulls.” Brahma snaps back at Michael, with an even bigger smile on his face.
“Hi, I’m Tara.” An extremely attractive young lady says, stepping forward between both Michael and Brahma, then looking directly at Apollo. “I can’t see or hear anything, but I can feel its presence,” she adds, her voice carrying a muddled British accent.
Tara’s very slight build, at just 164 centimetres tall, combined with her olive complexion, adds to the beauty of her mild Asian facial features. Instantly shutting down any chance of an altercation between Michael and Brahma, they are both feeling at ease.
“I also sensed the message that we received when we placed our hands on the tree earlier. Are we all somehow meant to… rectify the world?” She asks, looking to the others for confirmation.
Michael clears his throat, directs his gaze to Apollo, and states in a heavy Texan accent, “We all must have similar abilities. It seems we each know you’re telling the truth.” Michael continues, looking directly into Apollo’s eyes, “Buddy, we don’t think you’re crazy. My name is Michael. What’s yours?”
“It’s Apollo,” he replies.
Michael looks at Sophia, and after a few seconds of admiring the extremely attractive young lady, he asks, “And you? What’s your name?”
“Sophia!” she snaps. She is pissed at what she has just overheard Michael thinking about her. “I hear things that are not there, or so my fucking psychiatrist and family used to tell me.”
“Nice to meet y’all,” says Michael.
Michael’s 180 centimetres of height does not make him the tallest in the group, but he is the embodiment of a ‘natural born leader’ wherever he finds himself. Fast-thinking and talking, he has no problems taking control of any situation.
Michael’s sharp facial features and his slender athletic build all contort as he struggles with the wetness of every piece of clothing that he is wearing. He is moving his whole body to dislodge the wet materials that are sticking to his skin.
Michael continues, “I ended up at this spot this morning ‘cause of some over-whelming feeling pushing me to be here right now. Best I can explain it—I just had to be here, even though I didn’t know where ‘here’ was.”
He looks at Apollo again and says, “What about you?”
Apollo is standing dumbfounded, mouth slightly ajar, just staring at the group as if they were an alien invasion force. ‘All five of us have psychic abilities,’ he thinks.
“Someone told me to follow this forest Sprite,” he manages to get out, gesturing toward the Sprite. “My dead uncle Davis introduced it to me, in the town just south of here,” Apollo concludes.
Apollo had never heard of his uncle Davis until the previous night. He had finished a job in Auckland the day before and hired a vehicle to drive him to his grandmother’s house in Dargaville. He was in search of his mother, whom he had not seen since he was a child, and was hoping to get information from his grandmother about her possible whereabouts.
“I’m like you, Michael,” Tara interjects. “I just knew I had to be here, but had no idea where ‘here' was. It felt like a pressure on my back, as if something were pushing me forward.
Tara’s face saddens, and tears begin to build in her eyes. “It’s similar to the feeling that made me leave home, but that was more of a pull, not a push,” she adds, as she rubs the water and tears from her eyes with both hands, trying to compose herself.
Brahma jumps back into the conversation, the same excitement and energy as before. “I track energy loss signatures from power grids as a job. I can see energy in my mind.”
Brahma pauses, takes a second to assess each of them, then continues. “I saw the energy emanating from this tree on a flyover yesterday. I just knew I needed to see it up close. Then, early this morning, an urgency to return awoke me, and I started walking.”
Sophia, projecting both strength and callousness via her facial expressions and body language, although this is more a defence against new people she has developed from childhood, says, “I was urged by one of the voices in my head to be here.”
She had been leaning against the Kauri tree for most of the conversation. Now she shifts her weight forward, stepping away from the trunk to get a clearer view of Apollo.
Apollo seems captivated by Tara, his dark brown eyes fixed on her with a look of quiet wonder.
Tara, sensing others’ feelings, understands that Apollo isn’t trying to be creepy, although it certainly looks that way.
He is unknowingly radiating desire—not the lustful kind that most men, and some women, project upon meeting Tara for the first time, but something gentler, deeper. It’s the quiet, awestruck yearning of someone who believes they understand what love at first sight truly means.
Tara, too, feels an attraction toward Apollo but understands that now is not the time to act upon it, so she flashes Apollo a radiant smile that almost stops his heart and says, “Do I have something on my face?” Raising her impeccable eyebrows in a questioning motion.
“Ugh, no, I was, I was…” Apollo splutters.
“Don’t worry, that happens to me more often than I care for, but at least you are a gentleman about it.” Tara laughs as she reaches up and brushes Apollo’s left pectoral muscle with her petite left hand.
Michael, still assessing the conversation in his head, asks, “Brahma, what did you mean by a flyover?”
“As part of my job, I cover vast areas every day. So, wherever I go for work, there is normally a P.A.V. at my disposal, and I was flying over this area in it,” Brahma replies.
P.A.V. is the acronym for a Personal Aviation Vehicle. Companies and people with large amounts of assets use them as personal vehicles instead of road-based vehicles, or in cases such as Brahma’s line of work, where great distances are required to be travelled daily.
The group of five continue the discussion for another thirty minutes on the forest floor before hunger gets the best of them. They follow Apollo, who follows the Sprite, back onto a track that will lead them to the small town of Dargaville, just over six Kilometres southeast of their location.