No one knows when it really began. I guess it started when we cut down the very first tree, all those thousands of years ago. When we first decided that nature was something to be taken and used. But that doesn’t make much difference anymore. Standing here in the graveyard of an ancient forest, the past ceases to exist. Tomorrow may not even exist. We only have today.
“Matilda.” My mother’s voice echoed across the dry land, calling me back. “How many do we have left?”
I scanned the young saplings neatly arranged in wooden crates beside the truck. “It’s a bit over half full. I’ll bring it over.” I stood, lifting the small trees with arms that had grown strong from months of hard work.
My mother watched me, rubbing the earth dust from her hands, her eyes smiling as I approached. “You make a fine Planter my girl.”
“Thanks,” I replied with a twinkle, “you might have taught me a thing or two.”
She laughed and pointed down into a small gulley. “Let’s plant the last few down here – among the rocks.”
I looked over the site. Large basalt rocks studded the ground, but the earth was deep. The rocks would provide some protection for the young plants as they took root. Carefully placing the crate on the ground, I removed a small wattle tree. They didn’t live as long as some of the other trees we were planting – like the huge gums that would scrape the sky with their swaying canopy – but they grew quickly and adapted well to the bare ground. Every tree had its role to play, kind of like us.
I like to give mum a hard time, but the truth is, she has taught me everything I know about trees. We used to be Growers, working in the greenhouses to raise the young trees. Even before I could walk, she would bring me in, strapped to her back while she planted seeds, watering and nurturing the plants until they were strong enough for the outside world. I worked in the greenhouse until I was fourteen. My Father was a Planter even before I was born. But a few years ago he started getting dizzy, seeing things that weren’t there. So he was moved to the Dome, where he works on the algae towers that produce most of our oxygen. And I became a Planter, alongside my mother. Now we both work outside under the sun. We have strong lungs and can handle the lower levels of oxygen in the air. And so we plant trees, hoping against hope that we can reverse the damage we have done.
“I’ve got your shovel!” my mother called down, her voice reverberating through the stones like a strong wind.
Together, we scraped away the dry earth until the soil darkened with moisture. Then, with a tenderness known only to the Planters – and mothers, I guess – we coaxed the young trees from their pots and placed them in the ground.

With the dusty red sun growing low on the horizon, we loaded the empty crates into the truck and began our journey home.

…

I watched as the brown water swirled down the drain between my feet. It still amazes me how much dust clings to my body after a day of planting in the Badlands, like it’s trying to escape or something. Shutting off the water, I reached for the towel and dried myself. I was tired. The days were getting hotter as we approached the inferno of summer. Soon it would be too hot to plant trees, and we would have to wait for the cool change of autumn. But we still had work to do. The unpredictable weather meant that when we didn’t get enough rain, the Planters would travel back into the Deadlands to tend to the trees they had planted the season before. Even then, many trees died. We didn’t know why. I exhaled. That was a task for another day.
The sound of voices beckoned me downstairs, but I slowed as I reached the last few steps. I felt the tension. Silently, I edged towards the frosted glass door, my parents’ muffled voices escaping like oxygen from the airlock. My mother was upset. I held my breath as I listened. No, she was angry. She wasn’t shouting, but I could hear it in her voice. “I can’t keep going on like this, day after day. The oxygen levels are still falling. We don’t even know if all this planting will make any difference.”
I could see the blurry shape of my father sitting on the couch.“I honestly don’t know,” he said, his voice heavy with tiredness. There was a pause. “What do you think, Matilda?”
My heart erupted in my chest. Recognising my mistake, I slid the door open and walked into the room. “I realise now you can see both ways through glass,” I replied sheepishly.
My father chuckled. “Well? You’ve nearly finished your first season as a Planter – what does your gut tell you?”
I sat beside him on the scratchy grey couch as my mother poured me a cup of lemon balm tea. “I mean, it’s hard being out in the Badlands. Things can go wrong so easily. The plants can be fine one day, and then they just die. But I thought we were doing okay — are we not?” I looked up at my parents, searching their faces for answers. My father spoke first.
“It’s hard to tell,” he said, glancing at my mother.
“We just received a report from the weather station,” she continued, gesturing to the pile of papers on the table. “It’s been sixteen years since global oxygen levels became critically low. Sixteen years since we started planting trees. And the oxygen levels are still falling.” Her voice was raw, honest.
“Yes, but they are stabilising – slowly.” My father got up and began pacing the room.
I took a slow, deep breath, then let it out. “Well, that’s a good thing, right? Then they will start to recover?”
“Maybe, but maybe not.” My mother ran a hand across her forehead.
“So what?” I shot back, feeling frightened and angry all at the same time. “We could give up, or we could keep going!”
“You’re right honey – we keep going.” He returned to the couch beside me.
“You’re right,” my mother echoed. “I’m sorry. I’m scared.”
I reached for her strong, calloused hand. “Me too.”

…

The night air felt warm on my skin, like a blanket. Sitting on the dry ground, I looked up. The dull orange glow trickling from the greenhouse did nothing to diminish the splendour of the Milky Way above me — rivers of light coursing through the barren sky. My people had lived on this land, gazed at these stars, breathed in this air, since the beginning of time. Their songlines flowed across this country, winding up the mountains and through the valleys, beneath the ancient trees. My mother told me that in the old days, our people had to fight for this land. Now we fight to keep it alive.
I lifted my hand, letting a handful of dusty earth fall like a waterfall through my fingers. Maybe we were slipping away. Drawing my knees to my chest, I closed my eyes. Maybe we were slipping away.
I began to cry, the tears creating damp lines in the dust on my face. Hitting the ground like the whisper of rain, they unlocked something deep inside me, something I had been holding back for as long as I could remember. I pressed my hands into the dry ground. Why did things have to happen like this? Why did staying alive have to be so damn hard? My breath became sharp and shallow as I let my mind consider what might happen if the trees kept dying. If the oxygen levels continued to fall. If…
A soft breeze spread across my skin. I felt the ground beneath me, holding me. Wiping my eyes, I took a deep breath and exhaled. I was still here. My parents were still here. Maybe we would run out of oxygen. Maybe one day all the trees would die. But that day had not arrived yet. I rose from the ground, slowly but with new strength – the strength of my mother, my father, of a thousand generations that had gone before me. Light flickered on the horizon, followed moments later by a low rumble.
I would keep planting trees for as long as it took, because what else was there? You either face the unknown and keep going, or you give up. I remembered the photograph of my great-grandmother, sitting in a small frame beside my bed. She was standing on the roots of a great fig tree. I would never experience a living, breathing giant like that, but maybe, someday, someone would again - a little girl beneath a roof of dancing green leaves. And that’s why I will keep going, for as long as I have air to breathe. I will keep planting trees. Even if ninety-nine die, maybe one day a little girl will stand on the roots of the one that made it, looking up into the warm, clear sky of a new day.
“I thought I’d find you out here.” My mother’s strong arms wrapped around me. We stood there, side by side, watching the storm roll in until the heavy drops fell.