One day when Bob Hart was cutting trees in a South American rainforest, he witnessed a strange sight. Out of the sky swooped down three creatures, the likes of which he had never seen before: One possessed the body of a panther, and the head of a woman, with long dark hair cascading down the black panther fur; the next one looked like vines grown and twisted into the form of a human; the last one was a pale, ethereal blue lady and looked as if a gust of wind might blow her away at any moment. Before he realized what they were doing, they had swept him up and were carrying him off to an unknown destination. He fell into unconsciousness.
Arriving at his split level ranch home, with its wide expanse of lawn pushing the rubber trees back to the furthest edges of the property, Bob found himself sitting in front of his typewriter. “Who are you? What are you? What do you want with me?” Bob asked, his voice verging on hysterical.
“You are to record our conversation, so that your story might warn others not to commit the same misdeeds you have,” directed the strange creatures in unison.
Startled Bob demanded, “What do you mean, ‘warn others’?! What is going to happen to me?”
“That will depend on your actions as we speak,” advised the slight blue woman.
“I am the Spirit of the Animals. I am the essence of the souls of the animals, that you, and others like you, so wrongly wipe off the face of the Earth,” growled savagely the panther with the human head.
“I am the Spirit of the Plants that your kind destroys to extinction, never knowing or caring about the value the vegetation has for you. Already many cures have been swept from the globe forever. Yet you go on cutting down more forests and will continue doing so until the human race has killed its members through its recklessness. Do you not understand that a third of the world’s oxygen comes from the very forests that you cut down?” the twisted vines implored.
“I am the Spirit of Human compassion,” declared the transparent blue woman in a hushed voice. “I am the weakest of all the spirits, for very few people choose to recognize my importance to their very existence. My time upon the Earth grows shorter with each passing moment, as even more of the race which I try to help, eradicate me from their hearts.”
“What does this have to do with me?” asked Bob nervously.
“You are one of those who so carelessly cut down the forests which provide homes for the animals which have done nothing to harm you,” snarled the Spirit of the Animals.
“You transform the jungle of plants containing cures into fields to provide pastures for soon-to-be hamburgers. Every minute another irreplaceable acre is destroyed.” accused the Spirit of the Plants.
Added the Spirit of Human Compassion, “You do all your wrongful deeds for money, for in your country, the wages paid for the destruction of the valuable resources you destroy are considered a great deal. But you do not even have a family for which to provide, and so do not need such a high-paying career to aid you in support. You destroy the rainforests for no reason--just for the money it gives you. You accept pay for the ruthless ruination of the forests which are so necessary for mankind’s survival.”
“What does it matter that I do these acts for money?” questioned Bob stupidly. I am not the only one operating the machines that chop down the trees. Why tell all of this to me? What does it matter if I am one of those people or not? Besides, no one will miss those undiscovered cures, or those useless animals whose homes you accuse me of destroying. By the time the effects of what I am doing are present upon the Earth, I will no longer be alive to suffer them. What does all this have to do with me?”
“It has everything to do with you. After all that we’ve told you, does your conscience not warn you of the wrongs you commit when you participate in the wanton destruction of the earth?” implored the Spirit of Human Compassion.
“No and there’s no reason why it should. The money I make cutting down the forests allows me to lead the comfortable lifestyle I do, without having to worry where the next meal is coming from; the generous pay even lets me save money in a bank account,” Bob declared carelessly. With this reply the Spirit of Human Compassion collapsed upon the tile wood floor and vanished.
“What just happened?” asked Bob, alarmed.
“You killed her!” exclaimed the Spirit of the Plants. “For she cannot live if too many people do not recognized her in their hearts. Your renouncing her despite her efforts to save you from a life of apathy, killed her.”
“And now you must pay,” growled the Spirit of the Animals.
“Please have compassion towards me?!” begged Bob.
“As you have shown kindness for the things which you have destroyed?” asked the vindictive Spirit of the Plants. “Why certainly!” Turning to face the Spirit of the Animals she smiled and ordered, “Kill him. Kill him so that his body might feed the animals and fertilize the plants that he and others like him have not yet destroyed, so that in death he might be of benefit to them, as a just ending to his woeful tale. Let him learn that to have no mercy towards the planet is to destroy oneself and others; it is to cause irrevocable damage to each and every creature that inhabits the world. Leave the two pages which he has typed with him, so that his story will warn others not to do as he had done.”
“Gladly,” grinned the malicious Spirit of the Animals.
Weeks later two woodsmen stumbled upon a body, rotting in the rainforest. It had been so devoured by animals that they could not recognized a single feature on the ruins of the skeleton. Wrinkling their noses with disgust at the repulsive smell of rotting flesh surrounding the decaying basket of bones, they noticed two pieces of typewriter paper, miraculously untouched by weather in his hand. Tearing the papers loose from the leathery yellow flesh hanging from the skeletal fingers, they unfolded them with care.
“Hey! This is Bob Hart! This corpse explains why he disappeared three weeks ago. How did he get over here?” exclaimed one of the woodsmen.
“Who knows? What does the note say?” asked the other woodsman, curiously.
“Just a lot of garbage,” replied the first one, mindless of his own stupidity, crumpling up the papers and throwing them carelessly over his shoulder. . . .
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