There were no trees in the city of Megiddo. There was also no grass. Long ago, trees had been ruled away, as many things often were, and marked as a threat to the sovereignty. It all happened when one audacious, pink trumpet tree had the gall to fall upon the Duke of Chutney’s barouche. It was then executively investigated and thus decreed by the Brotherhood that the tree has evidence of demonic dust inside of it. For it's act of treason against the Order and for dappling within the forbidden Darkness, the pink trumpet tree was sentenced to death by incineration.
But then a new matter of grave profundity consequently arose among the higher officials of the Order. If one pink trumpet tree had been so easily corrupted then, if one follows reason through to conclusion it was highly probable that not only other trees, but all foliage had the propensity to go astray into murderous temptation. So, for peace, for order, and for the good of Megiddo all plants were declared enemies of the state and sentenced to banishment. Those floras which did not heed the proclamations of exile were captured and incinerated immediately. In place of trees beautiful ivory columns were erected, lovely terraces of finely laid marble covered what use to be horrendously green grass; splendorous giants of stone, in the form of some venerable, wise king of the past, replaced the emptiness left by the trees. And streets of Megiddo were overnight transformed into a smooth, creamy landscape of pristine rigidity. It was all very majestic and very white.
However, after a great decision has taken place, it is always to be expected that someone, great or small, many or few, will most likely have a problem with that decision. Almost immediately after the trees and grass and plants were banished, it happened that the birds of Megiddo—the exotically stunning quetzal, the silly pink flamingos, the ugly little potoo’s, the loud, brash toucans—all of the birds began to cry out loudly because the new marble statues and the grass-less gardens no longer had any worms upon them. (Truth be told, and you must promise not to repeat this to another soul, but about a short time after the first ivory beast had replaced the great Oak in the town square, the elders of the worm council met in their dark caverns and agreed in almost a unilateral vote that it was time to migrate eastward. For they felt that in Megiddo, with there being no more trees, that it was hardly a place for a respectable worm.)
But back to the birds. These fussy, feathered little creatures mourned so loudly and lamented in shrieking tones daily about the banished trees. In a stroke of ill luck, all the cacophonous squawking and screaming and squealing finally drove the Lady Flizzlewitz of Grouble Street, into madness and she ordered her gardener to go shoot all the birds within a two mile radius of her grounds. The gardener was overjoyed to have an occupation, as he was currently out of activity since the removal of gardens, and went about eagerly to shoot down all the birds. However, being a wicked shot (for he was quite nearly blind in all his eyes) he accidentally shot Lady Buttress in a very sensitive region as she was walking up the steps of the mansion. As it turns out, she had been visiting her dear friend, Lady Flizzlewitz that morning on the business of establishing an art gallery in the downtown square. In conclusion, the whole ordeal was quite a scandal.
The birds were immediately declared Enemies of the State for robbing Lady Flizzlewitz of her sanity and planting thoughts of murder in her heart. Guns, of course, were outlawed straight away as it was now proven that they were impartial to whom they shot. And it being so very offensive to be a shooter of nobility, the matter was hardly brought up for two minutes together before the instantaneously ban on public usage of guns was established. Furthermore, all matters of art, painting, and eventually the egregious obnoxious audacity of color was ruled to have demonic potential and forthwith exiled. For it was a matter of logic; nothing short of a supernatural stratagem; a plot so sinister, a plot so perfectly orchestrated, that it only could have manifested from the very bowels of the Dark Realm.
So…among other things...there were no trees in Megiddo. And the people forgot about the cool shade of the palm branches and the secretive rustle of leaves that whispered the seasons were about to change. Because knowledge such as that was rather immaterial to any Megiddoians. You see, Brother Joreel announced every morning in the town square whether the weather spirits had decided to change the temperature or create a particularly gusty breeze to sweep away the white satin pavilions in the Market place. So it didn’t really matter to anyone that there were no trees. For everyone was adequately content in the lovely, fair city of Megiddo.
