The fine, reedy, Ulaan plant is green when young, and forms a shell-like casing that resembles the thick, spongy bark of the Cork tree when it reaches maturity. Upon dissection, it was found to possess a nervous system, and when introduced to certain nutrients and sensory stimuli it appeared to respond more like an insect than a plant. Still, the Ulaan, it was concluded, was unmistakably, undeniably, a plant, in every essential way that mattered. It was decided the plant could not feel pain and seemed to recover from injury quickly. Was it more Autotroph than Heterotroph? That is a matter of some debate. It could generate its own food or consume insects. Certainly, it would appear this unique organism presents us with the best of both worlds.

 A tantalising story from the Mid-Eighteen Hundreds, makes mention of the Ulaan, hinting at certain ... instincts. A young doctor and his wife, residing in a village in Hampshire, were reputed for being enthusiastic gardeners. Boughs of Wisteria appeared to bloom upon every corner of the house and a giant willow presided over the back lawn, the garden was literally bursting with every flower imaginable. It was later confirmed, that listed among their inventory of plants and shrubs, meticulously documented in the rather glorious watercolour plans that survived, was the somewhat incongruous and strange little Ulaan.

The story has it that when the young woman became pregnant with her first child, she would take her daily turn about the garden and experience the odd sensation that the Ulaan was somehow reaching for her, and when she sat down, she would be forced to look about, imagining she had felt the delicate touch of the Ulaan upon her waist and hip, whilst at the same time, knowing the plant to be bedded upon the opposite side of the garden. Sadly, the woman’s child died in its first year of infancy, and her husband was also carried away, not long after, and the woman, now a childless widow, never fully recovered from her grief.

Then, towards the end of her life, an incident happened after she had stopped going out of the house entirely. Fearing for her safety, the neighbours requested the local constabulary accompany them in enquiring after the woman’s welfare. After several urgent raps upon the door, when the officers received no reply to their entreaties, they set to breaking the door in, but no matter how hard they tried, the door just wouldn’t give.

 A neighbour, a Mrs Nulla Gotty, hurried to see if access could be gained through a window, but what she saw caused her to emit a scream, hearing the commotion the rest of the party came running and when they saw the cause of her distress, they were no less alarmed than she. There was no access to be had via the windows, the view had been entirely blocked by the hard, thin tendrils of the slithering Ulaan. The widow, together with all the contents of the house, had been surrounded, encased on the inside.

An officer dared to poke his hand through the letterbox and when his fingers gingerly brushed against its stems, the plant, shuddered, ever so slightly. The bulk of the plant was so twisted, so tightly packed and wound back around itself, he just couldn’t get a hold of the thing.

The next morning, they burned the house to the ground.

The Villagers watched over the blaze until they were sure nothing remained except ash and cinder. Then, just as people had started to wander away, Winnie Gaskell cried out, it was noted after in the papers, that Miss Gaskell was not known for her liveliness. Her friends immediately halted, turning back to see what she was gesticulating towards in so uncharacteristic a fashion ... and there, in the middle of the rubble, a single green tendril had sprouted up out of the soft layer of ashes.

To this day, speculation surrounding the story remains, with some, placing great emphasis on the supposed murderous intent of the Ulaan, while others tended more toward theories of the supernatural, did the Ulaan sense the proximity of death upon the household, for instance? Numerous alternative theories in addition subsequently fuelled the endless discussion that ensued … Weak superstition impressed itself upon the popular imagination, swiftly consigning the public perception of the plant to the realm of folklore and mythology, to the realm of spirits and omens. It is notions such as these, that have so stubbornly endured.

We have in our possession evidence of sightings from much older sources. It is interesting to note that other observers across several distinct cultures have all equally made mention of ‘characteristics’ or ‘instincts’ in some form, which, it can be argued, are entirely distinct to those of the plant described in the Hampshire case. This leads us to at least theorise, if not conclude, that the Ulaan is capable of developing what can only best be described as something akin to ‘personality’ among their species.

It is not surprising, therefore, that people have never quite lost their fear of the Ulaan, which is now only grown and studied in laboratories. A subject of endless scrutiny and enquiry, for what are we to make of an entity that is always reborn and cannot die?

One could suggest, that for all our prodding and poking, the examinations have not been thorough enough. If we were being truly honest, we might say to ourselves, ‘ We know that it lives, but not that it lives…’ This fact, together with the conundrum that it poses, throughout all our enquiries and conjecture, we avoid and continue to do so.

Let me state here … as a testament to my belief …. I question whether what we think we know about the Ulaan is true at all - let us, here, at least, in this vigilant record of blessed beasts, of things most strange and difficult to comprehend, let us deny no longer … the Ulaan has known great pain.

By Robyn Hunt (c) 2020