A. Colucci - Seeders

Imagine, actually hearing the thoughts of a tree, the sound of their language. It was practically inconceivable. He wondered what kind of reception there would be; this was more than clicking tomatoes. Perhaps even too big for the Institute of Plant Neurobiology. Undoubtedly, the publishing rights of his paper would be fought over by every major scientific journal. There would be a surge of media attention and money rolling in for more research. The demand for interviews would be a nuisance, but every biologist on the planet would want to speak to him. The British Science Foundation, the International Consortium of Botanists, the prime minister of England, the president of the United States. The Ministry of Defense would probably pounce on his research.

Of course, a Nobel prize was a given.

Jules blinked and his thoughts hit a wall. What was he thinking? It sounded so absurd; there had to be a rational explanation. Besides, what proof did he have but his own personal experience, a notebook full of sketchy observations, pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit?

He picked up the ivy and twirled it in his fingers. But keeping his mind from wandering was nearly impossible and he found himself imagining the troll-like reporter from the Enquirer . How he’d love to see the wanker’s face when the announcement was made to the world. Jules rolled the idea over in his mind. Why couldn’t George have discovered a way to communicate with plants? Wasn’t that the basis of his own work, everything he hoped to prove? Yet, here he was, sounding like all the other doubters and critics.

Of course it was possible. By God, it was his duty to prove it, for the sake of the planet. Because, all things considered, none of the accolades even compared to the scientific contribution his work would have on the future of earth.

Imagine what they could tell us .

It was almost as if the decision created a chemical shift in his body. He was giddy with excitement and a kind of youthful wonder he hadn’t felt in decades. It was exhilarating, and he rubbed his palms together, eager to continue.

Isabelle came into the lab, her nervous fingers wringing a handkerchief.

“Isabelle, I’m glad you’re here,” Jules said, oblivious to her despair. “I’ve come up with some new ideas about these plants based—”

“Sean hasn’t returned,” she interrupted. “He’s been gone for hours. Maybe lost in the woods.”

Jules stared, as though she were speaking in a foreign tongue. Then he said dismissively, “I’m sure he’s all right. A boy his age certainly wouldn’t miss lunch. Now I’d like you to have a look at these electrical signals.”

“Jules, I’m not interested in plants right now. My son is missing and he could be lost.”

“He’s probably at the beach.”

“Well, you should help me look. After all, it was your idea to let him go.”

His shoulders sagged and he dropped the ivy on the table. “Fine. I’ll help you search.”

LUKE BROKE THROUGH A TANGLE of brush that hindered his path through the woods. Hot tears streaked his face, his nose was runny, and he could still hear Monica laughing. It plagued him with the kind of angst and humiliation that only a strenuous workout could quell, and he climbed a steep incline, quick as a squirrel. He made it to the top, slid down on his bottom, and kept on running.

Then he stopped suddenly. His head hurt and floaters clouded his vision. When the woods began to sway, Luke staggered sideways and dropped to his knees. He grabbed his gut, as nausea struck like a cannonball. Luke vomited into the mud. He hacked out burning saliva and the pungent smell made him heave again.

What the hell is happening? He rolled onto his back, wiping his mouth and hoping it would pass. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the branches overhead and his ears buzzed with chatter, incoherent whispers that came from the foliage.

“Who’s there?” he muttered, slowly turning his head.

He was alone.

Friggin’ Monica .

She had stressed him out until he hurled. The bitch teased him, seduced him, and made him feel like a fool. But he knew from the body chills and muscle aches, this wasn’t just stress. It was some kind of infection, viral or bacterial, possibly a strain of some island flu.

Good. Maybe I’ll die .

Luke lay in the dark shadow of towering pines, listening to silence. When he sat up, it felt like a skillet hit his head, so he sank back down and rested a few more agonizing minutes.

You’re fine, bro. Just keep it together.

He took deep breaths and rested. With his face so close to the ground he came nose to nose with a pinecone. The woody scales were covered in black specks. Not far away there were sprouts of grass, also speckled black, as well as the bark of trees. Luke sat up slowly without any discomfort, and noticed all the fallen leaves and creeping vines were infested too. Curious, he crawled along the ground, following the growth. Must be a fungus, he thought, but didn’t contemplate the idea any further than that.

Slowly he rose to his feet, trying not to sway.

There was a pond in a clearing about twenty yards from where he stood. Tall reeds poked through the surface, dried and bent. The water shimmered with blue and white reflections of the sky. He walked to the edge and saw his face among the floating twigs. The surface was a sheet of glass and he spit the bad taste from his mouth, watched the water ripple. Then he bent down and splashed his face. The water was ice cold and he remembered the name on the map, Ice Pond.

He was startled by a thumping sound. Across the water, a woman was stooped on her knees. Why hadn’t he noticed her before? She seemed to be digging in the dirt.

With some trepidation, he walked in her direction, his leg muscles tightening with growing alarm. When he was halfway around the pond, his shoulders dropped in relief.

It was Ginny. She was mumbling to herself and raking the earth with filthy hands. It was an amusing sight and he smirked, forgetting all about Monica.

“Miss Shufflebottom?” he said, and had to bite his tongue not to laugh at the sound of her name. She was digging a hole in front of a smooth boulder, engraved with a cross as though it were some kind of headstone.

“It’s here,” she muttered, digging deeper. “I know it. Right here in this grave.” She was panting and excited. Dirt was flying everywhere.

Luke stopped a few yards away, wary of getting close. “Do you need some help?”

The old woman jerked her head around and shouted, “What in bloody hell is wrong with you, boy?”

An ax stuck out of Ginny’s forehead. Blood ran down her pasty-white face, between her eyes that were drawn down in anger, and around her gaping mouth. A lavender dress clung to her body, soaked red on one side.

Luke fell back, staring in horror and tripping on his feet. He scurried across the ground like a frightened crab and backed right into the shallow pond. Splashing and rolling, he struggled to get up and sprang for the woods, through a tangle of branches, and kept on going. It was a small miracle that he found the path to the house, and sped over the flat terrain with Ginny’s voice still ringing in his head.

What in bloody hell is wrong with you, boy?

Her bloody face stuck in his mind. The hatchet lodged in her temple, brain matter protruding over one eye.

God, how can she be alive? How is she speaking?

Luke felt his stomach start to heave again. He focused on his breathing, the sound of his wet sneakers slamming the ground. The woods ended and the house came into view. The fields of rye seemed to stretch on forever and he thought he would never reach the front door. His calves burned and his lungs made quick rasping sounds.