A. Colucci - Seeders

Isabelle asked Sean, “What are you singing, love?”

He fell quiet, and turned to his mother with narrowed eyes. Without warning, he pushed her to the ground with both hands. Then he hissed and punched her in the arm.

Jules rushed forward with his palms blocking Sean, and stood between them. He took Isabelle’s hand and helped her up. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I… think so.” She looked at Sean, bewildered.

Sean got to his feet and walked toward the path, leaving her feeling as though she’d been stabbed in the heart.

MONICA POURED LUKE a cold glass of water and put his wet sneakers on top of the wood-burning stove. He was drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, unable to take his eyes off Ginny.

“What the devil are you staring at?”

“You’ve been here all morning? You’re sure?”

“Yes, for the third time.”

“You never went outside?”

Ginny clicked her tongue derisively. “Well, let’s see, I was in the library for an hour and thirteen minutes. Then I went to my room to read sixty-one pages of a book, stopping twice for the toilet to pee.” She pointed a finger. “I believe the real question is, why aren’t you looking for the Crimson Star, checking your appointed rooms like we agreed? Here’s your copy of the map.” She slapped it on the table.

“I’m not feeling well,” Luke said. He took a gulp of water and raked his fingers through his hair. “I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Monica said.

“Not here.” He slammed the glass down and left the kitchen.

Monica followed him, as Ginny shouted, “Don’t forget your map.”

Luke collapsed in the library, holding his head in his hands. His damp jeans were uncomfortable and he shifted in the seat. When Monica sat in the chair beside him, Luke sighed deeply.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “It’s like, you’re acting weird. Trying to make me feel guilty or something, when I told you I was sorry.”

“It’s not about you.”

“Then what?”

He took a breath and blurted out, “Well, for one thing, I saw Ginny in the woods a few minutes ago with an ax in her head. I mean an actual lumberjack, steel-blade ax lodged in her brain. There was blood everywhere and she was yelling at me.”

Monica froze for a moment. She licked her bottom lip. “You just thought you saw her. It must have been an animal, like a deer mauled by a bear.”

“I was standing five feet away. It was Ginny.”

“You’re trying to scare me again. Just like when you told me that Hodges’s killer could still be on the island.”

“That’s not true.”

“I think you want me to be scared. What, you like your women all weak and terrified, so you can look like this big macho guy? God, I hate that.”

Luke bolted from the chair. “I’m telling you she had an ax split down the side of her head. I ran out of there like crazy, shaking in my boots.”

She watched him pace. “You did look terrified, I’ll give you that. If you’re telling the truth it can only be one thing.” She walked to him, speaking low. “This island is cursed. Your grandfather went nuts, right? Same thing’s happening to you.”

“It’s not the same thing. I’m perfectly sane and I know what I saw.”

She sniffed him.

“What are you doing?”

“Were you drinking?”

“No, I’m not drunk.”

Ginny breezed into the library, fanning the map in the air. “Nine days. We only have nine days until that boat comes. I will not stay alone on this dreary island and I refuse to leave this place without my legal property.”

Monica rolled her eyes.

“I’m raising the reward to fifty thousand dollars.”

No one spoke.

Then Luke said to Ginny, “I saw you in the woods. Sitting on the ground. Digging up a grave or something by that pond.”

“Fifty thousand American dollars?” Monica gasped.

“That’s right.” Ginny turned to Luke, curious. “A grave. You said it was near a pond? Did it have a tombstone with a cross?”

“So you were there.”

“Not for years. George called it our final resting place, but of course he’s already buried in London and I have no intention of spending eternity on this blasted lump of rock. So both of you, get busy.” She clapped her hands. “Come, come.”

She left them and went back to the kitchen.

“So there is a grave.” Monica nodded. “Maybe she was there and lied.”

“About an ax in her head?”

“She’d better not be lying about the fifty thousand dollars. I’m going to find that damn diamond and you’re going to help me. That should take your mind off things.” She leaned forward and gently kissed his lips, but he didn’t kiss her back.

“I’m not going in those woods again.”

Jules studied the campsite. One of the first things he discovered was that the fungi spread much farther than their host plants. While the growth originated on leaves, stalks, or roots, it quickly spread over the ground, rocks, and other inorganic matter, spanning several yards and then merging with neighboring fungi to form a single network.

This wasn’t unusual. Ninety percent of plants on earth form mycorrhizas, symbiotic relationships with fungi. Usually the fungi enter the plant tissue and cells at the roots and create a web of hyphae that branch out for miles, providing the plants with better absorption of water and nutrients, protection from predators and pathogens, as well as information about the environment. Jules had once visited the largest known organism in the world, a fungus called Armillaria solidipes in Oregon, that extended over eight square kilometers, or roughly fifteen hundred football fields.

He pondered the idea that the island had become a single living organism. Perhaps it was like an expansive neural network with a single consciousness that gathered information about the entire island and sent it back to the campsite as a central location to be processed.

He could be standing at the brain .

Jules winced and shook the notion from his mind. Lately he had noticed changes in his reasoning. One minute he would be excited about an idea to the point of mania, sweating and having heart palpitations, only to realize later it was ridiculous and the excitement unwarranted. He suspected that sometimes he was ignoring observations and easy explanations, even skewing results to prove his own hypothesis. It wasn’t entirely his fault. Jules was working under stressful conditions. He was still having dizzy spells, unable to fully concentrate. No doubt it was nerves; fear that he would be assaulted by those terrible memories again if he stayed in the woods. But he knew if the plants were going to communicate with him, this is where it would happen.

Jules strolled into the tent and stared at the synthesizer George had built, with its poorly fastened wires and circuits. Perhaps it wasn’t as elementary as it looked.

The green book was spread on the ground below. He brushed dirt off the page and studied the diagram, which was labeled Isochronic Tone Generator . Jules figured the device was supposed to produce sounds to alter the brain’s electrical oscillations. He wanted to try it, see if it worked.

“All right. Let’s have a go,” he said, and flipped the switch. Nothing happened.

He figured the batteries were dead, or perhaps the thing had been standing too long under the tent. He tried it again.

This time the contraption started up with a quiet pulsating sound, and Jules was delighted. Then the noise became loud and undulating, like a quivering saw, and the pitch rose higher until it was quite uncomfortable. Jules winced and swatted his ear as if shooing a fly. Then the tone changed again and the needle slowly descended as the sound faded to nothing.