A. Colucci - Seeders

“Fifty thousand dollars for finding the diamond?”

“It simply must be found by Wednesday.”

“Why, Ginny, that’s silly. You could hire a detective for far less.”

“There’s no time to arrange it. Besides, you can’t trust strangers to find something so valuable. What’s to stop a person from saying they didn’t find the diamond when they really did?”

“I don’t know—honesty?”

“Oh, you poor girl. Living in a fairy tale. Not surprising. That’s what comes from marrying a policeman.”

Isabelle noticed a flutter of movement on the patio and flipped on the outside light. She was annoyed to see Sean standing alone in the wind. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d left the kitchen.

“Excuse me,” she said and walked quickly to the vestibule. She grabbed a sweater from a hook, threw it over her shoulders and stepped outside.

Cold air blew against her clothing. Sean was staring at the woods, humming the same monotonous tune.

“Come in the house,” she said loudly above the wind.

He seemed to be in some kind of trance.

Isabelle wanted to take him by the arm and lead him inside, but she was afraid he might get angry again.

At that moment, Jules walked up the path and Sean was instantly alert. The two eyed each other. Then the boy turned back toward the house and went into the kitchen without a word.

Jules blew hot air into his hands, looking abashed at Isabelle. “Can I speak to you?”

“Let’s go inside.”

“Alone,” he said, and led her to the door of the laboratory where they could talk in private.

As soon as they were inside, Isabelle could feel the cold on him. He looked pale and distracted and he began right away.

“Something’s happened. I don’t know how to describe it.” He walked across the floor, shaking his head and searching the cabinets.

“Try, Jules.”

“I’m convinced your father was communicating with the plants out there. I connected with them myself, Isabelle.” He stopped pacing and rubbed the side of his cheek. “It’s as though I could feel their pain, and they could feel mine. It was tapping into my memories, reading my thoughts.”

“You’re not making any sense, Jules. You’re just tired from not sleeping. Take your jacket off and have some dinner. It’s almost ready.”

“No, I’ve got to go back.” He picked up his cell phone that was charging on the desk, held it up to her. “You see, it all needs to be documented. It finally occurred to me that I can record it on my phone.”

“You’re going to make a video?”

“I’ll need some kind of proof. You can’t just make claims like this without evidence.”

“It’s completely dark—and freezing outside. You can’t walk around now.”

“I have a flashlight. This can’t wait, Isabelle. I might be on the verge of an enormous breakthrough, your father’s discovery.” He put the phone in his pocket. “This is what he raved about for so many years and I believe he finally accomplished his lifelong dream.”

“If that’s true, then why did he kill himself?”

He was silent for a moment. “Perhaps he was driven mad.”

“By drugs?”

More silence. “By his own memories.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

Jules seemed to deflate right in front of her, his mind drifting with his gaze. “They probe deep within the subconscious. When it happened I could see everything, hear everything, as if I were going through it all over again. It wasn’t pleasant.”

“You’re scaring me, Jules.”

“I’m sorry.” He studied her face and chuckled self-consciously. “It does sound crazy. That’s why I need proof.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s getting blustery out there. I’d better go.” She didn’t have time to stop him. He moved swiftly across the room and out the door.

Jules stood in front of the shed feeling a strong wind at his back. As he slid open the heavy door, a gust blew him inside and he slammed the door shut.

It was quiet and smelled damp from rain.

He turned on the flashlight and the beam hit upon the wall of old farming tools: scythes, hatchets, rakes, and hoes. For a moment he stared at each object, and then he took an ax off the wall and felt its considerable weight in his hands. The wooden handle was old, marred with deep nicks and scratches, but the blade was sharp and clean. He left the shed, pulling the door shut, and headed down the path.

The beam of the flashlight crossed the path, side to side, illuminating the fields of ryegrass rolling in golden waves with each gust of wind. The ax was clenched tightly in his grip and his body trembled, partly from the cold but mostly from exhilaration. Jules was determined to prove his theory, and at the same time was frightened of what he might find. The wind was like razors across his cheeks and the tip of his nose was turning numb as he reached the entrance to the woods.

As he stepped inside the cavern of trees, it was so unexpectedly dark he feared the narrow beam of the flashlight would be insufficient to find the campsite. Indeed, it took over an hour, several wrong turns and doubling back in frustration. When he finally reached the clearing, he pivoted the flashlight across the fungus-covered ground and then up to the hedges of trees that circled him, finally stopping the beam on his target.

It was an old maple, sixty feet high and wide in girth.

He rested the flashlight on a folding table so it shined brightly on the tree and then propped the phone against it, making sure the camera lens was focused in the right spot. He pressed the video button and began recording. Soon he would have documentation of the experience. Something—anything—to show he wasn’t crazy.

Jules approached the tree with the ax firmly in his fist. Ignoring the tremble in his arms, he touched the bark lightly and stepped two paces back. He told himself to concentrate, just do the job and get on with it. He pulled the ax over his shoulder, and swung.

Thwack!

A massive pain ripped through his abdomen. Jules shrieked and fell to his knees, letting go of the ax and clutching his gut in agony. It was that same sensation of torn muscles and cracked bones. Billions of nerve endings burned like fire. He could almost feel blood flowing out of an enormous slit under his rib cage beneath his fingers, yards of loose intestines pouring onto the ground.

As quickly as it came, the pain disappeared.

Jules stayed frozen in place, panting and horrified. Then he curled up until he was able to move. He crawled to his knees, staring at the ax stuck in the tree, the seven-inch wound he had made to the trunk.

Jules was shattered by the pain and fear he had felt, but something even worse. Betrayal .

He gazed shamefully at the crowd of trees surrounding him.

My God, the implications!

Violent images swirled through his head. Fields of ryegrass blowing in the wind, thousands of fields, with plows running day and night. Blades slicing through stalks, millions crying out at once. A buzzing chainsaw cutting through forest, sawdust splattering the dirt like blood. A magnificent maple hitting the ground like a heavy corpse.

Jules raised his sweaty face. The mauled tree was more than he could bear and he grasped the ax handle and tugged the blade free. He threw it to the ground. He grabbed his phone and flashlight off the table, hugging them to his chest.

Then he was running. The flashlight shook in his hands and he crashed into one tree and then another, vines slapping his arms, rocks tripping his feet. The thick scent of pine smelled like blood in a butcher shop, assaulting his senses.

How they must feel, all these years. My God!

As he ran, frightening scenarios flashed in his mind. His own body buried in cement up to his knees, unable to move, while a demented figure, who looked remarkably like himself, swung an ax into his arms and legs, laughing and heedlessly slicing off pieces here and there. The thought shook his bones.