Stone Seeds

by Ely, Jo;

  Mamma Zeina showed Zorry just the once how to make a hole in the fence and then restitch, dab the fence with a plant concoction. The wound in it is supposed to close and grow over, if you get the mixture and the application just right. Zorry believes she has got the knack of these chemical sutures to the fence.

  But she’s wrong.

  Closing the fence wound, Zorry had failed to notice a small hole, about the size of a pencil tip. It glows black at first. And then with the two Sinta well out of sight, the black hole turns waxen green. There is a small leaf unfurling through it.

  Vine bleeding down.

  Now the gap widens around the vine stem.

  The leaf eases itself softly toward the dark soil beneath.

  Fertile OneFolks’ soil. The vine tongues the ground. Sniffs the air.

  Now the hole widens to a mouth size. New vines seethe through the gap.

  Zorry pauses, unsure. She thinks of something. “What were you doing in there?” Turns to Mamma Zeina. “Why did you take so long in the killing forest? We risked getting caught by the fence.”

  “That’s always a risk, Zorry.” Mamma Zeina grunts. “Tell me that you knew that, Child, or why you even come with me?” And then, as if to herself, “There was an edge farm kid.” She rubs her head. Then she looks at her hand, wipes her palm on her apron. Leaves a stripe of blood down it.

  “The droning sound? They were bombs?”

  “Yes. Neck injury. Left arm. Busted ear drums. A few broken ribs. He’s going to be alright. He is lucky.” She looks thoughtful. “Too lucky. I’ve never seen a blast victim come out in more or less one piece the way Tomax did.”

  “Tomax …” Zorry thinks the name is familiar. “And that bomb, Mamma? It was strange.”

  “Strange?”

  “I heard the drone but it didn’t sound like a strike, Mamma Zeina.”

  “Aye. Yes, Zorry. This was a small one I reckon. This was something new.”

  “A small bomb?”

  “Yes, Zorry. Small and personal by the looks of it.”

  “Who was it aimed at?”

  “As far as I can see it must’a bin’ just that kid, Tomax. Can’t see why they’d expend that kind of effort, ammunition, over the boy, but … Seems to be more to it than the seeming. How things appear in Bavarnica mostly ain’t … Representative.”

  “Representative?”

  “True, Child. Meaning iffen they wanted the boy dead then he would be. Mostly don’t trust your eyes, Zorry, that’s the gist of it. But this bomb seemed more like a warning to me.”

  “Who is Tomax?”

  Mamma Zeina examines Zorry’s face. She stops talking for a moment. And then, “Tomax is a kid who works in the gem mines on the edge of the OneFolks’ village.” She looks thoughtful. “That might be where his problem started. Mayhap some dispute with his guards.” She scratches the side of her head. “He’s got himself on to a list, by the looks of it.” She strokes her round chin. “I’m not sure how. But I’ll think on it.”

  “Is he going to be alright?”

  “Like I said, Zorry. Tomax was warned.” She scratches a mosquito bite on the back of her neck. “Or mayhap he was spared by someone. Good can infiltrate any system, that’s what we Sinta say.” She sniffs. “But then again it could’a been dumb luck saved him. He was under a beam. Strong beam. He got out before the building … Before the fire took a hold and the rats and all came.”

  Zorry shudders.

  “But mostly he was lucky because Jengi happened to be on the edge farm side of the killing forest and saw it all through the fence. Jengi has some expertise in … That kind of rescue.” She checks the girl for understanding. “Jengi is the last of the Digger tribe. Do you know what that means?”

  Zorry examines her palm.

  “Well young Tomax has survived today but maybe not tomorrow lest we can get him re-certified tame …” Mamma Zeina stops talking again. She looks up. Sees something behind Zorry. “Egg boy,” she hisses. “Heading this way.”

  Zorry whips around and tries to look behind her but Mamma Zeina yanks her arm and spins her, shoves her in the direction of the copse behind her cottage.

  “Go, go.”

  She notices Zorry makes no sound at all, crossing the yard to the copse. Looks down at her sack affectionately. All in all, it’s been a night of revelations.

  “I’ve found some gems tonight, haven’t I?”

  Zorry is bedded down in soft, curling ferns, a thorn bush conceals her. She pulls back its mottled waxen leaves, she peers through. The lights blink off in Mamma Zeina’s cottage. And in a bit, a small candle appears in the old woman’s window.

  REPORT 1: SEEDS

  “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

  The voice is brusque. Cold. Jengi thinks it sounds familiar. He pauses.

  “This is my first report, Sir. Will it be … Is this a secure line?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “And you’ll help us?”

  Pause. “Jengi. What do you have to report?”

  Jengi clears his throat. “Where shall I start?”

  “Start with the Sinta.”

  Jengi lets out a breath. “The Sinta are a slave tribe in Bavarnica. Slaves since the last revolution failed.”

  “Go on, Jengi.”

  “Those Sinta who remain in the OneFolks’ village are survivors of the purge after the revolution. They are the Sinta who didn’t run. Servitude. It was the worst punishment there is for a proud tribe like the Sinta. But still not the worst the general dished out after the failed revolution.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s what he did to the edge farmers.”

  “The edge farmers?”

  Jengi sighs. “Every Bavarnican tribe but the general’s own, the OneFolk, was pushed over the border in the long ago. Out there facing the heat together, the outcasts became one tribe: The Edge Farmers.”

  “Okay, lots of tribes, got it. But exile? Since when is that the worst punishment?”

  “It’s been a slow motion genocide, Sir. Leaving the edge farmers to scratch a living, starve on the edge farms which border the desert was the worst punishment the general could think up for them. With respect, Sir, you’d have to stand in that desert ten minutes to understand what it means for a Bavarnican to be exiled.”

  “They can’t farm by the desert?”

  “No. They don’t get the drought resistant seeds. I mean … A few get government approval for the drought resistant seeds. They can grow in drought season and the drought seeds confer some heat resistance iffen you consume ‘em raw and by the handful. Those farmers are closely controlled and can lose their privilege at a moment’s notice. And they know it. Death is all around them. They are controllable. A handful more edge farm folks work the gem mines in the OneFolks’ village. As for the rest …”

  “Wait. A handful of edge farmers in the OneFolks’ village you say?”

  “About a hundred, all told. Men and women. Firstborns mostly. But for the rest of the Edge Farmers … Slow death. There’s no water source at the edge, unless you count the dirty puddles soaking out under the fence of the killing forest. Filled with disease and toxins from the lab plants. Not enough to get by on, even if the water doesn’t kill you outright. Water ain’t their only problem. The edge farms get the stone seeds, like I said.”

  “The stone seeds?”

  “It’s what the edge farmers call them. On account they mean death. You must have seen the orange sacks, no? Well, they are the ancient seeds. Un-modified. Nothing can grow from them. Not in the heat of the edge farms.”

  “And yet … Jengi. Something is growing out there. Growing from the stone seeds.”

  “Not much.”

  “Not much isn’t the same thing as nothing, Jengi. Why are the stone seeds growing at all?”

  “Aye. Well, that’s where I come in, Sir. My work in the shop. Mixing the ancient seeds with the drought seeds, before they leave the shop. Difficult, dangerous, working under Gaddys’ nose. I get some hel
p.”

  “Help? Is that from the mother cupboards? I have something about them here …” The voice seems suddenly excited. “And that’s the Sinta resistance I take it?” Jengi hears the rustling of sheets of paper. “Wait … Let me find a pen, write this down.”

  “We’ll get to it later.”

  Pause. “I see, Jengi.”

  Jengi notes the reproachful tone and ignores it.

  And then, “Do you, Sir?” He asks. “Tell me. What is it you see?”

  The line goes silent. Jengi takes a deep breath. He speaks into the void. Says the whole thing just like he has practised.

  “The desert is swallowing up the edge farms’ rugged pastures like a great toothless mouth since the heat rose and the edge farmers’ rains were reallocated by the general. Only the OneFolk and the Egg Men who protect the OneFolk, a scattering of surviving Sinta who serve tables and cook for a slave’s pay, meaning food, are still allowed inside the OneFolks’ village, meaning the Sinta and the Egg Men, a few gem miners who are edge farmers Gaddys certified tame, and they all don’t so much live alongside the OneFolk tribe as live underneath them. We all live underneath them.”

  “Take a breath, Jengi.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “They told me you were a storyteller, Jengi. But try to keep it to a minimum would you? It gets on my nerves. I’d like to see some simple facts in your next report. Jengi? Did you hear me? Numbers. Names. Coordinates. You might want to think about making a list, Jengi. Making a map. Do you get me?”

  No answer.

  “Remind me, Jengi. What are the Bavarnican tribes again?”

  “Yes, Sir. There are three tribes now. Four if you count the general’s OneFolk, although they don’t call themselves a tribe, the OneFolks.”

  “But they are a tribe. According to you.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Start with the non-organics. What was it you called them?”

  “The Egg Men?”

  “Yes, the Egg Men. You said they’re the soldiers. The guards.”

  “Yes. Only the officers’ class of the military are organics, OneFolks. The rest are made in a lab. Them’s the Egg Boys. And batch 47 is the last batch of eggs. They …”

  “Hang on a bit. Slow down, Jengi. And, who were exiled? Who works the land by the desert?”

  “Edge Farmers!”

  Pause. “Your voice sounds impatient. Jengi.”

  “Sorry, Sir.” Now Jengi knows he’s talking too fast, “The edge farmers were the ones banished to work the poor soil beside the desert. They … They are not allowed into the OneFolks’ village. Not unless it’s to collect their grain rations. They only get those if they’re certified tame.”

  “Right. So then there’s the slaves in the OneFolks’ village. The Sinta. Okay, lots of tribes,” he sighs. “Holy bewildering crap, Jengi … lots of tribes. Got it. I think I got it. Okay, look.” Sound of shuffled papers again. “We’ll get back to you, Jengi.”

  “Yes. But Sir?”

  “What is it, Jengi?”

  “There is just one other tribe.” Jengi takes a deep breath. “There was one other tribe in Bavarnica.”

  “You said was?”

  “I am the last of the Digger tribe. When I’m gone …”

  “You’re the last?”

  “We rose up against the general. It was our revolution.”

  “And how did that go, Jengi?”

  “We tried to go it alone …” He can’t finish. There is a coughing sound.

  “I see.” The voice says drily. “I think I’m beginning to understand, Jengi. And that’s why you want to build a coalition of all the tribes for your next revolution?” The voice becomes brusque. Hard. “Give me some names, Jengi. Who are your Seeds? I’m assuming you have at least one Thought Seed planted in each tribe or we why are we even cooking together here? Jengi?”

  Pause. “I have … three Seeds in mind.”

  “Names?”

  “Sir. No names. At least not … Not yet.”

  Sighs. “Jengi?” Pause. Low voice. “There is only the one way for me to help you.”

  Longer pause. “And this line is secure?”

  “Go ahead Jengi.”

  “The names are …” There is a long silence. And then muffled sounds, slide and thump. The sound of Jengi kicking a tree trunk repeatedly. Something falls out of the tree.

  “Jengi. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Antek. Egg Boy.” The sound of Jengi breathing out fast. Pause again. Then his voice in a rush, “Tomax. Edge Farm boy.” He says. Longest pause. “Zzz …” He stops. There’s a silence. “That’s it.”

  “You said three. You said there were three Seeds. You said Z?”

  “I said that’s it.”

  “Jengi?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You still need a Sinta. Get recruiting.”

  “It’s not … It isn’t … The Sinta believe that … They have …” He sighs. “Yes, Sir. I’ll find a Sinta.”

  THE GENERAL’S FEAST

  ONE OF THE EGG Men by the window looks young. His skull is regular sized.

  “Batch 47,” Mamma Zeina whispers to Zorry. “Human.” Eyes Zorry. “Mostly human. But …” She turns. “They’re putting the latest batch of Egg Boys in the general’s house now?” She scratches a small insect bite on her curved chin. “Well. That’s new. Guess they must’a passed the last round of tests.” She looks thoughtful. Turning toward Zorry, “Him, there. That’s Antek,” she says. She squints, looks away. Picks up a piece of food debris by Zorry’s left foot.

  “He’s looking at you.” Zorry mouthes.

  Antek watches Zeina walking heavily towards the serving table. When she reaches it she leans down hard, looks up. Holds the boy in a warm, shrewd gaze. He looks away quickly, confused.

  Mamma Zeina returns to Zorry slowly with a covered plate. Slow, pained movements, edges in beside Zorry. Blocks the window with her bulk.

  “Move Sinta, that’s where the guards stand.” An Egg Man moves to stand with his back to the window. Zorry steps aside quickly. Backs behind a curtain to one side. But Mamma Zeina pulls Zorry into the listening dead zone, between the bathrooms and the hall chandelier. Casts an expert eye around her for any new bugs or listening devices. She begins her tutelage. Quietly.

  Today is Zorry’s first day serving the feast at the general’s great house. There’s a lot to learn today and no room for mistakes. The guests are scowling at name cards, taking their places.

  “The general’s wife is s’posed to run the flowers fund of Bavarnica, and this is its biannual meeting, fundraiser, shindig, whatever you want to call it.” Mamma Zeina rubs her head slow, absent-mindedly. “Feast.” Then seems to remember herself. Readjusts her scarf. “The flowers fund used to deliver food to the edge farms but the general’s wife, she’s … “opens her eyes wide, “Over pollinated now.”

  They both eye the general’s wife from behind.

  Rib bones of her spine fanning out like the long teeth of a comb.

  “Gaddys the village shopkeeper has taken over.” Mamma Zeina scratches her chin, then her small round nose. “Now it’s just flowers they deliver.”

  “Flowers? To starving childur? What’s the point Mamma Zeina?”

  Mamma Zeina and Zorry turn as one to look at the flowers on the table. They are huge and grotesque, red petals seeping down toward the table, huge insect-like proboscis pointing skyward. Rows of black beady eyes.

  “Why?”

  Mamma Zeina rolls her eyes. “Who knows?”

  Zorry notes the tables groan with produce. Something has escaped from the food table. Several things on the food table are, on closer examination, still alive. One clawed pink creature crawls down from the top of a stack. A small mammal with oversized lower body, tiny ears, is hopping distractedly from plate to plate.

  Since disease hit the food chain, the fashion amongst the OneFolk tribe has been to select the critter they’re planning on eating by its movements, its overall c
olour and appearance, other signs of health, and then gesture with one finger toward the apparently speechless and heartbroken Sinta butcher who stands behind the feasting table. Have him kill the food in front of the guests.

  Occasionally the butcher breaks down in tears and has to be replaced by an underling, causing some tittering and rolling eyes at the feast table. The Sinta butcher used to be an animal conservationist before the failed revolution. A vegetarian. The general has been creative with his punishments.

  Mamma Zeina nudges Zorry. It’s hard to stay awake on the job after a night hiding out in the copse behind Mamma Zeina’s house. Zorry feels tense, wired, and the back of her neck and limbs are aching. In the air conditioned general’s house Zorry feels cold to the marrow. Jumps when Mamma Zeina jogs her.

  “In practice, Gaddys the village shopkeeper has been in charge for the last seven years.” Mamma Zeina says. “That’s her over there.” Zorry follows Mamma Zeina’s eye. She recognises the village shopkeeper at once. “Yep, I know her.”

  Zorry eyes the window. From here she can see the border of the killing forest beyond the first fence. She can’t see past the trees but she knows that the killing forest is also fenced off by high electrified fences on the edge farm side. Mamma Zeina seems to read Zorry’s thought. “No Zorry,” she says. “There’s no chance for them.”

  “What?” Zorry blinks.

  “No escapees from the edge farms have ever made it over here, Zorry. Not past the last fence. The fence on our side. Leastways not so far as I know.”

  “Can’t we … help them to get in the same way we got out?”

  Mamma Zeina twists towards Zorry sharply. Hands her a fork. “Careful Child. Them is revolutionary words.” There is a long pause whilst Mamma Zeina gathers herself.

  “Every month or so, one or two of the edge farms’ strongest and most resourceful men and women do make it over the first fence. The one on the edge farm side.”

  “Eh?”

  “Yes, Zorry. The fence on the edge farm side of the killing forest has roots six foot into the earth and is topped with knives, electrified, and still …” She chuckles. “Jengi gets in and out through that fence like it were full of holes.”