His voice softened. “The harmony is gone. Mutualism. Gone.”
“Jules?”
“Now we are the hunted.”
Isabelle looked at the knife again. If she could just get past him. As she eased by the stove, Jules stepped in her way. She panicked and grabbed the kettle, trying to sound casual. “I can make you some tea. You must be hungry.”
He leaned in to whisper. “I’ve discovered things about them. Sometimes they don’t know our thoughts from reality.” His eyes scanned the room, as if someone were watching, and he focused on her face again, keeping his voice low. “This morning I was looking at a wilted leaf under a microscope and I thought about watering it. At that precise moment, the leaf opened its stomata as though the image in my mind was real. So then I thought about harming the plant, to see how it would react.” He gestured surprise. “It cut me.”
The mood in the room grew dark.
Jules lifted his sleeve to show a bandage around his wrist. “It made me use a scissor.”
Isabelle gasped. “You cut yourself.”
“See what I’m trying to tell you?”
She carried the kettle toward the sink, but his hand reached out and clutched her arm. “Aren’t you interested in knowing what they want?”
“No. All I want is to get off this island.” She looked at the knife.
Jules followed her gaze. He went to the sink and picked up the knife. “Is this what you want?” he yelled and threw it across the floor.
Isabelle didn’t move until he stormed out of the room. She put her hand over her mouth and shut her eyes tight.
CHAPTER 22
JULES ANGRILY PACED THE LABORATORY, hands clasped behind his back. He lurched forward and swept the papers off the desk. The chatter had started again, but Jules was tired of all the noise.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted.
The sound stopped and Jules stood perfectly still for a few moments, thinking about Isabelle and her claims that he was drugged. It was true, his personality was changing. Some of the things he said sounded like nonsense one minute and the next, perfectly rational. On the other hand, there was no denying the facts. The plants on the island were sending him messages. Yet, only he could hear them.
Why was I chosen?
It occurred to Jules that perhaps it was no coincidence that both he and George received the message. The true believers were always the first to know. He started to relax and once again felt strong and vibrant. He dropped to one knee and began picking up the papers.
“Dr. Beecher?”
He looked up to see Luke in the doorway. “Yes, what is it?”
“Well, um…”
“I’m quite busy.”
“Could I talk to you about something?”
He hesitated, but then waved the boy over. It seemed they were going to have another little chat. Jules sat down and dropped the papers on the desk, pulled up a chair beside him. He was calm, like his old self.
Luke slumped down in the seat. “I was wondering if you noticed the plants on the island doing anything … strange.”
“What do you mean strange?”
“My mom said you’re studying them. That you think the plants are, um, different … I mean…”
“Get to the point, please.”
“Do the plants in the woods make you see things?”
“You mean like the body you found?”
“No. That was real.”
Jules looked more interested. “Did something in the woods frighten you?”
He nodded.
Jules leaned in. “Yes, Luke. I think they can make you see things. But I don’t believe they want to scare you, or hurt you. They’re simply trying to communicate.”
“That’s scientifically impossible.”
“I would have agreed with you last week. But it seems your grandfather has found a way to merge the thoughts of plants and humans, synchronizing the two frequencies. It has something to do with a fungus.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “You mean that black fungus in the woods?”
“Yes. I think it helps them read our thoughts. Get into our heads.”
Luke looked skeptical.
“I’ve experienced it myself.”
“You have?
He nodded.
“Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t think so, unless you freak out and do something stupid.”
“Like jump off a cliff?”
Jules didn’t say anything.
“What do they want?”
“I believe they’ve been trying to connect with us, trying to send us a message.”
“What kind of message?”
“I don’t know, but I hope it’s something useful. Perhaps they want to warn us that we’re destroying the planet.”
Luke chuckled. “What I saw in the woods was not a message about climate change.”
“What was it?”
He shrugged, not keen to answer. “Can they see the future?”
“Possibly. There have been studies that show plants are prophetic, anticipating both negative and positive events.”
“So maybe they were trying to warn me about something that’s going to happen. So I can stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“I don’t know. Someone getting murdered.”
“Who’s getting murdered?”
“I don’t know.”
He snorted impatience. “Plants don’t care about anything but survival. Instinct is driving them the same way it drives animals.”
“Driving them to do what? Plants are supposed to like people. We grow them in fields and give them fertilizer and water.”
“Hogwash.” Jules snorted. “Our selfish endeavors have thrust plants into a massive artificial environment designed to satisfy our own needs. Humans grow what they want, where they want, when they want it. If we aren’t cutting plants into pieces, trampling them underfoot, we’re completely ignoring them without an ounce of respect. Why, you might be sitting on the carcass of a two-hundred-year-old elder.”
Luke shifted in his chair.
“Do you know what is happening to trees all over the world, how they’re disappearing?”
“You mean like sequoias?”
“I’m talking about half the pines in the Rockies disappearing. Ninety percent of West African forests have been wiped out, ninety-eight in Ethiopia. Rainforests are being flattened to grow palm oil for products, while the Amazon and ancient woods are being turned into grass for grazing animals, thanks to America’s obsession with hamburgers. In a hundred years, there won’t be a virgin forest on earth.” He slumped in his chair. “How could you understand? We’re causing climate change on a massive scale that will kill every living thing within the next two centuries. I know. I’ve seen it.”
Luke blinked helplessly. “So … what can we do?”
Jules rested his head back on the chair and looked down his nose at the boy, considering his potential. He was intelligent, no doubt, but could he be trusted with privileged information and was he worthy of inclusion? It appeared he had connected with the plants, after all, and he seemed open to progressive ideas. After a moment he thought, Why not? He might be useful.
“Do you really want to help?”
“Sure.”
“Then perhaps you’d like to work on your grandfather’s project with me.”
“Luke.” Isabelle stood in the doorway, sounding stiff and looking directly at her son. “I fixed you some breakfast in the kitchen. You need to—”
“Why are you so anxious to leave?” Jules interrupted. “The boat will be here Wednesday. Surely you can wait until then.”
“Might I remind you there’s a dead man in the woods?”
“Ah, well. He’s waited this long.”
“Luke, go wash up for breakfast.”
“I’m talking to Dr. Beecher.”
“You can do that later. I said wash up.”
“Wash up. What am I, five years old?”
; “How about, go put soap and water on your hands, rinse them off, and eat your oatmeal.”
“Fine.” He shrugged.
Isabelle stepped into the lab as Luke left.
Jules stood, with an awkward bow. “I’m sorry for that scene in the kitchen, Isabelle. Truly I am. Have you thought about what I said—continuing your father’s research?”
She straightened. “Have you thought about what I said? Whatever’s in those biscuits is making you hallucinate.”
He grinned, stepping toward her as he spoke. “I would have expected more from you, Isabelle. Even your son has an open mind about it.”
“I’d rather you not discuss it with him.” Her expression hardened. “The boat won’t be here for eight days,” she said in a clear voice. “That’s a nice campsite in the woods. Maybe you should stay there until it arrives.”
His pupils grew large and dark. “What are you saying?”
“I’m simply looking out for the children.”
“You think I’m dangerous?” He closed in on her space. “You want me out of the house?”
She backed away, but he reached out and grabbed her arms.
“What happened? We started out so well, I could tell you were falling in love with me. Go ahead, say it!”
“Let go of me.” She stared at him, horrified. Across his forehead was a rash of small bumps that followed his hairline down the left side of his temple. Her hand came up and stopped. “What is that—on your face?”
He pushed her away, smoothed down his hair.
She watched him walk to his jacket, slung over a chair.
“Mom?” Luke stood in the doorway. “Could you come with me for a minute?”
Isabelle glanced at Jules, zipping his coat. He was tight-lipped, eyes fixed on the window, and then he started for the back door.
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Isabelle walked with Luke toward the kitchen. “I want you to stop talking to Dr. Beecher.”
“Maybe he’s right, about the plants.”
“Get that idea out of your head. It’s ridiculous.”
They reached the kitchen and Luke stood at the end of the cabinets. “Take a look at this.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly.”
Then she realized the radio was gone. “Someone took it.”
“No. It’s still here.” He went to the garbage can and pressed the foot pedal.
Isabelle looked inside to see it was smashed to pieces. Her heart was pounding.
“Sean?” he asked.
She shook her head. “My guess is Dr. Beecher.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But it looks like we’re stranded for another eight days.”
CHAPTER 23
OVER THE NEXT THREE DAYS, Jules remained at the campsite.
At night when the sun went down, his world was shrouded in darkness. His eyes strained to catch tiny bits of moonlight that fell like brushstrokes on leaves and branches.
Jules lay inside the tent on a pile of scratchy blankets listening to the chatter. Sometimes it was so loud he would move to the beach, sitting with his knees curled up to his chest while his muscles shivered uncontrollably. He’d watch the waves break white, hugging a blanket that was damp from the spray of the sea.
Although the beach was quieter than the woods, he could still hear their cries and he’d plug his ears, pull the blanket over his head. He never bathed, rarely ate, and his appearance became frightening. The rumpled clothes he wore were filthy and his hair a tangled mess. Black rings circled his eyes from sleepless nights, merging with his grizzled beard and dark bumps that speckled his cheeks. If he actually had a mirror, it would show an unrecognizable face.
Jules dreaded going to sleep. Nights were terrifying. As he dozed, they would enter his mind, a physical force connecting to his frontal lobe. He could feel data streaming into his brain, sounds and flashes of colored lights on a ticker tape that twisted through gray matter and gave him chills, as if they were downloading a long, complicated program. At the same time, thoughts and memories were leaving his head. Jules could see the images being emptied out: trees being cut down, logs floating like corpses down a river, forests ablaze, a ground full of stumps, concrete cities being erected, acres of trays filled with mutated seed. It was exhausting to download so much information and in the morning Jules felt physically ill.
Sometimes the messages became too enormous to hear. Their pain and suffering was unbearable and Jules wandered the woods, holding his ears or rolling on the ground, just wanting it to stop. Other times it came as a thwack! that would shake the earth and he would feel a piece of his body slice off, an arm or a leg, and then the warm sting of blood pouring out, his heart beating frantically, life creeping toward its bitter end.
“What do you want!” he screamed one night, but there was no answer. The sun was setting and it was almost dark. Jules knew they wanted him to do something, but what?
He studied the green notebook for a while and decided that he was supposed to spread the plants all over the world. Finish the job George had started and failed. But there was more, and the sounds became unbearable. He fell into a depression and violent images swirled through his mind. Visions of his childhood and vegetal slaughter.
There was finally a moment of silence, and it came with a message that was crystal clear.
Kill them.
At first he didn’t want to believe it. After all, they had never shown any sign of wanting revenge. What if he was misinterpreting their meaning?
You’re a scientist, he told himself. Get ahold of yourself. That’s when he started to doubt everything. How could plants possibly understand a concept like murder, let alone how the human brain works? Even if they had the ability of cognition, it would be nothing like human thought. Why, it was preposterous. Entangling the thought waves of humans and plants would be like entangling the notes of a song with a Swiss cheese sandwich. They were two completely different things.
The campsite was nearly dark and thrown into a chaotic mess, but he searched until he found a pile of handwritten notes, specifically a list of three questions. He read the last two.
How are plants able to understand human thoughts?
What role does the fungus play?
Jules spent the rest of the night perched on a tree stump with a flashlight in his hand, reading the green book and trying to figure out the last two questions. He bit his nails, scratched his beard, and picked at the bumps on his forehead. He studied the drawing of the machine and read the entire book until the sun came up.
On that drizzly morning, the answer came to him.
He was squatting on a damp sleeping bag outside the tent, when the clouds above him cast an eerie shadow over the campsite. He looked at the ground as if he’d never seen it before. The way the fungus was draped over one particular area. The curves and spikes created a collage of shapes that were coming together.
Jules stared at it for several minutes, as light rain fell on his face.
His heart started pounding. He crawled to the spot and began peeling away layers of fungi. His fingernails scraped away the thick pile, exposing pieces of what lay beneath: hard edges, points and grooves, bits of color, until a recognized object was revealed.
Jules jolted back, realizing what he uncovered. His filthy hands were shaking so hard he had to hold them still. He kept digging, exposing much more and then stopped.
This is how George did it.
One word came to mind. Seeders.
The two questions were answered together as one. It took several minutes to calm down. Jules quickly walked back to the tent and picked up the green journal that didn’t make sense for so long. He gazed at the things he unearthed, then back to the journal. Now when he read it, the words formed perfect sentences as if he’d cracked the code. He understood everything; indeed he might have written the book himself.
* * *
Isabelle became increasin
gly worried about Jules after he moved out of the house. Rarely did she ever see him, and when she did it was at a distance, either pushing a wheelbarrow of supplies into the woods or digging up ryegrass.
Only once she found him in the house, raiding the fridge, stuffing frozen chicken in his mouth, ripping the raw meat with his teeth like an animal. He didn’t see Isabelle watching from the doorway, as he stood there in his filthy coat, pants, and muddy boots.
When he left, she dragged a bench in front of the door.
“No one leaves the house,” she told the others.
Not that Luke wanted to leave. After his experience in the woods, he was glad to have an excuse to stay indoors. He and Monica did their best to occupy themselves with board games and they were constantly sneaking off to make out, although none of the encounters lasted long. As soon as things heated up, Isabelle would appear as if on cue.
She had to keep an eye on Sean too, which was nearly impossible. He wanted to leave the house so badly he threw fits and Isabelle needed Luke to help restrain him. A few times, Sean escaped unnoticed but always returned a few hours later, muddy but calm, and always humming the same tune that was quickly growing on Isabelle’s nerves. Frustration consumed her and twice she attempted to lock him in his room, but somehow he always got out.
Ginny was glad to have everyone trapped in the house, devoting at least some part of the day to looking for her treasure. She insisted that Isabelle search the laboratory, so when they were quite sure Jules was gone for good, she started investigating the lab, checking cabinets and closets for any kind of note or jewelry box. Ginny kept her company, all the while doing a jigsaw puzzle of kittens in a basket.
“Shouldn’t you help me look?” Isabelle asked.
“I’ve done enough searching. It hardly seems right to have a woman my age doing all the heavy lifting.”
Isabelle noticed the trash can was overflowing with balls of crumpled paper, bits of fresh bread. She flattened a few wrinkled pages on the desk and found they were filled with rambling sentences that made no sense. She wondered if Jules had been coming back to the house when they were asleep. The thought gave her a chill.
That night she was filled with worry and stayed awake after everyone had gone to bed. She kept her door open, listening for sounds in the hallway. It was getting late and she was never going to get to sleep, so she went downstairs, straight to the lab. With an ear pressed against the door, she heard footsteps on the other side. The urge to flee the hallway to her room fought hard against the curiosity of knowing what he was up to. She listened again, heard the swoosh of pages flipping back and forth and the soft scribble of a pen. There was heavy breathing and then something tipped over and the sound of pencils dropping.
Seeders: A Novel Page 17