The Last Tree

by Denise Getson

  “Thomaz,” I interrupt from my perch. “My friend Tamara mentioned that in the old stories there were two trees. You believe this tree is the one stories refer to as the tree of life. But couldn’t it also be the tree called knowledge?”

  “In my people’s stories, the tree of knowledge was free to spread its seed throughout the planet and evolve according to natural selection. Only one tree did not propagate itself and was kept separate from all others.”

  “But surely you don’t believe its fruit would bestow life or immortality?”

  “No. But there is persistence to this idea that deserves close attention. I believe we must help the tree to bear fruit and judge for ourselves its effect.”

  Thorne adds another thought. “Kira, who is to say the fruit might not have life-sustaining properties? Cancer medications come from the yew tree. Ancient pain remedies come from the bark of the willow tree. Heart medications come from the foxglove plant. Our species has always needed what trees can offer. And unlike this tree, as we age, our cellular reproduction becomes compromised: our cell walls and mitochondria, every part of our bodies, are diminished and weakened. But what if our cellular system could continue to generate healthy cells beyond our current life expectancy? Perhaps we could eliminate the skin cancers which have decimated entire population groups. Perhaps we could fortify our bodies against the health threats a destroyed environment has thrown at us.”

  “Perhaps we could live forever,” I say, watching him closely.

  He gives me a bland glance. “Now who’s spouting fairy tales, Kira?”

  I snort.

  “I know your only mission in life is to help humankind,” I say, my voice dripping sarcasm, “but I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt your feelings if this tree gave you one more way to exercise control over the territory. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, Thorne, it’s that there is always an ulterior motive.” I turn my attention to Thomaz. “It’s important for you to know that,” I tell him, “before he exploits the tree for his own gain.”

  Thorne is unfazed. “In this situation, Kira, you and I and Thomaz and Dr. Gallagher all want the same thing. We want to protect the tree. And if we can help the tree to achieve fruition, then it’s a win for everyone, especially the tree. Every species needs to procreate. It’s the central biological imperative of every living thing. If we cannot fertilize this tree, it will die. Maybe not today, but eventually—and whatever potential it possesses will be lost forever.”

  J.D. leaps to the ground so he can remoisten his cloth. “Even if Dr. Gallagher cannot achieve pollination, or even if she does achieve pollination but the fruit is putrid and useless, it is still a fabulous tree,” he says, the lightness of his tone breaking the tension.

  “It is,” Thomaz agrees.

  “You don’t keep anyone stationed here permanently, do you?” I ask him.

  “Eden does not have the manpower for a security detail,” he answers. “Even if we did, it might not be a good idea. We don’t want anything to draw attention to this place. The tree has lasted this long without human interference.”

  “If one of the nomadic groups did come across the tree, do you think they would harm it in any way?”

  His answer was immediate. “Harm it? No. All who see this tree would revere it. But they might limit access, which would be unfortunate if the tree was discovered to have health benefits or important botanical properties.”

  “Botanical properties … like what?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know … like the ability to strengthen the immunities of other fruit varieties through cross-pollination. It’s one hypothesis.”

  “I see.” It occurs to me that Thomaz is a true gardener. I sense his motives are sincere. Thomaz’s idea about the tree’s potential has gravitated to its agricultural value, a natural concern given the dire need to find crops which can grow in an arid climate. I can’t help suspecting that Thorne’s aspirations for the tree and its fruit are less honorable.

  J.D. and I spend the remainder of the day cleaning the bottom portion of the tree, taking breaks periodically to sit beneath its branches. The tree is tall and pleasing in shape. Each branch is thick with oblong leaves, so the cleaning is not a task we expect to complete any time soon. But it is enough simply to be near the tree. I believe in being grounded in reality, but despite my earlier words to Thorne, I cannot shake the feeling that there is something sacred about this tree.

  Later, when Thorne suggests I should create a water source closer to the camels, I leave the tree reluctantly. Once my task is complete, I hurry back, wanting more time to contemplate the beauty of the lush flowers and to relax beneath the shelter of its branches.

  As Thomaz promised, the petals do reopen at twilight, releasing their buttery aroma into the air. We continue our cleaning efforts but become more meticulously gentle with each leaf, to ensure no harm comes to the flowers.

  Later, after the evening meal, I am midway up the tree when I hear voices approaching through the gorge. J.D. tips his head to decipher who and how many might be in the approaching group. Of one accord, our eyes meet in a happy realization. I swivel to make my way out of the tree and lose my footing, sliding partway down the trunk. Quick reflexes, and a desperate grab for a nearby branch, save me from tumbling to the ground.

  “I saw that,” J.D. says, watching me from the ground where he has landed lightly on his feet.

  “Let’s pretend you didn’t.”

  I shoot him a cheeky grin, then lower myself far enough to dangle from a branch and drop the remaining distance. Racing J.D. out of the enclosure, I attack Tuck and Tamara with giant hugs.

  “I’m so happy to see you guys!”

  Tamara gives me a squeeze. “Tuck was getting bored. When one of Thorne’s guards was asked to accompany Dr. Gallagher’s party out to the tree, Tuck insisted on going with him. I guess Thorne agreed with the idea, so … here we are.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I look around to see who else has been included with Dr. Gallagher’s party. My eyes are drawn to an attractive woman who looks crisp and professional, even in the desert heat. Beside her is a beautiful, dark-haired teenager, gazing back at me with frank interest. That would be Miranda, I surmise, the daughter I overhead in Dr. Gallagher’s lab. She does indeed appear to be the person we saw in the sandstorm. How interesting. And beside her is a young girl, elfin in her appearance. She reminds me of a picture I saw once, of a wood sprite, I think. Her entire body appears to be covered in airy filaments, soft and wispy, that layer along her skin and lift with each light breeze. This is a mutation I’ve never seen before.

  “You’re Kira,” says the older girl.

  “And you’re Miranda,” I reply with a grin.

  “How do you know my name?”

  I give her an enigmatic smile, then turn to the woman who is clearly her mother. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Gallagher. I’ve heard impressive things about your work.”

  “And I’ve heard impressive things about you … Kira,” Dr. Gallagher says. She shoots Thorne an arch glance. “Would you look at that, Lukas, the legendary Kira is here in the flesh. And based on the sudden appearance of water in the old quarry, I’m assuming we have you to thank. Unless you’re one of those Kira imposters I’ve heard are roaming around the territories.”

  Feigning ignorance, I turn wide eyes to Thorne. “There are imposters?”

  Thorne sends the scientist a quelling glance. “There are indeed Kira imposters, but this person in front of you is clearly not one of them.”

  I’m sure he’d justify any lie as political misdirection for the good of the territories. Now I watch, eyes narrowed, as he walks over to stand in front of the fairy creature. “You must be Fig,” he says in his most beguiling tone. He adopts a look of concern that rests awkwardly on his features. “I hope the journey was not difficult for you?”

  The sprightly creature ducks behind Miranda, clearly shy of this strange man. Smart girl, I think. After a moment, she sh
akes her head mutely.

  While the rest of the group exchanges greetings, I turn my head to speak into J.D.’s ear. “Do you see the resemblance?” I whisper.

  “Fig could be Shay’s big sister.”

  “She has the same large, round eyes. Has she blinked once since she arrived?”

  A small smile flits around J.D.’s mouth, and I know he’s remembering Shay’s uncanny ability to win any staring contest. The object of our attention slips one slender hand into Miranda’s, then reaches with the other to entwine her fingers with Tamara’s.

  Thomaz steps forward at that moment to usher the new arrivals into the enclosure. “Kira and J.D. have spent the day cleaning the tree. It has never looked so healthy.”

  As everyone files into the enclosure, I slide into place beside Tamara and walk with her. “Are you doing okay? Was it awful staying at the airstrip with Thorne’s guards?”

  “It wasn’t so bad. The accommodations were minimal but certainly not the worst we’ve experienced.”

  “You appear to have made a friend.”

  “I have.” Her eyes are warm as she glances down at the creature by her side. “This is Fig, and she’s very special.”

  “I can see that.”

  I sense Miranda wants to speak with me, and I lift my eyes. “You were at Bio-19,” she says hesitantly. “I discovered the water in Lost Lake.”

  “My friend J.D. and I were watching you from the boulders. We were afraid you might not make it back to the dome before the full force of the sandstorm hit. I hope you weren’t hurt.”

  “My mom needed her soil samples,” she says simply.

  I’m about to remark on her persistence when Tamara grabs my tunic.

  “Kira … you’re bleeding.”

  I look down to see what she’s talking about and discover a red stain along one side. I lift the garment just enough to see the scraped skin beneath. “Sheesh. I scraped myself on the tree.” J.D. frowns at me. Avoiding his eyes, I quickly duck into our tent to apply a cleanser and antiseptic. I know better than to let any wound go untreated. “Don’t anyone do any miracles without me,” I grumble loudly, wincing as the solution sears my skin.

  18

  In a flash, I’m back with the group as they enter the enclosure. One by one, conversations are choked off as each person catches sight of the tree. It is an awe-inspiring sight, even for Dr. Gallagher, who has been working to solve the riddle of the tree since her arrival at Eden. Now, with the flowers in full bloom, the tree is glorious. For the others in the small party, you can see the wonder on their faces. For each, it is their first glimpse of a tree this ancient, this breathtakingly beautiful.

  “Wow,” Miranda says finally, breaking the silence.

  “Ditto,” says Tuck flatly, generating soft laughter from the group.

  The little wood sprite, Fig, eases herself around the group, her mouth frozen in a round O as she gazes at the tree. She is so absorbed; she seems unaware that the filaments along her arms have begun to float up and outward, trembling in a manner that resembles nothing so much as excitement.

  Thomaz directs a comment to Dr. Gallagher. “I assume you’ve brought the pollen samples with you. Do we try Fig now? Do we wait?”

  “Let me do a quick test to confirm stigma receptivity, and then we’ll let Fig have a shot.” The doctor steps closer to examine the blossoms. She cradles one gently, pushing back the petals to examine the interior. “Colors look right.” She plucks two flowers from the tree, and Fig lets out a gasp.

  Miranda puts an arm around her friend.

  “I’ll do a hydrogen peroxide test, and then we’ll look at it under the microscope.” Dr. Gallagher turns to the guard who has accompanied them from Eden. “Can you set up my table and fetch my scope?”

  The guard glances at Thorne, who nods his assent.

  “The good news is that pollen may be able to germinate even in stigmas pollinated forty-eight hours after anthesis,” she says to the group, continuing to probe the flower and carefully examining the dusting of pollen left behind on her fingers.

  “The ant-what?” I ask.

  “Anthesis is the period during which a flower is fully open and functional. Some flowers can be fertile for days, others for just a few hours. This tree is unique, as are its flowers. The tree itself is undocumented. But we can look at trees that bear similarity to it and make logical comparisons.”

  While the guard erects her table, Dr. Gallagher goes outside to fetch one of her cases. She returns with a microscope and sets it down to examine the flowers. “Successful pollination is dependent upon many factors, stigma receptivity being just one of them.” She motions to the guard. “I need you to put a light there.” She supervises until the table is lit exactly as she wants. Then she bends over her task. In seconds, it is clear to all of us that we’ve been forgotten. Her focus is absolute. I send a curious glance to Miranda, who gazes back blandly. It’s evident she’s not going to try and explain her mother.

  Dr. Gallagher utters an occasional hmm sound as she examines the reproductive organs of the flowers. The rest of us watch silently as she separates parts of the flower and places them onto slides for study. After a minute, she goes to the tree and plucks more blossoms. Fig squeaks, then covers her mouth with one hand. Dr. Gallagher doesn’t notice.

  After more tests, Dr. Gallagher gives Thorne and Thomaz a curt nod. “The male flowers appear to have functional stamens. Some are producing pollen, but there’s not much of it. And the anthers aren’t opening, so what exists is located within the filament. The female flowers appear in readiness for penetration. We can remove the pollen—that’s not the issue. Thomaz, you said you’ve tried the squirt bottles?”

  “Yes. And small paint brushes and water droplets and soft breezes and anything else that came to mind.”

  “Okay. It’s possible the pollen is sterile, but I still prefer to start with the tree’s own male gametes before we introduce another variety. If the pollen won’t germinate, then we go with Plan B. Now, let’s get lights set up to illuminate the tree so it’s safer to move around. If Fig is willing ….”

  Thomaz kneels down so his eyes are level with the young girl. Protected on each side by Tamara and Miranda, she holds her ground, meeting his gaze shyly.

  “I know you,” she whispers. “You let me pick the dates in your orchard.”

  “Fig, you are one of the best pickers I have ever seen. You are so careful with the dates, and they are never bruised when you remove them from the branches. That’s why I asked Dr. Gallagher to bring you to see the tree.”

  “I like the tree.”

  “I like the tree also. Would it be okay if I ask you a few questions about Ash-Shatrah?”

  Fig’s face saddens momentarily, and I recall that Ash-Shatrah is where the earthquake hit. Perhaps she lost people she loved. After a moment, she nods.

  “When it was growing season at Ash-Shatrah, did you ever help in the fields or the gardens?”

  “Oh yes,” she says, nodding vigorously. “I carried rocks out of the fields so the plows could move easily through the ground. And I put seeds into holes, and I made sure the drip hoses around the plants did not have any blockage.”

  “Did you ever go into the fields when the plants were flowering, to help move the pollen?”

  She stares at him blankly.

  “Do you understand ‘pollen?’”

  Her expression does not change. She is open and curious but without comprehension.

  “Here is what I need you to do, Fig. I would like to see if you can climb up the tree to a spot where the flowers are hanging down in clusters from the branches.”

  “It’s okay?”

  “It’s absolutely okay. Kira and J.D. have been up in the tree all day, and you’re ever so much lighter and more athletic than they are.”

  Without another word, Fig slips free of her friends and clambers up the tree. Finding a nice, sturdy branch with multiple clusters of flowers both above and below her, she perches the
re and watches Thomaz expectantly.

  “Fig, the tree has boy flowers and girl flowers. Inside the boy flowers, you can see long white parts. They’re called anthers. Deep down inside they have a special dust—like gold dust. You may not be able to see it, but we need to move the dust from each boy flower to a girl flower.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think you can use your special ….” He pauses, uncertain what to call the thin strands that cover her body.

  “My amah calls them my lashes,” she says, supplying it for him.

  “Do you think your lashes could reach into the white filament and withdraw some of the pollen? Then we need to insert it into the stigma on the female flower. The stigma is the orange part in the very center.”

  “That’s a funny name.”

  “Yes it is. The stigma will carry the pollen down into the ovary, so the flowers can make babies.”

  “Babies!” She laughs, a tinkling sound that brings smiles to the faces of everyone below her.

  “Okay,” he says, smiling. “You got me. Not babies, but fruit … which is kind of like a container for plant babies. When the fruit is ready to be picked, you can help me collect the fruit, just like you helped me collect dates in the orchard.”

  Everyone watches as Fig concentrates on her ‘lashes,’ trying to direct them where she wants them to go. They dance around in disarray, refusing to be controlled. Only a few of them penetrate the flowers.

  Miranda calls up encouragement. “Fig, honey, I bet there’s sweet, sticky stuff deep down in that flower. If your lashes can reach all the way down to the nectar, maybe some of the pollen will stick on the way up.”

  Fig nods her understanding. When her filaments still refuse to go where she wants them, she grabs a few strands with one hand, pulls up a cluster of flowers with the other hand, and wraps her legs around the branch while she tries to manually force the filaments into the flower.

  Miranda observes Fig for a moment, then motions for the others to join her in a huddle.

  “You have an idea?” asks J.D.