Heirloom (Seed Savers)

by Sandra Smith

  Grateful for a window seat, I stared out at the changing landscape. Thirteen, and I’d never travelled more than sixty miles from home. The urban sprawl we crawled through was ugly and dilapidated. But the open land in between had its moments: gentle rolling hills, golden plains with snakes of green along creeks and rivers, unidentifiable agribusiness crops. No signs were posted identifying the crops, causing me to realize how little I knew about what was in the food I ate every day. Protein, Carbos, Vitees, Sweeties, and Snacks had always been enough. It was no longer enough. I wanted to know what was growing out there. I wanted to know what was in my food. I wanted to see what it looked like before it became the plastic-wrapped square or circle I called lunch. Were those beans? I’d grown beans back in the vacant lot. I wanted to stop the bus and jump out; we were moving too fast for my inexperienced eyes to decipher.

  Here and there abandoned homes presented more to ponder. Once quaint houses and old red barns were now forgotten and fading ghosts of history, falling in on themselves and grown over with shrubs and flowers. Family farms from the past, I figured. The ancient barns were dwarfed by the shiny silver megastructures of today’s corporate/government-controlled farms. I closed my eyes and imagined how it had been before. I thought about what Ana had told me, that GRIM was losing its stranglehold, that Seed Savers were gathering strength. I remembered Arturo’s comments about California. A hope for the future surged through me.

  When I opened my eyes, I was startled by a sea of gigantic three-pronged towers, arms spinning. These must be the wind turbine farms I’d read about and seen pictures of. I wondered what they sounded like. My soul was torn between the grand idea that I would make a difference in this world, and the following thought of how small and insignificant I was in a place filled with such enormous structures.

  On and on we rolled, past more abandonment and desolation. Areas where not only the buildings were discarded and hopeless, but the land itself. Places too expensive to water and where adequate rain no longer fell. Land parched and treated so poorly that it had lost its ability to be productive and was tossed aside like so much trash.

  Even the birds flew over without stopping.

  From my cool seat on the bus I watched the ripply waves rising off of the pavement, testifying to the devil-hot heat out there. I closed my eyes against the depressing sea of emptiness, clicked on my music, and willed myself to fade away for just a little while.

  CHAPTER 3

  Clare and Dante

  “So you’re saying that before GRIM was established, Nipungyo was already starting to dictate what kind of crops were grown?”

  “Yes, Jason, that’s right.”

  “—wait, who is Nipungyo? Is that another government agency?” It was the talkative middle-aged woman. The one who acted like she knew everything about gardening. But obviously she didn’t know her history and wasn’t doing a very good job of listening, either. Clare sighed—a little too loudly—garnering both a glare from Minnie and a chuckle from Jason.

  “Nipungyo,” the instructor repeated, clearly agitated that Minnie had asked a question he had just explained, “is not a government agency. Nipungyo is a corporation. A multinational agricultural biotechnology corporation.”

  Those were big words; perhaps, Clare felt, meant to intimidate Minnie into silence.

  “They are a leading producer of pesticides—have you heard of Bull’s Eye? And also of genetically engineered seeds. Many of you may wrongly believe that Nipungyo no longer exists, that it ceased to exist when it morphed into the United States GRIM agency, but that is incorrect. Sometimes it seems that way because of the history between Nipungyo leadership and government officials with so many Nipungyo leaders receiving top posts in GRIM. But Nipungyo never went away. It actively seeks to gain footholds in dozens of countries around the world every day.”

  Stan looked over the classroom. As a history teacher, he relished the classes he taught for the Garden Guardians. Rarely were students as interested in history or politics as the refugees who had fled on account of the very history he was here to teach.

  “So, Jason, are you wondering how Nipungyo had that kind of power before it was law?”

  The teenager nodded.

  “I’ll try to explain as simply as I can, on behalf of time,” he glanced at the clock, “and you certainly are welcome to stay after class to discuss it further.

  “First, Nipungyo gained a large part of the GMO seed market—80% by the turn of the century. Then it advertised its seed in a positive light, and many farmers and governments bought into it. Meanwhile, small family farms unable to compete with large corporate farms decreased in number. As more large farms planted GMO seed, it grew increasingly difficult for farmers to find regular, non-patented, non-GMO seed to buy and plant. Add to that the spying by Nipungyo on farmers who didn’t buy their seed—harassing and suing them when their clean seed became contaminated by pollen drift.”

  Stan shrugged his shoulders and held his palms up. “In no time, Nipungyo basically had control of the food supply because they owned the seed. Mind you, the food hadn’t digressed into this inane processed drivel Americans, or at least the lower classes, eat now, but the spiral had started.” He raised his eyebrows. “In other countries, Nipungyo still has an annual yearly budget in the millions devoted entirely to investigating and prosecuting farmers. I’m sure they have saved a lot of dough by having the U.S. government take over surveillance in the States.”

  He looked down briefly, as if studying his shoes. He raised his face, and his eyes were gleaming. “Only, now, I hear, there are getting to be too many people like you to keep track of.” His lips twitched. “Troublemakers,” he said, addressing the class warmly. A deafening applause answered back.

  CHAPTER 4

  Lily

  Sleeping overnight on the bus was the hardest part, but even that wasn’t bad. Evidently Lily Gardener was cut out for this kind of life. I smiled as I congratulated myself with such lofty thoughts and wrote briefly in my journal.

  The string of origami cranes spilled out of my bag as I shoved the journal back inside, reminding me of Ma and stabbing me with guilt when I thought of her discovering my letter. I took the string of cranes and held it in my hands. I knew I shouldn’t have brought it along like this, without a box, destined to get squished and flattened in my backpack. Ma always said it was an important family heirloom. The first crane was from my great-grandmother. Then my grandma, then Ma, and the most recent one mine, added when I was seven. I was supposed to take care of it, hand it on to my own child when—if—I had one.

  I’m not sure why I brought it. I guess I still wanted a little piece of Ma after all.

  As we approached Florida I began to feel giddy. I’d gotten a ticket to a place called Plant City, not quite halfway down the long peninsula. I figured if I got off before port I might have a shot at finding “friends.” Three of the names on Ana’s list had what appeared to be actual street addresses, two of them south of Gainesville and one in Plant City.

  I’ll admit it, I didn’t know much about Florida. I knew it was a vacation destination, that it had warm or hot weather all the time, hurricanes caused a lot of trouble, and the results of climate change were a continuing threat to the coastline—but that was it. And of course, being a peninsula meant it had lots of beaches. So when we passed the “Welcome to Florida” sign, I was surprised the scenery didn’t look all that different from where we had just been. I willed myself to stay alert and awake as I stared out the window, but despite my best intentions, I saw nothing but cities, suburbs, empty grassland, and trees. Where were the beaches, the theme parks, the tourists? It hadn’t occurred to me that Florida was more than the images I’d seen flashed across the Monitor. I felt a little foolish but was grateful for the reminder that there were a lot of things to learn about in the world. That we need to seek out information on our own, because the kind that comes to us easily might be incomplete and biased. I thought of Clare and Dante and wondered what new
things they were learning.

  After a while I began noticing something new along the interstate—more walls than before. Sound barriers? I’d seen them in a few other places but never for such long stretches. It was eerie, like driving through a never-ending tunnel, tall white walls in an inverse arc lining both sides of the freeway. I got out my notebook and sketched a picture of the long straight road and the river of vehicles streaming through the strange structures.

  I almost missed my final stop. We arrived in Plant City in the evening; it wasn’t quite dark, for which I was grateful. My plan was to spend the night at a twenty-four hour mall, moving around enough not to get caught, taking brief naps in between. Then I would find a Monitor Cafe and see if I could pinpoint any of the Seed Savers’ addresses or figure out if this place was different from back home. If Arturo was right, maybe things were different here. I hadn’t seen much from the bus window to give me hope, but after all, how much can you tell from a bus window?

  Anyhow, if the driver hadn’t had her eye on me, I’d have missed Plant City. I had dozed off due to the monotony of the walls. Now I stood on a cracked sidewalk, looking up at a sign that read, “Oak Street.” I looked around for oak trees and spied some enormous stumps. Heaving my backpack onto my shoulders, I began walking, wishing for a plan B. It was clear that twenty-four hour malls did not exist in Plant City.

  Then I heard it—a train whistle—right up close. Up ahead an ancient train terminal nudged into the descending darkness. I walked quickly; few people were out, and I felt a little exposed. The doors were unlocked, but there were no attendants. Reading the signage, I was surprised to learn that for a full half-century the station had been maintained for “historical” purposes only but had since reopened and functioned on a limited basis. The train whose whistle I’d heard had passed on through.

  I surveyed the small station, its wooden benches polished, the cheerful posters hung neatly on the wall. A woman slept on one of the benches. I thought how upset Ma would be if she knew what I was about to do. I pushed away any fears. I am on a mission. Soldiers must be brave.

  I awoke only once during the night. It was right out of a dream, but in the morning I remembered only that I’d had a vivid dream, though I couldn’t recall it. And I had the strangest sensation I was being watched.

  My roommate—the woman on the bench—slept on, snoring blissfully. Studying her, I concluded that she was not a passenger waiting for the infrequent trains, but a regular station tenant. I decided not to dilly-dally lest she wasn’t the sharing type.

  The bathroom wasn’t bad—looked like it was cleaned at least twice a week—and had hot running water and a mirror. I did my best to clean myself up and headed out for my next adventure.

  The weather was hot and humid, worse than back home, and I wondered if this area was frequented by hurricanes. The Monitor on the bus had always seemed to be blabbing on about it. I should have paid more attention, but I had been focused on my own plans; I’d been thinking about my father. I daydreamed about what would happen after reuniting with him, but mostly about that first moment and nothing more. You can understand why I hadn’t bothered about the weather. And now the weather was running down my face in rivulets of perspiration, and it was only morning. At this rate, the sunscreen I’d carefully applied would be washed off in minutes. Inwardly, I cursed the porcelain skin inherited from my mother that left me so ill-equipped against the sun.

  On the bus ride into town I had noticed a Monitor Cafe, so I headed back toward Oak Street. Perhaps I could locate the friends listed on Ana’s paper. I trudged on, taking in my surroundings: flat-topped brick buildings, stubbly palm trees where the concrete allowed, lines of street lights, too many, it seemed, for the scarcity of traffic. Plant City was a ghost town, and in this heat I could understand why. I reassured myself that the cafe would be air-cooled. Maybe they would even have cold drinks for sale.

  At last I was there, pushing on the door. It didn’t budge. What? I couldn’t believe it wasn’t open; what kind of a two-bit town doesn’t have a twenty-four hour Monitor Cafe? But it was worse than that—in my singlemindedness I had not noticed the giant “To Lease” sign draped across the top of the window or the dark interior. I almost cried then and there. Ever been on a long, exhausting trip, some marathon ordeal, and just kept going, kept putting one foot in front of the other, and the tiniest thing, your favorite Sweetie unavailable in the vending machine, a cross word, and you just fall apart, that old dam goes and breaks? Yes? That’s how it was. I was about to give in and release the floodgates when I heard something. I think I already mentioned how deserted the town was, how no one was about, so it spooked me to hear the sound. It was muffled, maybe an aborted sneeze. I glanced around but saw no one. I took off walking really fast straight down the sidewalk. There would be someplace in this town to go, and I would go there.

  But it was 7:30 a.m. and not a big town. I passed a lot of “Closed” signs, along with a few “Not Open” signs. If you asked me now, whether I had been afraid, I would say it hadn’t occurred to me to be afraid. I had grown accustomed to the possibility of GRIM back home, and at that moment, it was my first thought. But a stranger, a predator? I should have considered that. Maybe it’s just as well I didn’t.

  At last I came to a Zuziis. To the uninformed, Zuziis is a national chain snack shack/plug-in station. You know, to recharge your auto and then spend money on overpriced Snacks and Sweeties. I walked in. A bored attendant briefly looked away from the Monitor to see who was incoming, but otherwise failed to acknowledge my existence. The air cooler hummed loudly as I lingered in the small store, cooling off, trying to figure out my next move. Maybe the best thing would be to get back on the bus and continue south—any place but here.

  “You gonna buy somethin’?” The young man, whose carmel-colored skin reminded me of Arturo, was aware of my presence after all.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, “water?”

  He reached under the counter and pulled out the tiniest bottled water I’d ever seen. “Three fifty.”

  I gagged on the price, but dug into my pocket, dropping a crumpled five on the counter. “Thanks. Is there a library around here?”

  “Ain’t open today. ‘S only on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Over on Main Street.” He nodded his head toward the upcoming intersection.

  “Okay. Well, bye.” Lame.

  The heat about knocked me over as I opened the door to the outside world. I crossed the street and walked toward the corner, to what I assumed was Main Street. Even though he said the library wasn’t open, I headed there for lack of a better idea. I thought about back home, about Rose and me on our bikes. About the park and the fountain. Dumb me! Why hadn’t I asked about a pool or a park? The library? I had half a mind to turn around and go back. But that would be so stupid. No, I’d keep my eyes open—it shouldn’t be hard to find a park in a place this size. I was beginning to understand the wisdom of Clare and Dante leaving on bikes.

  A building with four towering white columns and an American flag on a tall pole caught my eye. I ran across the street. The library was an ancient structure, but like the train depot, kept in good repair. The town seemed to value its historical heritage even if the old oaks existed in name only. Though still on the lookout for a park, the lure of this old building was irresistible. The shade of giant trees invited me closer. Like a trespasser, I looked over both shoulders and darted forward, creeping around the exterior, peeking in the windows. That’s when I saw it—a basement window, cracked open. It’s also when I realized I was a sneaky person. (Sure, you already knew that; you recognized it way back. You knew it the moment I disclosed I’d planted seeds around town despite Clare’s wishes. I’ll bet you said it out loud back then, “Why that Lily…” But it was the moment at the Plant City library that brought it home to me.) I didn’t hesitate. I did a mental measurement of the space and my own thin frame, disengaged my backpack, swung it in, and slid through. It was a drop to the floor, but not too bad—a lot like ju
mping out of a tree, only the landing a bit harder.

  The first thing I noticed was how much cooler it was. I hadn’t experienced a great many basements in my life, but after what I’d just been through with the extreme heat and all, I was convinced everyone should have one. I wandered around, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of old books. A closed door caught my eye; I tried the knob—open. A torrent of cold air struck me as I entered. Six pristine Monitors greeted me. I closed the door gently and turned on the lights. For the briefest moment I thought I heard voices and quickly flicked the lights off, straining to listen. Hearing nothing, I switched them back on and sat down in front of the Monitor nearest the door.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lily

  I pulled up a detailed map of Plant City and the surrounding area. It appeared that H.J. Jiminez, a Seed Saver, lived a couple of miles north of downtown. Though scorching hot, I didn’t figure I had a choice—I would try to get there on foot. I desperately wanted to confer with others in the Movement, people outside of my area, find out what was happening. Maybe hear more reliable information about my father. Oh why had Clare and Dante left me? It’s true that being an only child had given me the necessary skills of being a loner, but that didn’t mean I always enjoyed being alone. Sometimes you just want someone to share in your adventures.

  After researching my questions on the Monitor, I continued to explore the library. Besides the basement, it had a main floor and an upstairs. The top floor, of course, was piping hot, but there wasn’t much of interest up there, anyway. On the main floor, I found a nice restroom and took the opportunity to reapply my sunscreen—among other things. Then I headed to the reference section to see if gardens still existed in Plant City. (I kind of figured—given the name—there might be something.) As it turns out, the name Plant City had nothing to do with plants but was named after some guy who was responsible for getting the railroad in town! However, I did find something interesting. Whenever I got to a section for agriculture, horticulture, or gardening, a neatly typed note referred me to the desk. At the desk, I found a large cupboard, padlocked. Checking the lock, I discovered it wasn’t actually locked—someone was either lazy or not overly concerned. I carefully removed the lock, looked over my shoulder, perked up my ears, then feeling quite alone, slowly opened the doors. I gasped. So many books! Home gardening books, seed saving books, old-fashioned cookbooks like the ones Ana had given us, books on canning, freezing, and drying food. I felt like hugging the old cupboard but reached for the largest books instead, the ones filled with pictures.