by Sandra Smith
His eyebrows shot up.
“—I showed them Ana’s paper with Seed Savers names and addresses and they asked where I got it from. Before I knew it, I was telling them everything—like—why do I do that? The same thing happened with Rose, and you … I’m an idiot.”
“Li—ly.”
“No, I am. Anyway, at some point I mentioned how—” I stopped, suddenly remembering that Arturo didn’t know the rest of the story—about Trinia getting to Rose, about what happened to Ana.
“Yes?”
I didn’t speak.
“Listen. Is no time to stop talking. I still not understand why you leave home like you do. Your letter is not clear. What is happening?”
“You guys gonna talk all night?” Juan called through the open window, yawning loudly afterwards.
“Sorry, Primo. Is important.”
Arturo turned back toward me, waiting.
“Trinia Nelson, the one who shut down the Network all those years ago—remember the story I told you?”
He nodded.
“She came back. She bribed Rose’s mom to make Rose spy on Ana and me—”
“—I tole you!” he exploded.
“—Arturo—it wasn’t her fault, they made her do it.” I guess I believed her after all.
He looked angry but said nothing.
“Ana’s place was raided. GRIM is still trying to find Clare and Dante. Trinia Nelson even asked questions about me.”
“And tonight?”
“When I started to tell Aaron and Meg, at the mention of Trinia, well, Aaron just got really—I don’t know—he seemed so harsh. It freaked me out. Suddenly I wondered who I could trust—you know—the way he was trying to pump information from me.”
“Ay, Lily! You cannot run away every time you worry. Ay yay yay. You and your friends. How you say—Oh brother!”
This made me laugh, and him too. It was a good release and then I felt exhausted. The stress and the night were getting the best of me.
“Juan!” He called out the window. “Ready.”
He turned to me. “We go back. We will stay in car at end of driveway until early morning. I don’t want to wake sleeping dog—yes?”
“What dog?”
“No—not actual dog. Oh, Lily, never mind!”
CHAPTER 13
Clare and Dante
It was cold outside. And wet. Clare didn’t understand why they had to work outdoors. Why couldn’t this be done later, when it was warmer, dryer? She was glad one of the other students asked the question and saved her the humiliation.
“Because it’s best to do the pruning in the winter when the plants are dormant—asleep, not growing. The objective is to promote the growth of strong, new wood. The fruit will be of better quality. Nature doesn’t wait until you are ready, Jason, you wait on nature.”
Clare felt a little sorry for Jason, but he took it well. He had asked the question earnestly, not in a complaining or whining tone, the way she had internally been asking.
The Garden Guardians had their own gardens and greenhouses—their “outdoor classroom,” as Genevieve liked to call it. Genevieve oversaw the program both in this township and two others. She was around most of the time, and she taught a few of the classes herself—including the outdoor session on pruning. Clare sometimes felt that the scope of their training was too broad. Why couldn’t her instruction be limited to vegetable gardening; why did she have to learn about pruning bushes and trees? She knew the answer, of course. Everything was clearly spelled out in the handbook they had gone over on the first day of class. Their training would be broad, and in their free time they could specialize in whatever interested them most. Besides, Clare knew that the classes on pruning were useful. After all, Gruff had grown blueberries on his balcony. And hadn’t they discovered an apple tree at the house in Vermont? She knew she was feeling grumpy because she was cold and uncomfortable. But, still.
“What you want to do,” Genevieve explained, “is keep the bush open. This will promote optimum air circulation, decreasing the risk of disease and letting in more light for a better fruit set.” She continued, talking about the number of canes and how to distinguish the older ones from the younger ones, and pointing out something called “whips.” Genevieve snipped away as she spoke, and Clare wondered if she would remember any of it.
“And so you will remember something of this lesson—” was she reading her thoughts? “—you will have a chance right now for some hands-on learning. Over there,” she pointed to a small shed, “is where we keep the tools. Grab a partner, pick up a lopper or some hand pruners,” she held up each tool, “and come find a bush. I’ve asked some experienced Guardians to join me today to help answer questions. You and your partner put your noggins together first, but if you need help, just ask.”
Clare looked around. She started weaving through the assembled crowd toward Allison, an older lady with whom she’d conversed several times, but another woman latched onto Allison before Clare could reach her. Just then, someone tagged her elbow.
“Partner?”
It was Jason, the guy who had asked why they were pruning in the dead of winter. She knew his name because he spoke up a lot in class. He was one of only a few other teenagers.
“Yeah,” she answered, “sure.”
“Clare,” he read her name tag. “I’ve seen you around. With your little brother.”
“Yes, Dante. He’s only eight so he didn’t have to come today. Probably a good call.”
They had reached the shed and now waited in line. “So how do you like Genevieve?” he asked, his distinctive dark eyebrows arched in a way that said he thought she was a piece of work.
“I think she really knows her stuff,” Clare answered diplomatically.
He laughed but didn’t respond.
“I hope we get a good set of cutters,” Clare said, trying to peek around the adults blocking her view.
When they reached the shed, a number of tools remained, although old and ragged. Jason grabbed a pair of clippers and retreated to the blueberry garden. Clare trailed behind, glad he had taken the lead. She didn’t feel ready to take the life of a blueberry bush in her hands.
“Anywhere?” Jason asked a classmate who stood idly by a bush as her partner snipped away.
“I think so.”
“Clare, you wanna cut first?”
“No, uh, you go ahead.”
“Okay then, you show me which ones.”
“What? No. I mean, I sorta drifted off during the instructions.”
“Well, let’s see,” he wrapped the blades around a dead-looking cane, “dead, damaged, or diseased first.” He cut out three canes.
“Hmm. Pencil-sized whips?” Clare suggested.
“Sure.” He snipped off the stragglers. “Now what?”
“Well…” She leaned in, touched a long cane that crossed through the middle of the plant. “How about this one? Didn’t she say something about keeping the middle open?”
Snip. Jason cut it off and ripped it from the bush.
“Oh, I was only asking,” Clare gasped, surprised at his sudden action.
“No, you were right. What else?”
“Um, how about these? They look like older wood,” she said, touching a couple of more canes.
Snip, snip. “Done.” He went at it quickly, without hesitation or second-guessing.
“Have you done this before?” she asked.
“Nope. What next, boss?”
She stared at the mass of branches jutting out from the bush. It was so confusing.
“Come on, Clare. Don’t worry so much about it. Live a little.”
When she hesitated, he whacked off several more branches, then broke off some spindly growth with his gloved hand. He leaned back to admire his handiwork. “I think that’s good,” he said. “You wanna do the next one?”
“Um …”
“You can do it. And I’m here, too. Team-work.”
“Clare placed the blades around
a sad-looking cane, fairly certain about the first cut but checking with Jason to be sure. He rolled his eyes. She cut the cane and pulled it gingerly out of the plant. Her hand ran into someone’s thigh.
“Oh! I didn’t know you were there,” she said. “Excuse me.” Genevieve stood behind her, watching. “Was that right?”
“Yes, nice job. Carry on, youngsters.”
The two of them pruned a few more plants, occasionally utilizing the experience of the Guardians standing nearby. Then it was time to go inside and record their thoughts in the mandated class journals. Hot coffee, cider, and other drinks awaited, along with snacks prepared by host families.
As the students milled around with their food and drinks, Genevieve made an announcement. “The next time we meet, weather permitting, we will learn about grafting.”
A reverent ripple of oohs and ahs swept through the room.
“What’s grafting?” Clare whispered to Jason.
“No idea.”
Clare did, of course, ask Marissa and John about grafting that night at supper.
“You remember when you kids first arrived at our house back in August and I showed you the plum tree?”
“The tree with all the different kinds of fruit on the it?” Dante asked excitedly.
“Yep. Those were different varieties of plums, all growing on one tree. Some had already ripened and were gone, others were still green. And then there were all those you tasted one after the other.” John smiled, remembering the juice running down Dante’s chin as he devoured plum after plum.
“They were great!” Dante said.
Of course Clare remembered. Those first few weeks over the border had been like stumbling into Eden, from the first apple orchard where Firefly had discovered them, to their final home with the Woods. The tree John reminded them of was almost impossible to believe. A tree with a fruit called “plum,” with several varieties all on one tree. Some were a reddish purple, others a deep blue. One kind was yellow and another green. They varied in shape and texture. And they all tasted wonderful yet distinct.
She remembered how speechless she had been when John asked which one she liked best. Like best? Each was unique, flavorful, and special. How could she possibly choose a favorite? There was something wrong with the question.
“I grafted all of those varieties onto that individual tree,” John said. “I mentioned it at the time, but you seemed overwhelmed back then.”
She nodded.
“Is that what you learned in class, today?” Marissa asked.
“No, no, we pruned blueberry bushes today.”
John grinned, showing his large front teeth and causing the smile lines around his eyes to crinkle. “They got ya doing their work for them, do they?”
Clare returned the smile. “Yes, they sure do. But they do have a lot of gardens, and they’re teaching us for free, so I guess it’s a good trade.”
“That is true,” the man agreed, taking another bite of food into his mouth.
CHAPTER 14
Clare and Dante
As February drew to a close, Clare and Dante spoke often of the arrival of spring. The onion seeds had sprouted exactly ten days after being planted and were greening up nicely. Dante hoped (and not at all secretly) that the sprouts would reach ten centimeters before they could be transplanted so that he could snip them back to seven centimeters. For some reason, the idea of giving the onions a haircut had rattled his funny bone. He had even been inspired to draw a goofy face on the pot so that the sprouts resembled green hair growing straight up. There was nothing he wanted more than to give “Onion Bob,” as he had nicknamed their pot, a flat top.
But even though the children were ready and eager for the warmth of spring, the weather did not comply. The days remained overcast and cold, and it seemed like it might yet snow. Not that the children hadn’t enjoyed the snow. It had been wonderful. They’d had snow back home in the winter, but not as much as here. And having been confined to life in the city, they hadn’t had the opportunity to enjoy it in quite the same ways. This year, many weekends had been spent sledding and building snow forts with other children in the area. It was a peaceful time after the busy fall and long journey.
In class they were learning about plant disease and weeds. Clare was very interested in this, and the teacher made it fun by bringing in samples. The students worked in groups, using their mini-Monitors and books to determine the disease or identify the weed. Even Dante had actively taken part. On the third day of the unit, the lesson was on edible weeds.
“You may recall,” the instructor,Tom, said, “that in the introduction we had a definition for weed. Who can remind the class of the definition?”
Clare raised her hand.
“Clare?”
“A weed is a plant that is unwanted where it is growing. It is often aggressive and sometimes dangerous. Weeds are a problem when they compete with the crops we have planted.”
“Very good, Clare.”
He scanned his audience. “Today we are going to think about when a weed isn’t a weed … so much.”
Dante laughed. “When a weed is not a weed,” he repeated. Clare elbowed him.
“So, when,” Tom asked, “is a weed not a weed?”
Minnie’s hand shot up. He ignored it and kept talking; it was a rhetorical question.
“What if it isn’t harming anything and can be used for food? Thomas Fuller once said, ‘Many things grow in the garden that were never sown there.’ What if you didn’t have the opportunity to plant a garden, and you were hungry and had no food? If you could find a weed growing somewhere and were able to identify it as good for food, wouldn’t that be great? Would you dare give it the unsavory moniker of weed?”
“Moniker,” Dante giggled.
Clare’s mind had wandered. That phrase “good for food;” wasn’t that in the Bible passage Ana had them read back when all this had started? She found herself daydreaming about those early days—nearly a year ago—when she first found out about seeds and growing food. Dante’s silliness brought her back to the present.
“ … so although you learned the names of many so-called weeds in the last class, before you move on with how to remove or, gasp, kill them, I’m here to tell you why you might want to let them live. Which ones you might actually want to eat.”
The wall-sized Monitor at the front of the class shimmered and the first slide took shape, forming the title of the presentation: Edible Weeds.
Again, Clare drifted back—back to the first time Ana had told the children that food came from plants, how shocked they were at the discovery people once ate the stems, leaves, even roots of plants. Eating weeds didn’t seem all that outlandish in this context. If a weed was just a displaced plant and not hurting anyone, it was still a plant, after all, and fair game for food.
Despite her internal reasoning, however, she joined the class in an astonished and collective gasp as the next slide took shape: dandelions!
“That’s right. If you’ve been here long, I’m sure you have already spent a lot of time plucking these from your host’s yard or garden; probably you’ve even seen them back home. Dandelions—the scourge of many a lawn perfectionist—are a wonderful vitamin-packed edible weed. The leaves can be added to your salad greens and the bright yellow flowers brewed into wine. Anyone heard of the twentieth century novel, Dandelion Wine?” A few hands raised.
Dante turned to Clare and mouthed “dan-de-li-ons,” his eyes round with pleasure and delight.
Tom clicked the control.
“Ooh,” a murmur of admiration swept through the room as bright, pink flowers on rich, green leaves filled the screen.
“Red clover. Both the flowers and the leaves can be eaten in salad. The flowers can also be steeped in hot water to make tea. Any of you ever pluck the petals out one by one and bite off the white sugary ends?” Silence. “Not even as kids?” Everyone looked around, hoping to see that just one person in the crowded classroom had known about this. “Pity
.”
The next slide was wild garlic, then sorrel, watercress, chickweed (which gave Dante the giggles again), purslane … Tom spoke briefly about each and reminded the class that more information was available in the folder marked “edible weeds” in their mini-Monitors.
“And now,” Tom said, when the slideshow had ended, “we will head on out for some hands-on experience. It’s early in the year, but I think you will be surprised at how many specimens you will find growing. I suggest someone in each group pack along a mini-Mon to practice identification.”
It was cold, but Tom was right; Clare and Dante were surprised, yet pleased, at how many weeds were already flourishing on the edges of the raised beds where the compost or cover crop hadn’t reached; dandelions gleamed even between stones in the walkways.
“Hey, wait up!”
Clare turned, recognizing the familiar voice. “Jason, hi. I didn’t think you were here today.”
“Came in late. Had to sit in the back with the Guardian Veterans.”
Veterans, that’s how they referred to the Guardians who were long-term. Some had even been refugees, like them, who had decided not to go back. A lot of the trainees often discussed this among themselves—the idea of staying on in Canada; many of them didn’t agree. They believed that those who slipped over the border and received the free gardening education owed it to their country to return home and work to make things better.
“Who are you?” Dante asked.
“Name’s Jason.”
“I’m Dante.”
Jason smiled. “Nice to meet you, Dante. Clare and I pruned blueberry bushes together a couple of weeks ago.”
“Ohhh.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“It’s okay with me,” Dante said at the same time as Clare was saying, “Sure, as far as I know there were no instructions—” Jason laughed as their words fell and stumbled into each other.