The Last Tree Read online

  “I can see I’ve tested the limits of your patience. In your circumstance, I’d feel the same way. Consider it a bit of payback,” Thorne says shortly, “for the damage you did in Slag and the time and effort you’ve cost me.”

  “Any time and effort was by your choice. You could have let us go.”

  “I’ve told you, Kira. You’re a valuable asset. And I have need of you. Immediately, in fact. The guards will escort the four of you to your sleeping quarters, and you should try to rest. You’re all departing with me later this evening for an overseas journey.”

  “Where are we going?” J.D. asked.

  “To where it began,” he responds enigmatically, then motions to the guard.

  13

  Turning three-hundred and sixty degrees, I take in the biscuit-colored highlands surrounding our new location. Beside me, the others are doing the same thing. The large chopper powering down behind us whips our hair and shakes the ground at our feet. There is noise and wind, but otherwise it’s just emptiness, a vast emptiness greeting our eyes at every turn. Thorne has brought us all this way to deposit us in the middle of a wasteland as austere and depressing as the one we left twenty hours ago. Intellectually, I’m aware that most of the planet looks exactly like this—brown and desolate. The reality of it always comes as a shock.

  “Guys, give me a minute,” I tell the others. “I want to see what Thorne has in mind.”

  Surefooted after months of navigating similar landscapes, I make my way down the ridge to where Thorne stands punching information into his GPS. “I’m going to walk you down to where a natural spring used to be located,” he says, sparing me a glance. “Your friends can wait here with the guards. You’ll create a fresh water source here and at five additional locations scattered across the mountain range.”

  “Six water sources? Why so many?”

  “Each original set of springs fed a complex network of tributaries that became two river systems, the Tigris and Euphrates. There’s no way to generate historic water levels because this area no longer receives seasonal precipitation, but I’ll take what I can get, even if the rivers are a pale replica of their former size.”

  “You want me to refill the Tigris and Euphrates riverbeds with fresh spring water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He and I both know he doesn’t have to answer my question, but he decides to humor me. “There are several important biospheres located south of here. Their desalinized water supply was compromised recently when an earthquake struck near the Gulf. The residents are in jeopardy, as are the crops they need to sustain them through the coming year.”

  I nibble my lip, pondering the matter. Something’s not quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it. “I know there’s more than one desalinization plant that serves these territories, Thorne. Why don’t you simply shift residents to other functioning biospheres?”

  “Why go to all that trouble, Kira,” he responds, voice tight, “when in a matter of weeks, you can get the Tigris and Euphrates flowing again and solve the problem entirely?”

  I catch my breath quietly, seeing something in Thorne’s eyes that I’ve never seen him exhibit before: nerves. Maybe even desperation.

  “This matters to you, doesn’t it?”

  Aware he’s been too revealing, he tries to shrug it off. “Would I have flown you halfway across the planet if it wasn’t important?”

  “This is different,” I observe, watching him closely. “Something else is going on here. Something you’re not telling me. I’m not going to make water for you until you explain.”

  “Would you put your friends at risk?” he says quietly, the threat obvious.

  I close my eyes and tip my head, listening to my internal barometer. I know Thorne is capable of following through on his threat. But I suddenly realize something else. Somehow, a shift in power has taken place since the last time I made water for Thorne, filling the Opawinge aquifer. Thorne needs this water. He’s desperate for it, in fact, and that gives me power I’ve never had—if not over him, at least over the situation.

  “I don’t know why, but I have the leverage here, don’t I? You need me, here, in this place, right now, to make water. Why? What’s so special about this place, about this water?”

  He scrutinizes me, saying nothing.

  I plant myself in front of him. “Listen, Thorne, I don’t mind making the water. It’s not a question of whether I’ll do it or not. But it would help if you treated me like a collaborator, not your puppet. Explain it to me. Why is it so urgent that I make water here?”

  “Because I can move the people, but I cannot move the tree,” he grumbles, eyes narrowed.

  “What tree?”

  “The tree, the tree that has existed in every major belief system since time began—the eternal tree. The tree of life.”

  I can’t hold back a laugh. “You know full well there’s not a single person of my generation who has received instruction in any of the old belief systems. You have to give me more information than that.”

  He sighs, then motions me to a boulder. “Take a seat.” He sits down across from me, stares at his fingers as though searching for the right words. “I’m sure your lessons at the Garner Home dealt with how the world’s belief systems were fractured prior to the Devastation. Well, as fractured as those beliefs were, they all had the tree in common. In one ancient document, it was described as the ‘tree at the center, the still point of the turning world.’ It was a tree where initiates could attain enlightenment. In another culture, a sacred bird laid a golden egg in the crown of an enormous tree, guaranteeing humanity’s existence. In yet another mythic story, the tree of life appeared in a garden together with the tree of knowledge. In numerous religions and cultures, the tree of life was pervasive in both oral and written stories and in their art. All these beliefs may have been inventive fabrications to meet the needs of immature and socially precarious societies, but the tree was not. That is what I am referring to—the tree, the originator.”

  “I can see you’ve done your homework,” I say, intrigued because there is no hint of irony or sarcasm in his voice. “But surely it’s metaphorical, right? It was always metaphorical.”

  He rakes a hand over his face. “What if it wasn’t? What if before civilization, before the development of consciousness even, there was a tree, a single tree of … potential?”

  I’m stunned. This isn’t the Thorne I thought I knew.

  “I’ve read about this,” I conclude finally, “the desire to believe in something greater than ourselves. And I get that you’re from a different generation, so maybe this makes some kind of sense to you. But you’ve got to admit this is a tall tale you’re spinning. You want me to refill the source waters for two rivers, today, because it’s essential to one tree, one actual living tree?”

  The look he gives me is almost disarming, like he’s laughing at himself in some strange way. “I don’t know.”

  We watch each other silently for a long moment. “Then take me to someone who does know.”

  He leans forward. “Kira, listen to me. If you begin the refilling process, we can visit the tree while the waters are rising.”

  “You mean spend the next few weeks locating these original springs and revitalizing their ability to dispense water?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far is the tree from here?”

  “Too far to go by chopper.”

  I consider what he’s saying but finally give my head a shake, determined not to budge on this until I know more. “Call whoever you have to call, Thorne. Get us back on the plane. I want you to take me to the tree and to someone who can explain things to me. You know I can supply water to the tree immediately. If it will help, I’ll even fill a local water source for any nearby biospheres. After that, we can come back here to revive the springs, knowing we’ve bought time for the rivers to rise naturally. Does that work?”

  Thorne steps away and speaks on his communicator. I can
make out random snippets of the conversation, a name, something about caves, and then he returns.

  “I’m giving you what you asked, Kira. But once you’ve had your questions answered, we return here and you do it my way. Are we agreed?”

  I nod.

  Once we’re back on the chopper and headed to the airstrip, I explain to the others what I know, which isn’t much.

  “I like trees,” J.D. says. “I don’t have much experience with trees, of course. But I’ve always felt there is more going on with trees than people realize.”

  I give him a curious look. J.D. and I have been traveling together for over a year, and I am still learning new things about him. “Is it true individual trees can live for hundreds of years?” I ask.

  “Easily. In fact, some trees live thousands of years.”

  “Even in this climate?”

  His blue eyes are lit with imagination, visualizing this tree of Thorne’s. “It might be possible, Kira. Some trees have a compartmentalized vascular system. It allows some parts of the tree to die while other parts thrive, so the tree can be resilient even under extreme conditions. And trees don’t age the way we do. They don’t slow down as they get older. In fact, certain trees that are thousands of years old continue to grow just as vigorously as they did when they were young. Unlike people, trees don’t develop genetic mutations in their cells as they age. The individual cells of the tree stay youthful, no matter how old it is.”

  “I like that. So is it possible this longevity might be passed to humans if we ate from the tree, like its fruit or even the leaves or bark?”

  “It never has to my knowledge. There have been five-thousand-year-old olive trees that bore fruit, but eating the olives didn’t impart unusual longevity to people. Of course, olives are nutritious for the human body and particularly beneficial for the immune system, so … maybe they did impart longevity of a sort.”

  We continue to speculate among ourselves throughout the long flight, but we come no closer to understanding why one tree would matter so much to Thorne. When the plane lands hours later, we emerge from the cabin feeling cranky and tired, stunned to see a young man in a white robe waiting for us, surrounded by a small herd of animals.

  Introductions are made quickly. The robed figure, Thomaz, is to be our guide. “We have a ways to go into the desert,” he says, moving forward. “Traveling by camel is easiest and least likely to attract unwanted attention.”

  I’m curious about why we don’t want to attract attention, but I let it go. I certainly have no desire to attract attention, and I trust that Thomaz’s reasons will become clear in time. I notice Tamara gazing at the camels with trepidation. A small tremor is noticeable in her fingers, which clasp and unclasp with mounting distress.

  “Is it necessary for everyone to go?” I ask, turning to Thorne. “After all, we’re chipped. It’s not like any of us is going to go anywhere without you knowing it.”

  “I want to keep an eye on you.”

  “I asked to see the tree,” I tell him reasonably. “But there’s no reason to impose an uncomfortable journey on the others.”

  “I’m coming with you,” J.D. says.

  “I’m happy to stay back with Tam,” Tuck says, acting as though it might be dangerous to look at the animals directly. Occasionally, he sends a sharp sideways glance toward the large beasts from beneath his lashes but is careful to maintain a safe distance.

  After a moment, Thorne nods his acceptance of my proposal. He speaks to the guards, who motion to Tamara and Tuck to follow them to an outbuilding beyond the airstrip, where they will find cots and food.

  I follow to ensure Tuck and Tamara are okay with this arrangement, then return to where Thorne is standing. “The biosphere there,” I say, pointing to a structure in the distance. “What number is it?”

  “It has a number, but it’s never used. The locals call it Eden.”

  I’m silent, staring at the brand new dome, the gleaming solar panels and the skeletal turbines whose slowly turning blades provide power to the fragile community. So this is Eden. I recall the conversation I overhead back at Bio-19 but say nothing. I wonder about the residents—their lives, their thirst. “Are they truly in need of water?”

  “They are desperate for it,” he says. “We brought casks of water with us on the plane, but it is a short-term fix.”

  “I’d like to fill a basin for them before we go to the tree.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  14

  The robed figure picks that moment to speak up.

  “Lukas, before we head to the tree, I need an hour in Eden.”

  “What’s up?” Thorne asks brusquely.

  “The camp has decided to hold a weeping ceremony to honor the Ash-Shatrah residents who died in the earthquake.”

  “Sounds like mystical mumbo-jumbo to me. Is this necessary?” Thorne asks.

  “The camp leaders discussed this in great detail. The consensus was that there is a need for collective grieving to help the community move forward. It will be a very simple ceremony. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “No, thank you. I can use this time to follow up with HQ. Collect me when you’re ready.”

  “I will.”

  “May I come?” I ask. “I’ll stay out of the way.”

  The young man glances at Thorne, receives a noncommittal shrug, then nods to us. “I’ll find a place for you, if you like.”

  “I’ll come as well,” says J.D.

  “Sure.”

  He turns over the camels to another man at the airfield, then motions for us to follow him. It’s a short hike to a makeshift camp outside the nearly completed dome. We head for the largest tent, central to the camp.

  “Do you want to come inside?” he asks.

  “We’re strangers,” I tell him. “I don’t want to impose on something so personal. Is there a place, out of the way, where we can observe?”

  “Follow me.”

  He leads us around back and directs us to a space where we’re concealed but able to watch the activities taking place inside a communal dining area.

  J.D. and I clasp hands as we watch people quietly taking their places within the tent. I’m curious to see what comes next. At the Garner Home for Girls, death was seldom discussed. Even when a classmate collapsed in class one day, never to return, there was no ceremony to mark her death, simply a reminder to complete our daily water ration, along with an increase in our nutrition supplements. The way Eden is addressing the Ash-Shatrah deaths feels like the opposite approach, like everyone has suffered a loss, whether the individuals are known to them or not.

  A woman who appears to be in a position of authority pulls the residents into a large circle. Children are shifted forward and taller individuals move to fill the outer perimeter, so all have a clear view of the proceedings.

  “Before we begin tonight’s ceremony, I would like to officially welcome the citizens of Ash-Shatrah to Eden. Our hearts go out to you in compassion for the terrible tragedy you have suffered. I hope you will continue to reach out to us for any service we may provide in the coming days. We know it will take time for Ash-Shatrah to be rebuilt so you can return home. In the meantime, we hope you will feel like you’re an integral part of Eden. To that end, many of you have already begun new work assignments or, for our younger guests, new classroom assignments, based on information that was provided to me by your camp manager.”

  She scans the crowd until she spots the robed young man who escorted us earlier. “As a follow-up to a discussion we had yesterday, I’m happy to report that Thomaz has decided to go ahead and harvest the remainder of the dates, and we will let them ripen off the trees. He needs more volunteers to assist in the orchard. It can be the same individuals who helped last week, but new volunteers are also welcome.”

  Hands are raised and work assignments confirmed.

  “Thank you. For those of you who have volunteered, your work schedules will be delivered to your calendars later tonight
. Jamal will meet you at the orchard in the morning to go through any last minute instructions.”

  She turns to someone at the back of the room and, with a nod of her head, the lights are dimmed. Any lingering murmurs dissipate as people become quiet, expectant.

  “Tonight, we turn to the old ways to commemorate the tragic loss of life brought about by the terrible earthquake that struck Ash-Shatrah. In ancient days, the peoples of this land shed fertilizing tears to express their sorrow in the hope that it would renew the land and themselves. We have suffered a tragedy. For some in this room, the pain is deep and personal and beyond words. We acknowledge that pain. You have endured a loss of life in a time when loss is all too common.

  “We encourage you to mourn with us, to weep, to expend your precious tears, your life-giving water upon the earth. For we are without those we love. And we are without the life-giving water upon which we all depend. Without the powerful bonds that connect all living things, we are chaotic and lost. So we come together tonight to weep—to grieve.

  “Each of you has been sent a copy of the program for tonight. Those of you who have parts to play are aware of your roles. Every resident should feel free to join in unison for the call and response portion of the ceremony. Afterward, if anyone has a fear or grief which you would like to express, we will bring those before individual grief counselors who have made themselves available this evening to lend a compassionate heart and a listening ear.” She nods to Thomaz. “Let us begin.”

  There is a brief pause, then Thomaz’s deep voice rings out in the tent. “We weep for thee who are lost. We weep for the mothers who bore thee. We weep for the children. We weep for the strong men and for the courageous women and for the little ones who were young on their journeys.”