Seeders: A Novel

by A. J. Colucci

  Monica and Luke were charged up from the video. They chatted noisily about the experiment, and their relationship seemed to take a turn.

  Isabelle put the TV and VCR away, noting that Monica laughed at Luke’s jokes and hung on his words, as if George had somehow elevated his grandson’s status.

  “I don’t get it,” Luke said to his mother. “If Backster was wrong about plants recognizing people, how come the polygraph reacted to Jules?”

  “My father came up with his own theory about how plants identify people, why they react the way they do. It was much more scientific and easier to believe.”

  “What was his theory?”

  “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you about it another time.”

  “So these experiments made him famous, right?” Luke asked.

  “For a botanist, I suppose.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. This is huge.”

  “I guess it was, at the time.”

  Luke looked annoyed. “I think this is really cool and you act like it’s nothing. I can’t believe all these years I had this famous scientist in my family and you didn’t say anything. I mean, he’s your father.”

  “It’s not that simple,” she said tersely. “If you want to know about your grandfather, I’ll tell you. But I think you should know the whole story.”

  Isabelle explained that George had been a well-respected scientist for many years, until he began experimenting with illegal drugs, mind-altering substances that eventually affected his work and reputation. He was fired from his job at Oxford, but the low point came when he was arrested for drug trafficking and spent two years in a Canadian prison. His wife left him, taking Isabelle. The scientific community labeled him a fraud and turned their backs on him. George, in turn, became a recluse on the island.

  Luke looked at his mother. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. In my eyes, George was a sweet and generous man who loved every facet of nature. He was intelligent and curious about everything. Just like you.”

  “I wish I’d known him.”

  Isabelle smiled weakly. “I wish you had too.”

  “Someone get a violin,” Monica said.

  “All right. It’s nearly two o’ clock.” Isabelle chuckled. “How about lunch?”

  “How about finding my diamond!” Ginny was standing in the doorway, on the verge of tears, her skin bright pink from the sun. “You’re all standing around chatting away when time is running out.” Then she raised the reward to $10,000.

  CHAPTER 10

  JULES WAS IN THE STUDY pouring a glass of sherry. He paced the room and drank it down in one shot. He was still upset by the video and poured another drink.

  Seeing himself attack a plant made him feel physically ill, but he resisted the implications. After all, he wasn’t a violent man. There might have been a couple of tiny incidents during his first weeks at Oxford. Karen Astor, which he didn’t want to think about. The barbaric rugby fellow who bullied him in a tavern. That officious little wanker who towed his car. Those were anomalies. It wasn’t like he did any serious damage, nothing permanent. Every man has a few moments of losing control. Being pushed too far. Cornered.

  “Dr. Beecher?” Luke knocked on the doorframe.

  “Oh, hullo,” Jules said wearily.

  “Could we talk a minute?”

  “I’m rather busy.”

  Luke looked at Jules standing alone in the room with a glass of sherry in hand. Jules stared back in silence and finally gestured defeat.

  “Fine. Come in.” He carried his glass to the chair behind the desk, used a blank envelope as a coaster.

  Luke sat across from him. “I’m wondering if you could tell me about my grandfather.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything, I guess.”

  Jules leaned back in his chair and exhaled, pinched the bridge of his nose. Did he really want to get into this now? No, but the boy had a right to know what a distinguished scientist his grandfather had been. It was doubtful that Isabelle had done the job.

  “Well, let’s see. I don’t know much about his early years, except that he was a bright boy who had an affinity for nature, specifically mushrooms. He was a student at Cambridge, headed for a career in mycology, and by the time he was eighteen he’d discovered a dozen new species of fungi all over England. It seems he wrote a breakthrough scientific paper on mycorrhiza, the relationship between plants and fungi.”

  “Mycorrhiza?”

  “That’s not important. What is notable is that it garnered a lot of attention in the plant biology department and he was asked to join an experimental team to study how the roots of plants grow toward nutrients. During these studies he made the observation that the root network of a plant has similarities to the neural network of the brain.” Jules poured another glass of sherry and held it up brightly. “George focused all his research on the parallels between the signaling systems of plant and animal cells. How plants process information is remarkably similar to the electrical impulses of an animal’s nervous system.” He took a sip and put the glass down. “He went on to become a distinguished professor of plant biology at Oxford, and the work he did on long-distance signaling became the foundation for how plant biology is studied today.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Wow. So he was an important man.”

  “Yes, and never given his proper due.”

  “You mean like with the polygraph experiment? Mom said he figured out why the plant reacted to you as the killer.”

  “The discovery George made was one of the most significant in plant science.”

  Luke leaned in.

  “He believed the plant reacted to me for two reasons. Number one, plants have memory. Number two, they can distinguish between the scents of individual people. Of course, he had to prove this through an experiment, so what he did was introduce a rhododendron to the purified scent of his own body, while at the same time tearing off one of its leaves. In response to the wound, the plant immediately sent alarm signals from leaf to root, accelerating its production of ethylene and protease inhibitors against herbivores. After weeks of trials, George introduced only the scent, without hurting the leaves. Yet the plant still reacted as if it were injured. Therefore, George concluded, the plant was able to smell the scent and remember that it was accompanied by the tearing of a leaf.”

  “Whoa.” Luke blinked hard.

  “This was big news in the plant world, and would have given George prominence if it hadn’t been for that blasted publicity tour. We all warned him against it, but I guess the idea of fame got the better of him. There was a media sensation in the American press and for a single summer it was big news. But back in England, the scientific community was rather appalled. You see, some of the reporters interviewing George twisted his words around, trying to sensationalize his data. One man asked George if he had proven plants have a consciousness, and your grandfather said, ‘Of course. It proves they have a soul.’ I guess he got caught up in all the hype. And it didn’t help that George’s experiments were repeated by others with very mixed results. You see, in the world of science, ‘sometimes’ doesn’t count and reputations can sink quickly. Things were very bad when he returned to Oxford.”

  “They fired him.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “He started taking drugs.”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “It’s why his wife left him, and my mom.”

  “Your grandmother was hardly…,” Jules grumbled, but stopped himself.

  “What?”

  “She was all right in the beginning, although terribly needy of attention. Grace was an American music student at Oxford and I think George was enchanted by her beauty and charm. She was a hippie sort, with lots of friends. Musicians and artists. George liked that, but there were always drugs around. Back then things were different, and George had a weakness for that kind of thing. Anyway, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your grandfather was a
great scientist. While his groundbreaking results were eventually rejected and forgotten, I can tell you that recent experiments exposing plants to various colored lights have proven George was right—plants do have memory, and we’ve also learned that they can distinguish between odors.”

  Luke nodded and the two were silent for a while. Jules sipped his drink.

  “Dr. Beecher, do you think it’s possible that plants can think?”

  “Most people would say no.”

  “But you wrote a book on plant intelligence. I saw it in the lab.”

  “An important measurement of intelligence is the ability to adapt to one’s environment, which implies thought. It’s all semantics.”

  “I don’t know,” Luke said. “Intelligence requires a complex nervous system that’s only found in animals. I mean, without neurons, axons, and neurotransmitters for signaling and a brain to process everything, plants can’t think.”

  Jules raised a brow. “You’ve a good understanding of the subject for your age.”

  “Usually only seniors take neurobiology but I’m taking it next year.”

  “You’re making the same mistake as most scientists, measuring intelligence as it relates to our own abilities. It’s a kind of meat chauvinism against any creature without a brain.”

  “Yeah, but a nervous system is what separates intelligent animals from plants.”

  “Are you sure? Both organisms have the same functions—eating, drinking, and reproducing—and both go about the task in similar ways. Plants and humans are nothing more than living machines and our actions are merely electrical signals going off at specific times and places in our bodies.”

  “You make us sound like robots.”

  “In a way, we are. Did you know in the last decade science has proven beyond a doubt that every aspect of consciousness is connected to the physical brain?” Jules leaned forward. “Why, I can actually hook you up to an fMRI that reads your mind by tracking blood flow to various parts of your brain. By matching the neural correlates, I can tell if you’re thinking about a car or a banana, if you are looking at a picture of a house or a photograph of your mother. You see, the brain works just like a supercomputer.”

  Luke didn’t look convinced.

  Jules put down his drink and picked up a pencil. He drew a crude brain across the back of an envelope. “Brain waves can be seen as loops and jags between the cortex and thalamus, which bind together various regions. Say you’re looking at a girl in a red dress; it binds the color red with girl and dress and thousands of other areas of the brain into a coherent conscious experience. Sort of like a radio transmitter and receiver tuned to the same frequency. There are over a billion neural connections in a square millimeter of brain matter, which allows trillions and trillions of possible combinations. Understand?”

  Luke nodded thoughtfully. “So we’re nothing more than electrical signals going off in response to external stimuli.”

  “Correct. No different than a plant.”

  Luke grimaced. “Physically the two aren’t comparable.”

  “But as I said, functionally they are. A plant is made up of living tissue with a messaging system of electrical signals that allow it to communicate with itself and other creatures in the environment.”

  “Like when a Venus flytrap closes on an insect?”

  “That’s a good example. You see, the Venus flytrap has four sensor hairs that an insect must trip twice, within twenty seconds, in order for the trap to close. This shows the plant has memory, and logic, really. What’s more, plants can make decisions. For example, a dodder has no leaves to make its own food, so it has to get nutrients by attacking other plants, using its sense of smell to find its victims. There could be ten different species nearby and it will always smell out the most succulent. Then it reaches across the soil and wraps itself around the plant several times, attaching suckers that penetrate its prey to extract the nutrients.”

  “Creepy. But smart creepy.”

  “You see, plants have a system of tracking and signaling that’s just as effective as our own. They can use all five senses without the almighty nervous system.”

  Luke nodded. “I see what you’re saying. I think it’s really cool.”

  “I think so too.”

  It seemed the boy was satisfied with the conversation and Jules was relieved. But after a long moment Luke scrunched up his face, hard in thought.

  “There’s still one problem with your theory,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I get what you mean about similar electrical signals in plants and animals, but I don’t think a bunch of neural correlates can explain Beethoven. I mean, when a person listens to music, you can track signals to specific areas in the brain to create sound, but what about the feeling you get listening to a song? How do you explain the excitement of a roller coaster or being awed by fireworks?”

  “That’s very perceptive of you, Luke. You’ve struck on the one question that we’ve not been able to solve. These are sentient experiences called qualia: the pain of a headache, the taste of wine, the redness of the color red, all of our emotions. Neurobiologists call it the hard problem, and so far it’s been unanswerable.”

  “Because it’s part of something greater than we can imagine.”

  “Exactly. Our brains haven’t evolved enough to comprehend an answer. Just as we can’t understand gravity or imagine a ninth dimension or know what comes after infinity. It’s the same with plants. We haven’t evolved enough to truly understand our own consciousness, so how can we claim to understand theirs?”

  “Or maybe it can only be explained by God.”

  Jules chuckled. “Now you sound like your grandfather.” He took another drink from his glass, emptied it, and placed it on the envelope.

  “You think we’ll ever figure out how to communicate with plants?”

  “We might not have to. Plants have a seven hundred million year advantage over humans. Perhaps they’ll find a way to reach us first.”

  “Maybe.” Luke stood up to leave. “Hey, thanks, Dr. Beecher.”

  “You are most welcome, Luke. You’re a bright boy. Everyone should be as open to new ideas as you are.”

  CHAPTER 11

  ISABELLE AGREED TO DEVOTE the entire afternoon to finding the diamond. She and Ginny rummaged through dozens of boxes in the attic, and then Isabelle headed downstairs to search.

  There were six rooms on the ground floor. Isabelle stood at the bottom of the staircase, hands on hips, wondering where to start. She decided on the storage room and got on with it right away, opening boxes of items her mother brought from England, most of which had no business on the island: skis and tennis equipment, formal dresses and gowns, dozens of high-heeled shoes. There were pieces of artwork scattered around the room, a naked mannequin and a few paintings leaning against the walls.

  Isabelle picked up one of the paintings and held it to the light with a frown. It was a portrait of her mother, Grace, as a stunning young woman in her early twenties who could have passed for Audrey Hepburn. She was a petite brunette with a heart-shaped face and large brown eyes under perfectly shaped eyebrows. But it was her expression that gave Isabelle a chill. It was stiff, as though she were sitting on something sharp. Perhaps, Isabelle thought, she was already feeling the nonexistent pain of so many false illnesses.

  Isabelle stared at the portrait in contemplation. Living on Sparrow Island they had never been close, she and Grace, but when they arrived in New York City everything changed. Isabelle became her confidante, her best friend, and eventually her nurse. Grace seemed to be deathly ill all the time, but never once was admitted to a hospital. Doctors would throw out their hands and tell her to hire a nurse. She never did, insisting Isabelle could easily care for her.

  By sixteen, Isabelle had barely seen the light of day, spending long hours cooking and cleaning, researching homeopathic remedies, providing physical therapy. She’d drag her mother’s heavy body from one room to another and ba
ck again. Young Isabelle would stare out the bars of her window, dreaming about the jungles of Africa, the pyramids of Egypt, the islands of the Pacific. She wanted to see the whole world. But Grace was constantly bedridden with migraines, E. coli, lupus, toxic shock syndrome. She had three types of cancer and a bout with meningitis. How ironic that she died from choking on a cough drop.

  Isabelle didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs started to ache. She laid the portrait aside and went to the kitchen. She made a pot of tea, placed it with the matching tea set, and brought it into the library.

  The room was full of tall bookshelves stocked with hundreds of books. Almost immediately, and to her surprise, she spotted a Bible. Perhaps it was The Book mentioned in the riddle. It looked old and worn as she pulled it from the shelf. She practically tore it apart, looking for secret pockets, scribbled notes, or circled words.

  Isabelle paused. Someone had underlined a passage from the first page of Genesis:

  The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.”

  Isabelle’s heart kicked up when she read the word Eden, thinking of her father’s green journal. Perhaps The Eden Project held a clue to the diamond’s location. She read the passage again. Could there be a tree of knowledge on the island? She tried to remember if there was a specific species associated with the tree.

  “Oh damn,” she whispered, and closed the book. It was a Bible, for heaven’s sake. The whole idea of the riddle was starting to seem calculated and melodramatic. What was she doing wasting so much time, instead of enjoying her vacation? She wondered if the children were having any fun. Sean was in the library too, gazing out the window with unfocused eyes, body rigid as a statue. No, he didn’t look any happier here than at home.

  Without warning, he banged his palms against the glass, grunting at something in the distance.

  Isabelle followed his gaze to the woods, but saw nothing.