Heirloom (Seed Savers)

by Sandra Smith

  And now we were at the moment. I’d rehearsed plenty of times in my head what to say, but the thing about rehearsed conversations is that the other person isn’t privy to your script.

  I looked at him—propped up on one elbow, munching away on a Carbo square—watching me, waiting. “Look, I’m sorry you found out the way you did.”

  “‘S okay.” He waited.

  “So, um, as you heard, it turns out that my dad was a leader in an uprising about fifteen years ago.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “My mom led me to believe that my father had died.”

  He nodded.

  “What more do you want to know?”

  “You and me were friends when you find out?”

  “Sort of. We had just met.”

  “But you keep it secret? And you keep secret that Ana is…” He searched for the word.

  “Raided?” I offered.

  “Yes, raided. And that Rose is espy? Why?”

  It felt like my lips were glued shut. I didn’t want to say it. How could I tell this boy who had followed me all the way to Florida to keep me safe that I hadn’t trusted him?

  “You didn’t trust me,” he said quietly.

  And so, after all, there was only one answer. Arturo wasn’t dumb. He knew the answer. He’d known the answer since the night at the table when he first learned James Gardener was the father of Lily Gardener and leader of Seed Savers. For the first time, I wondered what internal conversations danced in the head of this young man as we coursed through the flat, hot land.

  Swallowing my gentler emotions, I responded stoically, “At the time, I trusted hardly anyone.”

  He turned his head and looked behind himself.

  “I understand if you’re angry.”

  He shook his head no. He turned back around but hung his head, refusing to look at me. I felt like a dung beetle. No, I felt like the dung.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked up, and I realized why he’d been avoiding eye contact. Tears quivered in his eyes; one had broken loose and was inching its way down his face, like snowmelt down a canyon wall.

  “Arturo.”

  “‘S okay,” he said again.

  “I’m sorry, I know it was a scumbag thing not to tell you everything. But, really, at the time, we hadn’t known each other that long. And … there just hasn’t been time to fill you in …” I was seriously rambling now. Arturo had gotten up and moved next to me, was enveloping me in a hug.

  “Stop, Lily. Stop.” He sniffed, wiped away the errant tear. “Is happy crying.”

  “Happy crying?” My voice was muffled in the stifling bear hug. He pulled back, and sat next to me.

  “I understand you not trusting nobody. Your mom make you think your dad dead, Rose tell Trinia about you. Me, I am some strange Mexican boy follow you in the park … I so happy because now you trust me and I not sure why.”

  The air stole out of my lungs in astonishment. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t hurt. And his happy tear unnerved me. Ma and me rarely cried—happy or sad—we were a pretty emotionless lot. But what he said was true: I did trust him. Quite obviously, I trusted him with my life. I wasn’t sure what to say in response to his sentimental display, and feeling slightly uneasy, decided to steer the conversation back to where it had started. “So, um, anyway, how much did you pick up of what Aaron and I shared?”

  “You guys talk really fast together. Tell me it again, slowly.”

  I told him everything Ana had told me. I shared the details of Rose’s confession. I talked about my life with Ma. It helped pass the time, and when I was finished, it felt like we’d known each other for years.

  Except I still didn’t know much about Arturo.

  CHAPTER 23

  Lily

  “What about you?” I asked, when I’d explained everything and answered Arturo’s many questions.

  “My name is Arturo Antonio Juan Cruz de la Montoya.”

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  “Of course. In Mexico—”

  “—so that’s where you were born?”

  “No. I am American. I born in California.”

  “But—”

  “—why I don’t speaking English better? Because I grow up in Mexico. Is long story, complicado. I need break, Lily. Too much English now all at once. Además, maybe we start moving now.”

  The sun was farther down in the sky, but it was still blistering hot—even in the forest—and hours yet until dark. He read my thoughts.

  “Pues, still long time until dark, and is very hot. You swim, Lily Amaya?”

  “No, not really. Ma wanted me to learn, but it was difficult without any pools nearby.”

  “And the river?”

  “She didn’t want me in the river. I think she was afraid. Sometimes I went to the reservoir with Clare’s family, but I’m not really a good swimmer.”

  He lifted his eyebrows and smiled mischievously. “Maybe, you are, how you say … modesta?”

  “Modest?”

  He nodded.

  “I dunno; I never had lessons … ”

  “Well,” he said, jumping up, “we will see. On the bike,” he ordered.

  I climbed on behind, reaching around his torso, no longer shy after so many hours of riding together. Arturo had a fine sense of reading the landscape, and it wasn’t long before he had located a nice-sized stream. It wasn’t near a road, so no one else was around. He parked the bike and walked up to the edge of the water.

  “‘S okay,” he said, after sniffing the air.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Not—I don’t know how to say. But the river is okay.” He hit each syllable like a hammer hits a nail. “But,” he continued, “here is, mmm, no big enough.” He held his hands apart, up and down, indicating depth.

  “It’s deep enough for me,” I said. Okay, so it was about twelve inches deep. I was perfectly comfortable with just wading around, getting my feet and ankles wet.

  He took off running. There was nothing to do but follow. Soon we were in brush and tall grass, no longer running, slowly making our way through the thick growth along the water’s edge.

  “Arturo—”

  “Almost,” he said. “Continue.” A branch snapped in my face. My ankles were getting scratched and torn. I worried how far from the bike we had ventured. Arturo was out of sight in front; I could only hear him up ahead: snap, crackle, pop.

  “O—kay,” I heard at last. It was long and slow. Such a contented “okay,” as if a whole lot of other extraordinary words he couldn’t say in English were packed into those two little syllables.

  “So we’re there?” my voice was tiny, a thin whistle of a voice I sent on ahead, hoping he heard.

  “Oh, jess,” his deep voice answered back. Then a crash and he stood in front of me, holding out his hand. “Come.”

  I grasped his hand, and he pulled me through the last thicket.

  I don’t know how the river did it. The shallow, rocky rapids had turned slightly and ended. A deep and tranquil pool, surrounded by trees, opened before us, and a tiny beach of pebbles extended toward the water. Along the river, ragged stone steps walked up out of the beach, leading to larger and larger rocks and finally to a spacious stone cliff. I had never even seen photos of anything so perfect, so beautiful and amazing. The color of the water differed according to the depth and the shadows: deep blue, blue-green— clear and crisp near the shallow edge.

  He looked at me, his face happy and proud. “Nice, huh?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Like Izanagi and Izanami standing on the Floating Bridge of Heaven, or Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, I felt like we were the only two people on earth. I drank in the beautiful colors; the fresh, cool air where the water rushed over the rocks; and the voice of the river singing as it made its way toward and away from the pool. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. When I opened them, Arturo was gone.

  Splash! A spray of water,
and a few moments later, his bedraggled head popped up near the edge of the pool as he grasped the rocky edge.

  “Lily,” he called. “Is nice. Come in.”

  Suddenly, I wondered what Arturo was wearing—or wasn’t wearing. There, in a bush, hung his jeans and shirt.

  “I—uh—I don’t have a swimsuit.”

  He was climbing out of the water. I covered my eyes. He laughed, and I moved my hands over, peeking out, then let them drop in relief. He wore dark blue boxers, a bit saggy with water, but decently covering him. I watched as he deftly climbed the rock ledge, smiled widely, and dove into the blue-green pool.

  “Hey,” he called, sputtering above the water again, “why you still out there?”

  I sat on the beach and began untying my shoes. “It’s okay,” I replied. “I’ll just sit here and put my feet in the water. It’s much cooler here,” I added, hoping to quell further invitations.

  This worked for about ten minutes. Arturo scaled the rock and dove in several more times, swimming around like a fish or a crazed dog or something. He tried all sorts of strokes, including simply floating on his back, arms outstretched, staring up at the blue sky. He looked so relaxed and peaceful that I couldn’t help feeling envious. Then he dove under and came up about six feet away. He got his bearing and walked out of the water to where I reclined, sweaty and uncomfortable, despite what I’d said about feeling cooler. He plopped down next to me.

  “You need to get cool,” he said.

  “I’m okay.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I told you, I don’t have my swimsuit.”

  “Me either.”

  “But you have your shorts,” I said.

  “Lily, you wear shorts at Meg’s house.”

  “I know; I thought about it,” I admitted. “But it’s my only pair. I don’t want to get them wet.” Unlike Arturo, it would also mean getting my bra, undies, and a shirt wet—too much of my overall clothing supply.

  “‘S dumb,” he said.

  This sort of offended me. “It’s not the same for a guy.”

  He looked at me without expression. “There is other option…”

  What other option? What did—!!! He was watching me closely and saw the moment his meaning dawned on me. My astonishment made him smile, but he didn’t laugh.

  “I can turn away,” he suggested. “You can shout when you are safe in the water.”

  I jumped up, grabbed my backpack, and stomped into the brush. “Fine,” I called back. “I’ll get my clothes wet! I just hope they dry in this humidity.”

  His deep laughter reverberated in my head, long after it had actually ceased.

  Once I got past my initial embarrassment and display of anger, I was able to relax and enjoy the cooling and cleansing effect of the stream. Arturo tried relentlessly to get me to dive from the high rock, but this was something I would not give in to. Everything necessary for reenergizing and recuperating could be accomplished by a simple dive off of the lower rocks, or by wading in and pushing off, for that matter. Maybe I would do it the next time. After all, it’s not like I wasn’t a risk-taker. I was perfectly capable of jumping without fear. But today, to be in this beautiful place and paddle around in the cool water, was simply enough. Sometimes enough is just enough.

  We swam and splashed and played until exhaustion urged us out. The water was refreshing, but not frigid, so there was no reason to get out except to rest. We lay side by side until we were hot and our energy restored, and then back in we’d go. The cycle of swimming, sunbathing, swimming continued until our sunny spot was completely swallowed up in shadows, a message that nightfall was approaching. Only once had I attempted conversation again, and he had reminded me he was resting his brain from English.

  Back in my long pants and a dry shirt, we returned the way we had come, scattering birds like stones as we pushed through the thick places. The bike stood untouched where we had left it. Accustomed to our routine, we mounted the bike and rode off without speaking. I knew Arturo would do his best to find easy, yet safe places to ride; he knew I’d be watching for signs and dangers such as drones.

  The setting sun’s echo of light lingered, twilight astounding me more in this place than it ever had at home. Nature: lonely, scary, beautiful, magical. I was glad to be back on the bike lost in thought about the new world I was discovering.

  After several miles I breached the silence, calling over the wind, “Remind me again, where exactly we’re headed?”

  “Find friends,” he called. “Is no other option. Aaron did not tell us nothing more. I am afraid to use nav-map . . . mmm . . . GRIM we saw maybe find us. We need to see signs. Like your friends.”

  Clare and Dante. Aaron told us that Clare and Dante had identified friends by using Ana’s paper and later by reading the secret Seed Savers signs—purple lupines and the double ring symbol. But Clare and Dante had also been caught on camera and were lucky to have escaped. Although they had escaped and were now living somewhere in Canada. I thought about all of this as we moved northward through the dark.

  “But how will we do that in the dark?” I asked.

  “Dime una oración, m’ija.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Clare and Dante

  “I’ve been reminded,” said Stan, “that I promised to go back to more recent history and fill in the details. It’s been requested that I say something in particular about the underground resistance.” He smiled the wry smile Clare had seen so many times before. “Don’t you just love that—an underground seed movement?” Chuckles indicated the students shared Stan’s affinity for wordplay. The skin on his face flattened in seriousness, his gray eyes piercing, “Unfortunately for you younger students, history professors have a way of thinking that ‘recent history’ includes the last fifty years, so we’ll start there.

  “2028. Raise your hand if you remember.” A third of the class raised their hands.

  Ten years before Mama was born, Clare thought.

  “What was the food situation like in the U.S. in 2028? By then food safety legislation had become so tight that the earlier “fresh markets” and CSAs—Community Supported Agriculture—had been shut down. Organic farmers, by and large, were no longer officially in business because the FDA had imposed so many requirements and taxes that they were not allowed, or could not afford, to continue. The ‘authorized producers’ grew 100% patented seeds, mostly genetically modified. During this time period, the public had a growing awareness that something was amiss with the food supply due in part to the increase in food diseases and allergies. When the federal government made no move to protect them, states tried to pass laws requiring the labeling of GMO food, to no avail—even though many other countries had required such labeling for years. There were social media campaigns while it was still possible and a few marches, but it wasn’t enough.”

  Clare looked around, some students were scribbling furiously in their notebooks, others simply listening and nodding, remembering, perhaps, protests in which they had taken part.

  “What did happen, however, were the organic farmers who kept growing the good stuff and selling it illegally; they began teaching others how to garden. Home gardening made such a comeback between 2027 and 2037 that the big boys got scared. The discount retailers, always on the side of money, actually considered GMO labeling. However, the master plan was already being formed to ease away from fresh food, as I mentioned last time. Expensive advertising campaigns were launched touting the efficiency, nutrition, and low cost of the new food groups. Individual food items gradually vanished from store shelves. Needless to say, GMO labeling never happened, and the vast majority of Americans already eating large amounts of processed food didn’t miss broccoli or asparagus when they eventually disappeared.

  “At the same time, legislation was being snuck in to the already restrictive agriculture bills that would make seed ownership or growing, even for a private garden, illegal. It was the best way to gain total control. Documents have since b
een released showing the long term three-pronged plan: new food groups, no seed ownership by private citizens, and media control. The media control came last.

  “How are we doing?” he asked. No one spoke or lifted a finger.

  “Very well. So the protests throughout the thirties made a lot of noise. But after their failures, and the triumph of high-powered men and women representing big retail, agribusiness, and government, in 2043 the law against seed ownership and gardening was passed. The following year, GRIM—which was just a new name for the FDA, EPA, and Nipungyo holding hands—came into being. It took a few years for them to get things under control, but by 2050 things seemed to quiet down.

  “Meanwhile, Monitor access and rights began slowly devolving to what you currently have in the U.S. today. As always, hackers do remain who get around that.” For some reason he looked at Jason. “However, if you expect me to go into that, you’ve come to the wrong person. I’m the history/politics guy, not the tech guy.” The students laughed, a sign they were still listening.

  “As in any case where a government has overstepped its boundaries and makes too many decisions for its people, an underground movement was born. Seed Savers had always been a rather mundane name for multiple groups of folks who saved seeds for hobby, utilitarian purposes, food security, zombie apocalypses, whatever. Under the new regime, however, Seed Savers became a whole new animal.

  “Most of you probably remember what happened in 2064.”

  Clare’s heart skipped a beat—2064? 2064 was the year she was born. She glanced around the room; heads were nodding. A tear trickled down one woman’s face.

  “You know as well as I do, however, that you cannot keep a good Movement down. It’s why you’re here.”

  What happened? Clare thought. I don’t know. She looked at Jason, his face stoney, his lips positioned in a strange smile.

  “And just in case you haven’t heard. It has been confirmed: James Gardener has escaped.”