Heirloom (Seed Savers)

by Sandra Smith

  I could have gazed out at the mountains, the forests, the clouds and sky, for hours maybe, but Arturo noticed something I hadn’t given any thought to.

  “Lily,” he nodded at the other structures sharing the summit. “Communication towers. Maybe not safe for us here.” Without another word we began moving back down the steps, to the bike, and off down the road. Going down was easier than the climb up, and soon we were back in the thick forest. More side roads, still dirt, began appearing. I started looking around, tilting my head up, searching the hills. There! A cabin!

  “Look!” I hollered, “a house.” He hit the brakes.

  “You wanna see the people?”

  I hit him playfully on the back. “Of course not. I was just surprised to see a house out here in these mountains.”

  He smiled wide. “Oh, Lily. I like when you express your emotions.”

  I crinkled my face in annoyance. “Go on,” I ordered, “get moving.”

  As we continued, I kept watching and sure enough, more roads, trails, and homes dotted the hillside. Looming ahead were yet bigger mountains, ones I’d seen from the peak.

  “Are those the Smokies?”

  “Think so.”

  “How will we know when we find him?” It was almost a whisper.

  “Remember what Sara Jane said? First we reach Cherokee land. They will know. They protect.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Clare and Dante

  At last midway through March the cold fingers of winter were pried loose and sunny, warmer weather heartened the budding gardeners. By the third cloudless day, the beds were dry enough to start the early plantings: cole crops such as cauliflower, cabbage, broccoli, and kale, and other cool weather plants like peas, lettuce, carrots, and the onion starts. With most of the class working, it didn’t take long to plant the seeds. Clare was disappointed she had only gotten to help with a few kinds; she wanted to gain as much experience as possible. Dante, however, managed to run around to all of the beds and peek at the seeds, excited at how large or small or round they were. He charmed the adults, who let him put a few seeds in the soil before he dashed off to the next bed. Clare, meanwhile, stayed put, dutifully poking their onion transplants into the ground.

  She inhaled deeply, smelling the rich, moist soil. Until her life in Canada, Clare had never realized soil had a scent. It was intoxicating. One of the teachers told the class it was a scientific fact that fumes from good fresh soil, caused by certain microbes, have an effect like antidepressant pills. That digging in dirt makes you feel energetic and happy. Clare wondered what that meant for a country whose citizenry had been deprived of the opportunity to dig in the dirt.

  After everything was planted, the students spent the remainder of the day weeding the perennial beds and berry patches where the ground had grown lusciously green.

  “I feel kind of bad pulling out these weeds knowing that some of them are eatable,” Dante said.

  “The word is edible,” Clare corrected.

  “Why?” he asked. “I like eatable better.”

  Clare smiled. She had no answer.

  Pulling weeds was hard work, but for the kids the difficulty came more in the monotony than anything else. Their smaller stature, energy, and flexible joints allowed them to upturn the unwanted plants with relative ease, while the grownups often groaned, standing and stretching, or taking multiple and lengthy breaks.

  At the end of the day, though, Clare and Dante were tired—a good, worn-out, physical tiredness. Marissa had suspected they would be and greeted them in a kitchen smelling of freshly baked cookies.

  “Cookies!” Dante yelled as he smelled and spied the fresh cookies cooling on the rack.

  “Thought you might like some warm cookies with milk,” Marissa said.

  He helped himself to the cookies and poured a glass of milk. “I’m never going back,” he said offhandedly as he stuffed a morsel into his mouth.

  Clare’s heart skipped a beat. “Of course we’re going back,” she said.

  “I know. Mama misses us.”

  “That’s right,” she said. She knew there was more to say but decided to let it end there. For now, anyway. He probably hadn’t meant it. It had just sort of slipped out in his admiration and excitement over the milk and cookies. And yet … wasn’t this sometimes when people spoke what they really thought—those careless moments of joy or heartbreak? Clare tucked his sentiment carefully away. She would take it out and look at it later when no one else was around.

  CHAPTER 32

  Clare and Dante

  Clare opened the Bible, searching for something, some verse that would reassure her they had made the right choice back in New Jersey, the choice to continue rather than turn back. Though she enjoyed her life here, there were times she woke up in the night full of doubt. She had been happy with her old life. Her mom worked too hard, of course, and didn’t get to spend as much time with the kids as any of them wanted, but they loved each other and they had enough. Her friendship with Lily was strong, and she did well in school. She had recently begun thinking about going to college and about what she might want to do when she grew up. Her future had been a set track and that was reassuring … easy.

  Now, in the quiet darkness that comes at 3 a.m. there was only uncertainty. In the finer moments, during the day, she envisioned the ideal future: going back home and being part of the Movement in order to regain what had been lost. Or even better, that the change back to real food would happen easily, without a revolution, without her help, and she could return to Mama and live a life like the one she had now.

  The times of doubt, however, were cloaked in fear. Fear that a change would not come easily. Fear that a change might never come. Fear that maybe like Dante or some of the current Garden Guardians, she would decide not to go back—rarely seeing her mother, or Ana, or Lily, again. Clinging to the good life she experienced now rather than risking it to help others.

  When her mind went in that direction she tried to catch it and talk back, often ending in prayer or searching her brain for fragments of verses she had learned. I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future … Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding … She called back the Bible stories featuring children—Samuel, David—looking for strength and inspiration. It was what had gotten her and Dante through the arduous journey here, and she relied on her faith to steady her in her doubt-filled moments.

  In this respect, the Woods had been a disappointment. At the orientation, the children had filled out a host preference form and even though Clare had checked the box “Christian,” the Woods were pragmatists above all else. Meaning that most of the time they preferred to take it easy on Sundays rather than spend half of the day sitting in church. This, of course, did not bother Dante, being more philosopher than ardent churchgoer. But for Clare, a faithful weekly attender, it was a great letdown.

  “Clare?”

  A small voice startled her out of the midnight trance as she stared down at the Bible. For a second she thought it was God—like Elijah and the still small voice after the storm. Then, of course, she realized it was Dante.

  “Whatcha doing up?” he asked. “What time is it?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she answered. “I was trying to hear from God.”

  Silence. Then, “Did you hear anything?”

  She smiled. “Nothing yet.”

  “Oh … Clare?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Read me something.”

  She flipped through the book, looking for signs of life—notes in the margins, underlining, or highlights. She stopped turning the pages. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid. The Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you.” Her voice was soft and comforting.

  “That’s nice,” Dante said. “Clare?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think about Mama at night when I can’t sleep.”

  “Me, too.”
r />   “I bet she really misses us.”

  “That’s why you send her your drawings. And we pray for her every night.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t mean it, Clare. That thing I said about not going back.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know. Sleep tight, Dante.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Lily

  The dirt road had dumped us back onto a two-lane highway. We passed through a couple of tiny towns—if you could call them that. If there was a church or a store or a plug-in station, a clearing with several homes, they seemed to qualify. What intrigued me most were the boarded up, overgrown, caved-in “Diners.”

  Questions swirled in my mind like pinwheels. What kind of meals had once been prepared and eaten there? What sort of gathering places had they been for these mountain people and passers-through? Had something else besides nutrition and flavor been lost when food was simplified and processed to perfection? What role had food once played in Community?

  It was late afternoon when we finally passed the sign welcoming us to Cherokee land—the place I hoped my father had found sanctuary. I didn’t know much about tribal lands, but tribal or not, the past hours had felt so distant from normal life I easily believed my father could be hiding here—if he had made it. Though we felt reasonably safe, we remained cautious. The photos we’d seen of Clare and Dante were all the reminder we needed that it was too easy to be found. To quote an oft-used reference from the last century, “Big Brother was always watching.”

  We continued down the paved and well-used street, looking for side roads and Seed Savers symbols, but also for cameras, drones, and GRIM. I never grew tired of the scenery. Nature. Man. Nature versus Man. I laughed aloud at the irony of a single-wide trailer bearing the name “The Prowler,” no longer prowling, vegetation anchor-ing it to the ground.

  The entire side of the hill was awash in purple. Three quarters up sat a fine-looking log home. Arturo stopped the ATV and we jumped off.

  “Do you see a road up?” he asked.

  I looked around. “No. From behind?” I suggested.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But … ?”

  He pointed to a long, flat-roofed building we had just passed.

  “I think is a garage,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Park down here, walk up,” he said, gesturing as he spoke.

  “No way.”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  We got on the bike and drove back, parking behind the structure which was large enough for at least six vehicles. We walked around the perimeter. The windows were up high, so we couldn’t see in. Several yards away, a footpath led up the mountain.

  “No way,” I said again.

  “Let’s walk.”

  “Walk?” It was a long way up.

  “No tire tracks here,” he said, examining the ground. “I don’t want to, to … ” He crinkled his brow, the look he got when he was searching for a word he couldn’t quite find.

  “ … to, you know, make look bad.”

  I rolled my eyes, but the truth was, I could use a walk. Bronco was a great vehicle, but I was ready to be off of him.

  “We will hide Bronco there,” he said, proceeding to move him away from both the road and the trail. He wasn’t hidden much at all, really, but it was the best we could do.

  The trail was steep, but it was well-used and well-kept. Every so often we passed log benches placed along the path for resting. I admired their beauty and craftsmanship, and about halfway up I sat on one, waiting for Arturo. The trail was too narrow to walk side by side so I had run ahead. I was certainly learning new things about myself. Lily Gardener: hiker, mountain climber.

  “Girl,” he said, sitting beside me, “You are quick! Very strong.”

  I imagined myself glowing at the compliment. I sighed. “It’s so beautiful.”

  And it was. A muted blue sky, aptly named “smoky;” leaves, beginning their chameleon trickery, pulling loose, raining down on us; the rustle of birds and chipmunks along the fertile forest floor; the curves and slopes of the land as far as the eye could see; large stones, square and artistically placed by nature, lending texture to the already stunning landscape. It was almost enough to make me forget why we were here. Almost.

  “Ready?” He asked, glancing up toward the house.

  “Ready.”

  The house was built on the side of the hill. What I mean is, the front of the house, the part we could see from down on the road, was two stories and had big beautiful windows looking out across the hills. From the back side, though, it appeared to be one story, with a basement. The front porch was actually a patio supported by large columns. The trail had ended at a Y. Paths and steps led to both levels of the house.

  We took the path leading to the porch area, the apparent more formal way to enter. The porch was spacious, and ornately carved woodwork and the double circle symbol appeared throughout. Wicker and bamboo chairs crowded the floor space; potted plants, wind chimes, hummingbird feeders, a hammock, and woven string creations dangled from the ceiling. The cluttered porch seemed to contradict the immense wealth devoted to the architecture—a cross between the rich and famous and the mountain shacks we had passed on the way here. I walked over to one of the weblike crafts waving in the breeze.

  “Dreamcatcher,” Arturo said.

  “What?”

  “Is dreamcatcher. You do not know?”

  I shook my head. Even if he was translating correctly, I didn’t know what it was.

  He seemed surprised that I didn’t know but swallowed any inclination to give me a hard time. He explained that dreamcatchers were to keep away nightmares, allowing happy dreams for the sleeper who slept beneath it.

  “Then why are they out here on the porch?” I asked, trying to make sense of it.

  Suddenly a door slammed nearby. We heard yelling, a scream, then splashing, more voices. I looked at Arturo for guidance. He shrugged and knocked hard on the door. We waited. No movement. He knocked again.

  “I guess we go around,” he said.

  We followed the porch around to the backyard—a small cleared space large enough for a swimming pool, compact garden, and lawn before being swallowed up by the forest. Three children, a beautiful bronzed tone of skin I had only dreamed of, paddled around on floaties in the pool. They were too busy bickering to notice us. I felt conspicuous. It was one thing to knock at someone’s front door and introduce yourself, but entering a backyard where children were playing felt awkward, if not suspicious.

  I turned to ask, What now? But before my mouth had fully formed the “w,” Arturo had sprinted across the yard. I looked on in horror as he approached the pool, calling out as he drew near.

  “Hey guys, nice pool!”

  The children, two about Dante’s age, one close to my age, stopped yelling at each other and focused their attention on Arturo. I stayed where I was, unseen. The oldest, a girl I thought at first because of the long hair, but now clearly a boy as he stood taller—showing his bare chest—smiled broadly. “You bet,” he said. “The biggest of all my friends.”

  “Yeah.” Arturo crouched now, his hand testing the clear, clean water.

  The two younger kids paddled over to Arturo. “Want in?” one asked.

  Arturo looked over at me, and for the first time my presence was discovered by the long-haired boy. The younger two, however, weren’t paying attention. They had seized the moment of Arturo’s distraction to grab his outstretched arm, throwing him off balance and pulling him into the pool.

  I let out a little cry of shock and raced over in disbelief, but smiling. Everyone, including me, was laughing by the time Arturo resurfaced, shaking the water off and spouting like a whale. Then off he swam after the children before eventually getting out, stripping off his wet outerwear, and rejoining them. I, meanwhile, settled some distance away in the shade.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I heard the older boy ask Arturo, nodding in my direction.

  “She
is afraid of the sun,” Arturo said.

  The boy nodded in agreement. “She is very white,” he said. “A disease?”

  Arturo laughed. “No. I don’t know. Don’t worry.” He leaned in and whispered something to the boy. I felt my ears heat up in embarrassment. Then they swam over to the edge and hopped out. The boy grabbed a towel from the deck chair and tossed it to Arturo. They continued talking, but it was too low for me to hear from my spot under the trees. At last Arturo looked my way.

  “Lily,” he called. “Come here with us.”

  “Why don’t you come over here?” I was feeling stubborn. Upset, I guess, from the talk about my skin.

  “I can’t,” the boy addressed me directly. “I have to watch them,” he explained, pointing at the younger children still in the pool who were jumping on and attempting to drown each other. I begrudgingly got up and trudged over.

  “This is Aubrey. Aubrey, Lily.”

  “Nice to meet you,” we spoke at the same time.

  “Jinx!” the boys in the pool shouted. They had stopped their splashing and were watching us.

  “Aubrey’s Cherokee name is Magic Wolf. Cool, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I was beginning to regain my composure. Maybe soon I’d be able to say something intelligent.

  “Aubrey say his parents are home later. We can hang out here.”

  “Yeah, dude, chill. It’s a nice place. Usually kids from all over the rez like to come, but since school started we have it more to ourselves.

  “—Hey, knock it off!” Aubrey yelled. One of the younger kids was holding the other one under the water.

  “Where are the dogs?” Arturo asked, looking around.

  “Dad took them with him today. He had some work farther in. They like the exercise.”

  Dogs? I felt like I had missed something in the conversation but was too insecure to butt in. Arturo, meanwhile, sat nodding his head like he and Aubrey were old friends and had this same conversation often.