The Seed Collectors

by Scarlett Thomas

  ‘Well, who exactly is being sexed?’

  ‘Everyone! But mainly someone called Briar Rose.’

  ‘Fleur’s mother.’

  ‘Yes. And she had a baby. With Grandpa.’

  ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Grandpa Augustus.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘That’s actually quite interesting. What else is in there?’

  ‘Lots and lots of stuff about a tribe called the Lost People, who also do a lot of sexing. And praying. Plus, I don’t know how to tell you this, Mummy, but you know the seed pod that you made Daddy throw away?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And you know how it’s really deadly and terrible and everything?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’s why we threw it away.’

  ‘Well, it was worth ten thousand pounds.’

  Fleur has not just baked a cake especially for Holly, she seems to have provided her with a famous tennis player as well. Bryony’s going to be late if she does not leave now, but this is actually quite . . .

  ‘Do you know what a money shot is?’

  Holly shakes her head.

  ‘OK, well, in pornography it’s . . .’

  Bryony’s look is a high topspin forehand to the famous tennis player’s deuce corner. The tennis player can reach it, just, but he has not planted his back foot properly and . . .

  ‘It’s basically like your best shot. And it’s got to be a two-handed backhand down the line. Money shot for everyone, according to Brad Gilbert, who is like a famous coach who worked with Andre Agassi and Andy Murray.’

  ‘I’ve got a one-handed backhand.’

  ‘Who taught you that?’

  ‘My uncle. Well, my dad.’

  ‘And he thinks you’re who? Billie Jean King? Margaret Court? Gotta get with the times, girlie. You seen any woman on the tour with a one-handed backhand? Doesn’t exist nowadays. I mean you gotta have a slice, but for your drive you need two hands.’

  His blond hair is like something from a fairy tale. The way he talks is like . . .

  ‘Can you show me? Please? Please, please, please?’

  The tennis player looks at Bryony. Bryony looks at Holly.

  ‘Do you remember the deal?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy.’

  Bryony explains to the tennis player about Holly needing to put on three more pounds before she is allowed to play tennis again.

  ‘Pretty harsh. Can she not just drink a couple big bottles of Evian?’

  ‘That’s so not the point.’

  ‘We could weigh her in the morning, perhaps, and decide then?’ says Fleur.

  ‘You’d let her go anyway, whatever she weighs.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’m going to be late. I think it’s probably a no for now, Holls. You haven’t even got your stuff here. And anyway, I’m sure that famous tennis players have better things to do than knock around with twelve-year-old girls.’ Bryony smiles thinly. Remembers to kiss Fleur goodbye, although Fleur suddenly seems . . . Anyway, it’s almost time for a drink. Beautiful, relaxing, restoring. Well, it would be normally. Instead . . .

  The drinks menu is at the back. Pages and pages of wine, fine wine, champagne, dessert wine, liqueurs, brandy, port. But this evening Bryony is looking for the soft drinks. She has promised James that for this one meal with his parents she will not drink alcohol. And maybe this will be the start of something amazing. She feels that if only she can prove to herself that she can go just one night, then . . . And if she can just order something as quickly as possible, then . . .

  ‘I see she’s gone straight to the back pages,’ says the waiter, twinkling. ‘Got her priorities right.’

  What is it, what the fuck is it, about the simple act of choosing to spend a small amount of your available cash on a glass or bottle of fermented vegetable matter that gets people so excited? Why is it so remarkable, so naughty, so outré, to do this, especially when every other woman – fat, highlighted, high-heeled – in this restaurant will be doing exactly the same thing? Look at her. Isn’t she a one? Isn’t she terrible? Ooh, missus, why not have another? She’s just like her aunty Trace, she is . . .

  ‘I’m actually looking for a soft drink,’ Bryony says.

  James gives her a supportive look. He and his dad order a beer each. His mother Lyn orders an orange juice. Bryony wants sparkling mineral water, but . . .

  ‘Do you only do Badoit?’ she asks.

  ‘Ah,’ says the waiter. ‘The finest mineral water.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Bryony says. ‘But it’s not very sparkly. Do you do anything else?’

  ‘We do Highland Spring, but only in small bottles.’

  ‘Great. I’ll have one of those, thanks.’

  ‘Badoit is lightly sparkling because it’s natural, of course.’

  ‘I know. Thanks. But I really prefer something more carbonated.’

  An eyebrow. An ironic little smile. ‘Like to really scour the tongue, do you?’

  ‘Um, I just like quite fizzy things.’

  ‘What you want then,’ says the waiter, ‘is a nice bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Right.’ Bryony sighs.

  James nudges her. Something in her tone or body language is presumably not quite . . . But actually, fuck this . . .

  ‘I’m sorry, but have you not heard of the concept of an alcoholic?’ says Bryony to the waiter. ‘Or driving? Or Islam? Or Buddhism, Or WeightWatchers?’

  ‘Bryony . . .’ says James.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she says again, although she is not sorry. ‘I didn’t realise that this is a place in which drinking alcohol is mandatory. I didn’t notice the sign on the door saying that it is impossible to order a glass of fizzy water here without being bullied into drinking something with a percentage symbol next to it. Perhaps it doesn’t occur to waiters in places like this that people might not be drinking for a good reason, and that they might be feeling a little fragile or delicate and not want to incessantly banter about it. But fine, OK. You win. What’s your most expensive champagne?’ She starts flicking through the laminated pages of the menu. ‘All that fuss, and the most expensive champagne you have is thirty-two pounds fifty. We’ll have two bottles, please.’

  ‘Bryony . . .’

  ‘You’ll join me in scouring my tongue, won’t you, Greg and Lyn? On me, of course.’ Bryony looks back at the waiter. ‘And you may as well open a bottle of the 2007 Graves too, and let it breathe. If we’re going to have to drink alcohol we may as well do it properly.’

  ‘What is enlightenment?’

  Fleur laughs. ‘How long have you got? What time is your mother picking you up in the morning?’

  Holly sighs. ‘Why do adults always . . .’

  ‘All right. Look. Do you know the story of Adam and Eve?’

  ‘Yes. In the Bible. They are in a garden with a tree and God says not to eat the apple on the tree and then of course they do eat the apple and it’s all Eve’s fault and . . .’

  ‘I’ve never heard someone sound quite so bored by the Bible.’

  ‘It’s so old-fashioned. And anyway, if you are God and you don’t want someone to eat something why give it to them in the first place?’

  ‘Maybe to prove that they have free will?’

  ‘Right. So, anyway, about enlightenment . . . ?’

  ‘Do you know what Adam and Eve got when they ate the apple, which, by the way was just a fruit. It wasn’t necessarily an apple. It could have been a fig.’

  ‘Um . . . knowledge? It was like the tree of knowledge?’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘They put on clothes because they were ashamed of their nakedness.’

  ‘And then God punished Eve with periods and stuff!’

  ‘Well, in a way God didn’t really need to punish them. With knowledge they could punish themselves. Knowledge isn’t just knowing facts from books. Knowledge is knowing things like shame and embarr
assment and fear. It’s knowing that you are better or worse than someone else. It’s being separate from things. Knowledge is a good thing to have at school, but in this story it’s a curse.’

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘Enlightenment, or at least the way I see it, is a way of un-eating the fruit.’

  ‘What, getting rid of knowledge?’

  ‘Yes. Or what I would call the ego.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Holly, do you have a sort of voice in your head that tells you that you’re not good enough or, I don’t know, that your last tennis shot was really lame, and that you are ugly and a failure and things like that?’

  Holly makes a face. ‘Sort of. Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I know because everyone has the same voice.’

  A long pause. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. And does the voice sometimes say nice things, like that you’re cleverer than other people, or thinner, maybe? Does it get you to imagine being at Wimbledon, or becoming head girl at school or . . .’

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t know. It’s not exactly the same voice, though. It can’t be.’

  ‘I think it is. I think that is the ego speaking to us. And the main thing it does is separate us from one another. Makes us always better or worse. Encourages us to compare ourselves to others all the time. Imagine being exactly the same as someone else. How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really, really bored.’

  ‘That’s exactly what the ego does. It makes true enlightenment and oneness seem kind of boring. But imagine if that feeling was full of love. How would it be then?’

  ‘Still really, really boring. I don’t know . . . Maybe . . .’ Holly thinks, suddenly, of Melissa, and that time when she hit with her. Neither of them was trying to win. All that mattered was the force and beauty of the shots. If it had been about winning points it would have been less enjoyable. If Holly could be the same as someone else it would have to be Melissa. But would Melissa want to be the same as Holly? Probably not.

  ‘Lots of grown-ups very much want to be enlightened.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some people – Hindus and Buddhists mainly – think that we keep being reincarnated until we find out how to become enlightened, and that being alive is basically about suffering. People want to be enlightened so that they can stop suffering.’

  ‘So they basically want to be dead?’

  ‘People want to be free of the cycle of birth and death.’

  ‘Aunt Fleur, that actually sounds really creepy.’

  ‘I know it does.’

  ‘So what Granddad Quinn said in his journal about the seed pods . . .’

  ‘He’s right. They are a short cut to enlightenment. But they kill you.’

  ‘But they make you enlightened first?’

  ‘Yes, but they really, really kill you. There’s no coming back.’

  ‘Unless you’re an animal, apparently. I read that animals and birds are already enlightened and the seed pods affect them in different ways. Granddad Quinn said that sometimes people come back reincarnated as animals. Is that true?’

  ‘Maybe only if something has gone wrong in this lifetime? But I’m not sure. The point is that if you eat any of the seeds from the pod – and they are very tiny – you don’t come back as anything.’

  ‘I feel a bit scared now.’

  ‘Why don’t you have some more cake?’

  ‘Do I have to? It’s not like Mummy is ever going to let me play tennis again anyway.’

  Fleur sighs. Puts the cake away. ‘Look, the thing you have to remember about the seed pods is that they are very, very dangerous. You must promise me that if you were to find one anywhere . . .’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Fleur. I’d let you know immediately.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t touch it or anything.’

  ‘No, Aunt Fleur.’

  ‘Stop being such a gaylord. Just sit still for two minutes and listen.’

  ‘And then you’ll let me help?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll let me help find the seed pods?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ll probably need a lookout. But it’ll be very dangerous, so you need to be properly briefed.’

  ‘OK.’ Ash sits as still as he possibly can. He can’t help humming a little bit though. Why is he humming? He seriously can’t stop. Actually, what is he humming? It’s the New Zealand National Anthem, which he has had in his head since he watched the rugby with his father this afternoon. He hates rugby, but his father says it is traditional and English and brave and a little bit pagan and that he should try to like watching it, even if he hates playing it. The New Zealand National Anthem is lovely and cheerful and makes Ash think of happy children dancing. OK, the children are in uniform, and are doing what they are told, but they are doing it under a bright warm sun with streamers and bunting. ‘God Save the Queen’ just makes him want to scratch and yawn and . . .

  ‘Ash!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t go to sleep. This is very important.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right. The Prophet goes for dinner at nine o’ clock. That’s when we can sneak in.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s got them?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told you. He grows them and sells them.’

  ‘But that journal was written in like nineteen eighty-something.’

  ‘Old people don’t change their habits as much as we do.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So I’ll go in because I’m the eldest. You stay at the top of the stairs and watch in case he comes back for something. If he does come back for something you’ll have to throw yourself down the stairs . . .’

  ‘No!’

  ‘All right, well, just pretend to faint on the landing then.’

  ‘Like I did in drama club?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘What if I’m scared?’

  ‘Then you will be very brave and manage not to act like a complete fucktard.’

  ‘Holly?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Holly, what are you going to do with the seed pods?’

  ‘Sell them.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then I’m going to run away and go and live in Middlesex, where I have to play tennis for the county team. It’s very important, and the team needs me, and Mummy doesn’t understand. If I stay here Mummy won’t ever let me play tennis again. You heard what she said before. When I am famous you can come and visit me and I’ll buy you a Rolls-Royce.’

  Is that what Holly is really going to do? Like, really, really do? Maybe. Sort of. Well, probably not. But she does see herself holding out the seed pod to her mother, who will be pale and trembling and totally shocked by the bravery and determination of her daughter, and she will finally understand how desperate she is and how she will do anything for tennis. Then her mother will be certain to let her hit with the famous tennis player while she phones Dave to find out about the county squad. And of course if Holly has the seed pods, there will be no question of whether or not the family can afford for her to go. She can buy a new tennis dress as well, probably one that comes with its own matching bra and shorts. Oh, and of course another Wilson racquet or two, and a big bag for them to go in and . . .

  ‘I don’t want you to go to Middlesex.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’

  ‘Can’t you just eat some more? Then Mummy will let you play tennis.’

  Holly thinks about this for like two seconds. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, can I come with you?’

  ‘Well, maybe; it depends on . . .’

  ‘Holly . . .’ Ash begins to cry.

  ‘Stop being so gay. Look. All right. When we get the seed pods I’ll give one to you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Each one is worth ten thousand, at least. Mummy says they are probably worth an awful lot more now because of inflation . . .’

 
‘BUT I AM REALLY SCARED OF THE SEED PODS.’

  ‘Shh. I know. But they’re not that scary.’

  ‘But they are.’

  ‘Just don’t be a retard and do anything dumb like eat one or put it in your eyes.’

  The room is surprisingly humid. It smells a little like lizard orchids mixed with earth and that really yellow ice cream you get in Cornwall. It is in two parts. The first part of the room is full of books and pieces of faded notepaper. There is an armchair in the corner and, over by the window, one desk with a computer on it. On the wall there is a calendar with a naked lady sitting on a red car. There’s a collection of old, weird musical instruments with a set of bongos, and a huge tambourine-shaped thing. Then there is another table with two record players on it, next to one another. Between them is a large plastic willy which gives Holly a very, very funny feeling, as if . . .

  Oh! Horrible! And a pair of lady’s breasts, in a kind of pink rubber, and . . .

  On the wall there are old, faded posters. One of them is a large, yellow smiley face. One of them has a picture of a yellow pill on it, with the words DJ Profit and MC Loss at the top. There are some photographs of a woman naked in a dark field, holding some kind of glowing stick that might actually be . . . Oh yuck . . .

  Holly goes quickly into the next part of the room. This is where the earthy, goaty, vanilla smell is coming from. And, yes, just as she thought, here they are. Lots and lots of orchids with seed pods hanging off them like, OK, to be honest, like nothing that can be described except in a really gross way. One of them has a flower, but before Holly can look at it there is a noise behind her. It is the sound of a door closing. She turns around. Tiptoes back into the first part of the room. But . . .

  ‘Well,’ says the Prophet. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ says Holly. ‘Sorry! I got a bit lost and . . .’

  ‘I went sneaking around this house looking for treasure a long time ago and look what happened to me,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  His voice is like the kind of voice that bad men have in those black-and-white films that teachers and old people like to watch with children around Christmas time. Dickens, or whatever. Or that thing with a flying bed. It’s a bit London and a bit broken. It sounds like he has the kind of bad cough that goes with a really old-fashioned illness like TB or something.