Children of Eden
Page 43
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Do you know what kind of tree it is?” Lachlan asks. His voice is soft here, gentle.
There were once thousands of kinds of trees in the world. In my Eco-history books I’ve read about a few of them. Grand oaks, delicate silver birches, maple trees milked for their sweet syrup, fir trees treated with such profligacy that they were chopped down and brought indoors for winter festivals, decorated with lights.
But I don’t know what this tree is. “It is called a camphor tree,” Lachlan explains. “They grow into giants—as you see—and the oldest one at the time of the Ecofail was more than two thousand years old.”
“And that’s why . . .” I can’t say his name. “Why the creators of the Underground chose this species?”
“Partly, and for the smell.” He inhales deeply. “Think of all of our bodies crammed down here, sealed off from the outside. I don’t like to imagine what this place might smell like without the scent of camphor leaves filling the air.”
I want to tell him so much, if only to share the burden of knowledge. But I bite my tongue, and he goes on.
“The tree has medicinal qualities, too. We don’t harvest much, of course, but the oil of camphor can treat lung problems, even some heart problems, in small doses. At larger doses it is poisonous.”
That’s interesting, but I still just want to marvel at the fact a tree exists at all. I want to touch it again, to feel its leaves between my fingertips.
“But this tree, this one tree out of all the others, is particularly special. It is a symbol of nature’s ability to survive no matter what terrible things humans do. Do you remember in your History class reading about a great conflict called World War II?”
I do, vaguely, but in my memory it merges with all of the other senseless conflicts in our history.
Then he refreshes my memory about one part of the war in particular—the time when one group of humans dropped an atomic bomb on another group of humans. Not on a battlefield, even, but on a city full of schoolchildren and mothers and shopkeepers and gardens and playgrounds.
The city, the people, the trees, were incinerated in a heartbeat. They said nothing could have survived, nothing would ever grow again.
But when spring came, a small number of charred stumps sprang forth with new, green life. Nature had withstood the worst that humans could do at the time.
“This tree was grown from a cutting of one of those survivor trees,” Lachlan says, touching the bark reverently. “A miraculous symbol of nature’s regenerative ability. Aaron Al-Baz hoped—we all hope—that the Earth will be as forgiving again. Unfortunately,” he adds, “humans aren’t so forgiving.” His voice hardens. “We make bad choices, we neglect our fellow man.” He looks earnestly at me. “We are all we have left! And yet we make part of our population illegal. I know that supplies will run out if there’s uncontrolled reproduction, but can any civilized society actually kill its own children, for any reason? There has to be another way!”
He pounds his fist on the bark. I’m a little shocked, but the tree can take it.
“There’s so much wrong with Eden, so much that can be fixed. We’ve gotten so far from Aaron Al-Baz’s ideas of kindness and compassion.”
I make a choking sound, and he looks at me strangely. I have to tell him!
“Rowan, we second children are not just hiding down here. Not just surviving and enduring. We are the children of Eden.” He pauses a moment while this sinks in. “We’re making a plan to take back Eden and make it a place where everyone is safe, everyone is equal, everyone is free. We have allies above.”
“Like your brother?”
He nods. “And many others besides. The plight of the second children is small, in comparison to the plight of the poor. There are a few hundred of us. There are thousands of the underclasses, the poor, the desperate. You’ve seen the outer circles. How can there be poverty and crime in the perfect Eden that Aaron Al-Baz designed? His utopia has been corrupted by power-mad leaders. Al-Baz would never forgive us for what we’ve let Eden become.”
His voice is low, but deep and reverberating. He seems to stand taller. “Rowan, the revolution is at hand, and we need your help.”
I’m so taken aback I momentarily forget what I just learned from the Al-Baz manifesto. “My help? What on Earth can I possibly do?”
“You can give me your lenses.”
I blink, as if the implants are already in my eyes. “I don’t have them yet.”
“But you know where you were going to get them, right? You know the identity of the cybersurgeon?” He is tense and eager, leaning forward as if on the verge of springing for something. For me?
“Mom told me where we were headed. I think I could find the place again.”
“Tell me.”
And then, I don’t know, something makes me hold back. I feel like if I give up this important information there might not be any more use for me. It feels like a power, almost, or at the very least a bargaining chip. My description is vague, misleading, confused. He shakes his head and says he can’t think of any place matching that description. “Which circle is it in?”
“One of the outer ones. I could find it,” I offer. “I think once I saw the area, Mom’s description would come back to me. I could get you there.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I’m pretty sure he’s aware I’m saying far less than I know. But as long as I’m willing to take him there, he seems content.
“Let’s go right now!” he says. “Are you rested enough?”
I look at him skeptically. “Do you really think it is safe for me to be on the surface again right away? And . . . it is daytime, isn’t it?” The light panels on the cavern ceiling say so, but my body isn’t sure.
He sighs. “You’re right, of course. I’ve just been waiting for this chance for so long! Do you know how long we’ve been searching for a cybersurgeon skilled enough to make lenses that pass? We’ve had a lead—just a whisper—about this person you’re going to, but we haven’t been able to track him down. There’s a rumor of someone so skilled they can hack the EcoPan itself, but we have no idea if they really exist. Your parents must have used all their government connections—and plenty of money—to find him and hire him.”
There were once thousands of kinds of trees in the world. In my Eco-history books I’ve read about a few of them. Grand oaks, delicate silver birches, maple trees milked for their sweet syrup, fir trees treated with such profligacy that they were chopped down and brought indoors for winter festivals, decorated with lights.
But I don’t know what this tree is. “It is called a camphor tree,” Lachlan explains. “They grow into giants—as you see—and the oldest one at the time of the Ecofail was more than two thousand years old.”
“And that’s why . . .” I can’t say his name. “Why the creators of the Underground chose this species?”
“Partly, and for the smell.” He inhales deeply. “Think of all of our bodies crammed down here, sealed off from the outside. I don’t like to imagine what this place might smell like without the scent of camphor leaves filling the air.”
I want to tell him so much, if only to share the burden of knowledge. But I bite my tongue, and he goes on.
“The tree has medicinal qualities, too. We don’t harvest much, of course, but the oil of camphor can treat lung problems, even some heart problems, in small doses. At larger doses it is poisonous.”
That’s interesting, but I still just want to marvel at the fact a tree exists at all. I want to touch it again, to feel its leaves between my fingertips.
“But this tree, this one tree out of all the others, is particularly special. It is a symbol of nature’s ability to survive no matter what terrible things humans do. Do you remember in your History class reading about a great conflict called World War II?”
I do, vaguely, but in my memory it merges with all of the other senseless conflicts in our history.
Then he refreshes my memory about one part of the war in particular—the time when one group of humans dropped an atomic bomb on another group of humans. Not on a battlefield, even, but on a city full of schoolchildren and mothers and shopkeepers and gardens and playgrounds.
The city, the people, the trees, were incinerated in a heartbeat. They said nothing could have survived, nothing would ever grow again.
But when spring came, a small number of charred stumps sprang forth with new, green life. Nature had withstood the worst that humans could do at the time.
“This tree was grown from a cutting of one of those survivor trees,” Lachlan says, touching the bark reverently. “A miraculous symbol of nature’s regenerative ability. Aaron Al-Baz hoped—we all hope—that the Earth will be as forgiving again. Unfortunately,” he adds, “humans aren’t so forgiving.” His voice hardens. “We make bad choices, we neglect our fellow man.” He looks earnestly at me. “We are all we have left! And yet we make part of our population illegal. I know that supplies will run out if there’s uncontrolled reproduction, but can any civilized society actually kill its own children, for any reason? There has to be another way!”
He pounds his fist on the bark. I’m a little shocked, but the tree can take it.
“There’s so much wrong with Eden, so much that can be fixed. We’ve gotten so far from Aaron Al-Baz’s ideas of kindness and compassion.”
I make a choking sound, and he looks at me strangely. I have to tell him!
“Rowan, we second children are not just hiding down here. Not just surviving and enduring. We are the children of Eden.” He pauses a moment while this sinks in. “We’re making a plan to take back Eden and make it a place where everyone is safe, everyone is equal, everyone is free. We have allies above.”
“Like your brother?”
He nods. “And many others besides. The plight of the second children is small, in comparison to the plight of the poor. There are a few hundred of us. There are thousands of the underclasses, the poor, the desperate. You’ve seen the outer circles. How can there be poverty and crime in the perfect Eden that Aaron Al-Baz designed? His utopia has been corrupted by power-mad leaders. Al-Baz would never forgive us for what we’ve let Eden become.”
His voice is low, but deep and reverberating. He seems to stand taller. “Rowan, the revolution is at hand, and we need your help.”
I’m so taken aback I momentarily forget what I just learned from the Al-Baz manifesto. “My help? What on Earth can I possibly do?”
“You can give me your lenses.”
I blink, as if the implants are already in my eyes. “I don’t have them yet.”
“But you know where you were going to get them, right? You know the identity of the cybersurgeon?” He is tense and eager, leaning forward as if on the verge of springing for something. For me?
“Mom told me where we were headed. I think I could find the place again.”
“Tell me.”
And then, I don’t know, something makes me hold back. I feel like if I give up this important information there might not be any more use for me. It feels like a power, almost, or at the very least a bargaining chip. My description is vague, misleading, confused. He shakes his head and says he can’t think of any place matching that description. “Which circle is it in?”
“One of the outer ones. I could find it,” I offer. “I think once I saw the area, Mom’s description would come back to me. I could get you there.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I’m pretty sure he’s aware I’m saying far less than I know. But as long as I’m willing to take him there, he seems content.
“Let’s go right now!” he says. “Are you rested enough?”
I look at him skeptically. “Do you really think it is safe for me to be on the surface again right away? And . . . it is daytime, isn’t it?” The light panels on the cavern ceiling say so, but my body isn’t sure.
He sighs. “You’re right, of course. I’ve just been waiting for this chance for so long! Do you know how long we’ve been searching for a cybersurgeon skilled enough to make lenses that pass? We’ve had a lead—just a whisper—about this person you’re going to, but we haven’t been able to track him down. There’s a rumor of someone so skilled they can hack the EcoPan itself, but we have no idea if they really exist. Your parents must have used all their government connections—and plenty of money—to find him and hire him.”
