The Other Tree (4 page)

“All you see are profits and politics,” said Chris. “Markets to conquer and margins to expand. You think economics will sort things out in the same way that teachers used to think a room full of violent children would sort things out. You see the world as consumers, not people. You think in terms of price, not value. You believe in restricting information so you can sell products that pander to fear and vanity, rather than sharing knowledge to help people question, understand, and act. I will not join SinaCorp. And I will not let you turn the Tree of Life into some kind of Viagra on crack.”

Marrick’s expression did not change.

“Your mother was far more sophisticated,” said Marrick. “I blame the public education system.”

3

There are times in life when one is struck with a rare sense of clarity and purpose. When an impulse seems so irresistible and irreproachably right that one is carried forward into actions that, in retrospect, are probably not such a good idea. Las Vegas probably bears witness to a high percentage of these moments.

Chris was having such a moment now. She could see a conjunction of so many things in her life, and the path ahead seemed so clear, so compelling. It was the call that drew sailors to sea, humans to the stars, writers to madness. It was more than fate, it was hope.

Chris carefully stacked the dishes in the drying rack, while her father wiped down the kitchen bench.

“Dad,” said Chris. “I’m going on a break, probably just a few days.”

She saw his shoulders sag a little as he continued scrubbing at a stain.

“On your own?” asked Mr. Arlin. “They kidnap people from public toilets these days.”

“I’m hoping to go with a friend.”

“Who? And where?”

“I’ll call you. And I’ll be back before you know it.”

Chris hugged her dad, kissing him on the cheek.

Mum’s mistake was trusting SinaCorp
, thought Chris.
But I plan on coming back
.

“Well, have fun,” said Mr. Arlin, looking unconvinced as he followed Chris to the front door. “Make sure you read the customs leaflet this time.”

Mr. Arlin held on to her arm for a moment.

“Chris,” he said. “You’re not going to do something stupid, are you?”

“Like study cryptobotany?” said Chris, forcing a smile.

Mr. Arlin hugged Chris again, and said nothing else. But his eyes were wet as he closed the door.

* * *

People often picture life as a montage of work and holidays, shopping and endless bills, relationships and aspirations. It seems like there isn’t enough time, until you realise there’s far, far less than you thought. When someone suddenly discovers a rapidly draining timer hanging above the person they love, people react in a variety of ways. Some concentrate on cherishing what time remains. Some run away, unable to bear the devastation of their own grief.

Some look for God.

On rare occasions, literally.

* * *

The door burst inwards, and Luke dove behind his desk, half-expecting it to be the paint-throwing animal-rights campaigners, getting his office confused with the Satanists down the hall again.

Instead, it was the woman from the other day, the one who had asked about miracles. The expression in her eyes filled Luke with quiet dread. It was the kind of expression you saw on the crusaders, on the soldiers about to go to war—a jumble of sorrow, fear, and determination.

“Hi,” she said.

Sometimes, when two innocuous substances come into contact, they create something sublime and unexpected. At other times, they create something the insurance companies refuse to pay out on. At this particular moment, Chris was imagining an alliance along the lines of roasted hazelnuts and praline. Epic, righteous, corporation-defeating, roasted hazelnuts and praline. Luke was imagining the ceiling caving in.

“Hi,” said Luke, still poised to duck under the desk.

Chris had spent the past few hours trying to work out how to present her proposal without seeming uncomfortably deranged. She had eventually decided “What the hell, I’ll wing it,” but as the silence in the office grew awkward, she realised this plan had serious flaws.

“I’d like to show you something,” said Chris at last.

She waited by the doorway, and Luke peered at her with a blend of apprehension and curiosity.

“You have something better to do?” grinned Chris.

* * *

The linoleum sucked on the soles of Luke’s shoes, and he decided that his office wasn’t actually so bad. Chris pushed open the door to her office, and Luke stepped inside warily.

The room was pungent with the scent of herbs, and splashes of colour burst across a million shades of green. It was like a secret underground cavern, brimming with botanical curiosities.

“Impressive,” said Luke. “Did they let you dig up the floor like that?”

“Um, moving right along,” said Chris.

Chris lined up a series of clay pots and glass jars across the desk, and Luke leaned in cautiously.

“This is what I wanted you to see,” said Chris.

She pushed forward a small potted plant with mottled brown leaves, hinged like fleshy jaws.

“Crocodilia muscipula,”
said Chris.

She brushed the surface of a lightly haired leaf with the tip of a pencil, and the jaws snapped shut with an audible clack.

The pencil splintered.

Luke leaned back, his gaze darting nervously to the crowd of plants surrounding him, suddenly feeling as though he’d wandered into the middle of a posse. Not seeming to notice his reaction, Chris picked up a small glass jar, which appeared to contain a dark vapour. As she carefully unscrewed the lid, Luke found himself leaning forward with horrified fascination.

A black tendril drifted from the open jar, then several more followed, rising like tentacles of smoke. On closer inspection, Luke could see they were shaped like ribbons of grass.

“Coma fumidia,”
said Chris, using a pair of chopsticks to gently push the wafting leaves back inside the jar.

“Why are you—?” Luke began.

“One more.” Chris took a glass bowl filled with water from a high shelf.

A single succulent plant floated on the surface, its translucent green leaves spiking outwards like a bouquet of quartz.

Chris switched off the lights, and the room was plunged into humid darkness—except for a soft glow emanating from her cupped hands. The small, floating plant was luminous with blue-green light, throwing shimmering ripples across the basement walls.

“It doesn’t even have a name yet,” said Chris, gazing at it with wonder. “It’s the only plant we’ve found in which the luciferin substrate gene occurs naturally. All the bioluminescent plants now known are transgenic, and it’s incredibly energy intensive. This plant not only generates the luciferase enzyme, but its metabolism can handle it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Chris paused, as though about to jump off a cliff, possibly taking Luke with her.

“I’m looking for a rare plant, and I need your help,” said Chris.

“I’m not a biologist. Or a cartographer. Or a philanthropist. Or a mercen—”

“It’s in Eden.”

There was an exceedingly uncomfortable silence. Luke switched on the light.

“All these things, they exist,” Chris waved her arms at the plants, and some waved back. “People dispute their existence, but they’re real. Unfortunately, you can’t just run to the news and say ‘Look at this!’ unless it’s a cucumber shaped like the nativity scene. Unless you have several research papers full of testable hypotheses and peer-reviewed studies, no one wants to know. Eden is the same.”

Luke’s face was impassive.

“Don’t you think we would have found the Garden of Eden by now if it still existed, assuming it ever did?” said Luke.

“They discovered a new species of giant rat not long ago in Indonesia. A
giant
rat!”

She paused, as though this had sounded much more persuasive before she’d said it aloud.

“If Eden were still around, why haven’t we seen it on satellite pictures?” said Luke.

“For the same reason we don’t see Atlantis or ancient Troy.”

“Government conspiracy?” sighed Luke.

“Because they’re buried under about twenty other cities, all squashed to the thickness of a sandwich.”

“Not much of a garden left, then.”

“For a man of the faith, you’re very reluctant to believe.”

“And you expect to find Eden without believing in God.”

“You don’t have to believe in something to find it,” said Chris. “If it’s real, it’s just there. You follow the evidence.”

“Looking for Eden. Chasing evidence. Religion doesn’t work that way. If it did, it’d be science.”

“Would that be so bad? If that girl came in to yell at you, and you could show her proof, would that hurt?”

Luke pressed his lips into a line. It was foolish to believe you could find Biblical artefacts. It was a quest undertaken by those who lacked faith, by those who sought only glory, adventure, profit, or power. True believers didn’t need proof, they weren’t torn apart by questions, seeking answers so tangible you could grip them until your fingers bled.

Luke told himself this as he tried to ignore the crushing sensation in his chest. A tendril of something dark uncoiled from distant memory, and Luke trod on it firmly.

“Why would you need a priest?” asked Luke.

“To help with the riddles and stuff,” said Chris, probably realising she should have done more research first.

“You mean ‘help’ as in, show you what happens when someone walks through the trap?”

Chris ignored this.

“There is a way to find Eden, and I know where to start.” She groped for incentives. “There might be beaches and lagoons involved, later.”

Luke gazed around at the marvellous clutter of strange plants, with the uneasy feeling that some were staring back. Which reminded him—he dipped his hand in his pocket.

“I think I have something of yours,” he said, holding out the pebble seed.

A silver, heart-shaped leaf had begun to unfurl, rumpled and reluctant.

“Oh!” Chris patted her jacket. “That cuckoo seed must’ve pushed it out of my pocket.”

Luke did not ask.

“It’s a rockfruit seed,” continued Chris. “It grows fruit that looks like—”

“I get it.” Luke shook his head, wondering what strange world he’d tumbled into. “So, where do we start?”

* * *

Chris’s apartment was a romantic’s dream, in the same way a rat-infested shack was a renovator’s delight. She’d fallen in love with the place at first inspection, with the stippled blue-glass windows, the sloping rafters, and the view of old chimneys in a sea of red slate.

However, she had quickly realised that, like many things which seemed romantic, like ice-skating on frozen lakes or trekking through Nepal, the reality was often much more uncomfortable. She’d learned that, although the place had loads of character, it also had loads of cockroaches, some of which had mutated into multi-winged commandos in the microcosm of the converted warehouse complex.

The apartment was a single-room studio, with the bed curtained off in one corner. Plants, books, and specimen jars covered the shelves, and lush, hanging pots swung from timber beams. The contents of several dusty cardboard boxes were currently spilled across the floor, with papers and photographs loosely sorted into messy piles.

Luke drew a sheaf of papers from a manila envelope and skimmed the contents. Chris lay on her stomach on the floorboards, sifting through typewritten notes.

“There’s a reference to Eden in the Book of Amos, but I think it’s a different one,” said Chris. “There’s an awful lot of smiting in this chapter.”

“There’s a reference in Ezekiel, but it’s not particularly helpful,” said Luke.

“Is that the guy who saw spaceships? There’s this great book by Erich Von—”

“There seem to be a lot of medical papers.” Luke lifted a stack of photocopied pages from one of the boxes.

“My mother was a doctor. I think they relate more to what she was hoping to find.”

“What was she—”

“So, are your parents religious?” said Chris, flicking through a pad of hand-written notes. “I mean, ‘Luke?’”

“Star Wars fans,” said Luke. “We had a dog called ‘Solo.’”

Several minutes passed in silence as they leafed through scattered notes and battered books. Chris lifted a slim travel journal from the bottom of the crate, running her fingers over the soft leather face. Her mother hadn’t even remembered to take it with her on that fatal expedition. Chris tossed the journal onto the floor, pressing her fingers to her throbbing temples.

“We know from Genesis that there was a river running through Eden, which parted into four smaller rivers,” said Luke. “One of which was the Euphrates.”

“Yeah, and the other one goes through Ethiopia. It’s not even the same continent.”

Luke picked up the journal, flicking through leaves of yellowed paper. The blank pages seemed steeped in sorrow, radiating a sense of unbearable loss. His fingers stopped on a section of the cover.

“Where did your mother get this journal?” said Luke.

“She made it. She was good with a scalpel.”

In a smooth motion, Luke pulled a specimen knife from the shelf and sliced down the spine of the journal.

“Hey!” Chris lunged for the blade.

Luke quickly made two more incisions along the cover before Chris grabbed his wrist.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask first?” said Chris angrily.

“In case you said ‘No.’”

“That’s why you’re supposed to ask.” She pulled the knife from him.

“Sorry,” said Luke. “If I’m wrong, you can kick me off the expedition.”

Chris watched as Luke peeled the stiff leather from the back of the journal. Beneath the skin, on the yellowed cardboard cover, a flat steel key had been stuck fast with tape. Beside it, in black marker, was the word “Liada.”

Chris covered her mouth with a hand, turning away quickly.