The Other Tree (43 page)

“I saw the fruit,” said Emir. “I kind of knew what Marrick would do if I came back with it.”

Emir pressed the fragments from the tree into Chris’s hands.

“I’m really sorry things didn’t work out, but maybe you can do something for your dad with these?” said Emir.

Chris stared at the leaves in her hands—rough and leathery, the colour of the ocean at twelve fathoms. They seemed at once both so ordinary and so otherworldly, like looking at a snapshot of yourself in a place you couldn’t remember ever being.

Life was a succession of choices, thoughts and memories, woven into a story that explained to you why you were standing here. Now. About to do what you were about to do.

Chris looked up into Emir’s eyes.

“I’ll bet these would make a hell of a herbal tea,” said Chris.

* * *

The campus lawn was lazy with afternoon sun, and several students were attempting to fly politically and physically incendiary kites. Flakes of ash drifted through the branches of a tall, green maple, which had been planted to replace the giant fig tree that had mysteriously vanished one night, only to be found later on the front lawn of a prestigious house in the eastern suburbs.

Emir brushed a piece of ash from the textbook he was reading, as he lay on his stomach on the grass.

“Stratigraphy, palaeopathology, and inferential statistics…is that supposed to be one subject?” growled Emir.

Chris glanced up briefly from her laptop.

“Didn’t they make you study forensic astrology last semester?” said Chris.

“Um, turns out I was going to the wrong class… I mean, Room E-Five in the Stenson Woodman building, Lab E-Five in the Stenman Woodson building. Why not just give everything longitudinal co-ordinates?”

“I’m sure it’s for educational reasons. Anyway, the tarot readings were kind of fun,” said Chris, turning back to her partly drafted research paper.

“I think I’m ready to just go and blow things up again.”

“Don’t you at least want a working knowledge of what you’re blowing up?” deadpanned Chris.

Emir grumbled, rolling onto his back and covering his face with the open text book. Chris could just see the edge of a grin. After a moment, he pulled the book from his face, his expression turning contemplative.

“I’m going to see my parents this weekend,” said Emir.

“Good luck,” said Chris. “At least they’ve stopped with the yelling.”

There was a slight pause.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

Chris glanced at Emir. In the background, flaming kites trailed across the sky. She gave him a lopsided smile.

“Sure.”

Life was unpredictable. Life was short. Life was painful. And sometimes, life was deeply unfair. Sometimes, life threw things at you that you had to scrape off before you could move forward. But sometimes—

Chris looked up through the gently waving leaves, like pale green stars against a wide, endless sky. She glanced across at Emir, lying sprawled on the grass beneath the mottled afternoon sunlight.

But some days, it was worth it.

END

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to express my deepest thanks to all those who made this book possible. Firstly, I would like to thank my parents for their love and understanding, and for trusting that I would find my own path. To my sisters, Anne and Cecilia: for their invaluable feedback and insight; for always making the time to critique a draft or listen to a rant; and for inspiring me to pursue my dreams. Their endless support, advice, and wisdom made this journey possible.

Thanks also to my editor, Vikki Ciaffone, for her tireless commitment to her authors, for her enthusiasm, and for being an amazingly cool person to work with. To Kate Kaynak, founder of Spencer Hill Press and Spence City, for taking a chance on an unknown writer. To Jennifer Allis Provost, marketing co-ordinator of Spence City, for her marketing mojo, and for championing my novel from the beginning. To copy-editors Owen Dean and Rich Storrs, for their hard work in making the manuscript press-ready. To Lisa Amowitz, cover designer, for her wonderful work and limitless patience, especially whenever I said things like ‘can we try a different blood spatter pattern?’

Finally, I’d like to thank Terry Dowling and Room 332 for their encouragement and support.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

DK Mok lives in Sydney, Australia, and writes fantasy, science fiction and urban fantasy novels and short stories.

DK grew up in libraries, immersed in lost cities and fantastic worlds, populated by quirky bandits and giant squid. She graduated from UNSW with a degree in Psychology, pursuing her interest in both social justice and scientist humour.

She’s fond of cephalopods, androids, global politics, rugged horizons, science and technology podcasts, and she wishes someone would build a labyrinthine library garden so she can hang out there. Her favourite fossil deposit is the Burgess Shale.

Website:
www.dkmok.com

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Twitter: @dk_mok

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