By the time we don our burn suits and enter the Fireseed plot everyone is rushing forward as if the field is a fully stocked candy store. As if everyone’s salivating at what they could do with the sweet prize money. I know I am.
I could buy a new glider and go back for my mom and my friends. Move them in with Thorn and me in the giant wave-colored house we’ll buy in Vegas-by-the-Sea. We’ll enroll in high school there, and I’ll find Thorn a specialist who can teach him how to talk in real sentences. We’ll eat succulent fish and fly trendy hovercrafts and I’ll make clothes with pretty shell appliqués for my family and friends.
Everyone scatters in a different direction, including Thorn. I’m less worried about one of my classmates messing with him out here, because people are preoccupied with their projects. So, I head deep into the west field as the Fireseed sways around me. It’s as if the plants are talking, the way they bristle with a sense of expectation as I pass and bend to wave me on by. I imagine them saying, “Walk in here, spend time with us!”
This time, in addition to gathering the leaves and flattening them under the wide stones, we’ll get to keep samples to experiment with. I can’t wait to get started making concoctions like my dad and I used to do.
From the time I turned four, my father and I would creep into the caves, and then slither, belly-first as the rock ceiling lowered, and the cooler air floated lazily though the brushy Fireagar. We’d lay still, our eyes silently laughing together as we waited for the switch of a Dragon Lizard tail. He taught me to pitch my hand out, as swift as any arrow. He taught me to ask the beast for permission, and promise it a safe return after we milked out the elixir. Then, with our wide, flat blades, we’d scrape the cave walls for moss, for schist, for minerals.
“Put each in its own treasure box,” he’d whisper, “my little desert fairy, collecting your gold and gems.”
Oh, how I’d giggle at that.
And then, in the kitchen, we’d get every pan and spoon out, and simmer shale powder with moss to perfection, eke out the Dragon Elixir and make a salve with it for rashes. Or we’d mix it with Fireagar for a special healing tea. Best thing for headaches or fever.
“We’re making a magic drink, king of the desert,” I’d tell him as I stirred.
“And you, my fairy princess, are the best potion-maker in the land of dunes and sky!”
My mom would come in and fuss about all of the pans we’d dirtied, and how she’d have to scrub them for an hour with sandpaper. But pretty soon, my dad would be swinging her around the room on his arm, to a tune we’d all make up. And we’d scrub the pots and spoons clean together.
Here, in the field, I come close to a star-shaped blossom. “Fireseed, hah, you’re the most magic of all, aren’t you?” When I break off one of its leaves, the branches around rustle as if they’re murmuring, “Use us, but don’t take too much. Don’t tear too hard.”
“I won’t,” I promise, “just enough.”
White patches have puckered some of the leaves, and spots mar the trunks. Thorn was right. Whatever it is has spread.
“Tell me,” I whisper, “what’s ailing you?” But I hear no spoken answers.
The massive tarp overhead casts a dreary blue sheen on the crop, and with the heat of the day, a sour, synthetic odor wafts down. I wonder if whatever chemical is in the fabric could be affecting the plants. As I think this, I could swear the plants around me quiver. I’ll mention it to Nevada later.
Creeping further and further into the red jungle, I sink down toward the cooler root beds. Lower my head to one of the stalks and pray. Prayer is still my currency here. Fireseed is still my god, and nothing has proven otherwise. “Please, let me take pieces of you, only to help the people down here. I’ll repay you—somehow.”
In response, one of the star-shaped flowers arcs down. I gasp as it lightly strokes my back—a signal to proceed? Taking the crimson flower head between my thumb and index fingers, I nick it off. Then I bend to the lowest set of leaves and cut a few more samples. Place them carefully them into my latchbag.
Something scoots by my right hip. I startle and look over. Another skitter and dash—of dark speckles like an artist flicked his loaded brush of soil-colored paint onto the beast’s leathery back. My arms dart out to catch a wriggling tail. Lizards are here too! Not Dragon Lizards, but … It whips its tail in protest as its conical irises study me, the monstrous human subject.
I’m flooded with joy. The desert truly is springing to new life! A lizard would be unheard of outside the protective caves back at home, even under a thick tarp.