Rooting Season

It was the middle of rooting season and nearly fifteen days since I had last seen another human soul when I stumbled upon my first bad omen of the spring. I found him strung up by the hooves, belly facing the sky, open ribcage gaping hot steam into the early morning air. He was a recent kill. Massive antlers brushed the tips of the daisies flowering in the clearing, and on his hide, a single message written in blood: welcome.

I adjusted the heavy pack about my shoulders and dropped the handles to my sapling sled, stepping out into the glade to get a better look. Moose hunting was rare these days. Their population was already sparse this far north, not to mention the ones that survived the radiation were a nightmare to kill. All rage, all horns and stomping cinderblocks for hooves that could dust your bones in a second.

A slice of fear cut through me, wondering who would be so daring as to slaughter such a creature – more than that, slaughter just for the sake of it. Reaching him, I noticed that no meat had been butchered from his flanks nor shoulders. The gash in his stomach was one clean cut, vital organs still gleaming and swollen inside the cavity. I reeled away at the smell, a sharp metallic rot that cut through the otherwise dewy morning. This bull would have certainly put up a fight, and yet, no other battle scars seemed to mar his coat. His death had been quick and clean, almost clinical. Though I was certain no skilled doctors existed out here.

I pictured my sisters. White-robed, waiting peacefully in their chambers, waiting on the doctors to call on them again for morning treatments. I remembered their soft, poreless faces twisted in disgust as I had stuffed my belongings into a single backpack and kicked away my felt-lined slippers for second-hand leather boots.

You’re really going? They sneered. Don’t think about coming back once the Waves get to your head.

 I hadn’t said it aloud then, but I never planned on returning. The white-domed, air-filtered, cloying stillness of the Nests had smothered me for far too long. Rather than spend my days trailing IV umbilical cords and swallowing palm after palm of miracle pills, I chose the wilderness.

Before I could decide whether or not to report my findings to base camp or turn back altogether, I felt the air around me begin to warm. It was gradual, like a dial being slowly turned. Sunlight was folding over the landscape, the few trees suddenly washed in milky light. The forest appeared to be balding, patches of dirt and rock blotting grassy landscape, clusters of trees spiking up here and there. Except for the leaves, which were newly-grown, everything was decaying brownish grey. Which is why I didn’t see them at first, with their camouflaged tunics smeared in mud, hair slicked with it, eyes trained towards their trap. If it hadn’t been for the change in wind, it might have been too late.

I ducked just as the arrow whistled above me where my head had just been. It buried itself in the carcass, bits of flesh scattering over me as I scrambled beneath the animal and crawled into the thin copse of trees. Instinctively I reached for the communicator on my hip, feeling for the small round button on its side. I found it, pressed down hard for three seconds, then continued crawling forward. There were no more shots fired, and no other sounds from the clearing behind me. How long had they been there, waiting for someone to wander into their snare? This route was marked abandoned by all groups but planters. The forest was practically dead. More than likely, I realized, they were after the saplings.

I stopped, stilled my breath, listened. Rocks and roots pressed into my stomach, a cluster of bramble-like bushes providing cover from my right side. On my left were a few more sickly trees, and I could see the bare mountain face looming behind, the path I had just come from. It was silent around me now, but I knew they must be on the move.

The Briar People, as we in the camp had begun to call them, were a small, radical, and mysterious group. Their numbers were unknown, as were their motives. I myself had never come face to face with them, though evidence of their attacks had been reported on multiple cases; planters going missing across the province, especially in highly radiated areas. One theory proposed that the Briar People had become immune to the sickness but went mad instead, and hunted other humans as a food source. Another idea was that they were after the saplings, trying to build their own utopia and keep the inevitable at bay, just like the rest of us. But one thing was certain. No planter had survived their ambushes as of yet, as far as we knew. Most of the time, the only evidence of an abduction was a few broken communicators and scattered planting tools. Animal carcasses were sometimes a mark of their territory, though messages had never before been recorded. Not one person had met them and survived.

A twig snapped somewhere behind me and I flipped to my back. I carried no weapons except for the small hunting knife strapped to my left arm. Not smart, in hindsight. But I wasn’t a warrior. Besides, I knew the risks of solo planting. I preferred the company of mother nature and nothing else. 

I worked to unsheathe the knife, the panic slowly rising in my throat. My chances were slim, but even if I fought and escaped, I would need to trek another three days back, probably longer if I was injured. How long would they track me? Would they be satisfied if I abandoned the saplings and ran? Base camp should have gotten my distress signal, but it would still be a long time before a rescue party would dispatch. I didn’t have much time.

The blade slid from the sheath just as footsteps crackled to my left. They were practically on top of me, and their lack of silence could only mean that they no longer needed the element of surprise. They believed they had won. I tucked my feet under me and took one final, steadying breath.

I catapulted myself upwards just as the body crashed through the bramble. My head collided with something hard – his chin – and he let out a pained grunt. The knife felt slippery in my hand as I slashed at the blur of brown and green in front of me, and through the flailing of my arms I caught a glimpse of his face. He was young, smeared with mud and god knows what else. His eyes were angry, but not so bloodthirsty as I expected. I shuffled backwards as he lunged for me again. There was no weapon on him either, no bow or blade. I thought, if it was just me and him, I might win. I might make it out alive.

Strong hands grasped me from behind. They wrapped around my shoulders, squeezing hard. In a second, I was on the ground again, gasping, a flurry of boots all around me. Another man had thrown me down, and I struggled to suck in air again. My hand was empty, and I watched helplessly as someone knelt to retrieve my knife from the leaves. A heavy palm was placed on my temple, shoving my face into the dirt. I thought about fighting it, but then another hand was placed on my lower back, then more on my legs, even more on my arms. They muttered amongst themselves. Laughed, even. I was game, a hunting prize. Was this what that poor moose felt as it died? Was it dissected, then and there, and hung up to bleed without a second thought? Would I be the same?

One voice rose above the others.

“It’s a woman,” it said. Silence fell. Then, the same voice, older and wary with age. “Bring her.”

The words were met with growls of protest. Something unspoken must have happened to silence them, because in a moment they had stopped, and the weight of the hands on my body began to lift. I was pulled up by the elbows, and placed back on my feet. Looking around, I found the person who must have given the command. A man, bearded, his face maroon with mud and blood, his expression unreadable. For the first time, he addressed me.

“Welcome,” he said.

I was blindfolded all the way to their camp. My communicator had been ripped from my belt and left in the clearing, though I hoped the signal had been strong enough to reach base camp. With any luck, they would ride to my last known location and track us through the woods. Then again, they may see that the saplings had already been taken, and assume the worst. I hoped they would not give up so easily. I wondered if the other victims had been as hopeful.

The walk was mostly silent, except for the soft march of boots through underbrush. My mind raced. It’s not surprising they would be pleased at capturing a woman, especially a woman of my age and health. Some of them might have even guessed that I had come from the Nests: they say women from the fertility programs are built strong and beautiful, with limbs like that of sturdy oak and an array of lovely complexions more stunning than coloured maple leaves. Strong as we are, we are a dying breed, along with the rest of man. But the Briar People may not believe that.

An hour had passed when I heard the sound of running water, and even further in the distance, voices. As we moved closer, I could smell the camp: meat burning, fresh leather, coal, even horse manure.

I tried my best to gather as much information from my senses as possible as they dragged me through their village. Their numbers appeared to be abundant and thriving. Back in base camp, they had been described as a small band of nomads, travelling from radiation pocket to radiation pocked to avoid getting brought in by authorities. The government would rather not risk their men and resources to track down a litter of bad apples who were likely to die of radiation sickness sooner or later anyway. But this…this was a civilization. No wonder they wanted the saplings. If their numbers were as much as I imagined, they may launch a full-blown attack on our camp. Perhaps that’s what they’ve been looking to do all along.

Sounds of outside faded as I was pulled into a room of some sort, bells chiming as I ducked under the entryway. The scent of food and spices was strong, and the ground beneath me was soft, as though covered with blankets or moss. They told me to kneel.

My blindfold was removed with a flourish, and I blinked, taking in the small tent. A stone-lined fire pit sat in the centre, pots and pans stacked neatly next to it. In one corner was what looked like a bed, with many pillows and blankets. In another was a pile of what I could only describe as offerings: beautiful pottery, knitted shawls, shiny trinkets, old bits of tech that carried a nostalgic gleam.

The man with the beard stood stoic on my left, the man holding the end of my lead on my right. I opened my lips to ask for water when a shadow appeared at the tent’s entrance, and the breath was gone from my body once again.

It was a woman, her hair long and straight and shining, her clothing embroidered with bright-coloured fabric and bits of carved metal. Her face was painted, but not like the others. It was artful, red teardrops traced on each cheek, a gold circlet crowning her head. But most surprising was her abdomen, hugely swollen and tight to the bodice of her dress, unnaturally so.

My throat burned with unasked questions. I pulled my gaze from her stomach and back to her face, which looked down at me with gentle curiosity. She walked sure-footed, gliding elegantly towards me, movements almost birdlike. She reminded me of the storks painted on the walls of the Nest hallways, slim and pure white, a reminder of our duty and purpose to bring fresh lives into the dying world. Her eyes narrowed as she finally came to a stop before me, peering down with clear blue eyes. I felt my mouth gaping noiselessly.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said at last, and a small smile bloomed on her lips. “May I offer you water?”

My throat was raw from the long walk. It felt as if it might bleed from speaking. I nodded. With a look from the woman, the bearded man was gone, his boots marching away from the tent. From behind me, the other man stepped forward, placing my knife in her hands.

“She was carrying this,” he said, “and she put up a fight.”

“Thank you. She seems very harmless now. You may go.” And then it was just her and I. She lowered herself before me, taking her time, shifting her weight from feet to hands to knees. She looked at me and waited. I felt my gaze being dragged down to her abdomen again, felt my nerves growing cold at the sight of it.

More than likely it was a tumor, brought on by the radiation, its growth increased exponentially from hunting poisoned game or consuming toxic water. I’d seen it before in retired planters back at base camp. Growths that started the size of peas and ballooned into that of boulders. Once it passed the size of an apple, there was no hope. This woman would most likely be dead very soon. I felt a twinge of guilt and relief prick my spine. She was sickly. I was strong. There could still be a way out of this.

“What brings you into our domain?” She asked, eyes steady on my own.

I scoffed, but it caught in my throat. “You know we plant here. You wanted the saplings.”

She tilted her head at me, a graceful bird, gaze flicking at every involuntary jerk of my adrenaline-strung limbs. “The saplings are nothing to me. It’s you I was hoping for.”

“Me?”

She slid closer, took my prisoned hands in hers. Her body was warm, too warm. More proof of the illness that raged within her blood. I felt sorry for her. But it was the same pity that reflected in her eyes as she looked down at me.

“You’re wondering how it happened,” she gestured to her belly, “if it’s real.”

“It’s unsurprising,” I replied carefully, “how long have you lived out here, in the high-level areas?”

Her expression furrowed into confusion, and then a beat later, amusement. She laughed.

I shifted on my knees. Something was wrong with her. The sickness had probably gotten to her brain already. I wondered why the others – the bearded, mud-smeared man and his company – catered to her. Perhaps they were all mad, and this was some kind of sick game they played to disorient their prey.

“This is not from the radiation,” she said after a moment. Her hands reached for her stomach, grasping the hem of her dress and pulling it up to reveal bare skin, stretched and protruding. I marvelled at her condition. It was unheard of, unseen. She pointed to something just below her belly button. “Do you know what this is?”

Wary but curious, I shuffled closer. There, on her lower abdomen, was a scar, gnarled and pale white. It was shaped like a crescent moon, a jagged grin stretching horizontally across her skin. A failed attempt at removing the tumor, I wondered.

“What is it?” I asked, giving in. The look in the woman’s eyes was serious now, and I felt my muscles tense with adrenaline. What did all this have to do with me?

“They lied to you darling. No child is without a mother, it’s impossible. They pick and choose the best of us and leave the rest to wither.”

Mother? I stared at her dumbly, not giving in to her riddles. She was certainly mad. I let my mind drift to my escape plan as my eyes remained blankly on her stomach, another wave of shame for her washing over me. She realized her revelation had fallen on deaf ears. 

“Why do you think the saplings never take root?” She asked as she rose away from me, walking over to her shining cornucopia of treasures. My eyes followed, but still my mind shuffled through escape plans. I heard the clap of hooves on stone outside. Horses. If I made a break, I might be able to steal one before they could catch me. I am quick on my feet.

“Too much radiation,” I said roughly. I winced at my barbed tongue. She rummaged through the metals, tossed aside watches and goblets and ancient wireless technology, the old ones with the touchscreen interface.

“No,” she replied, and the clanging stopped as she stood, holding something. I moved slowly so that my feet were tucked beneath me, coiled like a ready spring. “It’s because they made them rootless.”

She knelt before me again. This was my chance. I tensed my quads, prepared to up and run while my leash was not in grip. But before I could, she held the box in front of me, and tipped the lid up. What lay inside struck me cold, galloping heart skipping several beats. My tensed muscles went numb.

Inside was a small T-shaped copper rod, crusted blood still on its arms and body, no bigger than the length of my pinky. The name of it didn’t come to me, but I knew its purpose from my studies years ago. Had read about the discontinued lines across the globe as birth rates plummeted, marked irrelevant, a waste, no longer necessary. Instead, the Nests adopted all daughters and placed them in reproduction programs. The last of these mechanisms had to have been removed decades ago…

“Where did you get that…” I breathed, and my eyes went to the scar on her abdomen once again.

 “Yes,” she said, eyes alight as she saw understanding flicker across my gaze. “It doesn’t matter how many saplings you plant - they choose which ones they want to grow.”

She shut the box with a click. I reeled, thoughts webbing a thousand different directions, trying to tie together the once free-floating pieces of doubt in my mind. Slowly, alarmingly, I began to see the picture she painted. My hands went to my mouth to cover my shock. I fell away from her.

The woman caught the end of the rope that still bound my hands. Pulling hard, I was dragged onto my elbows at her feet. Unable to see her face, I struggled against her grip. She was unnaturally strong.

“Look,” she cooed, “look at how big my baby has gotten.” With her free hand she pulled my chin up, and I was face to face with that twisted scar, glinting in the low light.

Everything in my body begged me to run, telling me that she was insane, that there was not a baby inside her at all but some mutated parasite. It couldn’t be real.

“You have something inside of you, too,” she stroked my cheek gently. I was mesmerized. “But I can help you remove it. The procedure is simple.” Her hand was on the knife now, my knife. I watched her draw it up from the ground, finger it, press it to her palm, gently enough not to break skin. “The incision is deep, but we wouldn’t let you bleed too much. It would be quick, like pulling a rotten tooth.” I flinched as she pointed the knife to my chest. I fought the urge to kick her in her bloated stomach. I felt the tip of the knife bite through my shirt, and the image of the moose flashed in my mind.

“I’m not like you!” I said, trying to pull away.

“You are. You just can’t see it.” She stood, her eyes shadowed. “This is how we survive, child. Soon the forest will grow thick again, despite their efforts to kill it.” She called a name, the bearded man’s, and he appeared in the doorway of the tent. They bent their heads together.

A shudder went through my body. I would not be gutted. I would not be strung up. I would not welcome them now, not to my body, not to my mind. The time for composure had come and gone – I could only hope the men were sickly, too, perhaps weakened from our scuffle before. But they had subdued me once. Enough thinking. I lunged for the woman.

Just then, a wind blew through the tent. The beads hanging from the ceiling chimed. The woman turned, saw me at her feet, and kicked my nose so hard I heard it break. Blood erupted onto the blankets, and I fell back, a scream tearing from my throat.

“It’s alright,” she said, voice less angelic now. I heard the tent flaps open and more footsteps charge in. Fingers fastened around my arms and a fist bundled my loose hair together, dragging my face upwards. She looked down at me, the sweet air turned stormy now. A darkness haunted the corners of her gaze, the paint dripping down her face suddenly sinister. I was pulled onto my back. Her free hand, the one without the knife, yanked up the bottom of my tunic and vest. Her shadowed gaze wandered from my own down and down to where I could feel the cool air on my exposed torso. “Hold her still.”

“No! I’m not like you!” I was screaming now.

“Not like me?” The woman hovered above me, her expression soft again with understanding. “We both bleed. We bear scars. We carry with us what no one else can.” She placed a hand on my cheek, wiping away hot tears and fresh blood. Her other hand gripped the knife. “We are practically sisters.”

xxx

Hello! My name is Ava. 

I am a recent alumni from UBC's BFA Creative Writing Major. Thank you all who took the time to read my story! I look forward to connecting with you and reading your stories as well :)