“We’re gonna need to raze the whole book crop,” Peter the foreman announced.
Michaela felt bile rise in her throat. Not the books.
The sun touched the book grove with its last breaths of day. Peeking between the tree leaves were book covers, soft and floppy, each one showing the faintest hint of an illustration forming like an ink blot. Although several chapters had already come in, each book still had more pages growing between its cover. In about two weeks, they’d have a finished story, and the title would be legible. Ready for picking.
Michaela’s words tripped over her tongue. “But we got rid of the bookworms. There’s no sign of infestation.”
Peter shook his head. “Not my call. Reviewers say the story won’t meet sales quota. Too controversial. Gave it a bad Review.”
“But the books aren’t fully grown. The story isn’t finished. Why not give ‘em a chance?”
Peter sighed. “Some seeds shouldn’t be allowed to grow. I just wish they’d caught this earlier.”
“But all of ‘em?”
“We can’t sell books that’re gonna ruffle feathers. You know that.”
Michaela’s shoulders slumped. She knew the safest crops told stories that followed a formula, with happy endings for the heroes and punishment for the villains. Stories that left a sweet taste in one’s mouth. That’s why the world had Reviewers: to identify the bad crops. No one could sell books with a bad Review.
Peter continued, “Tomorrow morning, you start taking them down in the north field; I’ll take the south. If there’s time, maybe swing by the Author’s store to get some new seeds.” His voice softened. “The first time razing’s always the hardest. But all part of farming books. Get some rest now.” He patted her shoulder and walked toward the worker cabins.
She should have followed him to the cabins, should have gotten ready for bed, but she stayed in the grove as the evening stretched its shadows. In the warm, dry weather, she’d watched the trees sprout, reaching full height in six months. The books had been so small at first, little more than a nub of an idea, before slowly expanding into little rectangles. She’d run her fingers across the feather-soft pages, seeing letters form and darken, feeling flutters in her stomach as each new chapter grew in.
But such a spoiled crop? It couldn’t be. These were her trees, her books.
Michaela reached up and yanked a book, the unripe rectangle resisting her pull before snapping off. A dent remained in the spine where it had once attached to the tree. She hugged the book close and hurried to her cabin.
In the candlelight, Michaela’s eyes followed soft gray letters down each page. At the end of chapter one, she looked up at the blank walls, mouth open with questions. It struck her, then, that she couldn’t talk to anyone about the half-grown, poorly Reviewed story in her cabin, not even Peter, who had guided her with the kindness of a father. That realization was a little frightening, and her heart fluttered like leaves in a storm.
Yet the book had caught her imagination. There was no turning back. Michaela started chapter two, and the tale brought a rising bitterness into her throat. She wasn’t sure she liked where things were going.
At the end of chapter five, she wanted to hurl the book across the room.
Candlewax dripped onto the wooden floor as her thoughts cascaded like rain. She’d never read a story with such a frustrating protagonist. What’s more, Michaela realized with an uncomfortable shift that she actually sympathized with the villain. This must be, then, why the Reviewers had given the book a poor Review.
Yet she felt drawn to the characters, like they were sitting in her dim cabin, watching her make out the letters that shaped them into existence. Watching her give them this final salute, for tomorrow, they would vanish forever with the razing of the trees.
Those characters deserved to at least have their story read one last time. Michaela thumbed petal-soft pages back to her place.
Chapters twelve and beyond were too faint for her to make out, for the letters still had a lot more growing to do. If only the book had been given two more weeks. If only. It had the makings of a tale unlike anything she’d read before.
Michaela found herself wondering which paths the story might take. Her vision grew blurry as she imagined scenarios, ideas sprouting all over her mind. Something itched and caught in her eye, and she blinked and rubbed until a tiny object fell into her hand.
In her hand was a seed.
She stared. Seeds weren’t her area of expertise. She just knew that Authors sat alone in dark rooms and needed lots and lots of quiet as they worked. Yet a seed lay in her hand, ready to be blanketed into the earth. Michaela formed a fist around the brown oval. What story did she hold?
She opened the door of her cabin and felt the warm night air mingling with the blossoming scent of new books: pulpy, punctuated by sharp inks. Michaela could barely make out the straight trunks in the distance. A view that would be much different by the end of tomorrow.
A scattering of thoughts formed a vine-tangled mess, and she struggled to make sense of it all, waiting for the thoughts to finally sprout. Then she knew: she wanted a better story than tomorrow’s razing would bring. Her eyes drifted toward the edge of the north field, with its brambles and tangles that would hide most anything that grew. Even a tree.
Some seeds take root in your soul, Michaela realized. She knew what to do next.
The precious seed held tight in her hand, she grabbed a shovel leaning against the shed, and in the dark of the night, she set toward the edge of the book grove.
* * *
Ⓒ Carol Scheina
Originally published in Hexagon Magazine, Spring 2022. Reprinted here by permission of the author.