Canopy, p.16
Canopy, page 16
“So we’re completely writing off the west end? There must be some way to get back over there. Back to the skygardens—”
“Haven’t you been listening? If there was a way, why would Drypetes and Hamamalis be focusing all their resources on the south? There is no way back to the west end.”
Of course, I knew they were wrong. I’d been to the west end. I’d brought back food. But I was special. Modesty be damned, I was the best climber in the canopy. At least my long arms, long legs, and my spidery body were good for that.
My mother’s voice sounded a little breathless. “The population was also reduced though, after the disaster. So we have fewer mouths to feed, right?”
“Yes, we lost members of our community. Too many. Unfortunately, we lost the wrong members. Mostly youths from the sixth and seventh boughs. Many builders. Too many gardeners. Exactly the demographic with the physical agility and strength we need to even begin thinking about crossing into the Outer Reaches. So yes, we lost some population. But not the right ones. And not enough to offset the loss in food resources.”
A long silence followed her words. I thought maybe the conversation was over. They weren’t going to discuss me at all. I was about to climb down when I heard my mother’s voice again. “What exactly are you asking me, Butia?”
Another moment passed, and my grandmother answered, “I think you know.”
“Say it. If you want me to do it, at least have the courtesy to say it.”
“As you wish.” I heard a spitting noise, Butia expelling her chaw on the clinic floor again. I expected to hear my mother scold her, but she didn’t. “If it becomes necessary to order a cull, I’ll need a list of the ill and ailing.”
Why was she asking for that? We didn’t keep a list of who was sick—no, that wasn’t right. We had our home visit list, but that was only so Wingnut, Mom, and I could share the work.
“I’m a healer. I’ve sworn an oath.”
“Yes, I know. I was married to a doctor for years. Your father, remember? First, do no harm. I’m not asking you to harm anyone. But as the census taker and a member of the council, I have the authority to obtain the medical records of any member of the community.”
“Only in the event of grave danger to the entire community—like a viral outbreak.”
“I believe the potential starvation of the entire community qualifies as grave danger, and so do the other members of the council. I expect your list by the end of the week.”
“No! I can’t! I won’t do it!” Michelia was yelling, totally emotional, completely unscientific, utterly unprofessional.
My grandmother’s voice softened, and I strained to hear. She was using her politician voice, the voice she used before every election, when she assured the canopy for the millionth time that they needed a sure, steady hand with a lifetime of experience to make the difficult decisions for them. “I know how hard this is, my dear. Who will or will not have the honor of feeding the Great Ones will be a decision for the council. It’s not your decision.”
“That list would be a death sentence to every person on it. The mere act of writing a name on it is the same as pushing them off a tree limb.”
“I’m sorry, Michelia. This is the way it must be. Don’t make me compel you. You know I can, but that will do no one any good.”
Footsteps, and then Butia’s voice again. “End of the week, remember.”
The key turned in the lock. The door opened and closed. I climbed out of the tree and crept around the side of the shanty. From within I heard a soft weeping. My mother’s.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Does the lurking spider have feelings? A conscience? Does it mourn those it kisses with numbing poison? Does it ask forgiveness for the lives it throttles in its silky embrace? Does it hate itself for its very nature? Spying from a dark, shadowy corner, does it recognize humans as kindred spirits—kissing and killing as easily as we breathe?
The story of the cull was a rite of passage, a tree top legend, a tale of horror that kids passed along to scare the younger ones. I don’t remember how old I was when I first heard the story. The older kids at school had spooked Mangrove, Sorbus, Salix, and me with the tale just as those older than them had spooked them, and those older than them, and so on back through generations. The culling was a story that you outgrew—something so horrific that it could never have happened. And I, perhaps more than most, believed it was a cautionary tale meant to terrify and keep the younger ones in line. After all, I knew the cannibals and the end of the world stories in The Book of Silvanus were a lie. This was simply one more of those.
And yet, eavesdropping on my mother and grandmother had rattled me. Butia had asked my mother for a list of the sick, ailing, and old. She’d asked for the least productive members of the canopy, the expendable. What names would my mother write on that list? Thevetia for sure. She forgot more and more on a daily basis. She hadn’t gardened since I was a kid, and as far as I knew, she hadn’t been assigned another job. But what about Wollemia? Salix and the other trainees were doing her work these days. Her mind was still solid; she must be teaching them or directing them somehow. She was contributing, at least a small amount.
Wollemia was on the Council of Maestros. None of the council would vote to sacrifice one of their own. The consummate survivor, my grandmother would never suggest a solution that put her own self at risk. That meant Butia, Drypetes, Hamamalis, and Wollemia were all safe. And Wollemia would never vote to sacrifice Thevetia, so the old woman would be safe, I reasoned.
What about little kids like Zelkova and Tung? True, they didn’t eat much, but they didn’t contribute to the community either. But then, they’d be strong in a few years, so they’d probably be considered worth saving. And what about Cassia and Cedrus’s babies? Or the other pregnant couples? Would they have to give up their babies after they were born or abort them? What about adults with chronic diseases, mental illnesses, or addictions like Yew? They worked, but they were sick and always would be. They might even pass their genetic frailties to their descendants. Would they be considered expendable? Did they have less value as community members than others?
If only the working young, healthy or as yet undiagnosed, survived, who would teach and guide the community? Why would anyone choose to procreate if their children would be culled? Who would choose to work selflessly in a community that forgot their contributions when life became difficult, only to sacrifice them when they got old?
What about the commandment that all spirits are equal? Didn’t that matter anymore? If that commandment was no longer true, what about the other commandments? What about The Book of Silvanus, upon which our entire canopy society was built?
Was it all a lie?
I’d been a doubter for so long—but I was a half-cynic and harbored a secret desire to be proven wrong. And now, hanging over the abyss of clarity, I clung desperately to my limb of suspicion, unwilling to know the truth.
My feet walked without my bidding to the west-facing edge of Bough Four. The tree trunk tempted me to climb. I tied down the front flap of my satchel and tightened it across my chest before I dug my fingers into the bark and lifted myself up. The gnarled crusty tree pressed into my feet and massaged them. The stretch and pull of my biceps and triceps radiated power through my thigh and calf muscles, and I lost track of time and place. My mind floated. The movement of my muscles, the expansion and contraction of my lungs, the wind in my face and the rough trunk against my skin were my entire world. Nothing else existed. I was alive. I was one with the forest.
My body took me where I needed to go, and my muscles remembered how to traverse the flimsy branches. Before my brain fully registered what I was doing, I was crossing the abyss and sailing from limb to limb toward the overgrown skygardens.
I stepped from one weedy plot to the next, harvesting dandelion greens and miner’s lettuce, pressing it all into my satchel and looking for more. I foraged entire nettle plants that made my fingers tingle and burn. I stuffed myself with huckleberries and salmon berries—I could eat my fill now and give my ration to the school children tomorrow—before shaking the branches and gathering all I could to fill the space remaining in my satchel. On my way out of the skygardens, the white glow of a cluster of oyster mushrooms caught my eye. They wouldn’t fill an empty stomach, but the serotonin they released in the human brain could do wonders for the community’s dark mood. My bag would hold no more and I didn’t know when I’d be able to cross over again. The mushrooms would disintegrate where they grew.
Some itchy fir needles had fallen into my shirt during the climb, and I reached in and brushed them out. That was my answer! I tucked my shirt into my shorts and then plucked the mushrooms from the tree and dropped as many as I could into my top. When I could carry no more, I climbed back up to my bridge. The setting sun glared an angry red and I knew I’d cut it close. Any later, and I wouldn’t have been able to see my way across.
The bridge gave a sickening lurch as I started my crawl across. The satchel was thick and tight across my chest, but the items I was carrying weren’t that heavy. Leaves and berries don’t weigh much, and mushrooms are mostly air, but all together they increased my total weight. I tried not to think about falling and said a quick prayer to the Great Ones, though I didn’t believe they’d help me, not really. The crossed branches squeaked as they rubbed against each other and I crawled faster while willing myself to weigh less.
On the other side, I loosened the satchel—it was digging into my chest and I was afraid the mushrooms would be completely squished. I climbed down to Bough Seven, and though I knew it was probably not a great idea to stop off there—Salix likely had minions eager to report back—my arms and shoulders were numb from climbing. I had done something great for the canopy, something no one else could have done. Let Salix spread all the lies about me she wanted. I wouldn’t care tomorrow when the kids had full stomachs.
The thought of those full stomachs puffed me up with pride. I didn’t care about the curious gazes following me as I approached the central stairway. I jogged down the stairs, my satchel banging against my stomach, not stopping until I reached our shanty. My mother lay dead to the world again, snoring in her hammock through a double dose of Passiflora. She was making this a habit, and I probably should have felt concerned, but if I’m honest, I was only relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain myself.
I pulled off my satchel and dropped it in the corner under my hammock, and then stripped off my top and dumped out the mushrooms. I was bone tired. My eyes were closing as I climbed into my hammock. I would give Cassia the food in the morning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Despite my physical exhaustion, I kept waking throughout the night. My arms and shoulders throbbed. I tossed and turned in my hammock, unable to find a comfortable position. The netting pressed into my skin. I tried to cushion my body with my squirrel skin blanket, but there was no breeze in the shanty and I was soon covered in sweat. I was tired, thirsty, and my head throbbed. I pulled on my clothes and stumbled outside to the water bucket. It had been several days since we’d had a good hard rain, and despite the frequent drizzle, the water level was low. I dipped a cup in and took a sip, warm and not very refreshing but still a welcome antidote to dry mouth.
Pressing my hands against the fir tree, I stretched my legs behind me. I leaned into the stretch, dropping my head below my shoulder blades. My arm and leg muscles tautened and I held that position a minute or two, feeling a pleasant, light burn. I released the stretch and rolled my shoulders forward and back, hearing a satisfying crack as everything dropped into place.
A shadow ran toward me. I stepped into the pathway and he called out, “Ostrya! Is that you? Quickly, we need you at the clinic!”
Only then did I remember that it had been my turn to overnight at the clinic. Just my luck, an emergency on what should have been my watch. My mother was right: I really was terrible at this job. She would be better off with Wingnut for a trainee.
No time for self-pity though. The man had been frantic. I sped off to the stairway and flew around the spiral to Bough One and then to the clinic. My sister was waiting outside the clinic door, leaning heavily against a woman. Even in the dim light, I could see how swollen her hand was. I touched it lightly and she winced. The swelling was spongy, her lower arm angry and red. A spider bite.
She was breathing rapidly and moaning. Was she allergic? I’d never seen this reaction to a spider bite before, but I’d only treated orb weaver bites. Had she encountered a jumping spider? Or was this something else?
“We can’t get in,” said the woman holding Cassia. I stared stupidly. “The door is locked.”
Of course, the key would be around my mother’s neck. My mother, who was still asleep on Bough Two. She would have locked up the clinic when she left, when I didn’t arrive to relieve her. But why hadn’t she sent for Wingnut when I didn’t arrive? No time to waste on questions. I had to get the key. Maybe someone else could run up to Bough Two and retrieve the key? Cassia cried out.
My mind moved slowly, sleepily, and the woman yelled, “Hurry! Her water broke!”
I looked down. The pathway was not wet. What was the woman talking about? “She’s in labor?” I asked.
It was the woman’s turn to stare.
“Ostrya,” said Cassia in between breaths. “Babies … are … coming.”
My sister in labor, her hand and arm swollen with spider toxin. Locked door. I set my shoulder to the door, slamming against it with an angry grunt. The man who had raced to get me joined his strength to mine. A sickening screech and the wood frame bent and splintered. One final shove, and the door hung askew on bent and rusty hinges.
“Help her to the table,” I ordered, my brain now fully awake and my adrenaline pumping. I sparked a light and lit the tapers around the clinic. What was next? Cassia’s babies were coming! No babies had been born since I started my traineeship. These would be the first I’d help to deliver. I was glad I read those pregnancy chapters in the ancient medical texts when I should have been doing other things for Michelia. I remembered the basics: contractions, dilation, amniotic fluid, the head and shoulders first. But what should I do now?
“When did your water break, Cassia?” I asked.
She leaned into the table and moaned with what must be a contraction building. She exhaled and relaxed again. “I don’t know. Maybe an hour ago?”
“Go get my mother. I mean, Michelia,” I told the man who’d helped me knock down the door. To the woman I said, “Get me some water, please.”
While I waited for water, I blew the banked fire beneath the brazier to light. After I fed some sticks to the fire and began heating yesterday’s water, I examined Cassia’s spider bite. This I knew how to treat.
“How’d you get bitten?” I asked as I flushed the wound with a cool chamomile rinse.
“Web outside my door. Walked right into it.”
I walked to the medicine box, but of course it was locked. That key would be around my mother’s neck, too. I needed apple alcohol to disinfect the bite—the apple alcohol I’d traded to Yew to feed the kids. There must be more. Mom would have noticed we were out and stocked more.
Maybe I could brew a marshmallow root poultice for the bite. Better would be a raw honey swab, but our honey supply had run out a month ago. The beehives had been on the west end. Next time I went across, I’d have to see what state they were in, and then figure out how to get honey without being stung. I was no beekeeper.
I bandaged the spider bite, making a mental note to get some alcohol for it. Cassia’s face went red. “Breathe through the contraction, Cassia. Inhale, exhale.” She gripped my hands and exhaled a low, deep moan. The woman entered the clinic then with a large bowl of water and poured it into the brazier. “Thanks. Another bowl, please.” I began washing Cassia, preparing her for the birth.
Where in the name of Pseudotsuga’s balls was my mother?
“Where’s Cedrus?” I asked after Cassia’s contraction passed. Had he left before she’d begun laboring? Must have. He never would have left her. He was always so attentive and worried about Cassia.
“Bridge crew.”
Then I remembered. He’d be gone another day.
The woman carried in a second bowl of water and I left Cassia’s side to top off the pot over the brazier, and that was the end of my practical knowledge. Where was my mother? I hoped that guy would be able to wake her. I didn’t know how much Passiflora she’d taken. And Wingnut? He’d know even less than me. Oh, if only Mom would hurry.
Fear climbed up from my stomach and squeezed my throat tightly as a noose. I had only ever been responsible for myself. I was well used to the heart-pounding, exhilarating sensation of climbing in the Outer Reaches when my hand slipped or I misjudged the distance from one limb to another. This was a new feeling. This feeling, a sharp-edged dread, sent bile cascading from my stomach to my ears. When I was climbing, I could self-correct; I had the strength and endurance to power through. But this situation—my sister in pain, my nieces or nephews trying to be born—I had never felt such terror.
And then I remembered, yes, I had. Only once. And that had ended badly.
I picked up the small pan of hot water. My hand shook so fiercely that I spilled some on myself and scalded my toe. I put the pan back on the brazier. Cassia was breathing rapidly and sweating profusely in the morning heat. Her contractions were growing more forceful. I stroked her brow and rubbed her back. She leaned into my palm each time she labored. “Michelia is on the way,” I said. “You’ll have your twins in your arms before you know it. Remember, breathe and count. Count with me—”
Her eyes locked on mine. She got to three before another labor pain grabbed her. My hand went to my neck, reaching for my stethoscope, a reflex. But it was lost forever to the forest floor. I was without my healer’s lucky charm. I pressed two fingers into Cassia’s abdomen, feeling in vain for a fetal heartbeat.
