Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Clayton ends up walking right behind me, though he’s thankfully in conversation with a black guy from London named Patrick.
“I’m just worried my brother will be drafted,” Clayton says to Patrick. “War didn’t seem a possibility when he joined the military.”
I frown at that, wondering what war he could be talking about, when Patrick goes, “Shhhhhh.”
Now I have to glance behind me. Patrick looks uneasy, quickly busying himself with the straps on his pack while Clayton glares at me.
“What are you looking at, princess?” he says. “Not used to walking places?”
“I was just curious what war your brother is being drafted into,” I tell him.
He just stares at me for a moment, eyes boring into mine. “There’s some skirmish in the Balkans,” he eventually says. “Let me guess, you don’t watch the news. Think you’re too smart or woke for it or something.”
“Clayton!” Nick barks at him from the front. “Enough.”
Before I can turn back around, I trip over a rock, but Munawar’s hand shoots out and grabs my arm, steadying me.
“Thanks,” I tell him, giving him a flustered smile.
Munawar nods as he lets go. “I don’t watch the news much either,” he admits, his eyes kind. “Too much drama.”
“Yeah, well, I used to,” I tell him. “But I get so distracted it steals my focus, and I usually end up depressed.”
“Luckily, we won’t get any while we’re here,” Lauren notes. “I think we’ll be happier for it. Though I wish I could keep up with the Kardashians.”
“Do people still watch that show?”
She laughs. “You’d be surprised.”
We walk for a little while longer, the logging road becoming overgrown with ferns and blooming pink fireweed in some places, before Nick leads us down a trail through the brush. Eventually, we come to a small clearing, the grass so rich and green it’s almost neon, a few alder trees bordering a dark pond peppered with lily pads.
“This is where I’d like for us to forage,” Nick says as he stops in the middle, lowering his pack to the grass. “Everyone split up but remain in the glen where I can see you.”
“Yes, Dad,” Munawar says, which makes everyone laugh.
“Fine, you can go in twos if you want to explore deeper. Just make sure you’re talking the entire time,” Nick concedes with a sigh. “Keeps away the animals, even though your bear bells should do the trick. And have those compasses handy. I don’t want you getting lost. The forest here can play tricks on you.”
Lauren looks at me expectantly. “Well? Shall we explore?”
I nod eagerly. Under Nick’s watchful eye, we head east to where a faint deer trail zags through Oregon grape and stinging nettle, the latter we are careful to avoid. The alders turn into cedar and fir, the forest becoming darker as we go. I know we’re heading toward the water, so it should be opening up, not becoming more overgrown, dense, and tangled, the branches overhead touching each other and blotting out the sky.
“It’s kind of creepy,” Lauren says, but she’s smiling.
“Yeah,” I agree, looking around. Nothing but dark trees and the wild underbrush. “Makes you feel like something is watching you,” I add, trying to creep her out a little more.
“Something probably is,” she says playfully, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Trees have eyes, don’t you know?”
We eventually come to a stop by a grove of cedars, Lauren taking out her water bottle with the Madrona Foundation logo on it and downing it. In front of us is a beast of a western cedar, meters wide, bigger than all the rest, and I instinctively place my palm on the rough, red strips of bark. My eyes fall closed, thinking about what Lauren said. Trees might not have eyes, but they communicate to each other through the mycelia that travels under the earth. The mycorrhizal network allows trees to shoot more nutrients to saplings, such as those in the shade, giving them a better chance at survival. They see without eyes.
“This is a mother tree,” I whisper, the oldest and most established, with the deepest fungal connections, the one to recognize distress signals in other trees and send them more water. I feel like if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost feel the tree trying to talk to me.
As if it thinks I’m in distress.
You’re right, I can’t help but think. I am in distress. I feel like my whole world is about to collapse any day now.
Suddenly, an image flashes through my mind.
A dark-haired girl in a nightgown, hanging from a tree, her neck broken.
Dead.
I gasp and step away from the tree, my eyes flying open.
“Looks like blue stain fungus,” Lauren says. She’s kneeling beside me, fingers trailing over the blue streaks on the bark, not noticing my reaction.
Chill out, I remind myself, and the image of the girl starts to fade from my mind until I can’t remember what I saw, but I know that I saw something.