ash-covered, barren land. Soon, they were drivingthrough clouds of smoke. Then they reached the fires. Teams of men with shovels and torches manipulated the flames inexorably westward.
Chopper’s immediate thought was to kill these men, exterminate the disease. As he considered jumping out of the truck, a thought invaded his mind. It came as though someone had whispered it in his ear, someone he trusted. It was Farley’s thought, of course, and it made sense. It was obvious. Right now Chopper was on a mission, and besides, what could one man do in the face of this scale of destruction? He would accomplish this mission, and after his labors bore fruit, he would return.
He didn’t speak Portuguese and the guys in the old pickup didn’t speak English or Spanish, so as the road curved into the jungle and the forest closed in, he slapped a fender when he was ready to get off the truck. He stepped off, felt the amused stares on his back, and walked into the jungle. The auras cleared and the migraine hammer relaxed to a gentle tapping. By nightfall in the forest, the pain was gone. With no auras blocking his sight, he could even discern a path lit by filtered moonbeams.
He found them at night: giant white blossoms at the ends of fragile vines that stretched as far as it took to capture a ray of moonlight. When the sun came out, the blossoms closed and drooped into the shade. Even here they were rare. The lacelike mesh of the vines was easily torn by anything that passed through. He found just a dozen of this variety within a few square miles. They grew in extremely alkaline soil several feet above the level of the river. He dubbed the plant tlitliltzin-prime, a deviation from the morning glory family.
On his fifth day, he came upon a village of almost a hundred people who lived on the bounty of small plots of cleared land, food from the rain forest, and fish from the river. He spied on them for a few days, monitoring their routine, identifying themale and female leaders as well as the younger members most likely to challenge that leadership. It was embarrassing that they found him before he chose whether or not to impose himself. They were sturdy, swarthy folks who wore shorts and button-up shirts. Some had jeans and most were barefoot, though some of the older men wore boots, and they lacked the American norm of personal space. They stood close, they stared, they didn’t conceal their curiosity or suspicions. Compared to the arrogant citizens of civilization, they cared for the land and each other. Chopper felt a foreign feeling that he identified as empathy.
In anticipation of the obvious but unspoken question “What are you doing here?” he showed them his stash of seeds and pressed flowers. Two youths took him to the man he had identified as the village patriarch. As he approached, the man rose from a long bench carved from the trunk of a tree. The wood was dark enough to be mahogany. It reminded Chopper of the table in the conference room at Sand Hill Ventures. The house behind him was built of the same dark wood, its roof formed by layers of huge leaves. At first Chopper’s feeling of empathy gave way to a more familiar feeling, outrage, that they had harvested endangered trees, but then he laughed at himself. These people lived with the trees; they made the trees part of their lives—not to harvest and sell, but to share with Earth.
The patriarch was the same height as Chopper, several inches taller than the other villagers, and spoke Spanish. He said his name was Mariano Tuxauas.
Chopper spent the following two days with Mariano, mostly sitting on that bench talking. The effects of the seeds from the gigantic white blossoms were known in the village. Chopper gave Mariano a crash course in practical biochemistry as it pertained to botany: photosynthesis, fertilization, crossbreeding, and ways to isolate the pharmacologically active ingredients of variousplants using the cooking tools at hand. In exchange,
Chopper’s immediate thought was to kill these men, exterminate the disease. As he considered jumping out of the truck, a thought invaded his mind. It came as though someone had whispered it in his ear, someone he trusted. It was Farley’s thought, of course, and it made sense. It was obvious. Right now Chopper was on a mission, and besides, what could one man do in the face of this scale of destruction? He would accomplish this mission, and after his labors bore fruit, he would return.
He didn’t speak Portuguese and the guys in the old pickup didn’t speak English or Spanish, so as the road curved into the jungle and the forest closed in, he slapped a fender when he was ready to get off the truck. He stepped off, felt the amused stares on his back, and walked into the jungle. The auras cleared and the migraine hammer relaxed to a gentle tapping. By nightfall in the forest, the pain was gone. With no auras blocking his sight, he could even discern a path lit by filtered moonbeams.
He found them at night: giant white blossoms at the ends of fragile vines that stretched as far as it took to capture a ray of moonlight. When the sun came out, the blossoms closed and drooped into the shade. Even here they were rare. The lacelike mesh of the vines was easily torn by anything that passed through. He found just a dozen of this variety within a few square miles. They grew in extremely alkaline soil several feet above the level of the river. He dubbed the plant tlitliltzin-prime, a deviation from the morning glory family.
On his fifth day, he came upon a village of almost a hundred people who lived on the bounty of small plots of cleared land, food from the rain forest, and fish from the river. He spied on them for a few days, monitoring their routine, identifying themale and female leaders as well as the younger members most likely to challenge that leadership. It was embarrassing that they found him before he chose whether or not to impose himself. They were sturdy, swarthy folks who wore shorts and button-up shirts. Some had jeans and most were barefoot, though some of the older men wore boots, and they lacked the American norm of personal space. They stood close, they stared, they didn’t conceal their curiosity or suspicions. Compared to the arrogant citizens of civilization, they cared for the land and each other. Chopper felt a foreign feeling that he identified as empathy.
In anticipation of the obvious but unspoken question “What are you doing here?” he showed them his stash of seeds and pressed flowers. Two youths took him to the man he had identified as the village patriarch. As he approached, the man rose from a long bench carved from the trunk of a tree. The wood was dark enough to be mahogany. It reminded Chopper of the table in the conference room at Sand Hill Ventures. The house behind him was built of the same dark wood, its roof formed by layers of huge leaves. At first Chopper’s feeling of empathy gave way to a more familiar feeling, outrage, that they had harvested endangered trees, but then he laughed at himself. These people lived with the trees; they made the trees part of their lives—not to harvest and sell, but to share with Earth.
The patriarch was the same height as Chopper, several inches taller than the other villagers, and spoke Spanish. He said his name was Mariano Tuxauas.
Chopper spent the following two days with Mariano, mostly sitting on that bench talking. The effects of the seeds from the gigantic white blossoms were known in the village. Chopper gave Mariano a crash course in practical biochemistry as it pertained to botany: photosynthesis, fertilization, crossbreeding, and ways to isolate the pharmacologically active ingredients of variousplants using the cooking tools at hand. In exchange,
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