The Light Pirate(40)
Light from a single window filters in through jars of strawberry preserves, casting a pink glow on the wood floor. Wanda wanders among the shelves; the aisles are narrow, so she moves slowly. With reverence. “It’s like a food library,” she whispers. “You have everything.” Wanda picks up a jar labeled PICKLED RED ONIONS, then another that says TOMATOES. She shakes them gently, as if they are snow globes. The slivered onions spin in their rose-colored vinegary cylinder, dancing.
“Here we go.” Phyllis selects a jar of dilly beans and gets the lid off with some difficulty. “These are the green beans from last year.” She offers the jar to her young friend. Sprigs of dill float among the beans and a whole clove of garlic twirls at the bottom. Wanda selects a green bean from the middle of the jar and pulls it out. Vinegar drips on the floor. “Go ahead,” Phyllis says. “Try it.” The flavor is so strong Wanda’s tongue puckers around it, garlicky and dilly and a little spicy all at once. She has to fold the bean in half to fit the whole thing in her mouth.
“It’s good,” she says, crunching. “Sour.”
“Better than boiling them, don’t you think?” Wanda nods and takes another. This one she nibbles, taking her time with it. Phyllis eats one, too, then screws the lid back on. “We’ll put this in the fridge now that it’s open.” She turns to go, but Wanda doesn’t want to leave just yet. She’s still mesmerized by everything this room holds.
“What’s it all for?” she asks, running her hands along the plywood shelves.
“It’s for…” Phyllis pauses. “Emergencies.”
Wanda accepts this. She knows all about emergencies.
The next time they visit one of Phyllis’s research plots, it’s tucked away in a part of town Wanda’s never been to. Each plot is new to her still. “Eventually,” Phyllis tells her, “you’ll know them all.” They take the car, and after Phyllis parks on the shoulder of a sandy road, she pulls on her waders and checks to make sure she doesn’t need to add anything to her tackle box from the trunk. Wanda waits, fidgeting, sliding her feet in and out of her muck boots, eager to begin.
Finally, Phyllis slams the hatchback shut and they set out, trudging through the forest without speaking, swatting at mosquitoes, carefully brushing aside plants to avoid bruising their tender leaves. Phyllis taught her this—they call it “walking gently.” It makes Wanda feel good to be this quiet, to listen to the birds and the frogs and the wet slurp of her boots in the soggy mosses. Wanda’s boots are tall enough to keep her feet dry if she’s careful about where she steps, but Phyllis can walk practically anywhere with her waders on.
“Don’t you think I should have some waders, too?” Wanda asks, speaking quietly in this delicate place. She is eyeing all the routes across the swamp she cannot take.
“Maybe,” Phyllis says. “We’ll see if we can find some small enough.”
Little metal tags begin to appear on the trees, and this is how Wanda knows they’ve entered the sanctum of the plot. Their progress slows. Phyllis starts taking measurements, checking in on each of her specimens. She keeps meticulous data because she always has. This project of local observation began in earnest when she retired from her teaching role at the community college; it is the work of her remaining years. She loved her students, but she has always been more comfortable out here, in the field. Sometimes she thinks about publishing some of her findings, but that has never been the point. The time for marking ecological change and acting on it has passed, and if she’s honest, there is a relief in releasing those fervent, unfulfilled desires for solutions. Now all that’s left is to behold these environments as they transition. The great rewilding, as she likes to call it. Humans have spoiled so much, but nature is resourceful. It dies and is reborn as something new. Her work now is to watch this occur.
She lets Wanda hold the clipboard and write down the numbers while she calls them out. They go on like this, sweat and condensation rolling down Wanda’s skin in thick streams, and eventually they come to a little lagoon, where the soft ground gives way to cloudy water and a blue heron eyes them from a young mangrove island. The heron watches them for a long minute and then lifts off, beating its wings against the thick air. Wanda turns to Phyllis.
“Can I do this one?” she asks.
“All right.” Phyllis passes her a vial and Wanda selects what she hopes is the most solid path toward the edge of the water. It looks promising. Except, it isn’t. The mossy surface disintegrates under her foot almost immediately and her entire body pitches forward, cutting through the silty murk. The swifts that have been fluttering among the mangroves depart, rising in a cloud, while Wanda plummets headfirst into the brackish pond scum.
She is stunned by the force of the water rising up to meet her. It’s a full-body slap, a surprise that nearly knocks the wind out of her. She is above, and then suddenly she is below, panicking, clawing through the lily pad stems and the seagrass and the silt, trying to scratch her way back to the surface, eyes squeezed shut, water slipping through her grasping fingers. And then, something else—
It spreads through her, an internal wave, rolling over every part of her at once. Not warmth exactly, but something else, bright and cool. She recognizes it from that day at the Edge, and her intrigue outgrows her panic. She stops struggling. Opens her eyes. And even through the swirl of mud and flora she can make out sparks. Little lights, popping into existence in great swaths, spreading until it is as though she is floating through a wet sky. This time, she can feel their consciousness, a sensation of curiosity surrounding her, inspecting her. They want to tell her something, but Wanda doesn’t know this language.