Elites of Eden (Children of Eden #2)(50)

Aaron Al-Baz. Prophet of environmental doom. Founder of Eden. Savior of Earth.

And, if these, his own words, are true, a deluded, psychotic monster.

I read through the notebook, and then read it again to be sure I understand. It takes me hours to parse the tale, and when I have, I still can’t believe it. Aaron Al-Baz is a hero, half-god, the whole reason any humans still survive and the only reason the Earth will one day flourish again after the global devastation we caused. Every textbook says so. Every temple hails him as near-divine.

I need to tell someone about what I’ve read, I think at once. But at that very moment there’s a knock on my door and Lachlan walks in without waiting for an answer. I shove the notebook under the bedclothes and force a friendly smile. It must look pained, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows I have plenty to be distraught about.

I need more time to digest what I just read. Society is held together by a common belief. What will happen if that belief is shattered? I have to think. The secret has been kept for more than two hundred years already. It can keep another hour or two.

But I’m numb when Lachlan takes me to meet some of the more prominent members of the Underground. There are cooks, clothiers, musicians, storytellers, healers, and even clergy for the Underground temple. I’ve always wanted to go to a temple meeting. Now everything about the ritual would ring false.

No, not everything. Not the message of hope, the desperate need for us to revive and reconnect with the environment, to love and cherish and respect it.

But as for the focal point of that worship, the man behind it all . . . My lip curls involuntarily. I can hardly pay attention to what I’m doing. I forget to smile, forget names, stand dumb like a post.

Before I’ve met everybody, Lachlan makes my apologies. “She needs rest,” he says, “and peace. We’ll give her time.”

Understanding, the beautiful, happy, mellow people go about their lives. They seem ready to accept me no matter how churlishly I behave.

Lachlan leads me back to the roots of the tree. Some of them snake above the ground before plunging into the Earth. As soon as I get near the tree I feel calmer.

“Do you know what kind of tree it is?” Lachlan asks. His voice is soft here, gentle.

There were once thousands of kinds of trees in the world. In my Eco-history books I’ve read about a few of them. Grand oaks, delicate silver birches, maple trees milked for their sweet syrup, fir trees treated with such profligacy that they were chopped down and brought indoors for winter festivals, decorated with lights.

But I don’t know what this tree is. “It is called a camphor tree,” Lachlan explains. “They grow into giants—as you see—and the oldest one at the time of the Ecofail was more than two thousand years old.”

“And that’s why . . .” I can’t say his name. “Why the creators of the Underground chose this species?”

“Partly, and for the smell.” He inhales deeply. “Think of all of our bodies crammed down here, sealed off from the outside. I don’t like to imagine what this place might smell like without the scent of camphor leaves filling the air.”

I want to tell him so much, if only to share the burden of knowledge. But I bite my tongue, and he goes on.

“The tree has medicinal qualities, too. We don’t harvest much, of course, but the oil of camphor can treat lung problems, even some heart problems, in small doses. At larger doses it is poisonous.”

That’s interesting, but I still just want to marvel at the fact a tree exists at all. I want to touch it again, to feel its leaves between my fingertips.

“But this tree, this one tree out of all the others, is particularly special. It is a symbol of nature’s ability to survive no matter what terrible things humans do. Do you remember in your History class reading about a great conflict called World War II?”

I do, vaguely, but in my memory it merges with all of the other senseless conflicts in our history.

Then he refreshes my memory about one part of the war in particular—the time when one group of humans dropped an atomic bomb on another group of humans. Not on a battlefield, even, but on a city full of schoolchildren and mothers and shopkeepers and gardens and playgrounds.

The city, the people, the trees, were incinerated in a heartbeat. They said nothing could have survived, nothing would ever grow again.

But when spring came, a small number of charred stumps sprang forth with new, green life. Nature had withstood the worst that humans could do at the time.

“This tree was grown from a cutting of one of those survivor trees,” Lachlan says, touching the bark reverently. “A miraculous symbol of nature’s regenerative ability. Aaron Al-Baz hoped—we all hope—that the Earth will be as forgiving again. Unfortunately,” he adds, “humans aren’t so forgiving.” His voice hardens. “We make bad choices, we neglect our fellow man.” He looks earnestly at me. “We are all we have left! And yet we make part of our population illegal. I know that supplies will run out if there’s uncontrolled reproduction, but can any civilized society actually kill its own children, for any reason? There has to be another way!”

He pounds his fist on the bark. I’m a little shocked, but the tree can take it.

“There’s so much wrong with Eden, so much that can be fixed. We’ve gotten so far from Aaron Al-Baz’s ideas of kindness and compassion.”