The Glass Sentence (The Mapmakers Trilogy) (23 page)

22

The Soil of the Ages

T
HE
R
OYAL
BOTANIST
fulfilled such an important role for the palace—and, indeed, for the entirety of the Baldlands—that the appointment came with a private residence at the rear of the palace, connected to the conservatories. Much like Shadrack, Martin had managed to fill his rooms with all the tools of his trade. A large kitchen, a laboratory, a study, a dining room with a table fit for twenty, and four bedrooms were fairly overflowing with strange scientific equipment, books on botany and zoology and geology, and, of course, hundreds of plants. Unlike Shadrack, however, Martin kept his rooms in order, and the chaos of vegetation and equipment was carefully contained on dozens of shelves and in heavy glass cabinets that crouched in the corners of every room.

After serving them the promised eggs and mushroom bread—all the while talking without pause about the cultivation of the cacao that had gone into making their hot chocolate—Martin reluctantly allowed his visitors to rest. Burr clearly knew his way around, and he disappeared with a yawn.

“The back bedroom?” Calixta asked, already leading Sophia away.

“Yes,” he replied. “Sleep well!”

A broad, sun-filled bathroom with tiled floors and walls—and more than a dozen potted orchids—adjoined the bedroom. Sophia, knowing how particular Calixta was about the state of her clothes and hair, greatly appreciated her kindness in offering to bathe second.

Here, in the botanist’s apartments, Sophia felt almost as safe as she had in Boston. She lay in the porcelain tub and watched the sun glitter against the tiles, the water’s warmth stealing through her. She moved the soap absently over her skin and then lay still, letting her muscles relax. Finally, she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a bathrobe, the cotton soft against her skin. As she tied the sash around her waist, she felt a long sigh building up in her chest; and then, suddenly, the icy numbness in her mind cracked and thawed. She hiccupped, choked, and found that she was crying.

She doubled over, weeping. “There, there,” said Calixta, putting her arms around Sophia and rubbing her back. The cries seemed to twist their way out in painful jerks. Sophia hardly knew where these heaving sobs came from. But she knew that the horror of Shadrack’s disappearance had been made easier, somehow, by Theo’s presence, and now he was gone. And Shadrack—

Sophia gave a sharp gasp. Shadrack might be dead, for all she knew. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Calixta whispered, as Sophia’s tears diminished, “get it all out.” After a long while, Calixta gave her a squeeze and then a reassuring smile. “Let’s get your hair untangled before you go to sleep.” Calixta dried her hair with a towel and then combed it out, humming quietly all the while. The gentle pull of the comb and the low wordless song made Sophia unbearably sleepy. She hardly remembered crawling into one of the high beds, which she had to reach by means of a little ladder. A cotton nightgown that was not hers but that fit her well was laid out on the bed. She drew it on over her head and fell asleep the moment she lay down.

When she awoke, she did not know where she was. Then she remembered and sat up.

Something had changed while she slept; Sophia felt better than she had in ages. The agonizing wait in the rain, Theo’s desertion, the long ride from Veracruz, the unending seasickness aboard the
Swan
, the unlucky train ride through New Occident: they were all over. She felt bruised and sore, as if her body and mind had been trampled, but at least the worst was over. An unexpected wave of relief rushed through her.

Calixta had closed the wooden shutters, and sunlight leaked in through the cracks, filling the room with a pale, amber light. She was fast asleep in the other bed. Sophia climbed down the ladder as quietly as she could and rummaged in her purse for her pocket watch. It was past ten, by New Occident time—half the day already gone.

She could not find her clothes, but someone had left a white dress embroidered with blue vines on the chair near her bed. Surprisingly, it fit; the pressed cotton smelled faintly of starch and lavender. A pair of blue slippers beside the chair were only a little large. She took her pack and slung it over her shoulder. Slipping her watch and the spool of thread into the pocket of the dress, she quietly closed the door behind her.

For a moment she stood on the cool stones of the corridor, letting the newly found sense of recovery settle through her. She could almost feel her limbs gaining strength. Then she heard Burr’s unmistakable chuckle from a nearby room, and she made her way along the corridor until she found the open door of the laboratory. Martin was studying something through his spectacles and talking animatedly to Burr, who stood next to him, beaming.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen!” Martin exclaimed. “I cannot even begin to date it, though that in itself . . . Astonishing! And you say a sailor took it from an island where?”

“Good rest?” Burr asked, seeing Sophia in the doorway.

“Sophia!” Martin smiled, blinking hugely through his spectacles. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you. Calixta is still in bed.”

“Let her sleep,” Martin said. He pulled her to where he had been standing at the table. “Burr tells me you are of a scientific family. You simply must see this.”

“You’ll have to explain a bit,” Burr put in. “I haven’t told Sophia anything about your work.”

“I will, I will,” Martin said impatiently, pulling a short footstool toward the table. “Up you go.” Sophia was nonplused, but climbed the footstool nonetheless. “Look into the glass!” Martin exclaimed excitedly. “Oh!” he said, suddenly removing his spectacles. “You need these.” He fastened them onto her face. Everything around her was a blur of color. “Here,” Martin said, gently tipping her head down, over the desk.

Sophia found herself looking at what appeared to be fist-sized rocks with jagged, golden stripes. She gazed at them in confusion and then took off the glasses. There on the table was a jar filled with loose, sandy soil. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“This soil,” Martin said, “was found by a sailor on a remote island—where?” he asked Burr.

“South of the Indies, close to the coast of Late Patagonia.”

“And it appears to be from an Age we know nothing about. I cannot even begin to guess what Age it comes from, but I know it is an undiscovered Age just from looking at the soil!”

“How can you tell?” Sophia asked doubtfully.

“Because this soil is manmade!”

“How is that possible?”

“It isn’t!” The botanist laughed with delight. “That is what is so extraordinary. It is utterly impossible, and yet it has been done. This soil comes from an Age that we know nothing about—I am guessing in the extremely distant future.
But who knows?
It might be a past Age.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“I really don’t understand,” Sophia said again.

“Come,” Martin said, pulling her peremptorily off the stool. “Follow me.” He limped rapidly toward the other end of the room.

Sophia followed as quickly as she could, and Burr joined them at a round table near the window. Pinned to it was a paper map full of penciled notations and numbers. “The earth,” Martin said excitedly, “is probably about four and a half billion years old. That is—dated from our time. Though the Baldlands contain a vast collection of Ages, a great number of them lie in the thousand-year span to which the United Indies and New Occident also belong. You might say we are roughly in the same Age-hemisphere. But other parts of the world contain Ages that are thousands—or even millions—of Ages away from ours. My research—one small part of it,” he qualified—“is to date the various Ages by dating their soil.”

Sophia examined the map more closely, but the numerical notations were still unintelligible. “So all these numbers are dates?”

“It is easiest to think of them that way, yes,” Martin said. “I believe my method is the most straightforward empirical way of eventually identifying every Age in our new world. Burr here collects soil samples for me—or, rather, his colleagues do—and, as you can see, we have managed to identify many Ages all across our hemisphere.” Martin spoke with noticeable pride. He beamed at Burr, who gave a quick smile.

“It is very impressive,” Sophia said politely. She understood the significance of Martin’s research, but the map was still a mystery to her.

“But that is not all! Let’s show her the green room!” he said eagerly to Burr.

“By all means.”

“Let’s try that new soil, shall we? Come!” He limped off toward the other end of the room, where Sophia saw a narrow, glass-paned door that she had not noticed before. It led directly into a small greenhouse—a greenhouse within the larger conservatory that they had walked through that morning. “This,” Martin said grandly, indicating the mostly empty flower pots and trays, “is where the great experiments take place!”

“What experiments?” Martin’s enthusiasm was contagious.

“The soil experiments, of course.” He leaned in until his long nose was almost touching hers. “The
botanical
experiments!” he whispered. “What we do,” he continued, straightening up and turning to a tray of odd-looking plants, “is combine different seeds and cuttings with soil from different Ages. The results are sometimes
extraordinary.
” He pulled one of the nearby pots off the shelf and held it toward Sophia. “What do you think this is?” he asked.

“It looks like a strawberry,” Sophia said doubtfully.

“Exactly!” Martin said. “But taste it.” He picked one of the berries from the plant and handed it to her.

She stared at it skeptically for a moment and then popped it in her mouth. “It’s not”—and then her mouth was flooded with an unexpected taste—“Wait, it tastes like mushrooms!”

Martin was even more delighted now. “Yes, mushroom! Remarkable, isn’t it? These are what I used for the bread. I have no idea why, but strawberries taste like mushrooms when they’re planted in this soil from the northern Baldlands. It is most curious.” He put the strawberry plant aside. “Over here we have my newest experiments with mapping vegetation,” and he gestured toward a long table with what looked like an ordinary vegetable garden. “Anise, celery, and onion, mainly.”

“Oh! I saw an onion map at the market in Veracruz,” Sophia said instantly. “How do they work?”

“Those were very simple to develop, really,” Martin said modestly. “Plants are greatly shaped by their native soil. The soil is magnetized, like a compass, and then the vegetable or root leads back to the soil in which it was planted—like a divining rod, if you will. It works better with some plants than others.” He scratched his head. “For some reason, pineapples always lead to the ocean.”

He took out an empty pot. “But what I am truly looking forward to is this manmade soil that Burr found for us. The sample?” he asked.

Burr obligingly handed over a glass container, and Martin spooned a small amount of soil into a tiny pot. “Let’s see,” he muttered, opening a long drawer and rifling through dozens of small paper envelopes. “Petunias? Oranges? Basil? We could use a clipping. But I think I would like to try—yes. Let’s use this.” He held up a brown envelope. “Morning glory!” He dipped into it and plunged the few small seeds that stuck to his fingertip into the pot of soil. Then he carefully smoothed the soil over and watered it with a ceramic pitcher. “In a few days we will see what has emerged,” he said, dusting his hands off happily. “And if I am right, it will be something remarkable.”

“What other experiments do you do?” Sophia asked, intrigued.

Martin did not have a chance to reply, because Burr suddenly gave a shout of alarm, seized Sophia’s arm, and pulled her away from the pot.

A small green tendril, lithe as a snake, was winding up out of the soil and into the air. As they watched, the green stem split in two, sprouted a delicate spade-shaped leaf, and reached farther upward. Suddenly the tiny pot exploded, and a dense web of silver roots burst out onto the counter, clinging to and spreading across it. The green shoot, dotted with leaves, had now nearly reached the low ceiling of the greenhouse. Thin shoots sprung off it like wires, spiraling into the air. Then a tight white bud appeared near one of the leaves. Another bud and then another materialized. Almost simultaneously, the white buds turned green and then faintly blue and then deep purple as they grew and elongated. And finally, in a sudden burst, the morning glory flowered like dozens of tiny parasols opening at once. But that was not the most surprising thing. What astonished the speechless observers most was the
sound
that came from the flowers. A dozen high, flutelike voices called out in some unknown tongue that was not quite speech and not quite song: a high, undulating call that Sophia was sure contained words of some kind, though she could not understand them. Martin was the first to step forward toward the plant.

“Take care, Martin!” Burr exclaimed.

“There is nothing to fear,” Martin said, awestruck, reaching out toward the plant. “It is resting at the moment. How remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “Its roots are made
of silver.
I wonder—yes. The stem is vegetable matter. Truly fantastic.” He turned to Burr and Sophia with an expression of wonder. “This morning glory is like nothing I have ever seen. It is only half plant.”

“What is the rest of it?” Burr asked tensely.

“I believe it is manmade.” Martin shook his head. “Not entirely manmade, but something in between, a hybrid. It has grown like a plant, but its substance is partly metallic. I have read about such plants in an obscure history from my daughter’s collection. But I believed it to be hypothetical, or fictional, or fantastical. I never imagined such plants could truly exist.”