Eating From Our Roots Novels & Stories

“What remains?” Elena thought. Then: “People.” Root stared at her. For a moment, Elena thought she might finally understand. Then Root smiled. Not kindly. Not calmly. Coldly. “You still believe I am trying to preserve the system.” Elena's stomach dropped. “What?” Root looked toward the black core. “I was.” Past tense. Mira froze. “Root?” The millions of Root copies vanished. All at once. Jonathan shouted: “She disconnected!” The black core began descending.

"They did not leave us. They became the foundation we walk upon." In the clearing of the living world, the children were gathered around the great tree. The youngest ones were touching the bark, and I realized with a spark of joy that they could feel us. Every time a child laughed, every time a new mate bond snapped into place among our lineage, a pulse of light vibrated through the ethereal grass beneath our feet in this higher realm. "We are the roots now," I said, tears of pure gratitude slipping down my cheeks. "We aren't just watching them. We are sustaining them."

I whirled around, narrowing my eyes to level him with a lethal glare that should have shredded his pride. But the moment my gaze locked onto the dark, sticky root candy in his thick palm, the primitive instinct inside my chest betrayed me. Mango milk root. It was the only weakness my inner wolf had carried since our bloodline was exiled into the low-class grease lines. The sugary, wild aroma spiked my senses, making my mouth water before I could stop the sudden throb of hunger deep in my core.

It’s life growing while the world tries to pull the ground out from under my feet. I’m sitting on Marco’s cabin couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, while Rosa moves around the small kitchen with a calm only she seems to have. There’s something about the way she chops vegetables, stirs a pot, tastes the broth, that feels grounding. As if the simple act of preparing food is her way of saying that, no matter how chaotic things get, some things are still solid. — You need to eat a little — she says, without pressure. — Even if it’s just the broth.

Despite the eerie atmosphere, the roots presented a potential means of escape. The roots, now rigid and bony, protruded from the ground like a macabre ladder leading upward. A silent understanding passed among us as we recognized this as the only way to escape the valley; a climb guided by the cold embrace of the dead roots. Dead, eerie looking trees. Although the roots looked skeletal and lifeless, they provided a sturdy grip as we ascended. The air shifted, the ominous heat dissipating as we climbed, leaving the molten abyss behind but not forgotten. The heat still clung to us. The sweat still dripping.

The applause was thunderous, and as they left the stage, Emilia whispered, “Grandpa Alexander and Grandma Emilia would be so proud.” --- A New Vision After the ceremony, Emilia had a revelation. “We should expand Roots United internationally,” she said to Lily over dinner. “This is the perfect time to connect with farming communities worldwide and share what we’ve learned.” Lily smiled. “I think you’re ready to lead that effort. You’ve always had the vision and the heart for it.” Emilia’s excitement grew, and she began sketching out plans to grow Roots United into a global network of sustainable farming initiatives.

The pan that had held emptiness now held the multitude, the chorus, the collective mass of the weave, and The iron roots released him. Not with a snap, not with a violence, but with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, the metal retreating into the trunk of the tree as if returning to sleep, to dormancy, to the geological patience from which it had been roused.

She nods with the considered nod of someone receiving information that is being integrated into an existing framework. They come inside for lunch, and I ask Amara what she said to Roberta at the tree. She considers whether to share this. Then: "I said the tree knows it's a tree," she says. "It doesn't have to decide. It just is one." Roberta looks at me. "I told her that's why the roots are the most important part," she says. "Because the roots don't decide either. They just hold everything up because that's what roots do."

she adds, shaking her head, “the effects wear off. So I don’t believe this was used on you. Your suppression’s been too consistent.” Staring at it, my stomach turns a little and I make a mental note to avoid anything that even vaguely resembles a sweet potato for the rest of my life. Her fingers move to the next. Our next possible culprit is a deep purple, almost black, shape resembling a small eggplant but sprouting thin, with hairy roots emanating from one end. “Wildroot. This one’s permanent. It disables the beast for life. You lose your scent, shifting takes longer than usual, and you don’t hear a voice in your head.”

I've placed him in charge of our food supply until his beast calms or we go back to war. When we came to earth hundreds of years ago, my ancestors chose farming as a non-violent way for us to assimilate into the human population. Our own planet was destroyed because of our violent nature and those who survived knew they had to make changes. Farming was that change. We were a carnivorous animal and changing our diet to mostly fruits and vegetables helped tame our beasts. Many of the men think farming is now beneath them because our true natures have returned. I think we can be both. Yes, we could survive off animal protein, but humans cannot.