Eating From Our Roots Novels & Stories

she whispered, her voice a choral harmony that bypassed the ears and settled in the bones of everyone present. With a deafening crack, the stone floor split open. Thick, gnarled roots, glowing with the same sapphire-jade light as Sofia’s skin, erupted from the darkness. They moved with the speed of striking vipers, wrapping around the Sun-Eater’s limbs. The creature hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pressurized pipe, its orange core flaring as it tried to melt the vegetation. But these weren't ordinary vines; they were infused with the essence of the Root of the World. They didn't burn; they tightened.

“How do we combat something that pretends to be a solution?” Kai picked up another fig, its skin dark and rich. “By reminding people of the truth,” he said, his voice gentle but resolute. “By offering a flavor that is not just delicious, but meaningful. A flavor that connects us to the earth, to each other, to our own true selves.”

“Let’s say there is a diseased tree. Would you rather destroy the roots and its branches until there is nothing left or the roots alone?” Taking the glass from him, I wondered where this was going. “The root and its branches. Destroying everything until there is nothing left.” “The council begs to differ. Only the roots, they believe, must be destroyed. The branches must be left alone.” “Won’t the branches be useless if left alone? They would only rotten and affect other trees.” “Exactly. You are brilliant.” “Sometimes, destroying everything is the key to building something new.” “And what has this got to do with Morgan?”

Dream-Root. The Ancients had described it once in the Frost Peaks. A plant that fed on buried grief and projected fear outward into the minds of living things nearby. On its own it caused confusion and low-level dread. Fed by Morvanna and Kaelen's concentrated dark craft and aimed at a column of wolves carrying years of unprocessed grief from border conflict it became something capable of breaking minds entirely. I walked to the center of the graveyard and crouched in front of the nearest plant.

And Lily Morgan understood with steady clarity: Comfort wasn’t the enemy. Forgetting was. As long as they remembered how to ask, How to gather, How to loosen what they had once tightened, They would not repeat the old mistakes. She stood and brushed dirt from her palms. Roots could grow. As long as hands remained willing to touch the soil and decide again.

The ground kept them. He thought: the ground will keep Ruth. The ground will keep Ernest and Don — not in the biographical sense but in the soil sense, the way that the 1920s gardeners are in the soil. The programme's account in the ground. The foxgloves' roots. The quince grove's root zone. The south wall roses' root structure. These are in the ground and the ground keeps them and the ground will continue keeping them after the keeping-producers are gone.

It was clean. He’d wanted me to inherit the rot. I’d just cut the root out instead. Now the rest of them would have to decide: follow someone who refuses to eat the old poison, or become the next thing I have to pull out of the ground.

"I swear, without any bread or pasta, a person might just die. Roasting meat endlessly to eat is so greasy..." "Just grab some grass and chew on it to get rid of the greasy taste," Rafael suggested, reaching down to pull up a handful of wild grass. It was edible, and this time of year, it was tender. "Eat it. Quickly." "It's bitter. I'm not eating it," Dylan refused, declining Rafael's offer. Rafael didn't mind and ate it himself. Even the roots were edible, and the tender leaves, though slightly bitter, were just what he needed to cut the grease. It was surprisingly tasty.