Putting Down Roots

My family moved a lot. My parents weren’t in the military, they were academics. They met in grad school, both botanists. My dad’s area of expertise was lichenology, the study of lichen, and my mom’s was mycology, the study of fungus. 

Their shared love of fungi is what really brought them together. My mom would joke that they were the only two to ever sit at the table in that part of the library, because it was similar to the habitat preferred by fungus – dark and damp. They had spent hours reading and talking, then holding hands, then dating.

After defending their dissertations, they began traveling all over the north conducting research and having me. It was nice that their interests were so similar. There were never arguments or debates over where to head next. The only acrimony between them that I can recall was over pineapple on pizza. Mom no, dad yes.

Mom’s particular passion was mycorrhizae, fungi that have a symbiotic relationship with tree roots. The fungi help the tree obtain nutrients from the soil, and also act as a communication system with surrounding trees. If a tree is attacked by insects or disease it will send certain chemicals through its roots, which are then passed along by the fungi to its neighbors, warning them of danger. I remember my first time watching mom lie on the ground underneath a tree, hands pressed into the loam at her sides, eyes closed. She told me she was listening to the trees communicate with each other. I asked her if they communicated with her too. She said they did sometimes. I thought she was loony. I know better now.

Dad was interested in why different animals like to eat lichen. He questioned whether a particular animal would prefer lichen made with a particular fungus. He spent hours observing lichen colonies, noting which animals nibbled, and which feasted. He took samples and kept them with his notes to be organized later. He ate lichen too, taking care to avoid those indigestible by humans. He would nibble a bit of the colony under observation — only after he had completed his surveillance, and only after the greens had been cooked. He kept details of taste and texture for each. He said he would compare which animals preferred which lichen, then study their DNA for commonalities, his own included.

During my lifetime we had lived in eight different states; Washington, Montana, Minnesota, Maine, New Hampshire, New York, Michigan, and Wisconsin. That’s where we ended. 

Each place we lived had similarities. It was in a northern state, it was forested, and it was isolated. We rarely lived in town, and if we did, it was on the outskirts. 

My parents didn’t do well with people. They much preferred nature for company. They both shone in impersonal interactions, the kind you have with the clerk at the grocery store or a librarian. I was never aware of friends, or even good acquaintances in their life. My dad had a cousin he liked who visited a few times. The visits were short, but at least they made the attempt to keep in touch. 

It never occurred to me to seek out people my own age. I was every bit as content as my parents. My confidants were the trees, my playmates their falling leaves.

My mom once told me that people had moved too far away from nature. She said we are animals who have forgotten that we’re animals. That we’ve lost touch with who we really are, where we’re from. I could feel in my bones that it wasn’t true for us. 

The summer I turned sixteen we had just arrived in the Chequamegon -Nicolet National Forest in northeast Wisconsin. The closest community with a grocery store was Florence, Michigan. We made the trip into town once every week or so for groceries and other supplies. During summer months our needs were few. We foraged much of our food and fished from the rivers. It was an idyllic time.

That winter we settled along the banks of Edith Lake. My parents chose the spot both for winter ice fishing and because it is close to an access road in case of emergency. It was a cold winter. Early snows covered the ground and deep cold settled in, bringing stillness and quiet.

Our days were filled with games, stories, books, writing, and daily hikes on our snowshoes. My parents used wintertime to write their arguments and conclusions, summarizing their research. This winter my dad was more absorbed than usual in the work. He spent more and more time sitting at the desk in his corner of our vast tent, hunching further and further over his myriad of field notebooks and papers. My mom didn’t seem to notice, busy as she was with her own work, so I ignored the disquiet forming in my heart.

I assisted them both as needed, but was otherwise left to my own devices. I easily completed all of the reading and projects required for my homeschooling, leaving plenty of time to pursue my own interests. My most recent have been tales of nature involving the Fae. My parents, while both scientists, loved stories of the faerie realm. I had been raised to believe they may exist. I sometimes suspected their time spent in the forest had a bit to do with searching for signs of the Other folk. 

We were more than ready when winter’s hold finally loosened and we were able to break winter camp. We headed deeper into the forest, searching for our next area of focus. I knew the place when I saw it — an open meadow surrounded by a ring of old trees. We paused just inside the treeline, appreciating the beauty of the early spring sunshine glinting off of some remaining snow. Nearby, water flowing in a creek tinkled and laughed. I closed my eyes and listened. Mingling with the sounds from the creek I could hear wind shushing through bare branches and the rustling of small animals searching for buried food. 

Opening my eyes, I turned to my parents to suggest we stay here, but they had already decided. Mom’s face was glowing with pleasure, her eyes closed as mine had been. Dad looked like a child on Christmas morning. I laughed and stepped forward into the sunlight.

#

Dad was the first to disappear. It was late July and our camp was bathed in humidity and mosquitoes. Mom and I had returned after a frustrating day of bites, stings, and heavy perspiration. Mom went to start a smoky fire to keep the bugs away and I headed to the stream to bathe. I had built up an area with rocks to create a deep pool for bathing and swimming. It was very peaceful. Most days.

Today as I stripped off my sodden clothes, I felt the same disquiet I had noted over the winter. I could not identify the source, but it felt the same. It felt like something was missing, or as though I had left the tent without confirming I’d blown out the lantern. I remained unsettled as I dunked my head below the water’s surface and scrubbed my scalp. I finished cleaning off the sweat and debris from our morning’s walk and climbed out of the pool. I towel dried and put on my clean clothes.

I returned to camp to find my mother standing inside the mosquito tent holding her field book in one hand, a teacup in the other. At first glance her expression appeared blank, but as I approached, I could see distress in her eyes.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked, my voice tinged with concern. She didn’t answer, didn’t even look my way. “Mom?” I entered the tent, not bothering to zip the door closed. My concern was quickly blooming into panic. Mom was so level headed and calm, I’ve never seen her truly ruffled. Finding her in this state shifted my world in a way that frightened me.

I slowly removed the cup from her hand and set it on the card table where we ate. I gently touched her cheek, trying to snap her out of her trance. It worked. She blinked a few times, then turned to look at me.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“The trees. They sent a warning, but it was too quick. I don’t understand what they were warning against.” Lines appeared between her eyebrows as she frowned in frustration. “I don’t like this,” she whispered.

Goosebumps broke out over my arms as she spoke. I trusted my mother. If she was worried, I was worried too. 

“I wish dad were here,” I said and looked again at mom. A tear was sliding slowly down her cheek, creating a clean track in the fine film of dirt covering her face.

“He’s gone,” she said in a low voice. “That’s what they’re saying. He’s gone.” She turned to look at me, grief aging her beyond her years. I shook my head in disbelief.

“He can’t be.” I took her hand, willing her to agree with me. She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. I felt my own eyes prick with tears that were soon dripping off of my chin and onto the dirt floor of the tent. I don’t know how long we stood there, but eventually need drove us to action.

Regardless of mom’s belief that her husband had vanished, she was determined to look for him. At this time of year it stayed light until nearly eight-thirty in the clearing. It would be dark in the trees by eight.

We packed water, food, flashlights, and the first aid kit, then headed out. We knew the general direction he had headed this morning, returning to a rock outcrop where he had seen deer the previous day. It took us nearly an hour to reach the spot, having made a few accidental detours along the way. Usually my mom couldn’t get lost in the woods. She seemed to have a GPS system in her mind, always knowing which direction she was facing, what landmarks we had passed.

He wasn’t there. We searched in an expanding circle, scouring the ground for prints, watching for broken twigs, any sign he had left the outcrop. We found nothing. 

The light was dimming as we began the trek back to camp. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say.

Days passed and our lives slowly returned to routine. Mom hadn’t gone out, either searching or working, since the day dad disappeared. She sat inside the mosquito tent or wandered aimlessly around the clearing, wearing her thinking face. I knew she was trying to puzzle out what had happened to dad. I was at a loss and couldn’t imagine what she was contemplating.

One morning she woke up, dressed, packed a day bag, and informed me she was going out to work. I had conflicting feelings about this. I desperately needed a sense of normalcy, but felt like having one would betray my father. Mom told me she needed to do something to get out of her own head. I stupidly believed her and watched her walk away.

I spent that day working ahead on schoolwork that wasn’t due to start until September. I worked because I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted to follow her, to see with my own eyes that she hadn’t disappeared too. I knew it would be foolish to head out not knowing where she had gone. 

The sun dipped below the treeline sending shafts of hazy light across the clearing. I could see motes of dust and insects dancing along the beams. My increasing worry was a heavy weight. I felt myself sinking, imagining I was in a hole, dirt slowly filling in above my head, when I saw her. “Mom!” I yelled. I jumped up, and in my excitement forgot I was inside the mosquito tent. I ran into the side hard enough to pull the stakes out and the tent and I fell to the ground in a heap. 

Mom hurried over to help me untangle from the clinging net. We managed the extraction without tearing the netting and soon had it set up, good as new. I was not good as new, however. I felt as though I had been fractured into millions of tiny pieces that were still scattered on the ground. My intense relief at seeing mom made me realize how tenuous my hold on sanity and reason. If I lost her, I dread to think what would become of me.

For the first time in my life, I wanted to leave the woods. I no longer felt safe and at home here. It had started over winter and had stayed with me, just under the radar. I realized that I had known something was wrong once I became aware of dad’s changed behavior. What had caused him to become distant from us? Why had he disappeared? I wanted answers, but I wanted more to go far, far away.

I broached the idea with mom that night. She looked intently at me over the fire, shadows and orange light alternately taking over her face. I did not like her expression. It reminded me too much of the looks I saw on dad’s face before he vanished, as though he was there, but his soul was absent. I pressed her for an answer.

“We can’t go, not yet. I haven’t finished my work.” The look she gave me told me not to argue, to sit there and accept her decision. But I was nearly seventeen and had been raised to be independent and stubborn. I gave her a look of my own.

“Something was going on with dad before he left. Something had hold of him, I could see it. And I think it’s happening to you, too.” Mom tilted her head slightly and gave me a look that sent shards of ice through my heart. Her smile was not that of a loving mother, but of cold and stone. 

“We will leave when I have completed my work, not a moment sooner, and I don’t want to hear another word about it from you.” Mom had never spoken that way to me, I had never heard that tone in her voice. The ice expanded from my heart, moving around my body until I shivered. I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak.

I tidied up my things from around the fire and went to bed. When I woke the next morning, mom was already gone.

#

Two days later I was searching my parent’s field books and papers, looking for anything that would give me a clue as to what happened to them. I found it at the back of dad’s last full notebook. I was flipping through the pages when I saw a sketch of the outcrop he had been studying. It was the place mom and I had gone when we looked for him.

I sat with the book and studied the sketch. When we had found the spot I was too focused on looking for clues about what had happened to my father to really look at the area. Dad’s sketches were of lichen-covered boulders sitting in an oval ring, the outcrop dominating one side. The drawing’s perspective made the circle appear large, so it makes sense I didn’t notice the shape when I was there. Trees of varying sizes populated the inside of the ring. I suspected dad’s imagination had lent familiar shapes to some of them. One looked a bit like a deer rearing up on its hind legs. Another could have been a rabbit, sitting on its back feet. 

I suddenly realized he had written notes to accompany the sketches. The print was so tiny, I first thought it was a decorative border on the page. I held the book closer and found the beginning of his words. He wrote about finding an opening. I couldn’t decipher it all, but I recognized quantum and portal. I could not imagine what quantum physics had to do with eating lichen, and wanted to relegate the writing to the list of his other odd behaviors. Yet, as I considered the drawings and his notes, an idea formed that I could not ignore. 

I gathered my pack and added some water, a flashlight, food, a flannel shirt, the usual things I packed for a day trip. It was before noon so I had plenty of time to visit the stone circle and return before dusk. If I returned. The thought was there no matter how I tried to banish it from my mind. I suspected I had lost both of my parents to that ring. I wondered if they were there now, standing amongst the animals.

It took me longer than expected to find it. I kept getting turned around, a rare occurrence. I had inherited mom’s GPS brain. Not for the first time, I wondered what was at play here. I arrived an hour or so past noon, yet the light here was dim, faded. I stood outside the ring and observed. I scanned the trees for familiar shapes, like the ones in dad’s book. I saw none. 

I abruptly felt like I had imagined everything. Not my parent’s disappearances, but the animal shapes, the changes in their behavior. I sighed, removing my pack to sit on one of the smaller rocks. My feet dangled inside the circle, scraping against the lichen growing there. For the first time, I looked at the green growth. It lay thickly upon the surface of the rock on the inside of the ring. I looked behind me at the side away from the ring. It was clear. I jumped down on the lichen side and moved from rock to rock, noting that they all had lichen on the inside, not the outside, regardless of the direction they were facing. I knew that mosses tended to grow on northern faces, lichen to the south. There was no moss to be found.

Unease returned and I made my way back to my pack. I put it on and stood, unsure what to do next. I could return to camp without answers, or I could stay and see what I could figure out. I removed my pack again and withdrew a small ground tarp that I spread on the leafy detritus beside one of the rocks. I sat and set my pack next to me. I found my water bottle and sipped as I thought. 

What was dad doing here? If his actions followed his previous methods of research, he sat nearby and observed animals feeding on the lichen. Whatever happened to him, I doubted it was the result of something he had done hundreds of times before. Something must have changed, but what?

I went over what I remembered from his book, kicking myself for leaving it behind. I recalled his writing about finding a picturesque spot from which to observe. He always watched and took notes before going in himself to try the lichen. My head popped up, the answer was there. I thought it must have something to do with him eating the lichen. In the past he would avoid patches favored by other animals, trying to find an untouched colony. What if this time he ate what the animals had eaten? What if that had triggered whatever had happened to him?

I jumped up and looked around excitedly at the rocks, looking for perturbations in the lichen covering them. I moved from rock to rock, carefully examining each one. I found several that had obviously been worked over. There was no way of knowing which my father had tried, so I decided to try them all.

I took out my pocket knife, opening the largest blade. I went to the first rock I had seen with signs of having been eaten and scraped some undisturbed lichen onto my hand. I did the same with each of them, making my way around the circle. Once finished, I closed the knife and returned to my tarp.

I had tried lichen before and was unimpressed. It tasted as it looked, wavy, in varying shades of green, blue, and gray. Like dry, flavorless parsley.  I hesitated. Dad had told me lichen should be cooked before eating. No way was I going to trek back to camp to cook up one scant handful. I tossed the lot into my mouth and chased it down with several swallows of water. Aside from an existing acid stomachache brought on by anxiety, I noticed nothing. Disappointed, I sat on the tarp, my eyes closed, tears sliding down my cheeks. 

Feeling beyond dejected, I finally opened my eyes to a strange sight. The trees, which before had looked quite ordinary, had changed. I got quickly to my feet and ran to the one that looked like a deer, just like dad’s drawing. I reached out a shaking hand to touch the smooth bark, then quickly jerked my hand back, holding it to my chest. The bark was warm. 

Looking around frantically, I equally hoped and dreaded finding them, feet rooted in the earth, arms spread to the sky, fingers like branches. I jumped from tree to tree, earning several scrapes on my arms and face before I found them. They stood as I imagined. They no longer had hair or skin, or even distinctly human features. They were trees. I stepped back to look at them. I scrutinized the bark and found vestiges of a face, and when I squinted I could make out the idea of arms, legs, and hands. Where feet would have been I saw gnarly roots. 

If they could be said to have an expression, it would have been one of surprise. I would rather they looked at peace, but at least I didn’t see pain there.

I lay down on the ground beneath them as I had seen mom do so many times. I placed my hands palm down on the loam and closed my eyes, listening. 

At first I heard nothing except the wind in the upper branches and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Then, faintly, over the thrum thrum of my blood, I heard mom’s voice. I couldn’t discern particular words, it was more that I felt her meaning. I allowed myself to remain there a while longer before standing and returning to the rocks. I repeated my earlier procedure, removing lichen from each of the disturbed rocks. Again, I put the stuff into my mouth. This time I chewed, carefully. With each mastication I thought of my parents. I remembered their love and how happy we were with our life. I felt the years move through me like warm liquid, bringing peace.

I removed my shoes, walked back to my parents, and stood beside them, ready. I was beginning to wonder what it would feel like, then it started. A tingling in my feet that turned into a mild burning, then searing pain as my toes, one by one, elongated and began to dig into the earth. The agony was like nothing I could have imagined. My eyes flew open, seeking my mother’s face. I found it and what I saw there made me scream. What I had taken for surprise I now recognized as terror. Rising above the growing pain from my feet, I searched what had been mom’s face, her eyes wide in horror, swirling bark below, her mouth open in a scream.

As the finality of what was happening to me registered, I screamed again. My feet were now rooted in the earth and I could feel my skin hardening into bark. As the burning pain and pressure moved up my legs into my torso, twisting, I threw my head back and reached my arms toward the sky in supplication.

#

We stand there today, testament to our true bond with nature. Mom explained it to me after my brain had cooled. She spoke to me through the mycorrhizae we shared. While most humans had moved too far away from nature, we had moved too close. We had unbalanced our existence, which nature had corrected. She told me these things, and I knew she lied.

Deer and rabbits are incapable of ‘moving too close to nature,’ yet here they stand next to us. I sense something else here, something insubstantial and dark. 

My thoughts are slowing, my memories are hazy images. I send exploratory questions out through my roots, avoiding those connected to my mom. She was trying to protect me, but I figured it was too late for that. I was right that something is here. It’s a doorway, or a thinning between our world and something else. Whatever energy holds it open must have bled into the lichen on the rocks. By eating it, we had consumed the energy. 

As my brain incrementally turns to tree, I feel a stirring of curiosity about the portal, as my father had called it. What lies on the other side? Could someone, or something, cross over there? Or could someone or something come here?

The questions float around and evaporate one by one. I close my eyes and can feel sunshine warming my face. It feels so

THE END