“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.”