—

When she emerges—gasping for air, light, water—all she tastes is death.

Decay coats her tongue, soot clogs her nostrils, and there is no soil except sand, no real roots—save for herself. The world is dead, and yet, here she is, somehow.

Awake.

 

—

 

“—I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’ll come. You’ll see. You’ll understand.”

“Mr. Beckett, sir,” Daniel says, “I study… well, myth.”

“You’re a scientist.”

“Yes, well,” Daniel says, “Myth rooted in science—I just don’t know if I’m really the right person—”

“You’re the only person, Mr. Castillo,” Beckett interrupts him. “Tomorrow. Early. Send the required paperwork, and then… you’ll see.”

Static.

Daniel sighs, dropping his arm. Phone still in hand, he looks down at his dog, Max. The scruffy little mutt tilts his head to the side, ears perking up in silent question.

“Well, on the bright side,” Daniel says, “if we don’t get fired, we’ll definitely make rent this month.”

Max wags his tail, and Daniel can’t help but smile.

 

—

 

It’s the biggest house Daniel has ever seen.

Tusks curve out of the earth, ivory and gleaming, as he walks up the stone-lined path to Beckett’s home—a black monstrosity of a building; sleek, sharp-lined, set atop a large hill. It’s a beacon of wealth that makes Daniel’s stomach twist, especially after such a long commute from the clogged city to the north.

White, black, red—stark colors against a bloody backdrop of salt and sand.

Daniel squints; raises a hand to shield his eyes. Behind the house, red rocks reach for the sky, the rising sun. Max trots next to him, bound by his leash. What little wind stirs brushes red dust over Daniel’s shoes, making Max’s nose twitch. 

“Me too, bud,” Daniel mutters.

 

—

 

Beckett isn’t a large man, but his presence looms. Perhaps it’s his light coloring, or maybe his crooked smile, or even his accent—a remnant of an older world; one with greens and blues and other colors apart from those only found in the baked earth.

Or his eyes. They’re a ghostly gray, and something lurks at the edge of them—a pale flicker that skitters across Daniel’s skin when he looks too long.

“Mr. Castillo,” Beckett says after they clasp hands, “How was the train in?”

No welcome, no thank you. Daniel wants to say something flippant. Instead, he defaults to the politeness of a poor man in the presence of a rich one.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good.” Beckett’s smile edges into something more like a sneer as he looks down at Max, who sits obediently next to Daniel’s feet. It’s clear from the home’s spotless, stark white interior—a contrast to the outside—no animals live here. “What’s this?”

“Max,” Daniel says. “My dog. I couldn’t come so quickly without bringing him; I hope you understand.”

Beckett’s smile bends, close to breaking—but then he chuckles, a tinkling bell of a laugh. “He seems well-behaved enough.”

“Thank you,” Daniel says. He shrugs, gripping his suitcase tight in one hand, Max’s leash in the other. “Is there a place I can…?” 

“Later,” Beckett says, waving his hands toward the glass staircase that spirals up into the rest of the labyrinthine home from the entryway. “Leave that here; one of my staff will take it to your room.”

Daniel obeys, setting his bag down next to the staircase. “Where, then—?”

“Upstairs,” Beckett points with his pinky, “most of the living areas are actually on the lower levels; up is the atrium. Come.”

Daniel nods. Starts to follow Beckett up the stairs, then pauses, stooping to bundle Max in his arms so he can carry him. He ignores the tap, tap, tap of Beckett’s fingers on the railing. Max trembles a little as they climb up in a series of circles, so Daniel snuggles him a bit closer, careful to put a hand under his bottom so he feels supported.

When they emerge on the top floor, it’s to a white hallway.

“This is the atrium, sir?” Daniel asks, setting Max back down.

“Do you know why I’m the richest man in the world, Mr. Castillo?”

“Water,” Daniel says, wrapping Max’s leash around his arm. As he looks back up to his host, he tacks on, “Sir.”

Beckett’s crooked smile sneaks back.

“Water is how I made my fortune,” he says. “But it’s not what makes me the richest man in the world.”

Daniel says nothing. He doesn’t know what to say. Most wealthy people don’t talk about how they became so; instead, it’s a terribly kept secret worn across every inch of their skin—in their attire and adornments, yes, but elsewhere, too—from their teeth to their toes; in their smiles and their stilted silences.

But Beckett seems the sharing type. Out of honesty or pride, Daniel can’t tell yet.

“How then, sir?”

“Here,” he says. He places a hand on the wall directly in front of them, and what looked seamless lights up, forming a handprint—tinted gold—around Beckett’s palm. Just to Beckett’s right, the wall slides open with a sound somewhere between swish and slunk.

Beckett looks back at him, nodding his head toward the doorway. He walks inside. Daniel follows.

When he enters, Daniel drops Max’s leash.

It’s certainly an atrium—domed in glimmering green glass that must cost more than the entire city. Massive, as big as old church ruins preserved in the south. But the glass is for function; it shields what climbs beneath it from the desert sun.

A tree.

Not a tusk, not a bone breaking up through the earth to add to the world’s ever-expanding graveyard, but a living, breathing tree—Daniel can see the bark, can see leaves drooping from branches, can see roots breaking through the limestone underfoot.

“This, Mr. Castillo,” Beckett says, “She is why I’m the richest man in the world.”

Daniel shuts his eyes. Opens them again.

The tree is still there, towering, brushing the glass above with tendrils of its own green. It has to be close to 25 feet tall.

“All this time?” Daniel asks. “You’ve… you’ve had this here. All this time?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

It takes Beckett a long time to reply. His upper lip twitches, and then, finally, he answers. “Someone must preserve the past, Mr. Castillo. I’m certain you understand that.”

Below them, Max whines a little, paws at the ground. Daniel knows what a lie looks like, whether Max smells it or not.

He nods anyway.

“You see now why you were the only person I could bring here,” Beckett murmurs. “You’re the only living dendrochronologist left.” Something teases at the side of Beckett’s mouth, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “A match. For my Magnolia.”

“Is that the genus?” Daniel asks.

“As far as I can tell,” Beckett says, “but, unlike you, I’m not an expert.” He glances at Max, seemingly appeased that he hasn’t strayed too far from them. “You brought your materials?”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel says, eyes drifting back toward the tree. He doesn’t remind Beckett that he’d told him to only yesterday. It hardly matters, now.

“Good. You’ll rest now, but tomorrow, I need you to start the dating process.”

“What are you hoping I find?” Daniel asks. Reluctantly, he meets Beckett’s gaze.

“History, Mr. Castillo.” His lip twitches again. “Hers, and the world’s.”

—

 

The men speak. She doesn’t want to listen, so she watches the animal instead. Its eyes are dark, deep. Like hers. Sweet, and sad. She thinks he must smell her own sadness.

 

—

 

Daniel doesn’t know what to do with himself.

It’s the next morning, and Beckett’s left him alone in his atrium, set to work on dating the last tree on the planet. 

As if it matters, he can’t help but think.

He tamps that down. He won’t ask himself why Beckett’s brought him now, of any time. He can see the cracks in the stone; the wear in the walls; the roots forcing their way through the floor. He feels the heavy silence of the great room, like the hush before a lightning storm, still and stifling.

He doesn’t want to know.

Daniel shakes his head, then sits, situating himself a good few feet away from the first of the tree’s exposed roots. Max sits next to him. Stares a little, then wags his tail.

“You’re right, bud,” Daniel says, smoothing his hands over Max’s soft, floppy ears in a gesture that comforts both of them, “time is a resource.”

Daniel sighs. Shakes out his arms, fingers, then pulls his half-empty pack closer. He’d left his sampling tools in his room—microscope, all of the things that are less portable. He’ll set up a makeshift lab later. Thankfully, the extraction process shouldn’t require much in the way of materials.

He’s working from theory, not practice.

He removes everything left in his pack with a strange sort of reverence, setting each in a row on the floor: rulers of glass and steel, tablet for pictures and notes, multiple increment borers he’s never been able to use.

He picks one up, imagines drilling into the bark.

He sets it back down, then stands up, Max at his side.

That day, he and Max do no more than examine the tree. Where Max sniffs, Daniel touches. Where Max lays, Daniel lingers, too, simply looking. He can see it’s old—ancient, even, by the standards he’s studied. He looks and catalogs, with notes, photos. He notices when Max raises a leg, then immediately lowers it, somehow understanding that it isn’t a place to relieve himself (which, frankly, is a relief for Daniel, too). He records when Max only licks a specific spot, even after Daniel nudges him back.

From what he can see and sum up, he manages to agree with Beckett: the tree is a Magnolia.

 

—

 

At first, the new man is tentative. This doesn’t surprise her.

That he is gentle does.

 

—

 

That night, he sits down to dinner at Beckett’s table. The air is tight; a maid had asked whether or not Daniel would like to keep Max shut away in his room for the meal. He’d politely refused.

“So.” Beckett says the word as if Daniel should know what else it means.

Daniel pretends he doesn’t.

“Sir?”

“Today’s findings,” Beckett says.

“Right,” Daniel replies. He leans down to look at Max, who’s curled up next to his seat, waiting patiently for his own meal. “So far, not too much. I’ll take the first sample tomorrow.”

Daniel expects displeasure. At the very least, thinly veiled disappointment. Surprisingly, he receives neither.

Beckett smiles, and for once, it reaches his chilly eyes.

“Good, good. And today? What were your impressions, Mr. Castillo?”

Daniel sips some of the cold soup he’s been given before responding. It’s light on his tongue; cool. Like the rest of this place.

“The genus you identified—”

“Magnolia.”

“Yes,” Daniel says, “seems accurate. Which species… I’m still unsure, but I’ve narrowed it down from a possible 210 to thirty.”

Beckett nods, steeples his pale hands.

“Impressive.”

“Whichever one,” Daniel continues, “this is… promising, sir. Magnolia is an ancient genus, so the age of the tree could go back—”

“Millennia. Yes. I am aware, Mr. Castillo.”

Daniel sets down his spoon.

“What will you do with it, sir?”

Beckett raises a brow. “What will I do with it?”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel says, “once you find out whatever else there is to know. What will you do with it?”

Beckett’s sharp smile is back, wolfish and white. He twirls his spoon between two fingers. “An interesting question, Mr. Castillo. Something to evaluate. When the time comes.”

Daniel nods, then eats the rest of the meal in silence.

 

—

 

When the new man and the animal return, she decides to be brave.

 

—

 

The second day, Daniel is ready for the extraction. Before leaving his room, he prepares it for the samples he’ll collect to study later.

But when he and Max enter the atrium, it’s to the same heady silence of the day before. The tree feels like a sentinel, watching them, but Daniel presses on, arranging his materials in the same organized line, picking the steel increment borer to start work with. He approaches the tree, picking his way over the littered stone—

And then Max growls.

Daniel frowns, looks down. No dog.

“Max?” he calls. He stumbles forward, spies a hint of Max’s tail already on the other side of the tree, then sighs in exasperation, shuffling toward the sound.

As he circles the tree, Max’s growl becomes something more like a purr, and when he emerges on the other side, what Daniel sees shocks him more than seeing a tree after believing all were extinct.

A woman.

Naked, with skin the same dark, dusky shade as the tree’s bark, she sits underneath one of the lower-hanging branches, letting Max nuzzle and lick her hand. Vaguely, Daniel realizes this is the same spot Max wouldn’t leave alone the day before.

He stops. Stares. Even after she looks up at him with wide, green eyes.

“I—” he tries. The words stall in his throat. She blinks.

“Max,” Daniel calls, “Come here, boy. Come.”

The woman frowns at him, then focuses on the dog vying for her attention. She scratches lightly at Max’s ears as if she’s not sure how to do it right. Max doesn’t budge.

Daniel wrings his hands at his sides, then takes a tentative step forward.

“Are you one of Beckett’s staff?” Daniel asks. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be,” he gulps against the knot forming in his throat, determinedly looking at her face and nowhere else, “up here.”

She doesn’t look up, and she doesn’t say anything.

“Who—” he pauses, hands shaking. All of him seems to be shaking. “Who are you?”

This time, she meets his gaze, still affectionately ruffling the fur of Max’s ears with one hand. She looks confused, perhaps even a little pitying. With her free hand, she touches the tree, long fingers splaying across the bark. He lets himself follow the movement, noticing the cracks in her skin when she shifts—unlike anything else he’s seen before, not wrinkles, or scars, but a pattern of lines and circles and other shapes, hues barely darker or lighter than her skin.

When she speaks, it’s guttural and croaked. Cracked, too.

“Magnolia.”

Daniel has to sit down. So he does.

—

 

After all, what other choice does she have?

 

—

 

The next time she speaks, she asks for water.

Daniel doesn’t know how long it’s been. They sit the same as they have been, her under the tree, him a few feet away. Max is curled up against her side.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Water,” she croaks, extending an arm to him. “Do you have any?”

He answers too slowly, still staring, then bolts up, searching around for his pack. Beckett had given him an entire bottle—pristine, priceless—just that morning. He can’t help but hoard it, even though he’s been promised one for each day he works. A fortune in and of itself, never mind the money.

“Yes,” Daniel says. He nudges his pack with his foot, then drops down to pull the glass bottle from the front pocket. He approaches her slowly. By the time he hands it over, it’s her hand that shakes.

As she drinks, the cracks in her skin blur and ripple until they’re barely there at all, smooth, soft. Beautiful, Daniel thinks.

“Are you really… ?” he asks her. She stares back, sets the bottle down.

“The last,” she says.

“How?” he whispers. “How could you be?”

A wry smile graces her lips.

“No life in this dead world except those who’ve killed it,” she says, “no spirits, even. Except for me.” She chuckles—a hoarse, dry sound. “And I am dying. This other man makes sure of it.”

Daniel frowns. She strokes the fur of Max’s neck.

“How?” Daniel asks. “How could he…” he trails off, eyes fixed on the empty bottle. “Water?”

She nods.

 

—

 

“No sample today?”

“I came across… an abnormality,” Daniel says.

Beckett stops cutting through his steak. Daniel has barely touched his.

“An abnormality?”

“Yes,” Daniel half-lies, “something strange with the sample. I’ll need to take another, just to be certain. Sir.”

Beckett shrugs, smiles. It’s easier than Daniel expects, even if he can feel the menace behind the man’s teeth.

“Of course, Mr. Castillo. Whatever will yield the best results.”

 

—

 

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” Daniel says. “I don’t think so. Hold still. I promise, I’ll—I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t feel it.”

She nods. It’s easier than he anticipated but requires a slow, methodical hand. When he’s done, she looks a bit ashen.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

She nods. “Water, please.”

He gives her the day’s bottle. Max sniffs it as he passes it to her, then rubs his face against Daniel’s knee.

As she drinks it, her skin brightens and browns again, color coming back to her cheeks, then down her arms and across her chest, down her thighs all the way to her toes.

She lowers the bottle. Empty again.

“What do you call him?” she asks, reaching out to stroke Max.

“Max,” Daniel says. She nods, murmuring the word under her breath as she runs her fingers through Max’s fur.

“And you?” she asks, not looking up. “What do they call you?”

He smiles. He was hoping she’d ask.

“Daniel,” he says.

 

—

 

“She’s flowering.”

Daniel pauses, fork suspended over his breakfast.

“Sir?”

“My Magnolia tree, Mr. Castillo,” Beckett says, with a strange sort of admonishing smile. “I went to see her while you were studying your samples last night. Did you not see?” His smile widens. “Pink, white. Flowers.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “No one’s seen flowers in…” he opens his eyes again. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“No,” Daniel says, “I don’t, sir.”

 

—

 

“May I?” Daniel asks.

She hesitates, then nods. He inches closer, cautious. Finally, he’s close enough to brush a thumb against one of the blossoms in her dark hair.

He’s close enough to see the patterns on her skin, swirling around her neck; the specks of gold shimmering in her irises; the shape of her lips as she smiles.

“They’re beautiful,” he says, gently fingering a pink petal. He’s careful not to touch the bud.

The petal shivers, just slightly, and then the bud opens further, and now there are more blooming, mixed in with strands of hair, and her skin is flushed a bit pink, too.

“Thank you,” she says.

 

—

 

“I’m glad to hear this round of sampling was successful.”

“Yes, sir. I was pleased.”

“How long will it take to organize your findings?”

Daniel scratches at the skin of his palm while one of Beckett’s maids takes his plate.

“Not too long. I’ll need to compare samples, then take a last look—for any more areas of interest.”

Beckett stares for a second too long, and Daniel scratches hard enough to leave a red mark. “Give or take a day, sir. Two, at most.”

Beckett tips his head, a ghost of a grin playing at his lips. “Perfect.”

 

—

 

“What will you do?” he asks.

She’s let him come close again—enough that it seems harsh to speak above a whisper. But perhaps she doesn’t hear him, because she doesn’t answer. So he presses on.

“I want to help you.”

She stares, and he thinks she won’t reply, but then— “Water,” she says.

He tilts his head to the side, taking in the new color on her cheeks, the way it paints its way across her face.

He doesn’t quite understand, but he gives her the bottle anyway.

“I’m the last, too,” he says.

She stares, drinks, smiles when she’s done. Her voice grows clearer every time after, though no matter how much, it still seems to tremble with the weight of a dying world.

“For now,” she says. She puts a hand on his forearm; nudges his knee with hers. “For both of us, for now.”

—

 

The knock at Daniel’s door surprises him. It’s not time yet for dinner.

“Come in,” he says. He doesn’t move from his little makeshift lab: a small desk bearing his microscope, slides, more samples.

The door swings open, Beckett on the other side.

“Mary mentioned you asked for another,” Beckett says, holding up a glass bottle. “My afternoon was blissfully free for once, so I thought I’d deliver it to you in the hopes of an early glimpse at your research.”

Daniel nods, sketches on a smile. Glances at Max dozing on the bed.

“Of course, sir. Thank you. Please—come in.”

Beckett enters, taps the bottle—full and glug, glug, glugging—against his thigh. Daniel backs away from the desk, extending a hand toward it in silent invitation.

Beckett’s grin is genuine as he ushers forward, eager to look through the lens at one of the samples.

“How old?” he asks, rotating the fine adjustment dial.

“It’s… difficult to determine, at least completely,” Daniel says. “According to my research, trees lived a few thousand years at most.” He shakes his head. “But this one—”

“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?”

Daniel clears his throat. “Yes.”

“I knew she was a miracle when I found her, but you’ve uncovered…” Beckett trails off, voice lowering to a murmur. “So much more than I imagined.” He sighs, backs away from the lens, then straightens, turning to face him. “She let you take these,” he says. He sounds almost… wistful.

Daniel freezes. Next to him, Max snoozes, head warm against his thigh.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“You heard me, Mr. Castillo,” Beckett says. He grins again, though it’s more of a leer than a smile. “She trusts you. To take these, to not tell me about her. But, of course, I already know. I’ve always known.”

Daniel doesn’t move at first. Slowly, he nods, then scratches the top of Max’s head. The dog snuffles, opening a bleary eye.

“Cameras?”

“Of course,” Beckett says. He flashes his shark’s smile. “I wouldn’t neglect the security of such a valuable asset, Mr. Castillo. But I’m sure you realized that.”

“I considered it,” Daniel says. He moves to scratch Max’s neck, just around his collar. “But you, sir—you must’ve considered that I’d tell others. Once I leave, I’ll tell them what you’ve done. What you’ve been doing.” He looks up, meeting Beckett’s eye. “Where all the water comes from.”

“You won’t, Mr. Castillo,” Beckett says. He smiles again, and in the low light of Daniel’s room, it’s horrible—an inhuman stretch of skin across skull. “You have no family, no friends. No one to remember you,” Beckett says, “just like no one remembers her.”

Now, he does laugh. “Besides—what makes you think you can leave this room?”

It happens in the space of an inhale.

Before Daniel can try anything, Beckett lunges for him, smashing the glass bottle over his head. The force of it sends him reeling backward on the bed, but thankfully, Daniel stays semi-conscious—lucid enough to hear the snarls, and then the satisfying sounds of tooth and claw ripping into flesh; Beckett screaming. He blinks, tries to focus. There’s glass everywhere, and he’s failed—

A thud and a yelp—Daniel bolts up, still blinking away the stars stealing his eyes. There’s a small, shivering mass on the ground and a shadow to his right; he dodges the shadow, then stoops, scoops up the mass that’s Max, then bolts.

His vision is double but clearing as he sprints down the hall, sliding side-first into the staircase, Max shaking in his arms, but he makes it up—the spirals make him even sicker now, but he keeps going, even as he hears Beckett thundering behind him.

He bursts into the dark atrium, panting and clutching Max to his chest, before falling to his knees. He lets go of Max, who whimpers but stays by his side.

There, she sits. Dark as the bark behind her, but somehow still luminescent underneath the ghostly green moonlight dripping from the glass ceiling above. Arms and legs wide, relaxed. Like branches.

Daniel only gets a glimpse before a boot bears down on his back, shoving him flat on the floor.  “It’s not enough,” Beckett says, grinding his heel between Daniel’s shoulder blades. “Her roots are tied too tight, Mr. Castillo. Deep, deep into the bowels below this house, but no more earth than she needs, and her water is mine. Mine to give, and mine to take away.”

He lifts his boot away, and Daniel hears him stagger forward, crunching over roots as he makes for her. Daniel manages to lift his head enough to look.

Beckett leaves a trail of blood behind him as he stumbles toward her. She makes no move to disappear into herself. All she does is watch him, green eyes glinting like jewels in the gloom.

“Did you tell him?” Beckett asks. His leg gives out, and he falls down to the ground at her ankle, then grabs it, using her body to pull himself closer. She lets him, body limp.

“Did you tell him it wouldn’t be enough?” Beckett asks again, grabbing her thigh, pulling himself up enough to sit. He pants, squeezes her waist, then brushes her breast before wrapping a bloody hand around her neck.

“No,” she answers.   

“You should have,” Beckett whispers. His hand climbs up her neck, her throat, curls around her jaw.

“I didn’t need to,” she says.

Beckett laughs again—a heavy, wet rumble from the back of his throat.

“You did.”

“No,” she says. “I only needed him to bring me you.”

She coils her long fingers around his, the hand framing her face, and even then, his smile only flickers.

She tightens her grip, and then, then, then it dies as her fingers become vice-like vines, and then roots, and she starts with the blood at his hand, but it’s still not enough, and when he shouts and tries to push her away she slinks down his throat, coiling inside and choking him as she drinks her fill, suffocating and stealing because Beckett denied her thirst, and now, finally—she will quench it.

She drops him when he’s barely more bone.

 

—

 

All she tastes is death.

But soon—soon, she’ll taste life again.

 

—

 

It’s enough.

When she blends into her body again, she rises, grows—up, up, up—and breaks the barrier overhead.  

 

—

 

She comes back. Briefly, but she comes back.

“I…” Daniel tries to say, but doesn’t. He knows he can’t. “Where will you go?”

Magnolia smiles.

“From here. Out there,” she says. She raises her head to the open sky above. “Everywhere out there.”

When she does, the world grows green again.