Bo Grizzleback's Arc

Chapter 8 of 8

Bo counted the pods again on the cellar floor. Eight, ribbed and heavy, cool in his palms. The traders wanted a full crate by Thursday. Eight pods would not fill a crate unless he thinned the mash, and a thin pour would break the name he had just built. He was still staring at the count when Fat Tony came down the stairs with two coffees and a grin that meant he had been thinking. "Grizzleback, put down di fruit," Tony said. "Mi know a man who grow tings other men cyaan grow. Him name Ziggy. Him got a glass house full of sun and dirt. You bring him one pod, him might bring you a hundred." Bo shook his head. "Every partner takes a cut. Malcolm has twenty-five. You have half. What does this one want?" Tony laughed. "Ziggy nah want money. Him want di plant. Him love a puzzle more than a payday. Trust mi, come." They drove out to a greenhouse that glowed orange and yellow against the pale dirt, the glass panes catching the sun like lit coals. Inside, the air was wet and warm. George Beetlesby was up on a ladder with a wrench, tightening a mister line. "Bo Grizzleback! Heard about your skull bottle. Nice work, nice work. Ziggy's in the back with the seedlings, go on through." He waved the wrench and went back to the pipe, whistling. Ziggy sat at a bench under a grow lamp, sleeves rolled, hands stained green. Bo set a pod on the bench. Ziggy leaned in and did not speak for a long moment. He turned the pod, weighed it, pressed a thumb to a ridge, then split it with a small knife and looked at the seeds. "North ridge. Twin-moon rain. I have read about these. I have never held one." Bo cleared his throat. "I need more than I have. Eight pods, a crate to fill, four days. If you can grow them, I keep most of what comes out. You keep the plants. Every cutting, every seed after the first crop, yours." Ziggy looked up. His eyes were wet. "You would give me the line?" "Grow me pods," Bo said. "The rest is yours to name." Ziggy took the pod in both hands like a baby bird. He said he could force a fast cycle under the lamps, that the first green fruit could swell in weeks, not seasons. Not in time for Thursday, but in time for the next order, and the one after. Bo walked out into the orange light feeling the crate problem shift. Thursday was still a wall. He would have to thin one batch, or beg Malcolm for a smaller first shipment, or lose a contract. But the two-year drought was over. He had a farm now, and he had not paid a cent for it.