Originally published in Village X Magazine vol. 1
This column from the Post-Washington Post offers gardening advice from a local seed librarian, Michael Clay. This week, Clay did not submit a column. Our publication did receive this (damp) letter regarding his whereabouts:
Editors,
I saw it all. Saw the whole thing from the muddy floor of the Anacostia. Above me, the surface was white, running swiftly with the summer current. But I could see beyond the surface, into the city. Northeast, down by Rhode Island Avenue, on the outskirts of what had been a magnificent University sits a cathedral, shrouded by forest. Vines take back the marble, and swamp water has risen to meet the top of a grand staircase extending from its entrance.
The cathedral is properly deserted now. People haven’t gathered like that in decades. The pews still sit as they always have, at attention in the main hall, hugged by a thick layer of dust. Surrounding offices that once saw the daily business of priests, now know only the intimate lives of snakes. As far as I’ve seen, the serpents conduct their business lazily, coiling in a colorful pools of light flowing through stained glass, or tucking neatly into the empty bookshelves.
Most of the books that once loaded the air with the crisp smell of unturned pages have been relocated, though some still sit on the shelves. Moved underground by the last human resident of the cathedral. Michael Clay.
He lives in the system of tunnels and bunkers built beneath the supposedly hallowed grounds, and rarely ventures out. Below the surface, his primary companions are Trumpet and Sandy. Not much opportunity for human interaction except for hair cuts.
Cutting hair is the first thing that boy remembers doing, and I know because I’ve heard him tell it to every client he’s ever had at least twice. Nothing, not even the sour smell rising from the water whenever the door cracked open could stop him from taking the occasional client. Ain’t many who would or could pay a barber, but the ones who did were loyal to the bone. Mike had his barber chair set up in one of the former priests’ offices on the main floor. Vacant shelves and non-venomous snakes populated his workspace.
Familiar and friendly faces would maneuver their small boats to his front door, stuttering out only half a knock before he answered. He was always ready for them.
His favorite client seemed to be someone he called Ms. Striking, a woman who came only for a low fade. They didn’t have much to say to each other, but she never tipped less than 200%. She had been his first client when he started years ago, after having her hair braided twice by his mother. Nowadays, she came like the breeze — as often as she could but never quite enough. Her last visit was the first in a long time. Atop high cheekbones and broad forehead her hair stood stiffly, needing attention.
“I want it all off.”
“How low?”
“A one.” She said, pointing to the clipper blade that would leave the finest sheet of hair over her scalp. Mike looked at her from under his eyelashes shadily.
“Let’s do a treatment first. Looks like its been a while since –”
“Fine,” She snapped. “What kind of treatment?” In response, he pulled a thick volume from the otherwise empty bookshelf, cracking it open to display the contents. Inside, the pages were carved out to form a nest for six vials of oil.
Olive, Castor, Almond, Tea Tree, Mango, and one unmarked vial.
“What’s this one?” She asked of the nameless amber vessel, turning it over in her hand.
“A good choice.” Mike sang, plucking it from her hand and whisking the book back onto the shelf in one movement. She laughed despite herself, taking a seat in the shiny chair at the center of the room. He cloaked her in a black smock, pinning it neatly at the nape of her neck. Ms. Striking watched him in the mirror mounted in front of her as he cleaned his razors and warmed the oil with a lighter.
The sound, the space, the playfulness — the atmosphere seemed to calm the woman. She leaned back in the chair as he ran a rat tail comb across her scalp.
Mike dipped the pads of his fingers into the oil, testing the temperature before gliding his fingers across an exposed length of skin, tucked between beds of tight coils. A chill ran down her spine. It was not a romantic moment, but the tenderness with which he did this brought tears to her eyes.
Mike did not look in the mirror to see them, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have strayed from his methodical oiling. He plowed on, rubbing scalp, dipping into oil. Repeat. It was meditative.
The meditation was interrupted by a bump in her scalp. Mike frowned, running his thumb over the spot again.
Something tiny and brown peeled off her head and whispered to the ground. Looking more closely and with concern, Mike saw a row of seeds planted firmly in the follicles of his clients head. His assessment of the situation was quick. The woman hadn’t yet noticed this discovery, no doubt lost in the meadows of her mind.
Mike skillfully plucked the seeds from her hair, four of them, and placed them in his breast pocket, running oil over the place where they once laid. He finished the treatment and cut without further mystery.
As always, his favorite client left him with a 200% tip, and a gentle embrace. Her hands did not linger on his wiry frame, as if she could sense his unease.
The second the grand wooden doors clicked shut behind her, Mike pulled a thick volume from the shelf, leaving it to protrude like a crooked tooth. A deep rumbling filled the hall as the entire structure slid open, revealing a Mike-sized tunnel. He strode into the darkness with the confidence of light. Muscle memory led the way through stone passageways and stale air.
The labyrinth opened into a cavernous room, shelves stretching to cover every inch of wall. These were stocked not with books, but with jars, each packed with a different breed of seed. Some were originals of his, some older than he or I. His archive included the work of many generations of seed keepers, collectors who preserved the food cultures of their time, trading seeds with local farmers and with each other. With a clean water shortage throughout the country, many of these seeds couldn’t survive on the surface, and waited patiently on their shelves for the sweet comfort of soil. This library was the largest of its kind in the region, and the last left protecting native seeds.
There were of course books elsewhere, organized into stacks across the room that formed tables, chairs, and a bedframe. The only structure not made with books was a greenhouse, the centerpiece of the room. It’s glass panels were fogged with climate. The soil inside was a rich brown, supporting patches of vibrant, tropical looking foliage. There was enough space inside for Mike to stand up and take a couple strides in, and enough space in the rest of the room for his two short coated dogs to play around in, though they occasionally hung out inside the greenhouse as well. There was a bed tucked into a loft above the entrance where Mike would sleep cuddled between his pets.
At this depth, he felt as vast and permanent as the ocean floor.
He added the seeds to his collection, but the thought of them kept him from sleep that night. His mind would not rest, and questions of origins and properties cycled behind closed eyelids. Just before dawn, he left the swaddle of blankets to sit in the greenhouse, bringing the new seeds with him. The dogs watched with red-eyed concern.
Mike pressed one seed into a pot filled with deep red clay, and another into the fortified Virginian soil that sustained most of his plants. The other two seeds sat idle on the edge of a work table behind him, longing for their day in the mud. Too close to the edge. Close enough that Sandy could, and she would later, shoot them off the table in a curious sniff. Unnoticed by Mike, her tongue delicately chased the displaced seed off the ground. Sandy decided to leave the other one alone. The seed tasted unimpressively nutty, and besides, she was a good girl. Satisfied with herself, she barked softly at the last seed and trotted back to bed.
Mike’s head jerked up sharply at the sound. He looked first to the dogs curled meekly on the bed, and then to the seeds. Counted one where there should be two. Counted again.
“Damn it,” he swore, snatching up the seed as if it had tried to plot the escape on its own. Glaring at the dogs for good measure, Mike tucked the last seed into his own hair, reminding himself not to forget and forgetting in the same thought.
The next day, Mike cracked open his eyes and dreamland slowly left his body behind. Immediately he tasted moisture in the air, drawing him quickly to alarm. Vaulting out of bed, what he saw made him wet his pants almost imperceptibly.
The greenhouse was fucked. Totally fucked. The glass panels had all been shattered, webbed fragments hanging onto the steel frame like meat on a rib. The moisture was crawling from the controlled climate to fill the room, and he would have felt relief if not for the massive mound of soil spilling out of the gaping greenhouse panels. The pile nearly grazed the roof of the greenhouse, and Mike wondered aloud how much it weighed. He reached his hand into the dirt, finding little resistance. Inside it was cold and when he withdrew his hand it’s even brown was streaked with black earth.
He studied the soil ravenously, for what seemed like eternities tied together by cups of sweet coffee. Somewhere in that sleepless mania he heard barking, a great distance away. He paid it no mind. The sound grew to a deafening pitch before he finally looked up. Drowsy legs took him to where Trumpet was yelping.
“Damn it,” he swore. In Sandy’s bed, where Sandy had sat was now a mound of soil, even more massive than the first.
Mike would have cried but his eyes seemed to be rusted dry. His tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth. Trumpet cried out mournfully, his calls bouncing off the packed earth above them.
Searching for water, Mike began to move toward the kitchen. But he swam through the air at a glacial speed, straining against an invisible force. The kitchen seemed so far now. The warm lights glinting off his bamboo cabinets blurred in his vision. He wished, in this last moment, that he could feel the soft pressure of his woven palm kitchen mat once more, to stand above the stove with a plan and a pot, and make dinner.
Instead, his movement slowed to near stillness. His body began to expand, swelling to double his size, then crumbling from the feet up into a mountain of soil. Larger than the greenhouse. Larger than Sandy. Mike filled up the whole room, burying everything in it.
If you dig far enough beneath the cathedral you will find his tomb, complete with barbershop and library. A lost classroom. A buried knowplace. Thought you should know that your gardening advice columnist would not be returning. And I’m the only one who saw it all happen to boot.
No need to thank me, no. It’s the least I could do.
Kindly,
King Arthur
Editor’s note: The last known resident at the return address on this letter was Arthur Clay, a rather popular bluesman in the late 2020s who died over thirty years ago. We do know that he was the estranged father of our former columnist, Michael Clay. Still no word from Michael.
We are hiring a new seed expert to run our gardening advice column. If this sounds like you, please see the job posting in the previous section.
