CHAPTER 2

Unrest

"New Future” Camp, Somewhere in Patagonia, South America.

It took Dr. Feldman two days to recover from jet lag, two weeks to make the tour of the encampment and compounds, two months to understand what was going on there and a couple of years to become fully acquainted with the inextricable network of institutions, programmes, projects and activities that stemmed from that mysterious and powerful organization.  

It had all turned out in the most natural way. Nobody awaited him back in Paris, and he was well known for his long disappearances. Every day held a new surprise and the further he delved into that organized community, the most intriguing it all became. They had welcomed him, offered him a wooden cabin with a comfortable bedroom, a living room, a small kitchen and a bathroom; they had granted him unrestricted access to the orchards, libraries, labs, offices, computers, resources and data and he had simply adjusted to the routine of camp, joining in those projects that would benefit more from his expertise and spending time teaching the young ones to take care of impoverished soils in a wonderful hands-on lab they called the “soil nursery.”  

“Now, Greenwood, tell me again, where’s the trick? “  

“The trick?” The blond man was in charge of the data-collecting system, Cyrus knew, among other responsibilities. With the help of a group of highly qualified assistants, he processed huge quantities of data as they constantly monitored the state of the earth, checking on global dimming levels, deforestation, rainfalls rates, temperatures, icecap melting, winds and sea currents, thanks to a sophisticated system of communications. He ruled there with an easiness Cyrus Feldman recognized as born out of experience, letting his assistants work their way through boring data, even when he had already spotted the missing link in a chain of events or highlighted the relevant pattern in tedious series. Cyrus secretly admired his shrewd eye for details and his masterful approach to earth sciences. “What trick?” he asked, pretending ignorance, falling easily into an only too familiar pattern.  

They had just had dinner in the communal dining room, a large wooden structure with great windows opening to the trees, and were now enjoying the ritual mate, the traditional tea which was prepared in a cured gourd and shared, as tradition required, with a strict ritual.(1)

“I’m missing something,” Cyrus smiled. They had had this same conversation several times in those two years, but Greenwood never tired of praising their project, and Cyrus simply expected to understand it better.  

“So, you say that this has no cost to you.” Cyrus began, treading a well-known path.  

“It hasn’t. What is it that worries you so? You serve your duty, as we all do,“ he laughed, nodding towards the large kitchen’s open door where Silvertree was busy cleaning up after his cooking turn.  

“And the computers?”  

“Recycled.”  

“Your assistants?”  

“What happens to them?”  

“They work for free?”  

“Are we paying you, Cyrus?” Greenwood’s deep voice had a tinge of amusement that never failed to provoke a smile in Cyrus.  

At this point, he usually stopped for a while, and tried another approach.  

“So, this is kind of a sect, then?”  

“A sect? That’s a new one, Cyrus, I like that!” Greenwood had a contagious laughter. ”Let me try again. This is a scientific station. The research system, the equipment and the satellite access to the data-collecting systems and stations around the world, as well as their upkeep and technical support, were donated and are financed by Greenwood Great, which, as you know, is a Foundation with many branches,”  

“Such as Green Watchers,” Cyrus interrupted.  

“For instance.”  

“Or Green education.”  

“Yes.”  

“Or Green Energy?”  

“That one, too.”  

“And Green food,”  

“My favourite. And we could go on, so I’m glad you chose random quotes of our over than three hundred directly managed programmes. “New future,” too, happens to be the place where Silvertree and I, two of the presidents of Greenwood Great, chose to settle down an undetermined number of years ago. The most interesting fact about this place, as you know, is that our ecological footprint is less than zero. We not only do not cause any disturbance to the global or local environment, but our activities enhance its well being as well. Energy is naturally supplied and transformed without waste or emissions, we grow and recycle what we consume and we restore the unbalanced ecology of the area.”  

He stopped then to sip from the silvery straw, the bombilla. The mate paced most of their conversations, and that was a ritual Cyrus had been glad to recover after so many years. “The scientists that choose to live here are supplied with all their needs,” he kept on, passing water, gourd and bombilla on to Cyrus in a practiced movement, ”and they are asked to cooperate in maintaining this community by undertaking day-to-day activities and teaching our children. There’s no need of money here, Cyrus, as you have seen for yourself. You need something, you go to the warehouse and ask for it. You want to depart, you are offered transportation to the place of your choice and a post in one of the organization’s projects around the world. If you want to return to “normal” life, the fact that you have been working here opens the most prestigious universities and companies to you. Making currency is a very inefficient and energy-wasting activity, after all,” he added with his infectious grin.  

“And what about the non-scientific community? And the children? What future do they have? What choices?” Cyrus was desperately trying to find fault in what looked to him as an all too perfect project. His long years had taught him that such things did not exist, and that most of the shiny, wonderfully sustainable projects ended up being the green washing machine of some unspeakable industry. Everything sounded too easy for his comfort.  

“Have we never told you how “New Future” came to being, Cyrus?” another deep voice joined in the conversation. They both looked up as Silvertree straddled the wooden bench and had a look at the gourd that Cyrus was holding possessively. “Let go, Cyrus, your turn is long past, and I’d swear there’s still some flavour left there,” he said pleasantly.  

“Excellent dinner, master cook, I might like to have the recipe of that corn pie,“ Greenwood joked good naturedly while Silvertree poured hot water and sipped with delight, plainly ignoring the jest. “So,” he said, passing the implements on to his friend, “As you surely know, Cyrus, in the first decades of last century there was a strong tendency to recover traditional, or more naturally-oriented ways of living, and communities of that kind spread around the world. Porvenir, “Future,” in Tierra de Fuego, became one of those, made up of half-indigenous people, artisans, farmers, professors, and such. When the first assault of Antarctica’s melting hit we managed to save most of them, and offered them to resettle here.”  

“You were here, then?” Cyrus asked softly. That was one of the subjects he had not yet raised, out of discretion. Antarctica’s first bout of melting had happened a hundred years ago.  

“Yes, we were. We knew exactly what was going to happen, we had developed a specific alert system and we evacuated many people from the coastal lands. They now dwell in the surroundings. Children are taught here, there are many experts, and our training programs are among the most advanced and recognized around the world…”  

“But, above all, they learn to be ecologically sound,” Greenwood came back with his favourite subject, “they learn to take their decisions based upon zero ecological footprint. Many choose to remain here, some have gone abroad, but they still maintain their way of living. They are strictly independent from us. They rule themselves, and we simply share resources. They just...came on board, adopted our system, which was far more advanced and practical than the one they had before and… went on with their lives.”  

“Oh! And they changed the name of the place!” Silvertree added with a playful smile. “There are many communities like this around the world. They freely associate to Greenwood Great, we provide them with ecologically sound energy supplying systems and they just... go on.”  

That was new, and Cyrus wondered how he had never thought of asking about it. He knew of that phenomenon, of course, he had seen those communities spread around the world, a reaction against globalisation, but, above all, against the environmental threat. He had found very few that were viable, and this one was, by far, the most sophisticated he had ever seen. Peace, happiness and positive energy coursed the camp; everything seemed possible, and there were no boundaries to what one could or would do, except when one was on kitchen duty.  

“You are a miracle, aren’t you?” he grunted, after sipping thoughtfully.  

“Give me that,” Greenwood demanded, picking up the gourd and eyeing it critically, a friendly reconvention in his voice, “you’re an incurable romantic, Cyrus, but no matter how much water you add to it, what is gone is gone.“ This time, Cyrus thought, his voice had a bitter edge.  

Despite those passing moments of puzzlement, Cyrus truly enjoyed life in “New Future” camp. He was surrounded by talented, enthusiastic scientists who had the means and the knowledge to pursue the strangest of hypothesis and find something practical and useful in their research without the pressing need for economic results. He enjoyed working with the children and engrossing the “soil nursery” best practice handbook. He had the energetic feeling that he was doing something useful, instead of fighting hopelessly to stem a tide with his bare hands. He felt truly privileged to be working in such an enriching milieu, in which knowledge, ideas, theories and data flew freely and grew more fertile because of the freedom with which they were sowed.  

They had their moments of leisure, too. Musicians, artisans and artists, as well as residents, usually enlivened the nights with acting, story telling, recounting of old myths or playing ancient, traditional instruments. He particularly loved the enthralling sound of the sanka panpipes (2) and the bombo drums (3) resounding in the night, at the times when most of the camp reunited around bonfires and simply listened to that ancient, haunting music that pulsed with the mighty heartbeat of the powerful Andes. His hosts, too, seem to particularly favour these instruments, and they could be seen listening intently, their eyes strangely unfocused, as if lost in what distant land of thought Cyrus could not guess.  

Sure as he was that they were the inspiring force behind the astonishing achievements and extraordinary well being of that population, he was strangely afraid to delve further into their mystery for fear that, as in ancient tales, the miracle would dissolve in front of his eyes the moment he tried to fully unveil its secrets.   

So he continued working eagerly, supporting and improving the efforts of the soil department, which seemed to be the most important target of the organization, especially on the field of soil regeneration, soil reconstruction and special crops for poor soils, putting to work the ancient traditional practices he had rescued during his long years working to stop the devastating droughts and deforestation in Africa.  

“Isn’t it amusing?” he complained one night. They were sitting at his hosts’ refuge upon a mighty Nothofagus, a comfortable, rustic chamber that somehow reminded Cyrus of his own Parisian apartment, full of curiosities.  

They were sharing their customary mate, but this time the conversation was scarce, each lost in their own thoughts.  

“We’ve been despoiling traditional cultures from their knowledge for years, or I’d rather say, centuries,” Cyrus ranted, ”exchanging their ancient wisdom for our chemicals, until the soils were ruined and the knowledge lost and they were unable to obtain their own sustenance from their lands. Then, we fed them out of charity and indebted them as we taught them back what we once learnt from them. Isn’t it ironic?” he repeated bitterly, sipping angrily.  

“What do you propose?” Silvertree asked calmly, and Cyrus noted that Greenwood tensed in his comfortable hammock, listening with barely concealed interest.  

“I…I don’t know, I mean, I hadn’t thought…”  

“Let me help you. Many years ago, we started buying patents from different labs, and returning them, improved, to their rightful traditional owners…”  

“Seed patents, of course, those genetically modified seeds that allowed no reseeding…” Greenwood interrupted his friend, now fully immersed in the conversation. 

No matter how well Cyrus thought that he knew his hosts, they always managed to surprise him. Some months had passed since his last bout of doubt, and he now fully trusted them. He had learnt to identify their differences and their reactions. Silvertree was calm and even-tempered, while Greenwood was prone to action and quick –if extraordinary well informed- decisions. Both shared an immense knowledge and inexhaustible patience, and a positive attitude that still surprised Cyrus after  that time. They were always ready to embark on new projects and new battles, and everything seemed possible when they looked at it with their knowing, ancient eyes.  

“Yes, I see what you mean...” Silvertree was musing on something, Cyrus could tell from the glitter in his silvery eyes. “That would be ironic. We must ask our partners for some quick research on intellectual property rights…”  

“Oh, please!” Greenwood’s voice had that amused edge that was always prelude of febrile activity. “I die to read Bard’s rendition of traditional direct seeding procedures and Poet's versions of ages-old harvest songs!“ he joked, laughing at Silvertree’s pained expression. “I wonder how it is that we did not think of it before!”  

Bard and Poet, as they were indistinctly known, were Greenwood’s Great co-founders and co-presidents, too, as far as Cyrus had gathered. They took care of other side of the organization’s activities, mainly running their potent blogging tool and feeding indescribable pieces of undefined, varied knowledge upon the many communities that accessed Greenwood Great’s blogging and information network.  

And so it was that Cyrus found himself involved in the creation of a huge freeware database of ancient traditional agricultural best practices and remedies paired with what caused the problems and diseases.  

Bard and Poet received the proposal with great delight, reinforcing Cyrus’ idea that they might be kind of subversive revolutionary types, and Greenwood’s outburst of laughter was no doubt heard across the continent when Cyrus shared his suspicions with him.  

They worked restlessly for almost ten years, in not always easy collaboration with those distant colleagues, and as the work progressed, Cyrus was more and more amazed at the powerful research tool they had set in motion.  

“They specialized in compiling databases of almost every thing ever researched related to earth sciences,” Silvertree told him once of his two distant friends, and Cyrus could have sworn that he spoke seriously. “They settled in Central Asia, in the Karakorum area, some years ago, don’t ask me why. They had a huge set of caverns arranged and conditioned with wireless connection and brought a number of scholars from different areas to work with them, digitalizing and cross-referencing information for the simple pleasure of it…. Of course they do other things, while they’re at it….”  

Useful cross-referencing was a fact, as Cyrus had the chance of experiencing himself in many occasions during the project. Poet and Bard, despite their moodiness and their queerness, such as sending information in free verse, or coming up with definitions in palindromes (4), proved themselves of the greatest help, and soon their lively blogging community was busy and thriving with information about traditional practices. Most of the practices were tested in New Future’s soil nursery, and extended to other camps that made part of their network, and soon all of Greenwood Great’s associate communities were engaged in that enthralling project.  

“I can’ t believe this!” Cyrus was amazed at what they had set in motion from that simple conversation.  “It’s… it’s amazing, I mean…how, how could we do this? I never thought it was so simple…we have advanced so much in so little time! When this is finished, we may have a powerful tool to stop so many problems that I cannot believe this wasn’t done before!”   

He was sitting on the windowsill in Greenwood’s office, as his friend waited for the midyear report of earth’s state. The blond man raised a brow and looked at him quizzically, but Cyrus was so enthralled by the prospects of their success that did not take notice. “Can you imagine? When this tool is finished and at everybody’s disposal, there won’t be reason for such damaging practices anymore!”  

“Cyrus, I can’t believe that you’re speaking seriously,“ Greenwood laughed out, his big frame shaking with unrestrained mirth, ”you truly believe that this will stop deforestation and the use of chemicals in industrial growing? Come on, man, you’ve lived two hundred years, you cannot possibly believe that!”  

“Of course I do! Why are we doing this, then? Once the information is available...” Cyrus retorted heatedly.  

“The information has always been available, we’re compiling it for several purposes, but none of them is "saving the world", as you should know by now!” Greenwood answered sternly.  

Cyrus eyed him intensely, as if he had found a long-sought answer. “I’ll never give up, though!” he stated calmly, and left the office without looking back. 

*** 

“Why are we doing this, Silvertree?” They were sitting by the fire, in one of those warm winter nights that were now the rule all over the year. In all the years that he had spent there, Cyrus had noticed a steady rising of the temperatures, and rainfalls were now scarcer. Some of the beeches had died, and the forest was clearing out at a firm pace, much to Greenwood’s dismay. The stars, though, shone as bright as ever.  

“For three reasons, Cyrus, as far as I can tell,” Silvertree knew exactly what he was wondering about, Cyrus noted. “First, for the sake of preserving the knowledge and returning it to their rightful owners, as I recall you suggested that night. Second, to try and test those methods and verify their validity, which is something that agrees with our objectives. Third, to help our associate communities improve the quality and quantity of their crops while maintaining their soils. I could add that it makes you happy, and that’s a good thing, and that it kept Bard and Poet from other activities, which is even a better thing, as you must have learnt by now...”  

Cyrus smiled sadly, his fears confirmed by that answer, and he turned his head to the bonfire, where a group of young artists were enacting an ancient myth.  

He discovered with some trepidation that they were playing the selk’nam myth he had used in his last speech at the COEP, the day he had met Silvertree and his life had taken an unexpected course.

He looked briefly at his companion but he seemed deeply engaged in following the acting. This is a chance occurrence, it was casually scheduled for today, he thought firmly, it has nothing to do with our conversation, he added, as the God Sun, justly enraged, chased his wife the moon to the skies, and the rest of the female spirits to the sea. Then, death came to earth, under powerful wings, and God Sun, immortal as he were, could not live in the same place with mighty death, and climbed to the skies, too, to oversee the rest of his subjects, male spirits, whom he turned into forest dwellers.

“We say “casually” only because we are gloriously ignorant about the subtle mechanisms of causality” The quote emerged from who knew what deep recesses of his mind, sending a shiver through his spine. The drama progressed in front of the fire, as darkness and death eventually climbed to the skies and the God Sun was finally chased from his throne and the women emerged from the sea with a powerful roll of drums.

The women among the audience cheered happily at the well-known ending and the young players bowed repeatedly and blushed furiously as the younger girls jumped up and engaged them in a traditional dance, music bursting from everywhere, as it was usual in those celebrations. At the changing light of the flames, Cyrus discovered the silhouette of Greenwood, leaning on a tree, his arms crossed over his powerful chest, his eyes strangely alight and the saddest look he had ever seen upon any face on earth.  

“We’re not giving up, Cyrus,” Silvertree’s deep voice said softly, “We’ll never yield. There are battles, though, that cannot be won.”  

He nodded silently, a lump in his throat, and turning his back on his friends, he walked unsteadily to his cabin.  

He shifted restlessly in his bed that night, tossing and turning as forgotten faces, shreds of conversations and distorted images crowded in his mind. Tired of his unrest, he got up and went out, hoping to find some peace under the stars.  

He walked half a dozen steps towards the forest and then froze.  

Greenwood and Silvertree were standing there, tall as young trees of gold and silver, still as stones, looking west. The full moon washed them in its magical light, and made them shine like ancient statues, like otherworldly spirits keeping guard.  Cyrus was reminded of the tall stone Mohai of Ahu Akivi, in Easter Island.(5) As the legend had it, that particular Ahu honoured the seven explorers that had first set foot in the island, and they looked west to the place were their ancient dwelling had once been, as a reminder of the way home.  

The longing and yearning radiating from those still figures was so poignant that Cyrus could hardly find the strength to move away. When he finally made his way back to his bed, he fell in a deep, untroubled sleep.    

TBC   

A/N : I’ve come down to five notes here! But then, I’m not all that sure of which things are well known facts, so I thought that when in doubt, I’d rather explain… Apologies, if it is too boring…  

Notes:  

(1) Mate: A traditional indigenous drink, kind of tea, made out of the leaves of a tropical south American endemic plant, ilex paraguariensis; with most of the components of green tea, it is said to be healthier and less astringent. It is traditionally served in a dried and decorated gourd, filled with up to two thirds with the dried leaves. Hot water is then poured over the leaves, and the server drinks from the straw, or bombilla, until there’s no water left. Then more water is added and the next person drinks. It is traditional to share the bombilla (Yes it is! :-/) so sharing mate is a signal of friendship and closeness. Of course, it can also be home made as normal tea, or enjoyed alone with your own bombilla.  

(2) Andean panpipe, made up of a double row of reeds, this particular type contains some of the lower notes of all the Andean pipes, which, though more difficult to play, are the most haunting and powerful in their sound, above all when combined with the (3) bombo drums, whose dark and deep sound is due to the fur in the skins used to make the drums.  

(4) Palindrome: A word, phrase, number or any other sequence of units that has the property of reading the same in both directions. (eg.racecar )  

(5) Mohai are those tall stone statues of Easter Island, and Ahu is the ceremonial site where the Mohai are set. Ahu Akivi, with seven statues, is the only Ahu placed inland and looking to the sea. The legend sustains the explanation Cyrus is remembering here, but it’s not a documented fact at all.