The Oaken Queen

By Lene Fogelberg

Join Flora Reed on an enthralling journey in "The Oaken Queen," the second installment of the Natural Intelligence Revolution Trilogy. Kirkus Reviews praised "The Lightning Tree," the prequel, as a "thrilling novel of humankind versus nature." In this electrifying addition to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dedaun Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9789198747669

Book preview

1

Flora

Chop-chop-chop.

The sound of the helicopter vibrates through my body. It cuts through my sleep and morphs into a vivid dream.

Fauna and I are carried by a giant grasshopper, whirring and humming through the night. My head rolls heavily to my shoulder, and I cling to my sister’s arm, cold as steel.

Only half asleep, I’m drifting between dream and reality like a ship in a dark ocean. Suddenly aware that I’m clutching my seat instead of Fauna’s arm, my eyes pop open. Across the aisle of the helicopter, Mom is cradling Fauna’s lifeless body. My heart clenches with pain and I close my eyes again.

Hold on, I shout to my sister, hold on. But it’s I who must hold on, hold on to the dream, or I will fall off the back of the grasshopper and into the terrible truth—no, I mustn’t think it. Fauna is still here. Still alive. She must be.

I can sense her whispering through my lightning marks in the secret language of trees that she taught me. My skin tingles like when she talked to me, but I can’t make out the words.

I can’t hear you, I mumble, struggling to shut out the buzzing of the grasshopper.

As I squeeze her hand, a part of me knows it’s the acorn, a hard kernel at the center of my fist. I can feel it longing for the oak tree; just as I could feel the tree’s pain as it burned and fell, and I could feel Fauna’s thin body go limp in my lap as she whispered, remember me. Her desperate gasps for air, and then one, long exhale. Her arm sliding over the edge of the sofa, her hand opening like a flower. And moments later, the whole living room erupting into a fiery inferno.

The memory makes me wince. I feel myself slipping off the back of the grasshopper, nothing but sky beneath me, and I fall from one nightmare to another.

Chop-chop-chop.

My bones hurt from the constant vibrations, the small of my back sending distress signals up my spine. How long have we been here?

I force my eyes open, and scan the inside if the helicopter. Carl is beside me, elbows on his knees, clasping his bandaged arm where the maple tree pierced him. Chief Batista is turned to the window, his police uniform covered in soot. Aaron sends me a strained nod from across the aisle next to Mom. And in the shadows sits the man—David Reed, my dad—who is barely more than an aching question in my mind.

Aaron’s somber eyes search mine like he’s assessing the damage—no trace of a smile—and I am grateful; I wouldn’t be able to return one after this terrible day. Above him there’s a sign: SEEDS. What does it mean? The constant whirring of the helicopter chop-chop-chops my questions into a confused mess. How does Carl know my dad? I thought he was my friend, even more than a friend, but now Carl is shaking his head at my dad in a silent conversation that implies long familiarity. Code Black Hawk, Carl shouted into his phone as the mob’s bullets sizzled around us, and not long after, my dad appeared with the helicopter, saving us.

Now the helicopter sways and staggers. Carl’s hand fumbles for mine, like nothing has changed between us. I pull away and lean toward the window, searching the night for something—anything—to tell me where we’re going.

Only darkness.

I turn to my dad. Where are you taking us? I have to shout to be heard over the roaring rotor blades.

His face emerges from the shadows as he leans across the aisle. We’ll be there soon. His dark, strange voice mixes with my childhood memories. We’ll be there soon, as if we were on our way to my grandparents’ lake house, Fauna sitting next to me in the back seat of our old Volvo. I remember gazing out the car window at the tall trees lining the road, the trunks blurring together, the sun streaming through the branches, and Fauna poking my arm: I spy something green. I remember the feeling of belonging, the four of us, with no one missing. Now we’re together again, but Fauna is silent, gone and present all at once.

As if he can read my thoughts, Dad glances at Fauna and shakes his head. I’m sorry, he shouts, pulling at his unruly hair. I came too late. His desperate gaze searches the cabin as if he could find a way to fix it, a way to make Fauna come back to us. I look away. There is no way to fix it.

That’s it? Chief Batista motions to the window, and even in the dim light of the helicopter he looks tired, the ash stains on his uniform like a last message from the burning Derwyn, our hometown.

Dad, in his ash-free plaid shirt and jeans, gives Chief Batista a silent nod. Through my window, I can glimpse flickering lights. For a second, they remind me of the torches gathering at the end of our driveway, the mob chanting, Burn in hell, witches!

There’s a surge in my stomach as the helicopter descends, and now I can make out the treetops below us like a soft carpet. And then there’s a seam cut through the carpet, stitched with pearls of light—a road—leading to a pattern of rooftops, long rectangular boxes. I loosen my seat belt to be able to see more, but Carl pulls me back.

Hey, flower-girl, we’re going in for a landing. A couple quick hand movements, and he has tightened my seat belt. Gotta stay buckled up.

His dark eyes are resting on me and I want to bury my face by his neck like I used to, but I feel like I don’t know him anymore. Has he been working for my dad this whole time? Without telling me? Was it all fake—his living with our neighbors the Owens as a foster kid? Was any of his history true? The familiarity of his face argues that I do know him. His sharp jawline, his deep dimples, the buzz of his hair. I study the jagged scratches forming an X in the dark skin of his forehead, the sinister message from the forest, marking him to be killed. I can’t believe he was almost tree-jacked. With a shudder, I turn back to the window. Light after light blossoms out of the darkness like daisies, and I ask my dad, What is this place?

Flora. He forces a crooked smile. Always the impatient one.

The chop-chop-chop shifts into a loud staccato, and the surge grows into a vortex, pulling at my feet, my spine, my stomach as we’re dropping through the air. I’m still holding the acorn, and I lean back to cram it down the pocket of my jeans.

Is it a school? I shout, remembering Dad’s YouTube video that seemed to be filmed in a lab reminiscent of the science classroom at Derwyn High School. Do you work here?

Something like that, Dad shouts back, but I can’t make out which question he meant to answer.

Mom whimpers, and I reach for her hand. Her lips move, but there is no sound. I squeeze her hand to tell her, I am here.

And then we hit the ground, and I am forced to let go of Mom as I clutch my seat. Mom presses Fauna to her chest, letting out a wail that seems to pierce the skin of our metal bubble, and a rush of cool night air fills the helicopter as the door slides open.

2

Fauna

Chop-chop-chop.

The whole night is screaming around me.

I want to go home.

Please.

Take me back to the oak tree. Let me bury my roots in the warm earth, feel the sunlight trickle through my branches.

Please, please, take me back.

3

Flora

A blinding light pours into the helicopter, making me squint.

"Let me—," Chief Batista’s voice is cut in half by the screaming rotor blades as he bends to lift Fauna’s thin body out of Mom’s lap. Someone pushes me from behind—is it Carl? Go, go. I’m out of the helicopter and into the whirling night. My legs barely carry me. Am I clinging to Mom, or is she clinging to me? I watch my ash-stained sneakers stumble across the helipad, and in front of us, the broad back of Chief Batista as he carries Fauna, still wrapped in a blanket, toward a cement box of a building.

Catching up to us, Carl wraps his good arm around both me and Mom. Together, we make it through an open steel door. Aaron and Dad are right behind us.

I didn’t notice before, but we’re surrounded by men wearing black. Two of them close the heavy steel door behind us; it settles in place with a thump. The noise of the helicopter is snipped like a ribbon, replaced by a dense silence. The long, bleak corridor stretching out in front of us reminds me of a prison, and I regret not asking my dad more questions.

Where are we? I whisper to Dad, but he is already making his way through our small, ragged group.

Jones, tell him that we have— Dad calls out to the man in the front who stops him by raising his hand. Jones is a tall, muscular, commanding guy with graying hair in a buzz cut. He listens to an earpiece.

Okay, follow me. Jones slices the air with his arm, ushering us down the hall.

I have to repress the feeling of being trapped as we’re led down the corridor by four guys in black uniforms. Are they carrying guns? If they are, I can’t see them. But I recognize their diamond-shaped arm patches depicting a leaf growing out of a seed. It’s the same symbol Carl and I saw in my dad’s YouTube video.

Mom is walking next to Chief Batista, staying close to Fauna.

Carl grabs my hand. You’re safe now. But I can see him pressing his lips together, as if the words taste sour. He seems different, older, but maybe it’s simply the fluorescent light from the ceiling, casting deep shadows under his eyes. He even walks differently, his back straight instead of slightly slumped forward as he falls into step with the men around us. I untangle my fingers from his, and glance over at Aaron. He seems pale, his wavy brown hair tinged gray by ash. You okay? I mouth at him, but his gaze has already wandered past me down the corridor.

A guard comes up from behind us and says, Look what the cat dragged in.

Wade! Carl breaks into a smile. Still working the graveyard shift? He punches Wade’s shoulder. How about your pilot training? Got the license in the bag?

Still working on it. A few more hours of flight time, and it’ll be mine. Wade’s green eyes dart to mine and then they travel down to my neck and arms, tracing my lightning marks. A shiver runs through me, even though I should be used to the way people stare at the pale pink zigzags engraved into my skin by the lightning strike.

Flora, this is Wade Jordan. Carl gives me a nudge, his hand resting briefly on my lower back. I nod to Wade and I can’t help thinking that his green eyes remind me of Fauna’s—perhaps it’s the clarity of them—like emerald water letting you see straight to the seafloor.

As we climb a staircase, I continue to study Wade—his thick sand-colored crew cut, his slanted shoulders, his black shirt sleeves that seem an inch too short. Did they work here together, he and Carl? What did Carl do here, exactly? It’s like a ravine has opened between us, pulling me farther and farther away from the Carl I thought I knew.

Dad’s voice echoes between the walls. Did you tell him that she—?

He has been informed, Jones responds.

We turn a corner into another corridor, passing doors that say Generator Room and Storage. I try to memorize our steps, but it’s all turning into a maze in my mind. All the walls are the same concrete, as are the floors; my ash gray sneakers seem to be swallowed by this echoing, gray ocean.

We enter a large room filled with tables and chairs—a cafeteria—now empty and dimly lit. The only windows are skylights, which are like dark mirrors looking down at us. A clock on the wall says it’s 2:00 a.m.

A man is standing at the front, leaning against a table, as if he’s been waiting for us. He looks like he spontaneously sprang from the floor of this monochrome compound: graphite gray suit, salt-and-pepper hair, silver tie—a gray man in a gray building. He clears his throat. Please, sit down. You must be exhausted.

I sink into a steel chair next to Carl, feeling the cold metal through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.

A petite woman in her thirties comes from the kitchen, carrying a tray filled with pitchers of water and glasses. She too is wearing gray: a collared pencil dress.

Good thinking, Miss Jean, the gray man says and nods at us. Please, you must be thirsty.

Miss Jean puts the tray down next to me and starts pouring the water. Here you are. She hands me a glass, along with a smile as tight as her dress, before distributing glasses to the others in quick, efficient movements.

Thank you. Gulping down the cool water, I glance over at Mom sitting close to Chief Batista, who’s still holding Fauna’s body. Fauna’s body. The words make me tear up. Mom looks so pale, her glass of water shaking in her hands, and I want to wrap my arms around her. But the gray man is clearing his throat again.

Welcome to SEEDS, he says. "Or, Strategic Environmental Enhancement Defense Systems. He pronounces every word carefully, like the name of a cherished pet. I am Director Lund. I’m sure we’ll all get to know each other better in time, but first— his sweeping gaze stops at Fauna. First, I have to say how sorry I was to hear of the unfortunate events that preceded your coming here."

Director Lund pauses, and Mom’s sobbing punctures the silence, echoing against the skylights. Unfortunate events. That’s the way he describes our Fauna dying. Now he motions at the security guards standing by the door and Carl puts his good arm around me, holding me in a firm grip.

Mom’s sobbing intensifies as two guards approach Fauna. Wait, what are you—? She clings to Fauna in the blanket, pulling her from Chief Batista.

Ava— the chief says gently. Ava, you need to let her go. He tries to coax Fauna from Mom, but she presses Fauna harder to her chest, my little sister’s ginger curls blending with Mom’s copper hair, like they’re one.

What will they do to her? I ask Carl, but he clenches his jaw instead of answering. You know, don’t you? I try to shake off his arm, but he only holds me tighter.

Flora, I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can—

They’re going to experiment on her, aren’t they? I pull myself free and get up, my legs shaking. You can’t take her, I shout at Director Lund. She doesn’t belong to you.

Flora, Dad says, I know how it looks, but we have to examine Fauna to see what we can learn. This isn’t easy for any of us. He turns to Mom. Please, Ava . . . you know you can’t keep Fauna with you like this indefinitely. They’ll be careful with her, I promise.

The guards pry Fauna from Mom and carry her toward the door. I glimpse Fauna’s tousled curls and then she’s gone, carried back into the corridor we came from. Jones and Wade stay by the door.

Mom is wailing, struggling against Chief Batista, who’s keeping her from following Fauna into the corridor. She’s mourned Fauna’s accident every day for the past year since she fell from the oak tree, always hoping for a cure. We’ve both searched for a way to bring Fauna out of her unresponsiveness, to bring her back to us. But she’s not coming back, not ever, and I can’t stand it any longer. I need some answers.

What is this place? I yell at Director Lund. Where are you taking my sister? And what are you doing here, exactly?

Behind me, Aaron mutters, Answer her, damn it.

You must be Flora. Director Lund forces a smile. I know this is hard, but we need to take your sister’s body to a safe, cool space for now, before deciding on our next course of action. As to your other questions, I’ll be happy to tell you about our organization.

I wince at his use of the word happy, this is not a happy moment. But I am suddenly exhausted, and I sink back down on the cold metal chair.

We are a groundbreaking research company, Director Lund continues, working primarily in the field of organic linguistics. He starts pacing back and forth. "Our main goal is to solve the age-old mysteries of, not only how natural entities communicate, but also what they are saying. He chuckles, and I wince again. This is a field that has been vastly underrated, even ridiculed, in