POISONED TREES AND YELLOW GRASS - A NOVEL BY KAREN CLARK

ONCE THE WARTIME BROADCASTING SERVICE HAS BEEN PUT INTO EFFECT THERE WILL BE NO GOING BACK: WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF POISONED TREES AND YELLOW GRASS

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04Jul

POISONED TREES AND YELLOW GRASS - A NOVEL BY KAREN CLARK

Sapphire’s eyes faintly hovered in Onyx’s direction. “I don’t have long, Onyx,” said the older woman sadly. “It’s my dying wish that you live on to become a woman in your own right; that you rise above the aftermath of the holocaust and witness renewed nature and the world spring to life once again: that is my wish above everything else.” “I know,” the adolescent breathed, too choked to extend her reply. Sapphire’s eyes slowly hovered round the girl’s ashen face, flickering like dull, dying embers. “My husband and I always longed for a daughter like you,” the ex-leader went on, “--- a cute, little girl with hazel eyes and brown hair. My husband would have adored you – just like I always have----. And whatever happens, Onyx, I want you to remember that you’ll always be the daughter that we both never had.”


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​Poisoned Trees and Yellow Grass, a dystopian, futuristic novel,  centers around the lives of four characters—an ovarian cancer sufferer, a  victim of gang rape, a man who has been serving a life sentence for  murder, and a traumatized adolescent who has been domestically  abused—all of whose lives have been changed by the outbreak of nuclear  war. Two are now free from their plights, one successfully plots  revenge, and one is now no more in danger of dying than anyone else.

Looting  from the local provisions warehouse is a serious offence punishable by  being forced to take part in the Eliminations at the East London Arena,  where each offender is electrocuted after losing nine lives in the contest—an event in which survival is rare.

But food and  electricity are fast running out, and if mankind is to survive in the  generations to come, post-war society has to change.

Where others would cry, I'd raise a chipped glass to black, poisoned trees and stiff, yellow grass

Could mankind live on plants alone after the bomb?

With the aid of her torch - more powerful than the one from the hideout - Onyx focussed on the figure in lane number four as it hovered in wait for the flag. Its face - though harsher in the severity of the beam - simultaneously projected vulnerability and fear. This was the face of Emerald, master of puppets; the inciter of Sardonyx's vicious rape. But it was now a ghostly face; soon to be extinct; the face of a survivor from a pre-war world wiped out be innovative winds.

All we can do now is try to survive - and think ahead

How much longer will the Arena's electricity supply last?

Onyx watched in resignation as Sapphire finally rose, signalling that she was ready for her round. She edged closer to the black, atomic chasm, as she lingered at her start line in passivity; void of vitality and will. Atoll rushed to her side, placing a ball in her hand before merging with the radioactive night; and she was left to face her dire end alone. The lever brightly glistened; full of silvery, post-bomb promise; the hand hovering close at its side.

 

"Oh, Sapphire you beautiful gem of blue, how do you think others now see you? In a world that no longer has fairgrounds or meat, do you now find yourself in an alien street, without jewellers to value your infinite worth, and with plutonium sparkling in its own twisted mirth? You've found competition, but don't think we have rights to forget for twinkling, uranium nights..."

Dice turned into a side-road as they neared their destination; its pavements adorned by black, poisoned trees. He recalled the sapling orchard of East London City Farm; the glib rudiments of apples and pears. The corners of his mouth wryly lifted: a radioactive smile at a radioactive pledge.

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“But first, sir, I have something I must show you; perhaps it will convince you that we may be able to strike some sort of deal.  Come this way, sir; I think you’ll be surprised at what you’re about to see.”

They advanced into the farm; Dice gaped in dumbstruck awe as a field of glowing wheat crops filled his sight; their reddish golden seed heads lacked the slightest hint of green, indicating they were ripe and ready for harvest.

Dice was dumbfounded, as further abundant plantations hit his eyes.  The golden yellow sweet corn jogged his hunger, his mouth watering at the sight of ripened ears around soft, creamy kernels lingering boldly beyond the husks.  For a moment the field disappeared, to be replaced by a flashback of his childhood days when his mother served him sweet corn during meals.

The mature soybean plants swollen with ripe, edible beans were next to come, sparkling like precious emeralds in the radioactive sun.  Dice watched in fascination as Equal bent down on one knee and held a pod between his coarse, earthy fingers.  The pod appeared hard yet broke without pressure; clearly the danger of the presence of fall-out had prevented the farmer from taking a bite.

“Here’s proof that farming can still be possible in a radioactive environment,” pronounced Equal, tossing the pod back into the field.  “However, the farm has grown these plants out in the open because they happen to be more resistant than others to ultra-violet radiation.  When we began planting them after the first nuclear winter, the ultra-violet light stunted their growth--- but still, they managed to produce enough food.  It’s exactly three years and seventy-seven days since the start of World War Three; I’ve kept a record of the time.  The farm has done a few harvests since then – ever since we reckoned radiation had sunk to relatively safe levels--- but due to lack of fuel we’ve done everything by hand, which has taken up much of our time.  The pre-war seeds we ordered and stored to plant crops are getting old and are losing their ability to germinate - so we need to speed up the process.  A combine harvester would save time and labour; it would enable the fields to be used for the next crop within a very short period of time.  This would mean that the quality of the harvested crop would be maintained because it wouldn’t be damaged by natural and biological activity - which would spell more food for others, and everyone would be fed more quickly.  Tell me, Dice,” asked the farmer in earnest, “does the Arena have access to petrol?”
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