My younger uncle drops his head. His shaggy, light-brown hair covers his eyes, and he passes his hand over his mouth.
Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. “The trees are dying.”
Frowning, I look around us, at the rows of trees that havelost their leaves. They don’t look different. They look like all the other trees at this time of year, gray bark, bare branches.
But it’s only temporary. It all comes back in the spring.With the hope…
“I don’t understand.” I look from one to the other. “What do you mean dying? They’re not dying. It’s only winter. It’s?—”
“It’s Armillaria. And it’s only a matter of time.” Sawyer’s voice is quiet. “It spreads underground, killing the roots. There’s no way to know how far it’s gone, but if we’re finding it here, we’ve already lost.”
Leon puts both hands on top of his head. He lifts his chin to face the sky, and his eyes squeeze shut as he shouts, “Fuck!”
My chest trembles. My mind races through everything I’ve learned about plant diseases. I’ve primarily focused my studies on issues we’ve dealt with first hand, powdery mildew, scab, and leaf curl.
We vaguely touched on Armillaria. It’s an oak fungus, primarily located in the Pacific Northwest. Scrubbing my forehead, I remember the professor saying it’s insidious because you don’t know it’s there. By the time the bright patch of honey mushrooms appears, it’s already well-established.
It’s the most aggressive predator in the fungal kingdom.
“We have to fight it.” The words burn in my throat, fisting my chest. “We can’t let it take the orchard.”
Uncle Sawyer’s lips are tight, and he gazes up the hill at my grandfather’s tree. Silence falls over the three of us, and he shakes his head.
He walks over and picks up the axe. “There’s no fighting this, Dove.”
“Yes, there is!” I meet his eyes, mine flashing. “I’ll talk to Dr. Platt tomorrow. We’re going to save the orchard.”
Fire is in my chest, and I’m not going down without a fight.
“Armillaria?”Dr. Platt’s black eyes widen. “Is he certain?”
“No.” I won’t even allow the possibility to take root in my mind. “It’s a guess. Jay Hidalgo found a patch of mushrooms, and my uncle Sawyer found a few dead trees. That’s all.”
My graduate advisor’s lips tighten, and his chin drops. “That’s enough.”
His voice is quiet resignation, and that fist is in my chest again. It’s angry and defiant, and I fight the urge to screamNo!
“LaGrange Orchard has been in our family for generations.” My voice trembles. “The town was built around it. We have to fight this. We can’t just let it destroy everything.”
Dr. Platt nods, and he seems to shake off his dark feelings. He reaches out to briefly squeeze my arm.
“Armillaria has been studied on the West Coast since the 1980s.” He walks over to his laptop and types quickly. “In Oregon, they have what’s called the ‘Humongous Fungus,’ because it’s spread over three square miles of forest, draining the life out of everything.”
“What are they doing?” I’m desperate.
“Let me see… I know a professor at CalTech, Simon Smithfield.”
I step closer, looking over his shoulder. “Can he help us?”
“Well, he’s the top mycologist in the country, and aleading researcher of Armillaria root rot.” Dr. Platt inhales slowly. “If anyone can help you, he can.”
Crossing my arms, I slowly pace my professor’s small office, thinking. “Would you introduce us? Maybe I could spend next semester studying with him.”
“Maybe…” Dr. Platt types some more on his laptop. “I met Simon at a conference several years back. He’s a good guy. Former fireman. He was even part of a special program that tried to plant trees on the moon.”
My brows rise. “How did that go?”
“It didn’t,” my professor says with a chuckle. “They ultimately brought the moon trees back here and planted them on Earth, but he’s a good sport. Always up for a challenge. I think he might be your guy.”
