The Seed at the Fog Line

Letter 52 of the Book of Forgetting

The east orchard smelled of damp apples and turned leaves. Miriam Segal stood at the last row of trees with her father Elam, a basket half full of windfalls at her feet. She was twenty-two, the map seller's daughter, and she had the same steady way of watching that her father had.

"Fernando," she said when I came up the path. "You're out early."

"Miriam, Elam, good morning." I carried the rangefinder in one hand, a cloth sack in the other. "Miriam, would you come with me to the east orchard fog line? I need to retrieve the damp half of my blue seed before the Council's permit rule takes hold, and I'd like a witness to confirm I'm not crossing the line—just taking what I left."

"The fog is just fog." Miriam glanced at her father. "But I can't leave the orchard; I'm with Papa, and I'm only a baby."

Elam Segal was eighty-one, retired from the survey post, with the same grey eyes as his daughter. He set down his own basket. "I'll go with you, Fernando. I've got good eyes still."

"I'd appreciate that, Elam. The seed is just beyond the last row of apple trees, maybe two paces from the fog line. I left it there two days ago to test moisture absorption."

We walked the row together. The fog line was quiet, a grey wall that didn't move. The seed lay where I'd left it, half blue, half white, the damp half facing the fog.

"It's right there, see?" I pointed. "The damp half is on the fog side. I'll just reach in and grab it."

Elam squinted. "You're two paces from the line, Fernando. Not over it."

"I'm not crossing the line. I'm just retrieving my property."

I bent and picked up the seed. The damp half was still damp, cold against my fingers. I was about to turn it over when a voice came from the path behind us.

"Fernando. Elam."

Guard Ezra Peretz stood at the edge of the orchard. He was thirty, new to the guard, with a clean-shaven face and a radio clipped to his shoulder. He hadn't been there a moment before.

"You're both near the fog line without a permit," he said. "That's a fine."

I straightened. "Ezra, I'm not crossing the line. I'm two paces from it. Elam can confirm."

Elam nodded. "He didn't cross. I watched him."

Ezra didn't look at Elam. "The rule is the rule. Two paces or one, you're near the line. The fine is thirty marks each."

"Fine. I'll pay." I put the seed in my sack. "But I want it noted that I didn't cross the line. Elam, you saw that, right?"

"I saw it," Elam said.

Ezra wrote in a small book. "Noted. Pay at the town hall by Friday."

He turned and walked back up the path. I watched him go. The path was straight, bare of trees, and he had not been on it when I looked a minute before.

Elam was quiet a long moment. "He knew we were here," he said finally. "Before we reached the seed. How did he know that?"

I looked at the fog line. "I don't know, Elam. I really don't."

At the old well that evening, Ivo Segal and his son Ophir stood at the stone lip with two timers side by side. Ivo was forty-five, the guard captain, heavy in the shoulders. Ophir was seventeen, thin, with his mother's dark hair.

"One more time," Ivo said. "We measure clean, we write it down, and then we go home."

Ophir sighed. "Fine. Drop it."

Ivo dropped the stone. The splash came up small and flat. Both timers read the same: a full second after the release.

"There," Ophir said. "Same as always. Now can we go?"

"Count the stones first. Your side, my side."

They counted. Ivo got seven. Ophir got six.

"Same split," Ivo said. "Every time."

"It's just the well, Dad."

"It's not just the well." Ivo pocketed his timer. "But I said we'd drop it after tonight. I keep my word."

They walked back toward town. I stood at the well a moment longer, the blue seed in my pocket, damp against my thigh.