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Roseweed

Prologue and Chapter 1

Sam Heller

Prologue

Nobody had seen or heard of roseweed before the pandemic, even though the first strains were already here in the 1970s. The spores were here long before that, borne on a prevailing wind from God-knows-where and lying dormant in their West Country surroundings until the conditions were right. Germination was hard won, and for so many years it would lead only to a fleeting glimpse of life, scarcely noticeable in the secluded gardens and undisturbed wildernesses of its unwitting Eden. Those first, weak incarnations saw only a few dawns before the earth took them back, their foothold lost before it had really begun. Both climate and environment had to be just right. Not too cold, not too wet; not too hot, nor too dry. And even in the countryside, pollution levels were too harsh for such a delicate species. But above all, it was about noise. Roseweed hated noise - vibrations, footsteps, children, machinery. But in the lockdowns, this strange plant had found a chance to bloom just that little bit longer than it had ever done before, to grow that little bit further and faster so that it might at last find its niche and evolve and mutate and discover… how to stay alive.

#

The first person to discover roseweed was Erin Elizabeth Madison, aged nine. She was at her father’s Devonshire cottage in the early weeks of summer, two weeks before the end of term. It was a warm Tuesday afternoon, when school was over for the day and there was time enough to explore that little wilderness she loved so much.

Chapter 1

As she had done so many times before, Erin made a beeline for the bottom of her father’s garden. It was an untouched copse at the end of a mostly neglected corner of the quarter-acre he owned, far too overgrown for anyone to really be bothered with. The previous owners of Rose Cottage had thought much the same. Just like the owners before them. It was too much out of the sun to be cultivated or cleared for recreation, too overshadowed by high cob walls to be a functioning allotment. So it had become just another forgotten corner of an often unused garden in a small village west of the moorland, nestling in a microclimate that defied prediction. But despite the neglect, despite the shadows and the drainage and the Dartmoor weather, it was the perfect place for a curious girl to explore. And it was a peculiarly apt environment for other reasons - a small haven that was never too cold nor too wet; never too hot, nor too dry. And since the virus had come to England, and since the roads had grown quieter and the people had been that little bit less present, it was never too polluted or noisy either.

Erin bent down and edged her way through the thicket until she found the tiny clearing where she could stand up without messing up the white party frock she’d insisted on wearing since she got back from school. With due care for the dress, and the tiara, Erin inspected the area for insects and spiders - never being too keen on that sort of thing and favouring the exploration of colourful plants and shrubs. She couldn’t read particularly well yet, even though she was nearly ten, but she made a mental note to ask Dad about the names of everything she saw when she got back indoors. Normally, she made do with picture books and some drawings of her own to act as reference. Sometimes she even gave names to the things she found. Today she found… ‘roseweed’.

Erin noticed plenty of things growing at her feet. The warm weather had brought out all manner of colourful flora. Some she recognised, some she didn’t. Wonderful summer colours were everywhere, sitting atop the deep brown soil and surrounded by that lush forest green she associated so much with her father. Indeed, he was wearing the green wellingtons with buckles that she liked even now as he pottered around the kitchen whilst she came out to explore. Her mother didn’t have a garden like this, just a back yard with fancy paving and a swing chair. Erin had to be clean and tidy before she climbed onto that, but here at home, with Dad, mess was very much the normal way things were.

Erin continued to scrunch her way through the copse, frequently tangling her long blonde hair in knots against the dangling canopy of leaves. But it was okay, her dress was fine.

And then there was something in particular that caught her eye. Just to the side of a protruding tree route, beneath some leafy shade, was a long streak of brilliant red. She knew her colours. This was a proper red, a rose red - glistening despite the shade and the general warmth of the July air and the long dry spell they had enjoyed since half term.

Erin peered closely. It was almost like a strand of thin ribbon, but as she crouched down, she could see how it was covered with tiny petals along its length, with buds at the centre like the roses she knew from the main garden. But the ribbon wasn’t thin like silk, it was plump and fleshy, like she imagined a snake’s tongue would be. Instinctively, she knelt down to smell it. She sniffed long and hard. There was just the faintest hint of sweetness to be had. This and the colour made Erin nod to herself and name the discovery. ‘I’ll call you Roseweed,’ she said out loud.

Other kids would often make fun of her for talking to herself, but she didn’t really mind. Her mother said it was the only way she could be sure of an intelligent reply, but saying this in company had caused one particular child to kick her hard in the shin. Erin had, of course, retaliated. That was Dad’s suggestion, though it was only her special needs and the understanding nature of the victim’s parents that had prevented her being sent home for decking the little brat who had kicked her. Mum was shocked. Dad (and the teacher) were both secretly quite proud.

Erin reached down and took hold of the tip of the ribbon-like growth and gave it a tug. It straightened but was firmly fixed to the ground. The tip of the weed looked sharp and unfriendly, but the main body was soft and inviting. She couldn’t tell how deep it went, but she surmised, quite correctly, that it must be about three feet long, so the majority of it was tucked away in the dirt. Curiosity had the better of her now, and she pulled a bit harder. She knew there was a risk of it snapping, but she had to know what it was like under there. But there was no real danger of the weed breaking. It was tough and hardy. It had been growing like this for months, and the bright red protrusion was the culmination of its development in these newly idyllic surroundings. It would never go back to what it was. It would never be the shy and retiring weed it had been for so long, cowering in the dirt, unable to defend itself, to sustain itself. Now it was truly alive - growing at an increasing rate here and all across the countryside. In fact, it was starting to appear everywhere outside the towns and cities in the warmer southern half of the country.

Erin became even more determined, and she curled the soft ribbon around her hand to get a good, strong grip. In doing so, the little rosebuds along its length began to crush and disintegrate against her skin. Yet still she could not break it free of its mooring. ‘Stupid plant!’ she said indignantly as she stood up, frustrated. And she gave it a kick for good measure. It was then she felt the itching - a sudden, ferocious itching all around her hand where the weed’s petals and buds had been crushed. She looked down at her hand and scratched. There was a thick red line all around it, and it glistened just like the ribbon had done, but now that glistening was associated with the itch, and she didn’t like it. It was starting to hurt. 

Erin turned around and left the copse, heading back towards the house. She felt a sense of urgency as she walked as if it was imperative she didn’t waste time, almost as if there was something behind her. It was the same feeling she got if she had to get up for a wee in the middle of the night. That long walk back down the corridor after she had switched off the bathroom light always frightened her, and by the time she reached her bed she was always running. It felt the same now, with her hand really hurting rather than just itching. And there was a slight numbness creeping up her arm. It stopped the pain but made her feel worse somehow, as if something was wrong inside her. As she walked, ever more quickly, Erin looked down at her hand again and realised she couldn’t see it properly. Her eyes were blurry and getting tearful. And then there were the ants - bright pink ants with smiling faces that looked up at her as she walked and told her to keep going in high, squeaking voices. Half crying, half dreaming, she called out to her father from deep within her delirium.

#

James Madison was in the kitchen, making their tea, stomping around in his wellies, spreading fresh garden dirt over the floor. It was a crispy pancakes and chips day, he’d decided, knowing full well that the suppertime menu would find its way back to his ex-wife eventually and cause no end of raised eyebrows, which in turn would cause Erin to laugh uncontrollably and thus make sure Daddy’s little girl would be very much his little girl for a bit longer.

James usually had the radio on while he was in the kitchen, but today it was quiet. He had perfected the cooking of crispy pancakes by learning to interpret the crackling sound they made in the oven when they were just about right. And it was because of this attention to detail that he first heard his name being called from outside. He didn’t rush at first. It was not a loud, screaming sort of ‘dad’. It was a more simpering, whiny sort of sound, which might often have been accompanied by an ‘I’m bored’ or ‘Is it dinner time yet?’ But on the second call she sounded odd. Gurgling almost, and he instinctively knew something was wrong.

‘Coming, Poppet,’ he called, moving swiftly through the kitchen and out onto the patio. ‘What’s the matter?’

Erin was standing on the grass just a few inches from the first of the paving slabs. She was still and silent; her arms hung limp at the side of her body. Her long blonde hair was down over her face. Her legs, like statues, were rigid and unmoving.

‘Erin,’ he said, slowly and deliberately. ‘What’s the matter, darling?’

Normally, James would have scooped her up in his arms by now. That was his way. But not today. Something stopped him, freezing him to the spot, making him stare at his daughter from a distance. Then he noticed her hand and the bright red ring around it, glistening in the light and dripping a thick pinkish liquid onto the ground.

‘Erin, Poppet, answer Daddy. Are you alright?’

Erin said just one more thing before the end. ‘Roseweed, Daddy,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the roseweed.’ And slowly, so very slowly, she toppled forward onto the patio stone, her small body splattering into a pulp as it hit the hard surface with blood and liquidised flesh splaying out across the slabs as if she’d fallen from the highest of cliffs. Only her party frock contained her messy form within familiar bounds, for without it there would have been nothing of Erin to be recognised. Worst of all, it was the thick bone of her skull that was the last to go, and it lingered there just long enough for James’ mind to implode and for his helpless, tortured screams to be heard across the moor.