The Grafting of the Third Son

Epistolary

Elias, I assume you are still residing in the city. I assume you still find the smell of wet earth offensive. That is a pity. You would appreciate the progress in the south garden. The soil is finally right. I spent the winter mixing the loam with the bone-meal from the old cellar. I followed the ratios exactly. Three parts crushed calcium, one part blood-soaked peat, and a handful of the salt from the dead sea. The pH is sitting at a steady 5.4. It is the only way to ensure the root doesn't sour. Your brother is taking. The graft was difficult (the stem kept rejecting the marrow), but I have managed to stabilize the growth. He is currently three feet tall. He has no lungs, but he breathes through the pores in his skin. The skin is the most difficult part. It emerges as a translucent film over the central stalk. I have to keep it moist with a brine of salt and copper. If it dries, it cracks. If it cracks, the rot sets in. I spent Tuesday pruning the excess foliage. There were small, soft protrusions near the crown. They look like fingers. They feel like wet leather. I have noticed the jawline forming beneath the primary leaf. It is a precise likeness. He has your chin. He has our father's heavy brow. There is a cost, of course. The north field is failing. The corn is yellowing and the wheat is stunted. The Third Son is greedy. He drinks the nitrogen from the surrounding earth with a violence I have never seen in a living plant. I have diverted the slurry from the pigs to keep him fed. The livestock are thin. They are shivering in the pens. It does not matter. Is it a waste of the acreage? Perhaps. But the harvest is almost here. Come home, Elias. Your brother is nearly tall enough to stand.