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The Roanoke Colony was not the first attempt to plant a seed on stolen soil.
Adam's hands itch. They're running a video package before he's supposed to walk through the tunnel. He thinks he should exit from stage left. That's where the good guys come from. He's still one of those, he thinks.
The colony that is most remembered, rather infamously, was actually the second attempt to plant a seed.
Production is still telling him to wait. It feels like it's been too long. He starts to shuffle his feet, feeling the ground scuff his new boots.
Referred to as the Lost Colony, the modern interpretation of events mostly lives in legend.
Did he miss his queue? He hasn't heard his music yet, so they must still be playing the compilation of Kenny's win. He wonders if he even remembers what his music sounds like. Does he know what he should be listening for?
A group of settlers under the direction of John White made a home on the previously evacuated Roanoke Island. They arrived in 1587.
Oh, there's his music. There's the crowd noise. He inspects his hands, makes two Ls to ensure he's walking through the right door. The sound guy gives him a weird look as he does so, but Adam tries not to worry about it.
Shortly after his arrival, White returned to England to gather more supplies for the young colony. He left behind 117 weary men, women, and children, including some of his own family.
The day he left would be the last time he ever saw them alive.
There are too many eyes staring at him. He scans the crowd, because it's the only thing to look at. He tries to pick up smiles, but most of the faces that stare back at him are full of pity. It makes his chest hurt, but he's not entirely sure why. He wishes he had prepared for this a little better.
Three years after his departure, and upon his return, John White found the young settlement completely deserted. The ground was overgrown by local brush and weeds. There was not a single soul left on the island to greet him.
Adam misses his butterfly weed. His flowers don't pity him. His flowers grow from dirt. Dirt; it's been getting into everything lately. He's had to pay special attention when he scrubs it from his clothes to make sure it doesn't wander before he throws it into the washing machine. It's real dirty. There’s still some soil beneath his fingernails, but he doesn't dislike it. He never could. It sustains all life on Earth, indirectly including himself. And, sickly, it's all just rotted-up stuff. It's dead leaves and old bugs, it's forgotten roots and soiled fruits.
It's all stuff that should have been lost to time, if not for its willingness to live on after death.
On one of the palisades, White discovered a carving on the surface: a single word, "CROATOAN." He took this as a sign that the other colonists had moved south to an island that shared the same name, but that was more speculation than confirmation.
He wishes Schiavone hadn't handed him the microphone. It feels too big in his hand. He thinks about throwing it, just tossing it to the ground and denying anyone an explanation. He doesn't owe it to anyone but himself, and even then, he really doesn't have a good answer.
An unlucky hurricane stifled all attempts to sail to the nearby island. John White had to retreat, lest he risk losing his own life and the lives of his small crew. Without knowing the fate of the settlement, he thought the loss they had experienced upon their return was already too great.
He could not risk another defeat.
Expectant eyes stare at him, study his pores. He wonders if they look close enough, would they be able to stare through his skin, see past his muscles and his bones? Would they see his heart? Would they see how it's rotting, black and sludgy, how it's filled with dead leaves and old bugs? Will they see it for the parasite it is, surviving only by feasting on nostalgia and pity?
White returned to England and died three years later. No one, including himself, knew the ultimate fate that befell the 117 men, women, and children left behind on the island of Roanoke.
Adam's as honest as he can be. He's not sure what he wants to plant in this new garden, what it will blossom into, or if it will even grow at all. But he's a good gardener. He's been welcoming finches, monarchs, so many other sweet creatures that never bothered to visit before. Blessings like that don't come to you unless you put in the work, plant the seeds, and guard them through their germination.
There are many rational explanations for the colony's disappearance.
Maybe what he'll plant will be perennials, bulbs buried deep in the soil that come back each year. Maybe they’d only be able to get rid of his seeds, get rid of him, if they dug up the roots. They take a while to grow, sure, but after they take, they're hard to eradicate.
But the legends grow from the irrational, the supernatural, the otherworldly, and the inexplicable.
Adam hates English ivy, but he's grown to appreciate its resilience. You can't get rid of the shit unless you sever the leaves from the vines. Sometimes, when Adam's really desperate, he's been digging out the pest's roots with a fork. He wishes he didn't know how to use something as common as a kitchen fork as a weapon of mass destruction, but his job comes with a few unique perks.
Whatever the explanation, whatever the cause, the Lost Colony of Roanoke lives in haunting infamy, left in the minds of superstitious souls to speculate upon, nearly 400 years after its death.
Seven years sometimes feels like a century, and sometimes it feels like last week. For seven years, the only thing Adam's thought about was The Big One. He's honest with himself and these strangers that once believed in him that he doesn't know what he is without it; without the chase, without a goal, without the drive shaft of the engine that steers him in life, but he supposes that they'll learn together.
The intolerance of uncertainty that lines his skull isn't as loud as he was expecting it to be when he hands the microphone back to Tony and steps through the ropes.
He's grateful that Kenny doesn't come out. He's grateful that no one comes out to greet him, actually, because his heart’s already devoid of want as he walks up the ramp. What he said wasn't hollow, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt; it doesn't mean that it didn't poison his roots.
Adam thinks about weed killer and chemicals as he makes his way back. He walks through the good guy tunnel again. The sound guy doesn't give him a weird look anymore, but he does have a strange, small frown on his lips. Adam wishes he didn’t see it as he walks past the production booth. He ignores all of the eyes that don't look at him as he stalks through the halls.
Adam thinks about planting seeds and makes a few hollow promises to stop at his local nursery when he gets home tomorrow. It brings him some small semblance of joy as he coughs through the clumps of dirt still lining his lungs.