Seeders

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SPARROW ISLAND LIES FIFTY MILES off the coast of Nova Scotia, where icy winters and frequent storms make it a brutal spot for life to survive. On one side, soaring cliffs act as a natural barrier against the Atlantic, protecting the rest of the island from invading winds and pounding surf. Along these scabrous cliffs, only the hardiest plants take root. Winter creepers, juniper, and heather cling stubbornly low to the ground, pugnacious against the elements. The other side of the island is flat with dense woods, sixty acres of knobby pines and twisted deciduous trees that huddle together like souls on a life raft.

Seventy-two-year-old George Brookes, the only resident of the island, seemed remarkably fit for such a harsh place. He ran fiercely through the frigid woods, dodging fallen branches as his bare feet pounded the brittle path. Despite the arctic temperature, his bronze body was soaked in sweat. George clung tight to an old rifle, shifting his wild eyes and jerking the barrel between the trees, as if something sinister were hunting him down. In cutoff shorts and long, gray hair, he looked like a castaway gone mad.

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