Chapter Eleven
Seven summers ago, when Beth’s fallen tree still towered above the landscape, a cicada had lain eggs on a branch in its leafy crown. Using sharp serrations on her ovipositor, she cut a slit in the surface of the bark and deposited a dozen tiny, pale ellipsoids. By repeating this process over the next few days, she concealed hundreds of eggs throughout the gum tree. With her life’s work complete, she quietly died. Yet her death marked the completion of an extraordinary and successful journey. Her young were about to embark on a similar adventure.
Eight weeks later, nymphs no bigger than fleas hatched from the cicada’s eggs. These tiny paratroopers launched themselves skyward and floated silently to earth, their fall cushioned by the soft leaf litter. Instinct drove them to
