The Deepwood Yield
Retired lawyer Thomas Caldwell walks the hushed trails of the Deepwood Land Lab, discussing entrepreneurial dreams with Miriam. But the autumn soil holds more than just the remnants of summer's harvest; an ancient, unsettling truth begins to surface from the very roots of the land.
EXT. DEEPWOOD LAND LAB - LATE AFTERNOON
A vast clearing bordered by dense, ancient boreal forest. The air is cool, sharp. Neatly arranged but now-dormant garden plots are covered in a blanket of fallen birch leaves.
SOUND of profound, surgical silence
THOMAS CALDWELL (70s), a man of sharp, analytical features, adjusts his spectacles. He stands before a row of raspberry canes. His gloved fingers hover over one in particular.
CLOSE ON THE CANE
It’s wrong. Not merely withered, but twisted upon itself in a violent, convoluted knot. The bark is a deep, bruised purple that seems to absorb the weak autumn light.
Thomas’s brow furrows. A chill, unrelated to the weather, touches him. He is a man who understands patterns, and this defies all of them.
A cheerful voice breaks the quiet.
MIRIAM (O.S.)
Thomas! Still admiring the remnants?
Miriam (late 60s) emerges from a copse of cedars. A vibrant orange scarf is a splash of defiance against the muted landscape. She carries a canvas tote bag that JINGLES softly.
Thomas pulls his hand back from the strange cane, straightening up.
THOMAS
Miriam. Just... observing the season’s final flourish.
He gestures vaguely at the wider plots, avoiding the specific cane. Miriam joins him, her boots CRUNCHING on the leaf litter.
MIRIAM
Oh, it’s been a spectacular flourish, hasn’t it? The best yield of strawberries we’ve had in years! And the raspberries... plump, crimson jewels.
She glances at the very cane Thomas was studying, but her eyes, full of summer memories, skim right over its peculiarity.
MIRIAM (CONT'D)
Ah, yes, this patch. A little temperamental, but often gives us the sweetest berries. Such a shame to see them go. But, there’s always next year.
Thomas just hums, his gaze flicking from Miriam’s oblivious smile to the dark, twisted stem.
THOMAS
Next year, indeed. Speaking of which, your ambitious plans for ‘The Deepwood Preserve’ are taking shape, I trust?
Miriam claps her hands together, a burst of pure energy.
MIRIAM
Oh, they are! Imagine: small batch, artisanal jams, fruit leathers... ‘The Deepwood Delights,’ perhaps? Or ‘Deepwood Bounty’? Authentic, locally sourced... it’s a dream!
She starts walking along a narrow trail leading deeper into the woods. Thomas follows, the image of the cane lingering in his mind.
EXT. FOREST TRAIL - CONTINUOUS
They walk past skeletal birches and formidable pines. The canopy is denser here, the air colder.
MIRIAM
(tone softening)
Challenging is an understatement, Thomas. We’ve lost so many young people. The mill closed, the fishing quotas dwindled... It’s a struggle, every single day, to offer any opportunity.
THOMAS
And the land lab offers a genuine alternative. A way to cultivate sustenance from the very soil beneath our feet.
MIRIAM
Precisely! And the ‘Preserve’ is the next step. It’s not just about jam, Thomas. It’s about identity. Proving this corner of the world has something valuable to offer.
She kicks idly at a rotting log.
ANGLE ON THE LOG
A clump of fungi grows on it. It is an inky, velvety black. In the shifting shadows, it seems to PULSATE slightly.
Thomas’s gaze lingers on it. He’s seen similar growths near old mining claims—a sign of contamination. But this land is supposed to be pristine.
THOMAS
The raw material, of course. Our yields have been consistently excellent.
He stops. A memory surfaces—faint, from a decades-old land claim case. An obscure geological report. Anomalous subsoil readings. A peculiar resonant frequency. It was dismissed as a footnote.
They round a bend and come upon the remains of the cucumber patch. The sprawling vines are brown and brittle, like discarded fishing nets.
Thomas’s unease returns with a jolt. Some of the dead vines are also convoluted, knotted, just like the raspberry cane. The pattern is the same.
Miriam, oblivious, bends down.
MIRIAM
This land... has always been so fertile. So generous.
She picks up a desiccated cucumber. It’s shrunken and hard, its surface mottled with the same purplish-black discoloration.
THOMAS
Generous, yes.
He carefully takes the dried cucumber from her.
CLOSE ON THE CUCUMBER
In Thomas’s gloved hand, its surface feels unnaturally smooth, almost metallic. The purplish-black mottling isn't random; it follows the vegetable's ridges, forming an almost geometric design.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
But also... old. This region is Precambrian Shield. It has seen millennia pass in its silence.
MIRIAM
(laughs)
That’s part of its charm! The sense of continuity. The Deepwood has always been here. Our families have always been here. A sense of roots.
The word "roots" hangs in the air. For Thomas, it lands with a new, unsettling weight.
THOMAS
Miriam. Do you recall... any unusual incidents during the harvest? Anything out of the ordinary?
MIRIAM
(thinks)
Unusual? No, not really. The usual deer trouble. Oh, and the occasional weird light out by the old observation tower, but that’s just marsh gas. Always has been. Why?
Thomas hesitates. How to explain this feeling? This chilling intuition that connects twisted plants to a redacted geological report?
THOMAS
Just... a professional curiosity. Considering the branding. We must ensure absolute purity, Miriam. No unexpected... additives.
He looks down at the cucumber. The mottling seems to deepen. It feels wrong in his hand—impossibly dense and light at the same time. A faint, metallic tang, not of earth, rises from it.
SOUND of a barely perceptible, LOW-FREQUENCY HUM begins, almost subliminal
EXT. LAND LAB CLEARING - LATER
They circle back as twilight descends. The last light drains from the sky, turning the horizon a bruised violet. The familiar shapes of sheds and compost bins dissolve into shadow.
MIRIAM
(pulling her scarf tighter)
A productive walk, wouldn’t you agree? I feel invigorated! And ‘The Deepwood Preserve’... it just has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?
She beams, radiating a pure, uncomplicated hope that chills Thomas to the bone. He forces a smile. It feels brittle.
THOMAS
Indeed, Miriam. Productive.
He still holds the desiccated cucumber, turning it over and over. A silent, cosmic script etched onto a simple fruit.
His gaze drifts back towards the edge of the woods.
THOMAS'S POV
The twisted raspberry cane stands in the deepening gloom. A dark, gnarled finger pointing at the sky.
BACK TO SCENE
Thomas looks from the unnatural fruit in his hand to the encroaching darkness of the woods. A cold, terrifying certainty settles over him.
The Deepwood Preserve.
Preserving what, exactly? The bounty of the earth?
Or the yield of something else entirely?
A vast clearing bordered by dense, ancient boreal forest. The air is cool, sharp. Neatly arranged but now-dormant garden plots are covered in a blanket of fallen birch leaves.
SOUND of profound, surgical silence
THOMAS CALDWELL (70s), a man of sharp, analytical features, adjusts his spectacles. He stands before a row of raspberry canes. His gloved fingers hover over one in particular.
CLOSE ON THE CANE
It’s wrong. Not merely withered, but twisted upon itself in a violent, convoluted knot. The bark is a deep, bruised purple that seems to absorb the weak autumn light.
Thomas’s brow furrows. A chill, unrelated to the weather, touches him. He is a man who understands patterns, and this defies all of them.
A cheerful voice breaks the quiet.
MIRIAM (O.S.)
Thomas! Still admiring the remnants?
Miriam (late 60s) emerges from a copse of cedars. A vibrant orange scarf is a splash of defiance against the muted landscape. She carries a canvas tote bag that JINGLES softly.
Thomas pulls his hand back from the strange cane, straightening up.
THOMAS
Miriam. Just... observing the season’s final flourish.
He gestures vaguely at the wider plots, avoiding the specific cane. Miriam joins him, her boots CRUNCHING on the leaf litter.
MIRIAM
Oh, it’s been a spectacular flourish, hasn’t it? The best yield of strawberries we’ve had in years! And the raspberries... plump, crimson jewels.
She glances at the very cane Thomas was studying, but her eyes, full of summer memories, skim right over its peculiarity.
MIRIAM (CONT'D)
Ah, yes, this patch. A little temperamental, but often gives us the sweetest berries. Such a shame to see them go. But, there’s always next year.
Thomas just hums, his gaze flicking from Miriam’s oblivious smile to the dark, twisted stem.
THOMAS
Next year, indeed. Speaking of which, your ambitious plans for ‘The Deepwood Preserve’ are taking shape, I trust?
Miriam claps her hands together, a burst of pure energy.
MIRIAM
Oh, they are! Imagine: small batch, artisanal jams, fruit leathers... ‘The Deepwood Delights,’ perhaps? Or ‘Deepwood Bounty’? Authentic, locally sourced... it’s a dream!
She starts walking along a narrow trail leading deeper into the woods. Thomas follows, the image of the cane lingering in his mind.
EXT. FOREST TRAIL - CONTINUOUS
They walk past skeletal birches and formidable pines. The canopy is denser here, the air colder.
MIRIAM
(tone softening)
Challenging is an understatement, Thomas. We’ve lost so many young people. The mill closed, the fishing quotas dwindled... It’s a struggle, every single day, to offer any opportunity.
THOMAS
And the land lab offers a genuine alternative. A way to cultivate sustenance from the very soil beneath our feet.
MIRIAM
Precisely! And the ‘Preserve’ is the next step. It’s not just about jam, Thomas. It’s about identity. Proving this corner of the world has something valuable to offer.
She kicks idly at a rotting log.
ANGLE ON THE LOG
A clump of fungi grows on it. It is an inky, velvety black. In the shifting shadows, it seems to PULSATE slightly.
Thomas’s gaze lingers on it. He’s seen similar growths near old mining claims—a sign of contamination. But this land is supposed to be pristine.
THOMAS
The raw material, of course. Our yields have been consistently excellent.
He stops. A memory surfaces—faint, from a decades-old land claim case. An obscure geological report. Anomalous subsoil readings. A peculiar resonant frequency. It was dismissed as a footnote.
They round a bend and come upon the remains of the cucumber patch. The sprawling vines are brown and brittle, like discarded fishing nets.
Thomas’s unease returns with a jolt. Some of the dead vines are also convoluted, knotted, just like the raspberry cane. The pattern is the same.
Miriam, oblivious, bends down.
MIRIAM
This land... has always been so fertile. So generous.
She picks up a desiccated cucumber. It’s shrunken and hard, its surface mottled with the same purplish-black discoloration.
THOMAS
Generous, yes.
He carefully takes the dried cucumber from her.
CLOSE ON THE CUCUMBER
In Thomas’s gloved hand, its surface feels unnaturally smooth, almost metallic. The purplish-black mottling isn't random; it follows the vegetable's ridges, forming an almost geometric design.
THOMAS (CONT'D)
But also... old. This region is Precambrian Shield. It has seen millennia pass in its silence.
MIRIAM
(laughs)
That’s part of its charm! The sense of continuity. The Deepwood has always been here. Our families have always been here. A sense of roots.
The word "roots" hangs in the air. For Thomas, it lands with a new, unsettling weight.
THOMAS
Miriam. Do you recall... any unusual incidents during the harvest? Anything out of the ordinary?
MIRIAM
(thinks)
Unusual? No, not really. The usual deer trouble. Oh, and the occasional weird light out by the old observation tower, but that’s just marsh gas. Always has been. Why?
Thomas hesitates. How to explain this feeling? This chilling intuition that connects twisted plants to a redacted geological report?
THOMAS
Just... a professional curiosity. Considering the branding. We must ensure absolute purity, Miriam. No unexpected... additives.
He looks down at the cucumber. The mottling seems to deepen. It feels wrong in his hand—impossibly dense and light at the same time. A faint, metallic tang, not of earth, rises from it.
SOUND of a barely perceptible, LOW-FREQUENCY HUM begins, almost subliminal
EXT. LAND LAB CLEARING - LATER
They circle back as twilight descends. The last light drains from the sky, turning the horizon a bruised violet. The familiar shapes of sheds and compost bins dissolve into shadow.
MIRIAM
(pulling her scarf tighter)
A productive walk, wouldn’t you agree? I feel invigorated! And ‘The Deepwood Preserve’... it just has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?
She beams, radiating a pure, uncomplicated hope that chills Thomas to the bone. He forces a smile. It feels brittle.
THOMAS
Indeed, Miriam. Productive.
He still holds the desiccated cucumber, turning it over and over. A silent, cosmic script etched onto a simple fruit.
His gaze drifts back towards the edge of the woods.
THOMAS'S POV
The twisted raspberry cane stands in the deepening gloom. A dark, gnarled finger pointing at the sky.
BACK TO SCENE
Thomas looks from the unnatural fruit in his hand to the encroaching darkness of the woods. A cold, terrifying certainty settles over him.
The Deepwood Preserve.
Preserving what, exactly? The bounty of the earth?
Or the yield of something else entirely?