[Closed] Venomous Flowers (Lio)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Seventeen Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

L

oshis and Parliament no longer in session. Courts and Halls sit half-empty, Incumbents and Councilors gone to their country houses to brood upon the rain, or else gone east to sun themselves in Mugroba. The sun will burn their skin and bleach their clothes. Fading. Fading into irrelevance. The Change has come, the Symvoul continues in its cycle. Anaxas wanes and Mugroba waxes. It is immemorial custom. It leaves too many things unfinished in its wake.

The affairs of nations do not heed the cycle. They have a rhythm all their own.

Tom, the Incumbent, has gone east. He goes to follow the cycle, to attend on what matters are necessary. He goes to take in the sights and sounds and smells of Mugroba. May he be well served by it. Any number of personages claim the heat and light of foreign lands are soothing to the soul, calming to the time. He cannot credit it. Then again, he is a man of the City. More so than most, it seems. He never leaves. He has never known a reason. Perhaps that is changing.

No. Not yet. There is still time, still hope that the information he needs can be found here. Found in records and census rolls, in interviews and in Bailey’s ferreting about. Already there has been some gain. Too much, perhaps. An embarrassment of riches. There are too many plots afoot, to many names he cannot place. The nature of the Incumbent is merely one. Yet all the others are predicted upon it. It is the one thread he knows. That thread ends here.

And so he will stay. He will stay to watch the rain, to walk the damp streets and attend to the neglected machine of governance. He will stay and wait for the world to come to him. He will set his lures and his traps. He will perform the necessary rites, make the appropriate sacrifices. His mind will clear, and perhaps he can begin to think, to plan, and to untie all the knots that have been set before him.

There are rituals for all this. Time worn and well practiced. All worn into the grooves of his thought like the passing of carriage wheels. First, a purgation, a cleansing of unlovely thoughts. He shall fill his head with beautiful things. He shall think upon nothing else.

In time, all the rest will come. It has always done so.


The Ritual of the Flowers

The first thing that comes to him are the flowers.

In pots and in hanging glass spheres they open and fill the space with color and heady scents. Jasmine, orchid, lilies, and under them, the darker, earthier smells of earth and gently rotting compost. The green-tinged air, hot and heavy, wraps about him, tugging at his coat and filling his lungs with an alien heat. He breathes, slow and deep, slow and deep. Away above, the rain pounds upon algae-stained glass. It is almost like drowning, if drowning could be a joy.

This is his City. This place is not of the City. It is somewhere else, a place in a bottle of paned glass and bronze girders. All of it has gone green. It is part of the transmutation. This place, so he thinks, is as far from Vienda as he ever wishes to go. A construction of foreign nations and distant lands. Controlled, constrained. An artificial museum, an homage to places that never quite have been.

How long has it been since he has been here? The months peel back, like the rind of an orange, like layers of an onion. Months upon months. The ninth of Vortas, 2718. Over a year then. It has been when he purchased one of the few truly parasitic orchids. A year without any new orchids, without strolling amid the uncomfortable flowers that grow in this part of the Botanical Gardens. It is not the most trafficked place, even upon a day so rainy as this. Strange blossoms and unsettling plants from the Mukuku Islands and even from the closer reaches of Shotha have fewer devotees than the roses which grow outside.

There are others here, a cadre as odd as the flowers. They move about, slow careful shapes, steps muffled by moss or else distorted by the crunch of gravel. Some whisper together in low voices, appraising the plants, discussing how they might care for them. Others stalk, predatory, among the foliage looking for choice specimens.

It is not often that the Gardens opens itself to collectors of its curiosities. One in Autumn and once in the Rainy Season the Greenhouses sell their lesser specimens. Once, he would have pined for a corpse flower or one of the bromeliads that drip venom to immobilize their prey. He has no place to keep them, no greenhouse of his own. And so he settles for orchids, the more curious the better.

In a hanging pot one catches his eye. White and pale green with long trailing petals. A ghost orchid. A beauty to keep in the glass terrarium upon the table in his study, a focus for his thoughts. Will he need to hang it as it is here, suspended over a pool of dark water? There is no space for that. It may have to pass him by.

And still he wants it. Why? It is a pale thing, wan and strange. There are other, brighter blooms here, flowers that should draw him in closer, hold him rapt. No, they are nothings. This one he desires. For its delicacy, its scent, and its sorrowful suspension above that dark water.

About it and around it, in circles. Three times clockwise, three times anticlockwise. Another turn, a change in the direction of his cycle, he goes to complete is circumambulations. He does not notice the other man until it is almost too late. A near collision.

“Your pardon, sir” he says. Too flat, too uncaring. How does one show concern again? It has been far too long since he has needed that emotion. A rummaging about in his mind, a recollection of faces and of voices. At last, the sound of his sister’s voice when she had dropped a vase, the image of Throckmorton’s face when he realized he had made a mistake in the citations in a report, fearing he might have doomed a piece of legislation. He puts on that face, modulates his voice, reduces the severity. A creditable imitation of concern. The imitation comes first, then rest follows. And so by praxis, the emotion becomes real. “I did not see you there. My attention,” and here he gestures to the ghost orchid in its hanging pot, “was elsewhere.” He tries for an apologetic smile. Too stiff and no time to recall how such things should be made. The orchid still holds him in its spell. The unfinished ritual of the circumambulation tightens upon his nerves. “It is not lovely?”

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

Loshis. A fine month, really. Some would argue otherwise. The rain and the damp do not sit well with everyone, and the dreary grey skies make others long for the sun. Emilio sits in the camp with those who enjoy the rainy season. For him, it means that the winter has gone, and with it the all but persistent ache the cold causes in his bad leg. Winter is spent mostly at home, or, on rare occasions, with his sister in the family estate she now owns. Some days are better than others, some days he ventures out for a stroll, but the winters are always the worst. As the rain comes, and the air warms, the good days begin to outnumber the bad.

Today is more of a middling day, if he is honest with himself. The pain is there, but it is not bad enough to make him consider drugging himself. He detests the effect the drugs have on him. They dull his mind, and make thinking difficult, like trying to do so through corn syrup, or molasses. Sticky and slow, impossible to write through. Not that he is making much progress on writing today, but it’s a day out that he has had planned for months now. The day the gardens open up and put their excess, or less desirable, plants on sale. He has mostly come to see if anything catches his eye. He is still new to tending to small green things, and does not want to risk killing anything new or strange. He’ll certainly not spend any money here, in with all the rarer plants, where he finds himself now. It was mostly curiosity that brought him to this portion of the garden. Everything here is carnivorous, venomous, poisonous, or just strange. Some are ugly, others beautiful.

He is distracted for a moment as he sees someone he thinks he knows, but his attention is brought back to his surroundings quickly at the sound of footsteps. He sees the man before the man sees him, and makes an effort to get out of the way, but he is not as nimble as he once was. He barely manages before they collide. The iron tip of his cane taps on the gravel as he takes a step back and steadies himself once more. The other man makes his apologies, indicating the ghost orchid and confessing that his attention was on the flower, rather than his surroundings.

Emilio’s face settles in an understanding and agreeable smile as he inclines his head. “It’s quite alright, sir,” he replies, his tone placating, “I did try to get out of your way, but I’m unfortunately not as quick as I used to be.”

A light jest at his own expense. He turns, then, to admire the plant as well, suspended above a small pond. He nods in agreement. “It is a striking specimen,” he admits, “the blooms make me think of some sort of insect.” He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing as he considers the pale blossoms a bit more before he adds, “Or perhaps a frog…”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Twenty Three Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

H

e does not know this man, cannot place him. Neither face nor voice nor manner has a record in the greenhouse. A cypher. All about and drifting to and fro among the plants are collectors he recognizes. By sight alone. Few, if any, have names he can pair with faces. Names are signifiers, they have their place. This is not a place for names. Here, the collectors have other means of distinguishing themselves. The Ancient Curator of Cacti, the Ladies of the Bleeding Hearts, The Fern Gatherer, The Crocus Man, all these he knows. The Fern Gatherer and he have shared coffee on several occasions. Enough that he might count her as an acquaintance. Neither one has cared to share names. None have been necessary.

And this man? He has no designation. And yet he appreciates the flowers. Unfamiliar, but no stranger to this place. It has been too long since he has been here. New collectors arrive and he cannot learn their place. Not in the usual fashion of years of careful observation. No, with this one, he must speak. It is polite. It is proper.

“I should,” he says, borrowing the man’s placating tone for a time, “have paid more attention. My apologies again.” And so he will pay attention. Attention to his own movements, to the flowers, and to the man. He says he is not as quick as he has been. The cane supports the assertion, supports the man. A practical cane; iron ferrule, silvered handle, nothing flash or flamboyant. A tool, not an affectation. Still, there is an air about him, comfortable elegance. This is a man who might carry a walking cane with or without need of support. The cane suits him. His fine clothes, perhaps less so, at least here in the hot heavy air of the greenhouse. A wardrobe fit for drawing rooms and salons.

Yet he is here, and he appreciates the plants.

A distant chime of recollection, recollection without context. He has seen this man before but in what place and at what time? A client of his father’s perhaps? A sometime-member of the Pendulum? Perhaps. Perhaps not. How difficult can it be to place a lame man in fine clothes? He should stand out in the mind. The man eludes him.

A puzzle, and a small one. Something to occupy his mind for a little while. Something to distract him.

“Are you a collector yourself? Only I do not recall seeing you here before.” A collector of orchids? It bodes well for any conversation that may be required. It bodes ill if the man is as flush in cash as he is in fine clothes. “I, myself, can only pretend to any serious collection, but I am fond of orchids.” He cannot say why orchids catch his fancy, among all the other plants a man might collect. Bromeliads will not do. Not quite. Fascinating and striking to be sure. Perhaps they lack the strangeness of orchids.

A frog, says the man, inspecting the orchid. Or an insect. “Insects, yes, I can see it now.” He has not thought so, but now he can see the pale wings of a night moth, the trailing legs of a cranefly. Hints and allusions, nothing concrete. Other orchids are less subtle. “I had not quite seen it myself. Strange dancers, ghosts, yes. But now I see the rest.” He nods to the man, a thanks for new visions. “Though, if you wish to see insects in orchids, I can recommend the apiferae. Look almost disturbingly like bees. Easier to keep as well, growing wild here as they do. I started with them, and still have several.”

Idiot. If the man is here and seeking orchids, he knows apiferae like the back of his hand. Likely has seen them growing wild in fields and meadows. Gove the man some credit. This is not the place for dabblers.

Apiferae will not feature so much here. The greenhouses are for rarer blooms. “Or the Cryptostylis. I tried to purchase one last year. Too rich of my purse alas. Sea voyages must be taxing for the flowers.”

He still cannot place the man. The sense that he has seen him, and more than once, buzzes about in his thoughts like the bees that are drawn to the orchids. Perhaps he can draw some information out of the man, some hint of where he has been seen. “There’s a very good little plant shop in the lower reaches of Kingsway that occasionally has them. If you can stomach the price. Though perhaps you already know it?”

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

The quiet inspection does not go unnoticed. First of him, then of the flower, once attention is called back to it. The inspection of himself is not impolite, and so he pays it no mind. It’s nothing more than he would expect upon meeting someone for the first time. The other man says that he has not seen Emilio here before, which Emilio supposes is probably true. There are many people here that he has not seen before, the man before him one of them. At least, he thinks so. When asked if he is a collector, a small smile spreads across Emilio’s face.

“I wouldn’t say I have any sort of serious collection, no,” he says, “Though, I do have a climbing philodendron that I suppose I’d consider a favourite. It was a miserable, scraggly little thing when I purchased it, but it’s done very well. I’ve been training it along my front window.”

The man comments on his observation of insects and frogs, providing some of his own. Strange dancers and ghosts, he says. Emilio feels he can see those too, now. He wonders what it says about the man beside him that he sees ghosts in the flowers, but he cannot pretend to know. Psychology isn’t his strong suit. Neither are plants, really, at least not as much as other things. He has to think, for a moment, when apiferae is mentioned. He has heard the name before, and certainly has seen a plant with flowers that look like bees. There is a spark of recognition and he nods. The other man goes on, about another sort of plant, the name of which he does not recognize, and sea journeys. Hard for plants, he supposes. Sea journeys can be hard for many things, and Emilio sees no reason why plants should be any different. Salt air and dim ship holds surely cannot be conducive to the survival of small, delicate green things.

“Bee orchids, yes. They do look disturbingly like the actual insect at first glance. Rather lovely, in my opinion, though. I wonder, have you ever seen a Dracula simia? The blooms look exactly like little monkey faces. Very strange.”

He shifts his weight slightly, the gravel crunching under his fine shoes as he does. Standing in one place, in one way, for too long bothers his leg, but he is enjoying the conversation and so he will stay rooted here by the ghost orchid and the other strange things. A shop is mentioned, now. In Kingsway, one that carries the sort of strange orchids the fellow is fond of from time to time. Emilio thinks for a moment, then nods.

“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve yet to venture there myself,” he says, “I’ll admit I’m a bit apprehensive about taking on anything too dear in price, as I’m still somewhat of a novice when it comes to plants and their care. I enjoy tending them, I find it relaxing. I actually began with a small herb garden, for cooking, and branched out from there.”

He smiles faintly at his choice of words, after the fact. Branched, like a tree. He doesn’t acknowledge the unintentional pun any more than that, though, instead taking in more of his surroundings. “It was curiosity that brought me here,” he admits, “I’ve been to the gardens before, but never this building. I can't say why I avoided it. I actually rather like it. So many strange things.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Twenty Three Nine Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

L

Not a collector? And yet he is here. Alone. The conclusion does not follow from the premise. Even with no plants to his name, the lame man is a collector. He has crossed into the greenhouse, has been transformed. He is made a collector by this space, by his actions, and by his intent. This greenhouse is too far afield in the Gardens to be a destination of a casual stroller. The rain has driven all of those away. Only the dedicated are here today. The lame man is dedicated. Or wishes to be.

“I once had a philodendron. It did rather too well and ended up eating about half my sitting room.” An exaggeration, yes, but the damn thing had seemed to grow by the hour, encroaching like a leafy army upon all available space. “Although, given the size of my sitting room, that likely does not count as particularly impressive.” The plant had resisted all attempts to rein it in. Pruning had done nothing to halt the advance. A disastrous attempt at training had only rendered it more determined to devour the room. In the end, it had to meet its end with a pair of pruning shears methodically cutting it to pieces. Even then it seemed as though it would survive. I wish you joy of yours.” He is not sure he means it, now sure if philodendrons can bring joy.

Stranger things have happened. Strange things are happening now.

He passes his eyes from the man to the flower, the flower to the man, and back to the flower. Pale and strange, petals trailing and twisting for reasons he cannot fathom. A strangeness described and confined to the plant alone. A delight and a mystery, all self-contained. It does not bleed outward, out and out into the world, lending its strangeness, a thing unwholesome and unclean.

Can he drive the vines of conspiracy from his thoughts, or must they strangle him even here? Is that where the man has come from? Some hint in the names and faces of the conspirators? Has that face been conjured as a pallid ghost, a simulacrum from the Incumbent’s memories? He turns his colorless eyes back to the man, studies him again within the new frame. Measures, recalls. And fails. Whatever wickedness the man may contain, his is clean of conspiracy. He does not know this man. That, so he thinks, is a relief.

A man then with a shared interest, and one with never a tinge of machinations. Only blooms and strange leaves. Gods and ghosts, but he hopes to find that true. Even a moment’s conversation that requires little guard and less rage would serve him well. Let it all be words within the flowers and plants, and nothing beyond the confines of this glass house.

“D. simia?, I believe I have seen it, yes.” Monkey’s faces? What does he know of the faces of monkeys? And yet he knows what the man means, though, as before, he thought them the faces of ghosts, or perhaps the masks of ancient theaters. “Yes, here, a few years ago, during the autumn sales. It was beyond my price then, though perhaps not any more. Time passes, after all, and I’ve done rather better than I expected.” The assignment to the Incumbent had at least that salutary effect. His sleep and his thoughts may be troubled, but his bank balance is secure as never before. Bills paid without thought, rent secured, even a few small luxuries. “Perhaps I shall acquire one, when next one is on offer.”

Like himself, the lame man is apprehensive of costs. Wise. Not used to a flush account? It is possible. The man’s accent is not of Ro Hill, but it is thick with the tones of Vienda. Old and deep Vienda. He nearly smiles at that. He has dealt with so many ‘new men’ and up-jumped country estate types that it is good to hear an accent he knows, respects. “The Kingsway shop does charge too much, in my estimation, but their flowers are of the first rate. And easier and more sure to find than what the Gardens offer.” And so he prefers the Gardens. More exploration than pure commercial transactions. “And yet I delight in this place. If you are new here, new to the greenhouse I mean, are you here looking for something in particular? Only I know the place of old, and may be able to direct you.”

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

There is that inspection again. Emilio can feel the other man’s eyes on him. He wonders what he is looking for, and if he finds it, or if it continues to elude him. He does not mention it, though. There is no harm to be done by it, though he does begin to feel as though the other man sees him as some sort of puzzle to solve. A knot for him to unpick, pulling at threads until it unravels and releases all its secrets. The man had asked no questions that may aid in the unravelling of said knot, and in fact had not asked any that were not in direct relation to plants. There had been no attempt to get to know him at all — they had not even exchanged names, as yet.

The vagueness of the exchange adds to the surreality of this entire garden. Aside from the rain drumming on the glass above their heads, there is very little noise. Those who walk in groups speak in hushed tones, and seem to pay no mind to the others not with them. If his new acquaintance had not almost run into him, he realizes, it is very likely they would not have exchanged any more than a nod as they passed, if even that. It was funny how fate worked. The environment here, and the atmosphere, begins turning wheels in his head as the other man speaks of his own enthusiastic philodendron, the monkey orchids, and once again the shop in Kingsway. It would make a fine setting for a novel, or at least the start of one, Emilio thinks.

Emilio is pulled from his reverie as he is addressed with a more direct inquiry. He smiles.

“I’m afraid I’ve no particular goal in mind,” he says. “You know more about this place than I, I feel I should defer to you. What catches your fancy? Other than this fine specimen before us. My knowledge of tropical plants is somewhat lacking, I think I would enjoy learning more.”

That is not a lie, he almost feels like he should add. He did come in here out of curiosity, and to escape the weather as the rain took a turn for the worse. The greenhouse is warm, and though it is humid, it is dry. He did not expect to find himself surrounded by people milling around as though they were each ghosts in their own routine, unbothered by the others. It lends a dreamlike quality, and almost makes him feel as though he never actually woke up. If it is a dream, it is very vivid. He can feel the sweat the warmth and humidity are causing against the small of his back. Feel the gravel crunch under his shoes and his cane. The brush of a light breeze as air is circulated through the great glass enclosure. Likely not a dream, then. He regards the man who still hasn’t offered a name, and wonders where his tastes will lead.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Thirty-Three Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

C

atches his fancy? The flower before him still occupies most of his thoughts. The puzzle of the man occupies the rest. What is the purpose of the latter fixation? A simple enough matter to resolve through ordinary means. He could ask the man his name, discover his profession. That should be enough to place him. Simple, straightforward, reasonable. Unsatisfying. Better to solve it by slow degrees, to turn his mind to a mystery with no consequence, an idle toy of thought. A thought exercise, training for other, weightier matters.

Faces, half-formed and of borrowed remembrance, float in the spaces behind his eyes. The round, timid face of Prudhomme, the uncomfortable visage of Megiro. There are other faces, magisterial faces, and faces for which he has no name. There are names he has without faces. Conspirators all. They must be named, placed, catalogued, and minuted. Reified. It is no simple exercise. And so he looks at the lame man. Looks at his elegant clothes and genteel bearing, takes in the tones of his voice, the angles of his features, the colors and the patterns. Let the lame man be a trial run. A little practice.

Concerning the Lame Man

• Age - Perhaps about his own. Neither young nor old. Well taken-care of, no signs of significant aging. A few ordinary lines upon the face. Between thirty-five and forty. Margin of error? +/- five years.
• Class - Well-dressed and well spoken. Comfortable in both. Clothes well fitted. Tailored yes. Bespoke? It is possible, but remains unclear. He is no expert in such sartorial matters. Accent does not seem affected. Vowels consistent with Vienda. Old Vienda. Consonants less clipped than his own. No Ro Hill lisp. The lisp is often affected. The easiest of the features of imitate. Crosstown? Oldwater? Bellington? Could be any of them. A man of some means then. Or a man who comes from means.
• Occupation - Not so well put together, nor so casual as to be a proper gentleman. If he gets his income from land, it is in administration, not in ownership. A lawyer? Possible. Unlikely. He knows too many lawyers, and a lame man with long hair and an elegant carriage would attract comment. A physician? A practical financer? All are possible. He lacks data.

“The orchids,” he says, still staring into the ghostly petals, “are my particular delight. I’ve collected them for years. The strange ones that lend themselves to thought and contemplation.” The orchids had begun as a distraction, something to occupy his time and his thoughts during the latter years of his exile at Brunnhold. There was no other word for it. The influence of the university with its redstone lanes was a perversity he would rather have lived without. A prison, if well appointed. The flowers had been first an escape, and then a ritual. And so he carries on, performing yet another ritual that calms his thoughts; focuses them.

Focus. A small smile crosses his lips. Yes, there is another part of the gardens worth seeing. Strange and beautiful.

“The water gardens, now those are something to see. There is even a small pool where they have several purple nenuphars. Uncomfortable plants, with their fleshy leaves and strange scent, but possessed of beautiful flowers. Useful as well.” Most useful indeed. The sap of that plant courses through his veins often enough. Hygeth. Without it he cannot do what must be done, cannot think with speed and clarity in the absence of sleep. He cannot afford sleep. Cannot risk the dreams. He is mad enough already. “The water gardens are this way,” he gestures away and away, down into the green depths, “if you would care to view some of the more unusual flowers.”

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

The man speaks of orchids, particularly strange ones. His fascination with them is something Emilio feels he could have guessed at, considering where they have met and where they remain. He looks confused for a brief moment when asked what he finds interesting, as though he was not expecting the question. This is fair, as it was not a question he expected to ask. After a pause, he gestures deeper into the garden depths. The water gardens, he suggests. Lio has to think for a moment as nenuphars are mentioned. The name is not familiar to him. He does not ask after them, as it seems likely that what they are in common words will be made evident in short order.

Something prickles at the back of his neck. The prospect of following a strange man he does not know deeper into this ethereal place seems, at first, ill-advised. He could make his excuses. Check the time, claim he is late for a meeting. He could also ask for details of the man, a name to call him in the very least, to make him less of a stranger. He chides himself. The stranger has done nothing to warrant such worries, at least not as yet. He did ask to be shown something interesting, and has been obliged. He places those worries aside. He does not make excuses, nor does he ask for a name. He instead nods, gesturing for his newfound companion to lead the way.

“After you, sir,” he suggests.

He moves to follow, stiffly at first. The time spent standing still is hard on his bad leg, but it feels good to walk once again. The stiffness fades, and he falls into an easy, if lopsided, gait as he walks with the other man down into the cooler depths of the water garden. The sounds of others fade away, muffled by the gentle flow of the water being circulated. There is a heady scent in the air, which seems to come from the large purple flowers that dot the closest pond. Water lilies; nenuphars. He makes the connection rather easily. He thinks he sees a flash of orange and white in the water. Koi, perhaps. It brings a smile to his features, and he watches to see if he can spot any other signs of the lily pond’s finned residents. Sure enough, as they draw closer, several rather well-cared for fish come to the pool’s edge, no doubt being trained over time to associate the sounds of approaching footsteps with those who feed them. The fish are not the reason for the visit, but he finds them charming and diverting, and perhaps a reason to return even if the plants themselves do not prove to be of particular interest.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Thirty-Nine Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

T

he Lame Man comes along easily enough. Strange. Unexpected? Perhaps, but then he is no great conversationalist. Worse still at forming even the most superficial of acquaintances. It has been the reason he had joined the Pendulum, to try and cultivate the society of others, or at least maintaining the appearance. Appearances are important. They can invite, they can distract. He wants neither. Unremarkableness, a man beneath notice, but not so solitary as to attract comment from some other angle. And it has been a magnificent failure. What acquaintances has he managed to cultivate? Taphlowe and Wainscotting he has known for years, known before ever he joined. The men of the Pendulum had been little enough to him.

They take a new significance; not at acquaintances but as enemies. Curious how that has happened.

No. He is not in this place to dwell upon such matters. He is here for the flowers, for the green-tinted air, and the mild delirium that the heat and the heady fragrance of the flowers engender. Beauty, calm, and a stepping outside himself. And the wearing of an old and comfortable mask. He holds its shape in his mind, the memories of expressions and tones of voice, the movements and habits of the Orchid Collector. I am, he chants in the quiet of his mind, Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed - The Orchid Collector. I have only a mind for flowers and their mysteries. This place is my place. I am at home. It is but one of the mantras of the masks. Private rituals. Perhaps he should give an offering to Hurte for these. Hurte of the Visages, Lady of Masks.

The contours of his face, the flow of his moods change to fit the mask he has chosen. It is a comfort. Any other mask might drive the Lame Man away. The Lame Man belongs to this place now, and to this mask. He will let it be talks of flowers and plants, of the leathery leaves of the nenuphars and the damp green-tinted air. And his thoughts? They will carry on with the mystery of where he has seen the man before, an idle puzzle, free of moment and conspiracy. Just a toy for the amusement of the unraveling.

The gravel underfoot gives way to flagstone, damp and moss-covered. It may trouble the Lame Man. It can trouble any who might not watch their step. The click of the cane of the stones is measured, careful, and sure. He looks back at the man he cannot place, considers if it may be wise to warn him of the nature of the flagstones. He thinks better of it. The Lame Man may walk with a cane, but he is the master of his limp, not the other way around. An old injury perhaps, or a frailty from his youth? It does not matter. That at least is a mystery he sees no virtue in unraveling.

In the water gardens now, and the sound of fountains and the gurgle of artificial streams. The oppression of the humidity is less here. A perversity of water to both cool and to swealter. The nenuphars thrive in the pools, anchored amid floating pleustons that drift like strange green ships upon the gentle flow within the pools. Reeds and isoetids grow in small alcoves of mud between the stones that line the pools. There are other water gardens here, larger and grander. Places where one can take tea and coffee in gazebos and look out at swaying willows and maples whose leaves remain the colors of flame all the year through. They cannot grow the plants that thrive here. Vienda is too cold.

He is fond of the cold. He is fond of these damp and heady gardens.

Fish swimming in the pools, gold-bright and burnished red, black and white, mottled, and pale ivory. The Lame Man seems drawn to them. The hints of a faint smile play at the edge of the stranger’s mouth. “Are you fond of fish? I know nearly nothing of them, save which ones I enjoy eating.” Perhaps it will be an opening for the man, for him to speak and for his voice to become clearer. Perhaps by his words he will better be able to place the man.

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

The change in atmosphere from the tropical gardens to these water gardens is a welcome one. It feels less ethereal, more grounded. The air is less oppressive. The flagstones are slick in places, but he is careful in his footing, his steps sure. He had lived with a lame leg for most of his life at this point, and while the pain may dictate his days, he does not let the limp affect his confidence. He pays attention to the path ahead of him, and remains aware of the hazards, but does not slow down, keeping step with his new companion easily.

The air smells of the lilies and pond water and wet earth. The whole greenhouse smells of wet earth, but here it is stronger. He recognizes a few plants, though not many. Cattails are obvious, growing up out of pools of marshy water and along the edges of the pond. He thinks he spots a mangrove as well, further on. He watches the fish for another moment as they expectantly swarm near the pond’s edge, hoping to catch some morsel of food. He wonders what he should call the man with him, having not been given a name as yet. He wonders how he will explain his day if asked. I met a strange man, in a strange garden, and we spoke of ghosts and nenuphars…

He is pulled from his thoughts as his companion inquires as to whether or not he is fond of fish. The man admits that he knows nothing of the creatures aside from those he enjoys eating, which elicits a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know much about them myself,” he admits, “but I do find the ornamental ones rather charming. I dare not keep any, though. I fear they wouldn’t last very long. I have an osta, you see, and she is a most determined hunter. A good thing when it comes to mice and other pests, but I’d venture it’d be a bad thing for pet fish.”

His nose scrunches a bit as he continues. “Apparently she caught a hingle the other day,” he says, “I have no idea where it came from. I can only hope it didn’t belong to one of the neighbours, I’d hate for it to have been someone’s pet that got away from them.”

Best not to mention the hingle to the neighbours at all, he thinks. Not that he talks to them much anyways, aside from passing hellos and how-do-you-dos when their paths cross retrieving the post or stepping out for a walk.