In his many years as a writer, as an adult, as a living being thrust into this world, Oscar had learned to temper whatever lobe or segment of the brain that controls the conveyance of surprise. All one has to do, after all, is pay close attention to the newspapers delivered to doorsteps in the early mornings and read depressing headline after headline until he or she has become completely desensitized to the surrounding world, and no amount of violence or perversity could affect a look of shock or a sudden, gasping intake of air. Yet Oscar Bruges stood inside his study, clad in a robe and comfortable slippers, with raised eyebrows, widened eyes, and a gaping mouth, all characteristics of a rather uncharacteristic display of sudden, unbridled surprise. He might as well have been watching an entire world being born, evolving, then destroyed in the course of a few moments.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to catch you off-guard like that," she said. She'd caught the look in his eyes, the dumbfounded gape of someone who simply could not believe what they'd just heard. She blushed instantly, wishing she could take back the suggestion, though its execution would have been the most important and beloved event in her entire life.
"Ah."
"It was just an idea. Not even a good one, really. I mean, I've never collaborated with anyone before, but I'm sure it's not an easy process, and I really have no intention of bothering you, and I'm kind of sorry that I even brought it up in the first place. Forget it."
He nodded, finally rousing himself from his addled state.
"It's an interesting suggestion. I'll give you that," he said. "I have something else to show you. Follow me."
He led her back down the hallway and into the living room, where he thrust open the back door, held it for her, then shut it behind. Then he continued, ambling down the mulched path, leaving Kate with a jumbled, confused image of herself as Dorothy, following the Wizard down the paths of Oz.
She took in the day as it opened before her, swallowing and memorizing the entirety of the moment--the clear, open sky, the green grass padding the ground around the soft path of mulch, the maple trees with their broad, soft leaves hanging overhead, sweeping across the crown of her head. Before them stood Oscar's greenhouse, musty, crusted on the outer edges.
"Can you keep a secret?" he asked as they drew near.
"Sure," she said with an aloof tone, as if asked whether she wanted cream in her coffee.
Oscar stopped abruptly, swung back to face her, and stared with an intense look grafted to his face.
"Can you?" he asked again.
"Yes, I can," she replied, a bit more seriously this time.
He led her inside the thin building, the room within surrounded by benches of tomato plants, the fruit of which grew plump and ripe with every passing day. She followed him to the pool and the thick stump that grew from one end. He gestured downward, lowering himself to the ground with some effort. She followed suit.
"Do you see this, Kate? What do you think it is?"
He pointed to a small cluster of green roots hanging lightly from the bark of the tree. A tiny, pale bloom had begun to form at the end of the stalk, so small that it could easily be missed at first glance, but with careful study, it could be seen. Kate squinted, as if trying to identify the plant by family and species, despite having absolutely no knowledge of anything within the realm of botany.
"It looks like a flower," she said at last.
Oscar shrugged at her lack of botanical proficiency and began explaining the plant in front of them with the firm, settled tone of a lecturing professor.
"This is an orchid," he began. "As you can tell, it is an epiphyte--that is to say, a plant that has attached itself to a larger organism in order to grow and flourish. The roots that you see serve the sole, practical purpose of anchoring the orchid to the tree. I keep the air in here as damp and humid as possible, since this particular orchid once lived within the depths of a swamp. It's called a Ghost Orchid, and once it's fully bloomed, it's easy to see why. The flower itself is a pale white, seemingly floating in mid-air above its root. It's also extremely rare. I acquired it a decade ago, with a considerable amount of trouble, given there were only a handful of the plants still living in the wild."
"And how did you get it?"
"Let's just say I liberated it from its original home, which was in the process of drained and uprooted to make way for new housing developments. They used to be protected at one point, and perhaps they still are, on paper at least. People stopped caring for things of this sort, though. After all, it's just a flower, just an insignificant little plant. Who'll care if it's wiped off the face of the earth forever? As it turned out, I cared, so I made my way to the swamp, wading through water that reached my waist, and I stole it. To be honest, I got the idea from a book."
"One of the last of its kind," Kate murmured to no one in particular.
"Just like me," Oscar added.
The symbolism struck her like a blunt object, flung at the back of her head--the two of them, representatives of a dying breed, living out the remainder of their natural lives on the same plot of land. For just a moment, it seemed that the connection went even further--no longer were these two separate beings, but extensions of a singular entity. They were the same. The orchid a part of him, and the man a part of the orchid.
Oscar stared at it tenderly, as he always did.
"The reason it's so rare is because in all the world, there's only one particular species of moth capable of propagating the species. It's called a giant sphinx moth, the only native insect large enough and with a long enough proboscis to achieve pollination, and they are seldom seen. To be honest, I doubt they even live in this part of the country."
"So when it dies--"
"It dies alone."
Oscar smiled sadly.
Kate stared at him, bewildered, wondering exactly what any of this had to do with her, why it was necessary for him to bring her out here and flaunt his own mortality. As if seeing her confusion and distress, Oscar sat up, placed his hand on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes.
"It'll happen to you, Kate. I don't say this as a threat, but as a warning. This is the kind of life you're choosing to lead now. You'll walk a lonely path, imagining and pondering things that most other people will never care about. When they look at you, they'll see a waste, someone stricken senseless, a dreamer with no practical purpose in this world. You'll be like me, Kate, me and the orchid. The three of us. Leftovers. Relics."
She blinked, her expression blank, giving nothing away. She could feel the words, as if pummeled by them, but she did not betray the solid, resolved image of herself that she wore like a suit of armor.
"I'm not making threats," Oscar went on. "I wanted to warn you first, my dear. You need to know exactly what you're getting yourself into. It's a hard road to walk, and yet we trod its path, knowing there's no other we can take. We cannot stop. We cannot turn back. We walk on, heads held high, singing as the world crumbles to pieces all around us. Like a latter-day Cassandra, our words go unheeded, and Troy burns."
He pushed himself back onto his feet, and she stood up beside him, taking one last look at the orchid in waiting as he hobbled toward the door, one leg half-asleep.
"Find a story," he called out behind him. "Find it, and bring it back. If you can convince me, we'll write our book--your first, my last. It'll be spectacular."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to catch you off-guard like that," she said. She'd caught the look in his eyes, the dumbfounded gape of someone who simply could not believe what they'd just heard. She blushed instantly, wishing she could take back the suggestion, though its execution would have been the most important and beloved event in her entire life.
"Ah."
"It was just an idea. Not even a good one, really. I mean, I've never collaborated with anyone before, but I'm sure it's not an easy process, and I really have no intention of bothering you, and I'm kind of sorry that I even brought it up in the first place. Forget it."
He nodded, finally rousing himself from his addled state.
"It's an interesting suggestion. I'll give you that," he said. "I have something else to show you. Follow me."
He led her back down the hallway and into the living room, where he thrust open the back door, held it for her, then shut it behind. Then he continued, ambling down the mulched path, leaving Kate with a jumbled, confused image of herself as Dorothy, following the Wizard down the paths of Oz.
She took in the day as it opened before her, swallowing and memorizing the entirety of the moment--the clear, open sky, the green grass padding the ground around the soft path of mulch, the maple trees with their broad, soft leaves hanging overhead, sweeping across the crown of her head. Before them stood Oscar's greenhouse, musty, crusted on the outer edges.
"Can you keep a secret?" he asked as they drew near.
"Sure," she said with an aloof tone, as if asked whether she wanted cream in her coffee.
Oscar stopped abruptly, swung back to face her, and stared with an intense look grafted to his face.
"Can you?" he asked again.
"Yes, I can," she replied, a bit more seriously this time.
He led her inside the thin building, the room within surrounded by benches of tomato plants, the fruit of which grew plump and ripe with every passing day. She followed him to the pool and the thick stump that grew from one end. He gestured downward, lowering himself to the ground with some effort. She followed suit.
"Do you see this, Kate? What do you think it is?"
He pointed to a small cluster of green roots hanging lightly from the bark of the tree. A tiny, pale bloom had begun to form at the end of the stalk, so small that it could easily be missed at first glance, but with careful study, it could be seen. Kate squinted, as if trying to identify the plant by family and species, despite having absolutely no knowledge of anything within the realm of botany.
"It looks like a flower," she said at last.
Oscar shrugged at her lack of botanical proficiency and began explaining the plant in front of them with the firm, settled tone of a lecturing professor.
"This is an orchid," he began. "As you can tell, it is an epiphyte--that is to say, a plant that has attached itself to a larger organism in order to grow and flourish. The roots that you see serve the sole, practical purpose of anchoring the orchid to the tree. I keep the air in here as damp and humid as possible, since this particular orchid once lived within the depths of a swamp. It's called a Ghost Orchid, and once it's fully bloomed, it's easy to see why. The flower itself is a pale white, seemingly floating in mid-air above its root. It's also extremely rare. I acquired it a decade ago, with a considerable amount of trouble, given there were only a handful of the plants still living in the wild."
"And how did you get it?"
"Let's just say I liberated it from its original home, which was in the process of drained and uprooted to make way for new housing developments. They used to be protected at one point, and perhaps they still are, on paper at least. People stopped caring for things of this sort, though. After all, it's just a flower, just an insignificant little plant. Who'll care if it's wiped off the face of the earth forever? As it turned out, I cared, so I made my way to the swamp, wading through water that reached my waist, and I stole it. To be honest, I got the idea from a book."
"One of the last of its kind," Kate murmured to no one in particular.
"Just like me," Oscar added.
The symbolism struck her like a blunt object, flung at the back of her head--the two of them, representatives of a dying breed, living out the remainder of their natural lives on the same plot of land. For just a moment, it seemed that the connection went even further--no longer were these two separate beings, but extensions of a singular entity. They were the same. The orchid a part of him, and the man a part of the orchid.
Oscar stared at it tenderly, as he always did.
"The reason it's so rare is because in all the world, there's only one particular species of moth capable of propagating the species. It's called a giant sphinx moth, the only native insect large enough and with a long enough proboscis to achieve pollination, and they are seldom seen. To be honest, I doubt they even live in this part of the country."
"So when it dies--"
"It dies alone."
Oscar smiled sadly.
Kate stared at him, bewildered, wondering exactly what any of this had to do with her, why it was necessary for him to bring her out here and flaunt his own mortality. As if seeing her confusion and distress, Oscar sat up, placed his hand on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes.
"It'll happen to you, Kate. I don't say this as a threat, but as a warning. This is the kind of life you're choosing to lead now. You'll walk a lonely path, imagining and pondering things that most other people will never care about. When they look at you, they'll see a waste, someone stricken senseless, a dreamer with no practical purpose in this world. You'll be like me, Kate, me and the orchid. The three of us. Leftovers. Relics."
She blinked, her expression blank, giving nothing away. She could feel the words, as if pummeled by them, but she did not betray the solid, resolved image of herself that she wore like a suit of armor.
"I'm not making threats," Oscar went on. "I wanted to warn you first, my dear. You need to know exactly what you're getting yourself into. It's a hard road to walk, and yet we trod its path, knowing there's no other we can take. We cannot stop. We cannot turn back. We walk on, heads held high, singing as the world crumbles to pieces all around us. Like a latter-day Cassandra, our words go unheeded, and Troy burns."
He pushed himself back onto his feet, and she stood up beside him, taking one last look at the orchid in waiting as he hobbled toward the door, one leg half-asleep.
"Find a story," he called out behind him. "Find it, and bring it back. If you can convince me, we'll write our book--your first, my last. It'll be spectacular."
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