The Botanist

The Master smiled, and tears came into his eyes. Yes. Was he not an artist as great as Leonardo? Did this not confirm his own feelings?

He stood up from his desk and went outside to his garden.

Looking around him, he thought what a shame it was that they didn't even know—no one knew, not another living soul—how long it had taken to create it. His stories were only the fruit he plucked from the vast living novel he saw before him, and no one—besides the servants—had ever seen it.

+++

The Master didn't like to remember how it all began, any more than he liked to think about the Thief. He didn't like to recall how "the Botanist" had once meant something completely different. He didn't like to recall in what sordid circumstances his present success had originated. Every meeting with the Thief reminded him of it.

It brought him back to the poverty of his school days and the things he had done to supplement his meager student income. He had ways. There was always a need for his products, and the things he "borrowed" from the well-stocked medical supplies in his school. He had a magic touch with plants and he was the star pupil in the Chemistry department. He intended to revolutionize the study of natural medicine one day, but that did not prevent him from pursuing his own private research at the same time.

He didn't like to remember how he'd been found out. It was too awful and confusing to revisit, except in his dreams. In the end, he'd been kicked out, and forbidden to practice.

He had decided that the best thing to do would be to flee Italy and start over in England, where no one would know him.

The night before he'd left, he'd received an unexpected visitor at his apartment, late at night.

The man who knocked on his door was enormous—well over six feet tall and massive, with huge hands. He was well-known in the shady criminal world, where he went by the nickname "The Butcher." The Master recognized him, but he could not account for his appearance at his door. What could he want? He'd heard of him, certainly, but he had no idea how such a powerful and dangerous man would know of him.

He behaved so strangely for so gigantic and fearsome a man. He seemed to be genuinely frightened. He was sweating when walked into the room, and immediately locked the doors and checked the windows. He said he had something to give him. He seemed desperate to get rid of it, whatever it was.

The Master would never have dreamed of refusing a request from this man. Of course he would help him, but what was it? And who was after him?

"Don't ask questions. I've heard of you. You're the Botanist. I know what you do, and I know what you've done. I know you are leaving for London. Take this with you. I wash my hands of this business. You may know better than I what to do with it. But tell no one! I was never here."

And then he had handed him a card—just an ordinary calling card with something written on it in elaborate script. As soon as it left his hands, he seemed immensely relieved. And then he had vanished back into the night.

When the Master read what was printed on the card, he began to think that maybe the infamous killer had lost his mind.

He saw what looked like a crackpot advertisement, like any other advertisement for "miracle cures" and "magick remedies" he was forever finding left at his door. It said:

Adder's Emporium Importer of Fine Fetishes -- Since 1880 David Adder, Proprietor For Inquiries:

Beneath this was a London address.

That night, the Master chalked the whole incident up to the drug-induced delirium of a paranoid man. He'd surely seen it before. Nevertheless, he tucked the card into one of his suitcases. He never knew why he hadn't just thrown it away, except perhaps the fear in the man's eyes.

He saw, occasionally, the same fear in the Thief's eyes, and it perplexed him, as did the Thief's insistence on clandestine meetings cloaked in mystery and secrecy. When in the end, there'd been nothing to fear.

+++

It was not until several years later that he even thought of the incident again, and remembered the card.

At the time he was working as a clerk in a chemist shop in a small village near London, waiting on customers all day long, stocking and cleaning the store. It was a miserable existence, but he'd been grateful to procure even this much. He had no fear of discovery, and he made enough to rent a room in a house on a large piece of property where he could grow his own garden and continue some of his experiments, though it was nothing like his former existence.

He had not been in England long before he made contact within a certain element in the city who might be amenable to his products. It had been very easy. The people, and the need, were always the same. He poured the money he made off this trade back into his plants and laboratory equipment, and the elderly lady who owned the house where he lived asked no questions when he took a second suite of rooms to expand his work.

But it was not enough. He lacked access to certain vital ingredients he needed for his more popular products, so his extra income could not make a real difference in his life. Before long he grew depressed, ruminating too often on his former life and thwarted ambition.

His melancholy was not helped by the fact that he spent his days and nights alone. His only occasional companionship was the erotic literature he loved to read. It was during this time that he had discovered The Tide on one of his trips into the city.

The stories . . . entranced him. They were better than anything of the kind he had ever found. It was true that London seemed to be undergoing some sort of sexual awakening. New journals seemed to be appearing all the time, but none had better writers or more enthralling material than this one. He was introduced to tastes and acts and scenarios he could not believe anyone dared to put into the written word for others to read. The excitement of the content was matched only by the thrilling feeling that the unstated rules and taboos of society were being smashed one by one in these pages. He felt a deep affinity and kinship with these men.

Yet even this delightful pastime could not stop him from sinking further and further into a deep depression.

+++

It was in the midst of one of his dark spells, when a vision of a bleak future weighed so heavily upon him he thought he would go mad, that he remembered the card. It was still there, tucked into a pocket of one of his suitcases where he'd left it. The strange visit and the last words of the "Butcher" came into his mind: "Maybe you will know what to do with it."

It was perhaps the act of a desperate man, but he was, or would soon be, a desperate man. He had nothing to lose, so he wrote the address that very night. He did not explain who he was or how he had gotten hold of the card, only that he was an interested party who would like to know more about the goods being offered.

The reply came a few days later, mailed to his home. There was no return address, and inside only a piece of paper with a place and time written down.

Not knowing what to expect, he went, and met the Thief for the first time.

The repulsive little man was waiting for him in the alley this time, and gestured with a nod of his head. The Master approached and began to say "Add—?" before the Thief hissed "Shh!" and grabbed him arm.

"Do not speak that name. In the future, you will deal only with me! Ask no questions!"

And then he had handed him a paper sack.

"Take this. It is yours to do with as you see fit. But if you wish to meet again, make no mistake, I expect payment for any future transactions. If you cannot afford it, at first, you will be taking on a debt. Do you understand?"

The Master nodded.

"It's your choice, but once you say yes, there's no turning back. Contact the same address the next time."

The Master could barely contain himself until he got back to his rooms to tear open the bag, but when he did, he was certain he must have been the victim of a cruel hoax.

Inside, he found nothing but a bunch of purple grapes.

He sank down into a chair, exhausted and severely disappointed. He had not realized how much he had been expecting. They were beautiful, certainly, but it was only a piece of fruit. This was at the heart of all the intrigue—the thing he was hoping, unconsciously, would somehow change his life?

Irritated at his own stupidity, he had tossed them aside and gone back to work.

It was some days later that he remembered them, and retrieved the bag from where he'd thrown it in frustration. It was still there, lying on the floor. When he picked it up, however, he noticed that it was as heavy as a bag of marbles. Curious, he reached in to pull out the bunch of grapes, and this time, he knew he had not been deceived.

Instead of shriveling, they had grown larger and plumper. They had also changed color. In amazement, he held them up to the sunlight streaming in through the window. They were now the size of small plums, and inside, contained a blend of deep, rich hues of purple, magenta and crimson red they had not had before. He turned them with the light, mesmerized.

He plucked one from the bunch, slowly brought it to his lips, and closed his eyes as he pressed it onto his tongue. The still living flesh felt as soft and delicate as a newborn baby's skin. It made his mouth water and he could not prevent spittle from seeping out of his lips as he licked it with sensuous abandon. It begged to be savored like the most succulent delicacy on earth.

With unbearable excitement, he bit down, breaking the skin, and then staggered backwards as a gush of liquid spurted into his mouth and dripped down his chin and onto the floor. It was as dark as wine, and there was so much, too much for the tiny fruit to contain. The flavor, the indescribable flavor, like liquid gold, overwhelmed his senses and he moaned in pleasure.

"Sexual" was far too crude a term for this pure erotic feeling. Not only flowing over and into his cock, it warmed his heart and his mind. It was luxurious beyond description—sweet and depraved at the same time, something pure and natural but not of this earth, real and unreal, a dream presented in the flesh. The first squirt of liquid had instantly made him hard, but it was an arousal far beyond the body alone. It was not just the scent and flavor of a ripe, wet cunt, but the heated anticipation of tasting it; it was the moment before a tongue licked up the sweet nectar on swollen lips catching the light; it was the feel of a nipple growing erect under fingertips; and the moment before unveiling a throbbing cock to eager hands.

It would be uncouth to orgasm, though he wanted to. No, this was a nutrient to be absorbed into his soul.

He sat, stunned, on the floor, his shirt and face a mess, dazed with shock and a tumult of conflicting emotions.

The Butcher had been entirely correct in his assumption. The Master was the only person in the world who might know what to do with this. Oh yes, he had guessed correctly—too correctly, the Master thought bitterly. For how could he have known that in one second these little grapes had made a mockery of his life's work?

He had tried so very hard, and some of his elixirs had come close, but he knew now it had all been for nothing. Nature had defeated him.

He held the rest of the grapes up to the light, eyeing them with envy. In all of the hundreds and thousands of mixtures and extractions he could ever devise or imagine, whether human or plant, he knew he could never manufacture an iota of the power contained in a single drop of this liquid.

In a fit of spite, he crushed the remaining fruit in his hand, and took immense satisfaction in watching the blood red juice spill over his skin. He enjoyed mashing the silky pulp between his fingers and obliterating it into nothingness.

But then, instantly regretting what he had done, he leaned forward to try and catch some of the liquid on his tongue. He got down on his hands and knees and slurped greedily at the pools of red on the floor, desperate to lick up more of the erotic sensations. But it was no use. The feelings were gone. They had evaporated as soon as they hit the air.

Not again! It was the same problem that had always defeated him! Whenever he had managed to fabricate the hint of something, a trace, a fragile wavering feeling of arousal, it had always disappeared as soon as he tried to contain it. Again and again he had seen his unstable elixirs collapse and fail, right when he had found them.

He was sweating and nearly weeping in sheer frustration. He could not let that happen. There must be a way. He must find a way.

He knew then he would be back to see the Thief, again and again if he had to. He would do anything. He would sell his soul to the little man, but he could not let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He would find a way.

+++

In his fantasy of his life, the Master preferred to start at this point, skipping over the problem of where exactly it all came from. He did not ask about that; he did not want to know. The next six months he would look back on as a romantic quest. Six months of frustration, six months sinking deeper and deeper into the power of the Thief as his debt grew, but in the end, his talent and skill had emerged triumphant.

It was a trial that put all his skills to the test.

He met with the Thief. Each little object was a wonder.

With amazement did he find that the erotic sensations varied, according to the fruit, flower, nut, or whatever kind of flesh contained them. They did not all project a blast of pure desire like the grapes; the sensual feelings were as unique and varied as nature itself.

He bit into a golden peach and tasted the gentle bliss of a first kiss.

An exotic blue dahlia arrived closed into a tight, hard bud, scentless and tasteless, but when it blossomed, it exuded the decadent atmosphere of a brothel.

The natural wonders could convey moods—lassitude, danger, a hot summer night—but also very specific things—the taste of semen, the scent of leather, the feel of silk stockings, the touch of a mother's breast.

His scientific mind discerned the beginnings of patterns, and he felt certain that this world of erotic fetishes could be put into order. Families of tastes, categories of arousal, could be mapped in relation to each other. Why, he could make an entire garden! But he did not have time for that. He had a mission. For what good was all this, what did it matter, if it could not be sold?

He knew better than anyone there was a market for such things. He knew what it could all possibly mean. He held untold wealth in his hands, if only he could find a way to harness its power!

Again and again he returned to the alleyway and met with the Thief, hoping that each time he would find the solution, only to return once again.

He tried everything, but nothing worked. The feelings could be tasted, smelled, even rubbed on the skin, but only once. They expended themselves in their consumption.

And then, the miracle occurred. It was the moment he liked most to remember, for it was a stroke of such genius it still left him in awe.

One day, he had had enough. He could not fail, one more time. He had to escape his own mind.

He picked up the latest issue of The Tide and got into bed. It had been months since he'd simply relaxed and allowed himself to be entertained.

Yet the stories, this time, could not hold his interest. He'd spent too much time with the fetish in its natural state to be satisfied any longer with an approximation. The tales were as dry and bland as the pages they were printed upon.

It did not take long for the solution to present itself. The answer simply dropped into his lap like a gift—so obvious and beautiful he could not believe he had been so blind. When he thought of it, he smiled.

Like the great parfumieres, he needed a binding agent—something permanent that would adhere to the ephemeral sensations. He had already tried so many—agar, beeswax, even a bit of whale oil. He made powders, ointments, and all manner of elixirs, but nothing could make the feelings last beyond a single moment of ecstasy.

But then he considered the journal he held in his hands and realized he'd been thinking much too literally. Clearly these wondrous things demanded something else.

He reflected on the fact that, at least in the past, he could read the same stories over and over and they never lost their appeal.

The solution, once he thought of it, was almost poetic in its simplicity. It was not, after all, a great leap to make. The scientist knew, as profoundly as the novelist, that there was nothing more powerful and permanent than language, the greatest of all human inventions.

He was living in an age of discovery. Were the fetishes not part of it? He did not question their existence. They seemed made for this very purpose. He would bind them with words. He would embed them in symbols like leaves preserved under glass.

He would write a story.

+++

The Master pulled back from his reverie as he strolled through his garden. All of that was years ago, and he rarely thought of it, except to reflect upon that moment of brilliance, for it was that moment that the Botanist had been born.

Who could have guessed that those first awkward and tentative—yet successful—attempts would have led to this? He had honed and practiced and refined his craft for years, and now he had the most spectacular garden in all of England, perhaps the world. It had grown, bit by bit, along with his writing, his wealth, and his reputation. Yes, it was a bit strange, but it had a certain balance and symmetry to it. The method of delivery was perhaps not what he had expected, but the product was the same; through his stories he was recognized as the maker of the finest and most powerful aphrodisiacs in the world.

He wandered through the shady groves back to his greenhouse, eager to get to work. The past was past; everything had worked out so beautifully, better than he ever imagined. And this day, buoyed by the appreciation of his work, he felt more hopeful than ever. There was nothing holding him back.

+++

In the greenhouse, he went to check on his flower, and even before he reached it, he could tell something was different.

He felt a quiet thumping in his chest, sending out tiny beats; warmth emanating from the pit of his stomach, and a gathering of tenseness in his thighs. The aroma of licorice and rose emanated from the pot, as intense as the first time he smelled it. The scent of sex it gave off was so thick it was like a cloud of condensation in the glass-enclosed room.

And then he saw it. A pink bud, wrapped tightly in layers of green, had blossomed in the night. He bent over to inspect it, and saw that the leaves curled around it moved gently on their own, like sea plants under water, undulating protectively around the pale embryo. He didn't dare touch it. He only used a dropper to wet the soil, which absorbed the nutrients with a little crackle. The stem swayed and the leaves curled tighter around the bud as the formula spread into its veins.

He was both awed and unnerved, for he knew that he was in the presence of love. Not a representation, not a story, not a rendering in pictures, but love incarnate, and he recognized that this was a fetish like no other. Love, yes, but containing a sexual charge so powerful it was like the force of gravity. He didn't know how long he stayed there unable to move, throbbing as he watched the leaves open and close, open and close in their erotic rhythm. It was beautiful beyond words.

And yet that is precisely what he would do. He would give it a voice. It would be challenging, yes. He saw even at this early stage how difficult it was going to be. Such a flower . . . it had a life force of its own, like no other he'd encountered. It would be very hard, indeed, and yet something deep within him awoke to the challenge. He grew even harder. My precious rose. He cocked his head to the side to consider it, moving closer, and saw the green leaves tighten to protect it from his gaze.