The Botanist

Right then, he made a decision. He would go. He would go, and this night would be the last time. He would settle his debts—he could certainly afford it—and end this connection, once and for all. He would stake everything on this, the last, and he knew he would succeed.

All of his work, all of his sacrifice and struggle, everything he'd done, had led to this, he was sure of it. He'd achieved some fame, that was true, but nothing like what was to come. He would gain a whole new audience with this, beyond his usual readers. He would be known as a true artist at last.

Before he left, he made some preparations in the lab.

He laid out a sheaf of thick, soft, heavy parchment paper he'd treated with a special resin to make it especially absorbent, then arranged his expensive, handmade fountain pens.

Lastly, the most important part, to ready the ink.

He nearly groaned in pleasure. This was his favorite part. No one would ever know the special, secret satisfaction it gave him.

When he read the comments on his stories, when he reveled in the praise, when he heard they were the "most arousing" things anyone had ever imagined, he and he alone knew why.

No matter how intriguing a plot, no matter the characters, the scenarios, the acts or tastes or positions, no matter the genre, it was the ink flowing through his pen that gave his stories their inimitable power. He had devised ways to compress the beautiful fetishes into liquid form, but it was only ink which could preserve unchanged their natural essence. He had invented this. He could inject any emotion directly into words with the stroke of a pen.

It had been so absurdly simple. His intuitions has been entirely correct. His first attempts were crude, but he discovered right away a pure extraction, stained with dye, magically adhered to words like a plant in rich soil. More than that, the feelings became enriched, more vivid and intense, as if they had found a true and permanent abode.

Over time, he had experimented and found ways to enhance the natural extractions with liquors taken from his garden.

He laid out now on the table an array of vials, like a chef of fine cuisine perusing a collection of rare spices. Could anyone but him do this? His years devoted to creating and refining the purest and most concentrated organic pheromones had prepared him. His skills were beyond compare. When they enjoyed his work, and praised his "writing," could anyone have guessed this was why?

This flower, however, would require more restraint than usual. Its scent was so perfect on its own, he would need only the slightest, most subtle enhancements.

He thought for a long while, before choosing only two tinctures to add to the dye. A few drops of the thick, milky liquid from the Amorphophallus would, he felt, deepen and strengthen the musky notes of the rose's scent. And to balance this intensity, he would add the sweet narcotic of essence of Lamprocapnos, the bleeding heart flower.

It was ready. He would do it tonight.

+++

Rain clouds hid the moon as he ventured out, and as he left, he heard once again, the wild whispering from the garden. It seemed to emanate from every single leaf. The bushes and trees rustled in the warm winds of the impending storm, as if they knew. He was not concerned. The gathering forces of nature only seemed a sign that it was the right time. The rose-saturated scent had taken on a ripe sexual tinge so strong the air was charged with an explosive electricity. He had waited long enough.

By the time he arrived in the familiar alleyway, the winds were whipping the dirt covered streets into small clouds, and rain had begun to fall. Just as he glanced ahead of him and spied a small figure waiting for him in shadow, he heard it again. The whispers had followed him here, and seemed to be concentrating around the dark form of the Thief.

The Master approached the puny, weak little man wondering why he had ever let him bother him so much. He was nothing; this was nothing. He strode towards him confidently, eager to get it over with, but stopped short as soon as he got there, and reflexively drew in a breath.

Deep red gouges marked the Thief's face, as if the hand of a wild animal had raked across it. Blood oozed from his scalp, his ears and eyes, and one arm hung limply at his side. He was pale and trembling, but nevertheless his eyes were clear and strong as he stared at the Master with as much contempt as ever. The Master stepped closer and stared back at him, all pretense gone. They held each other's gaze for a minute, knowing fate had arranged this meeting. The whispers grew louder and stronger and swirled around them, enclosing them in intimacy.

"You,"the Thief said, quietly. "I nearly died, for you."

The Master just stared at him.

"Don't you want to know why?"

"No. I'm done with this."

The Thief snatched him by the wrist. "Oh no. That's not how it works."

"Yes!" the Master cried, pulling his arm away and stepping back. "Here." He handed him an envelope stuffed with money. "Take it. I'm done. You'll never see me again."

The Thief only laughed, and knocked the envelope out of his hand, sending bank notes spinning into the air.

"You stupid, stupid fool. You know nothing." He glanced at the cash. "You really think that's what this," he said, gesturing to the storm building around them, "is all about?"

The Master looked at the piles of money spinning away in the wind. "What are you talking about? What—what else?"

Suddenly the Thief stopped talking, and looked fearfully into the sky.

"Oh God, oh God. I hear it! Don't you hear it?"

From far away, over the keening wail of the wind, the Master heard the same fluttering, flapping sound he'd heard once before coming from the garden, only louder and more like a gigantic bird. He might have heard a shriek blending into the wind.

He shook the Thief in his arms. "What is that? What is it?"

"You!"

The Thief jumped on him, showing a surprising strength, and somehow pushed him to the ground. His slimy hands found his neck and began to squeeze.

"Do you think I don't know what you do, Master?" The Thief spat the word in his face. "Where do you think it all comes from? Where do these come from?" He shook a bag in his face. "Do you have any idea what I go through, what risks I have taken? Oh, I know. I can read. I know your name. I know what they say about you. And I know what you think of me."

He leaned over further and hissed, spittle flying from his mouth.

"I know how much you hate coming here. I know you like to think you did it all yourself. Tell me, Master, do you believe your own lies?"

"It's why I liked to meet you here, in this place. Haven't you ever wondered? I've been to your house. I've seen your garden. I've watched you work. I know what is waiting for you right now."

The Thief took his hands off the Master's neck for a moment to wipe his fingers in the filthy muck in which they lay, and then shoved them into his face.

"Smell it. Taste it. It comes from here, from these hands. My hands. I brought them to you, and I know the squalor of these streets. Yes all of it."

The Thief shoved his fingers, dripping with slime, deeper into the Master's face.

"The vomit and piss you don't like to touch. The cum from all the men like you who fuck whores right here, in these streets. Your precious objects flow through this, and come to you from the hands of the scum of the earth. You know nothing of what you do. Nothing. I did the work. I braved the Fates. You'd still be no one if it weren't for me."

The Thief leaned ever closer, his lips now touching the Master's ear. "We both of us are dependent on a lie. But who's the honest man? At least I know what I am."

With a desperate cry, the Master finally pushed himself free, resisting the temptation to leap upon him and strangle the life from his throat. But he did not. He straightened his clothes, flicked off the dust and wiped off the slime, and looked him in the eye.

"I don't know who you are, but I don't need to know. You had something to offer; I took it. I don't see that that makes me dishonest. I have certain skills, as do you. We are both good at our trade. You prefer to work in shadows; I like to be recognized for my talents. Now," he said, glancing at the empty bag of cash, "I presume that settles any remaining debts I might have. I have work to do."

The Thief looked at him, disbelieving.

"Your 'debt.' Your debt has not been paid, Master. You are neglecting one thing."

"And what's that?"

The Thief held the bag in his hand and swung it back and forth, like a pendulum. "This. What I risked my neck for."

"I don't need it anymore," the Master said, turning to go. In a second the Thief was close behind him.

"I'd take it, if I were you. Think hard. Maybe it's true, what you are saying. Maybe it doesn't matter what you've been doing. Maybe your art is worth it. But think, Master. Think. Don't you wonder what forces you are playing with? If you can deny the evidence around you, if you can deny this—" he said, showing him the deep, ugly gashes in his arm—"then go, and continue pretending it doesn't matter."

The Master hesitated. A memory had surfaced in his mind, from long ago. Italy. The Medical school. He had been wrong, then. Just once.

"Take this," said the Thief, "And we will consider your debt paid."

The Master took the bag, just as he had that first night. It was heavy, and something inside was squirming and thrashing, something small and alive.

"Good. There's just one more thing."

"Let me go! I'm done with you!"

"Just one thing. One question," murmured the Thief. "I'm curious. Tell me, Master, why did you stop?"

The Master slowly turned around, and stood absolutely still. And in that moment, the Thief understood it all.

"It is you. I wasn't sure. But that must be why Adder sent his man to you."

The Master was advancing upon him now, with murder in his heart.

"You, you! Of course it would be you. You're the Butcher of Florence. That's why you can do it, isn't it?"

The Master grew more enraged than he had ever been with this thing, this little worm.

"No, NO."

"Yes. Yes. The papers were right. It's you."

"No. NO. That was for science," the Master said through gritted teeth, as his hands slowly reached for the Thief's weak, puny little throat. "Why could nobody see, that was for SCIENCE."

The Thief felt himself drowning in the dead pools of black that were the Master's eyes. "And now you have your 'art,' is that it, Master? Have you learned nothing?"

"Shut your mouth. For once, shut your mouth, you filthy little bastard."

"I understand," the Thief said weakly, as he gasped for air. "I understand. And I brought them to you. I did. I . . ."

The Master squeezed and squeezed, calmly and slowly. He would crush his voice as if he could make the whispers growing stronger and louder all around him disappear, as if nothing was happening, as if he could silence his memories forever.

+++

Home. His garden. He must get to his garden.

He yearned for its fruit trees in precise rows, perfectly cut grass, flowers weeded and trimmed, everything clean and blossoming. Nothing out of place, nothing hidden or unknown, everything in order, everything legible and clear.

That is what an artist does, he thought. Nature . . . nature is an overgrown phallus! Nature is a flower with petals like swollen lips! Nature whispers in a voice with no words! Nature is a trough of never ending disorder! He was a botanist! He had made a garden, a real garden, laid out as neatly as print upon a page!

The Thief was mistaken. There was nothing special or mysterious about these little fetishes. What were they but mutations—extremes of things that already existed, in nature? If a flower can smell like death, it can smell like love. If it can exude a perfume sought the world over, why can it not exude the hot smell of sex, as real as if the sweating bodies were writhing in the room? There was nothing to fear. He had done nothing wrong!

Write. He must WRITE. He would show him. He would show everyone. In the end, nothing would matter, none of this would matter; in the end, the only thing that would matter would be the words he put down on paper for the rest of the world to read, and they would be the judge.

But just as he thought this, the bag the Thief had given him, which he had entirely forgotten he was holding, leapt in his hands. The thing inside was thrashing violently against its confines. He yelled out in horror, and threw it reflexively away from him, whereupon it hit the door of the cab he was riding in and split wide open, leaving him trapped inside with the thing. There was nowhere to go, though he pushed back in his seat to get as far away as possible.

At first he thought it was a worm, or perhaps a giant slug, before he realized it was some kind of grotesque fungus, growing out of a clump of dirt. He could not make sense of what he was seeing. What looked like a short, stubby body tapered to a wriggling point, but as it continued to thrash and writhe it changed shape, elongating, then swelling into a bulbous round sphere, then back to a point. Its flesh was gray and pockmarked, and oozed an oily substance that made the surface as shiny and reflective as a mirror. From his side of the carriage, he sat frozen in horrified disgust, watching his own face, distorted, shrink and expand along with the thing.

It made him think of a newly-born maggot, yet he stared, unable to look away.

As the carriage drew to a stop at the gates to his mansion, however, he had to force himself to act. He threw his slicker over the slimy form and scooped it up. It would not do to leave such a thing lying around for anyone to find. As he carried it towards the garden, he felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat when he touched its wriggling skin. He stopped, and waited, and in a moment, a torrent of vomit exploded from his stomach, making him dizzy and weak.

The vile, putrid thing! The moment he reached his greenhouse he threw it from him, and heard a slick squishing sound where it fell. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see it still wriggling, shrinking and swelling with a sickening rapidity.

He was not going to let it stop him. He didn't give it a second thought as he made his way into the garden.

The night was so dark! And all around him, the bushes and trees and flowers were being whipped into a frenzy by the wind.

Oh, what was happening? His garden was changing, before his very eyes. Or perhaps it was that thing in the greenhouse, distorting his mind.

He could swear he passed clusters of grotesquely swollen grapes hanging from the trees, dripping blood into the open mouths of daisies. He spied peaches and pears splitting open, their ripe flesh bursting out of their skins. He saw poppies glowing flame-like in the darkness, and a blue dahlia nestled in a bed of silky black hair. Tender leaves sprouted unchecked and slithered over his feet. The massive phallus of the carrion flower was spurting yellowish liquid onto purple folds which sucked it up lasciviously, moaning as they rubbed against the thick hard muscle.

The whispers, the whispers, what were they saying! The indecipherable murmuring was driving him mad. He strained and strained to hear, over the wind. But, it couldn't be! It couldn't be! Oh, it could not be happening. The whispers were speaking in Italian. He could not mistake his native tongue. And the garden, the garden, was changing again, rearranging itself before his eyes. He knew what was coming. Every bush, every tree, transformed and now roses, everywhere. Red, pink, yellow and white, growing to unnatural proportions and shrieking in ecstasy. He was in the labyrinth! Circling and circling, drawn inexorably towards the scent and the sound. He tasted the licorice. He passed the bush that scratched his arm. He ducked to avoid the overhanging branch. Everything as he remembered, now, as vivid and real as the dream.

What was it, what was it? What would he see?

Circling and circling, tighter and tighter towards the center, the winds reached a peak of intensity until he was spit out into an open, empty space where all was calm and quiet, save for the sound of a thumping heart.

He glanced upwards. At that moment, the clouds parted, allowing the light of the full moon to fall upon the scene.

His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps as he stood. The rose was there, illuminated. There was nothing else.

It had deepened into a rich, full crimson, and grown as large as a head of cabbage. The folds, slick and glistening, were blood-swollen and engorged. They caressed themselves like pairs of lips touching around a hot, dark core. It took his breath away. He'd never seen such a beautiful sight.

My dove. My angel. My story.

It was there for the taking, just waiting for him. Without thinking, he stripped, removing every last bit of clothing, and approached.

He knelt down, inhaled, and buried his face, burrowing into the rose until his tongue reached the deepest part, where the heart pumped out the exquisite perfume. He moaned into the petals, and reached for the stem, and then suddenly stopped, frozen in place.

Newly grown thorns as sharp as blades sliced into his fingers. The pain was so immense he could make no sound, just gasp at his shredded flesh. Blood, dark as wine, welled up from deep, gaping cuts. He stared, disbelieving, unable to think or move, until a long wail of fury was torn from his throat.

"You little bitch!!"

He turned on the flower with a savage look, rage bubbling up molten and hot. Disregarding the searing burn in his hands, he grabbed it by the base, his gushing hands right over its heart, and squeezed. The treacherous, lying little bitch. It was just like all the others.

They always resisted him, but none had put up such a struggle. He ignored the screaming pain in his hands, wrapped the leaves around the thick branch and pulled, using every last bit of strength that he had, but it just didn't want to let go of the earth. Its roots were too deeply embedded, as if it knew, had always known, what was coming.

He pulled and yanked and twisted the branch of thorns, and one by one, loosened the burrowing tendrils that grew into the soil. He heard them breaking and snapping like little strings. Then the roots, deprived of their strength, began to wiggle and shift like loose teeth in rotting gums. His hands and fingers were gushing red, but he did not stop.

At long last, he heard a rattling groan, and felt the thing give way. In one forceful movement, he pulled it entirely free, and held it up, dripping with his own blood. His heart, his own heart, beat in masterful triumph over the weakening pulse of the flower. It was nearly done.

He sped as quickly as he could back to the greenhouse, and into the lab. The flower was still alive, its heart still thumping. He had to strike now. Every second counted. Struggling with the deadly, thrashing stem, he managed to get it onto the large wooden table in the center of the room. Instantly, its leaves tightened inward and knotted themselves, forming a thick braid around the bottom of the blossom, where it attached to its branch.

He looked down at it, and positioned the high, angled blade. Even now, he could not help but gape in lustful wonder. The petals so red and wet pulsed as if they knew they were being watched. He could not help but reach out and touch it, caress it, one last time. His fingers, streaked with blood, gently stroked the exquisite skin, and probed the soft folds until they found what they were looking for.

Between the knotted, thorny branch and the glistening, swollen blossom, he found a vulnerable spot—just a few millimeters of unprotected flesh, and in an instant, he let the blade drop.