The Account of the Gardener (Part 1)
The old man knelt down on the wooden floor. Aching knees, tired mind, but a smile on his lips, his vitality unmatched even in his twilight years. His wrinkled hands, the color of russet brown, slipped into green gloves stained with crumbling dirt.
Delicately, as if cradling his firstborn child of long ago, he picked up a single pot of polished clay, and the plant within. Iridescent, painted like classical pottery. With gold trim and authentic pigment.
The Gardener thought the aesthetics were a bit much. But he worked on the plant regardless, admiring the beauty that lay within. His eyes, 'restyled', bright and emerald green, looked the plant over. Through the machinery incorporated into his senses of sight and scent. Humidity, growth, physical deformities, pests reconfiguring fluid channels.
They called it the bee orchid. Ophrys apifera. Petals of bright purple, surrounding a complex arrangement of growths, light browns, greens, and patterns. It vaguely resembled, for man and bee alike, the noble insect of its namesake. They were famed for their beauty throughout much of the western half of the Old World—as far north as Denmark, as far west as Iberia, as far east as Iran. In Palestine and Turkey, it was one of the many flowers whose roots were made into that flour called sahlab. One sometimes added to drinks or puddings, to warm hearts in the winter.
Aesthetically pleasing, multifaceted.
Rarer and rarer, even back in its own time. Even earlier in the century, much of the flour was synthetic.
The boss, old Lawson, was taking to a new fascination with the plant. He had specifically entrusted the Gardener with the task of maintaining his newest acquisition. Six new flowers, imported from a dealer in Izmir, in pristine condition. Bought with billions upon billions in cash. They'd come in on a private aircraft, sealed in their own air-cycle to prevent Lima Blight from choking it dead. The soil it had come in had been checked to the most minute specification—the loam itself was worth twice its weight in gold.
It was one of those flowers that was in his hand at this very moment. And on whose inducement was this all for?
The inducement of Lawson's son.
The one who was to succeed old Lawson on the board of Mack-Rasmussen. The one running a gardening vlog to a world of dead soil and starving billions, to grant them entertainment both against the point of gardening, against the Gardener's advice, and more than a little falsified. Corporate propaganda for the elder, too. Proving the Company's agricultural finesse, in an age of sealed farms, ecological collapse, and famine for hundreds of millions.
The Lima Blight had, unfortunately, wrought greater havoc on the world than mere flower-wilting.
The old man had to do the dirty work, of course. For the flowers. Even after all this time, he felt complicit. But it was all he could do. All he could do with his skills, simply because he entertained them. They paid him handsomely. And they were the only ones keeping him from deportation.
Before, he'd been a gardener for a public school in the provinces. Back home. Tending the pechay and the beans that kids had lovingly and excitedly planted to give them something to take care of. While they were busy with their academics. At least with them, it all meant something.
He'd left that behind a long time ago. He had nothing to go back to. He wasn't sure how he could go back. The junta didn't care well for refugees. And they danced to the Mack-Ras tune anyway.
He loved them all, these plants. This collection of the Lawsons'. All 134 of them. They were stuck in the same lot he was; paid, until they got tired of them. The younger Lawson was perfectly content to let them rot when they were no longer popular with his millions upon millions of eager fans. Showing all of them off for his own benefit, but keeping himself the star of the show.
Despite it all, the old man maintained them. Trying to ration, as much as possible, the precious decontaminated water that kept them alive. The fertilizer. The detoxified soil. Even as they slowly crept into obscurity, away from the Kid's attention.
The light filtered through the windows. Dusk sunlight through special, smart tint. Part of it was actually a computer-controlled screen, making it look more 'natural' than it was outside. Less awfully, harshly bright. What ozone layer was left was insufficient; it couldn't be enough if there were barely any plants or algae to fuel it. Even with all the lighting aid, the old man squinted.
The augmentations filtered out most of the light, but they came too late to really change who he was.
This one plant in his hands reminded him of something. He loved it most of all.
It was a relatively harmless mutation. Hypochromatism. One that made it all white. Pale and sickly. A yellow labellum.
Only the younger Lawson's whims kept it alive now.
Or, they had. Once.
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Sorry for not uploading all that much! It has not been a very good time for the Sophie; workload-wise and emotion-wise. ^~^
Still isn't actually. I have, like, three different exams to cater to. Hence why I decided to post Part 1 early, before I complete this short story.
Hope you appreciate this little slice of madness!
More to come, quite certainly. <3
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