As the sun deepens and valley becomes cast in shadow, the lioness advances upon the ram, roaring at him from her crag even as he grazes proudly, without fear, without care, his ears inclined towards the sweet flow of birdsong and deaf to her rage. Yet the python, ever watchful, ever cautious, sees the danger of the ram which the lioness, so lofty and secure in her own power, fails to remember.
Yes indeed; the python, secret-keeper and being of the earth, dreads the ram's powerful hooves and his horns, sharp and poised to attack. For where the memory of the lioness fails her, the python's is eternal; it remembers blood and ribbons of flesh, wails of terror and snorts of anger; it remembers the death of its beloved and the destruction of all it holds dear. But with equal terror the python beholds the claws and drooling fangs of the lioness, feels the lingering stinging and soreness of skin once shed too soon, of bones that creak, of nictitating lids burnt dry.
Who, then, to approach?
A fronte praecipitium, a tergo lupi. A precipice looms in front, and wolves howl for blood behind. And thus the python, coiled beneath the rhododendron blossoms, its wiliness its only defense against Apollo's penetrating rays, deliberates, caught between the claws and teeth of the lioness and the hooves and horns of the ram. To approach either one is sheer folly; to approach neither is to cower and die in the dark.
Alas, Oracle, for to know thyself has a caveat of nearsightedness; alas, muses, for this story shall simply be one more in volumes of devastation. When you sing of this, rue the day the gods set into motion such events; rue the day the python sought to save more than its own skin. Sing then, muses, when you deign to gift us with your song, of how even snakes weep, how they seize and coil upon themselves beneath the roses to conceal their wounds, how they choke on their own bubbling venom with no release in sight, how they swallow themselves whole to be reborn.
Such is the scene in the garden bordered by rhododendrons. Oh, but what a lovely place it is, drowning in sunlight and colors too bright for the eye to see. Oh, but what perfection it is, save for the roses.
Ah, what secrets we keep beneath the shadow-robed roses, you and I, what bloody, sinister truths. Ah, how we hide beneath the draperies of thorns, our brittle corpses, our wasted flesh. Ah, how we sink into the damp earth and become one with the roses.
How I wish I could take up razor sharp shears and slash these roses apart, to remove that dark stain, that deformed spot from the garden. But blades cannot pierce these thorns, and the cuttings I make will forever be scars, proofs of failure visible to all who pass by. Even if I should burn these roses to ashes and salt the earth upon which they stood, the marks of violence will remain, will forever be a smear upon the garden.
Noâbest then to force these rose vines, contort them into shape, pack the thorns dense within. Beset them on all sides with close netting to deter the bees so that these roses will not taint the other flowers. Wall up these roses, build an impenetrable tower to contain them, so that the vines that pierce their net will emerge to wither and rot, so that their cloying scent will be buried beneath dark and damp. Give these roses only a singular window up on high, so that the tainted blossoms may trace the paths of the sun and stars from where they are bound, the meager light their only respite. Roses of the dark and damp, roses under which serpents go to die, are not worthy of being gazed upon.
Yesâit is in this way that this garden must be cared for.
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