Coyaba

“Once upon a time, long ago and far away in the distant wilds of South America, there grew a flower. It sat, buried deep beneath thick tree canopy, howling monkeys, and stringy vines, in a perfect circle of sunlight at the heart of the jungle. The clearing surrounding the flower was full of life. Flowers bloomed, ferns covered the forest floor, and animals chittered all around. Predator and prey alike followed the peaceful nature of this clearing- no animal died or felt fear here. It was a safe haven, protected and sheltered by this flower.

Locals revered this flower and the power it held. Dark leaves sheltered its fragile stem, providing a cushion on which its delicate flower rested. It was said among the tribes of the area that its leaves could heal any illness. That the flower held some magical power from the heavens above, and if you gazed into the center of this flower at the peak of the longest day- you could see heaven itself.

Legends described this flower as iridescent- having no color and yet every color at once. That during the day it shone so brightly, you could hardly stand to look at it. Villagers who claimed to have gazed into its center during the solstice- the longest day of the year, as legend states- described it as a blinding explosion of pure light and warmth, through which they saw paradise.

These tribes called the flower, and the surrounding clearing: “Coyaba,” or “place of rest.” Every tribe in the local area put aside any disputes they had, quarrels plaguing them, or conflicts tearing apart the land, and came here- to this blessed place in the middle of the jungle to laugh and play and sing together.

It was a neutral zone. No fighting or arguments were to be had here. Everyone put aside their differences for Coyaba. Together, the tribes healed their sick with the leaves of Coyaba and sent their shamans to gaze into the flower and tell them their loved ones were laughing and playing in the heavens, as they were laughing and playing in Coyaba.

Everything grew peaceful for the tribes as they spent more and more time in Coyaba, until no wars had torn through the area in decades. The tribes joined together, vowing to protect their safe haven, no matter the cost.”

“Father, I want to see Coyaba too!”

Williams whining fell on deaf ears as Francis laid his head down to plant a soft kiss against Charlotte’s forehead.

“Now, son. We talked about this.” Francis, content with the dreamy smile on his young toddler’s face as she lay floating on a cloud of sleep, stood to his full height and turned to his older son.

“Coyaba is a sacred place. We must respect that. We cannot go traipsing through the jungle just because we want to- we must have a good reason to disturb something so precious.”

William, who had sat fully up in his goose-feather bed, looked at his father with excited eyes.

“Like Grandpa! Right? He wanted to save the flower from the bad poachers, right?” William pumped his fists and was about to leap from bed in a bout of righteous glory until Francis stopped him with a firm hand on the young boy’s shoulder.

“Exactly like your grandfather. Now, do you know what young, budding scientists need most to become champions of their field? Hmm?” William shook his small head.

“They require at least eight hours of rest every single night, to grow their brilliant minds and strong bones they’ll need to climb mountains and scale cliffs in the name of science! Now lay down, dear William, and get your rest- or you’ll never be a great explorer like Grandfather.”

The boy did as he was told, laying down with a giggle, and saying goodnight to his father. Francis turned off the light and shut the door gently. Once satisfied that the children were taken care of for the night, he leaned against their door and rested his head on his hand.

“Just like Grandfather, perfect.”

Exhausted and exasperated, Francis found himself wandering the halls of their manor aimlessly. Finally, he cracked open one door to the familiar scent of coffee, a wood-burning fire, and the sweet delicate scent of rose. He would recognize that scent from anywhere- Anna.

He opened the door more to see his beautiful wife sitting in a large arm chair, facing the fire and away from him, sewing a new dress for Charlotte. Thinking himself sneaky, Francis tiptoed to the chair, arms raised to scare his wife, when she ended his fun;

“You never were as sneaky as a snake. You walk more like an injured weasel than anything else.”

Bringing his arms down from the air where they had stopped dead, Francis moved over to slump into the chair opposite her.

“You couldn’t give this poor weasel the benefit of the doubt?” Francis turns his head to the fire.

Anna looks up through half-lidded eyes. “Not this poor weasel I can’t.” Francis turns to her and she smiles. Her smile turns his lips skyward as he regains his confidence and leans over for a kiss, one that Anna graciously returns. Separating slightly, just enough to look into each other’s eyes, Anna asks “The children?”

“Asleep.”

“The wait staff?”

“Gone home.”

Anna smirks at her husband, coyly placing a hand on his shoulder, tracing it down his chest as she asks one last question.

“Would you like to… go to bed?”

Francis understands her desire, and almost catches himself falling graciously into her embrace, but stops himself.

“I’m afraid not dear, there is one more person I must account for.” He gives her a tired smile as he leans away and settles back into his chair. “Ah” Anna says, “I had… forgotten.” She looks sheepishly to the side, obviously ashamed to have forgotten something so… critical.

“It’s alright, my love, he’s not your father- or your responsibility.” Francis gazes at his wife lovingly. “Unfortunately, he is both of those things for me, so I must attend to him.” He gives her a comforting smile and raises himself from the chair- stumbling slightly as his bad knee takes the weight of him. Anna holds out her hands to help him, but Francis recovers. With a final goodbye for now, Francis continues on through the halls toward his father’s room.

Sir Richard Wyndham the Second was the most prolific scientific explorer of the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. His work took him to the top of the world and the bottom of the ocean. He climbed mountains, trekked through searing deserts, and cut a path through old growth forest. A scientist through and through, his discoveries rivaled those of Charles Darwin. Fossils, birds, insects, mammals, and even a previously thought to be extinct lizard; were all discoveries he wore as a badge of honor. His study, in the home Francis and his family now live in, housed relics of countless adventures. The study was strictly off limits to the children, something William complains about at length to his father. The artifacts kept there represent decades of scientific research and are mostly made up of original specimens. Not even Francis has been in the study without his father’s watchful eye.

In his later years, Sir Richard Wyndham devoted himself to guest lectures and summing up his discoveries in papers and books he spent all of his time writing. His involvement with poor young Francis was minimal, leaving his wife, Mary Wyndham, to raise her only child alone. When Mary died from scarlet fever in 1908, she left her son to be raised by the waitstaff. Sir Richard, instead of comforting his mourning child, turned even more fiercely into his studies. When young Francis came of age- right as America joined the first World War- he enlisted gladly. A rogue shell that took much of his platoon out, leaving his left knee infested with shrapnel to this day, brought him home- where he met Anna during his own studies into law. Deciding to not follow in the great Richard Wyndham’s footsteps took much dedication. His father’s estate required someone from the family to be present at all of the fundraisers held by the scientific institutions Sir Richard donated heartily to. Of course, Sir Richard himself was far too busy writing about the time a snow leopard nearly tore his throat out in the Himalayas, or the time an octopus got stuck in the waste disposal port of the submarine he was taking to the Marianas Trench, to be bothered to actually attend any of these functions. Francis bore the responsibility of being the public face of the Wyndham estate, despite, though he’d never admit this out loud, his disdain for the sciences. As Francis grew his own family- deciding as soon as they found out Anna was pregnant with William to be as dedicated and present a father as he possibly could be- Sir Richard slowly aged. Alone, with his specimens, Sir Richard’s fame and fortune diminished over time. His donations slowed, as did his publications. Eventually, Francis had to hire a caretaker for his father. As the years took Sir Richard Wyndham’s memories away, they also took away his mental capacities. Leaving him a muttering, lost, old man, reliving each memory as they fade away from his mind. Francis had never spent much time with the old man. However, earlier that day, his father’s caretaker, Miss May, pulled him to the side during lunch and informed him that it might be time to “tie up some loose ends” with his father.

As he limped through the hall, down the stairs and up to the tower above his father’s study, he thought about the story he told his children that night. The one about the flower in South America. He has a vague memory of his own father placing him on his knee and telling of his excursion to find and categorize this magical flower himself, though that is all he can recall.

A few more painful steps and Francis reaches the rotting old door to his father’s room. Knocking gently, Miss May opens the door for him. Nodding to him as she leaves him alone in the room with his father.

Sir Richard Wyndham lays on a makeshift cot next to the fire. His own bed grew far too difficult for him to climb in and out of for frequent bathroom breaks. Francis steps as quietly as he can to the chair next to his father. He sits, resting his knee, and looks to the old man. Sir Richard gazes back at his son with glazed over eyes. He appears to be lost in thought. Francis awkwardly shifts in his chair, uncomfortable with the attention, and opens his mouth to say something when his father beats him to it.

“Francis… my boy…” he whispers, raspy and quiet. Francis’s shock stills him, mouth still agape.

“I know it’s you- I knew you’d come. That’s why I asked Mary to bring you here. I knew you’d listen to her.” He pauses, inhaling slowly, almost painfully.

Francis is about to correct him- that he means May, not Mary, when he is stopped again by his father’s interruption.

“I wanted to talk to you, son. I wanted to say… I needed to…”

The old man’s hesitation would be touching if Francis wanted to hear what his father was about to say.

“Well.” The old man stops. Pauses- blinks his glassy eyes and sits upright. Back straight, eyes focused, and voice clear, he begins.

“I’m dying, Francis. I can feel it. I can almost see her- wisps of her, whispers of her voice, a passing feeling of her hands on mine. I know death has finally come for me. After all these years, daring do’s and adventures- it appears my time has run short. I’m ready. I want to be with her again. She was my light, son. When she died… I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t face the fact that she was gone. I hid in my study so that I could pretend that she was still out there, in the kitchen humming an old lullaby or reading in the library. And when I looked at you- you look just like her, son. I couldn’t bear to look at you. It reminded me too much of her.”

Francis tries to hide the grimace that graces his face, but can’t.

“I’m sorry. Here I am rambling again, oh Mary always hated my rambling.” The old man’s fond look into the fire turns to his son again, his eyes refocusing and hardening.

“I need to tell you something. It’s my final wish. I need you to get something for me.” He turns to the table next to the cot and pulls out a newspaper, folded to a page with a headline; ‘Amazing Amazon find- Flower that lets you see Heaven Graces Philadelphia World’s Fair.’

“I need this flower- I need it returned to the realm of science- it was stolen from its native land thirty years ago. I need to see it brought back into the light, not used as a toy or a prop. It needs to be studied- researched. It could hold so many answers for science, I need to see it used for good.” Tears well up in the old man’s eyes. He clears his throat.

“This flower represents my greatest failure. It was one of my last excursions. We were meant to explore and document the specimens found in this secluded part of the Amazon Rainforest. A place that had not been touched by the modern world. The tribe there welcomed us, explored our customs just as we explored theirs. It was cordial, peaceful. Until the retired Army General we hired to guide us told us there were rumors of poachers trailing us. We hurried and tried to get the people to show us as much as they could before the poachers showed up. Unfortunately, we failed to gain the full trust of the tribe in time… When the poachers arrived… They left nothing. Within the blink of an eye the native wildlife were held captive in metal cages, plants were uprooted, the jungle was burned…” The man’s eyes welled with tears as he continued.

“The village was ransacked. Burned, alongside the jungle, but not before the poachers had their… fun… with the people. They tied us scientists up, made us watch. We saw them beat the men, rape the women, and kill the children before finally burning the ruins to ash. They dragged us with them as they scoured the jungle looking for Coyaba. When they found it… it was beautiful Francis. It glowed with holy light. And they just… took it away.”

Francis shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“I never forgave myself for being unable to protect it or the village. After the poachers got what they wanted, they left us to burn with the forest. We escaped, and I tried my hardest to break into the black market, looking for any indication that someone still had the flower, to no avail. Now. Now, it is here- so close I can taste it, feel the warmth of its glow. Yet I cannot save it myself. I am weak. Old, frail, dying. I need you, my son, to save this flower. Grant me forgiveness for failing this flower- those people.”

Sir Richard Wyndham looks nothing like he is supposed to. This is the first thought that Francis has- that this isn’t his father- this man is… remorseful. Warm and caring of something other than his own fame and scientific prestige. Francis blinks his confusion away and sees his father, pleading, eyes bright with hope. Francis sighs, the sad look in his father’s eyes making him uncomfortable.

“Son? Will you do this for me?”

Francis looks at his father one more time before nodding his head and turning back to face the fire again.

Nearly a year later, light streams down through the stained glass windows of the late Sir Richard Wyndham’s study. A pot sits full of dirt in the center of the floor. A young boy, smiling wide, holds back his little sister as she tries to stumble toward the pot. She wears a new dress, just finished by her mother, who stands behind the two children. She is also smiling, tears beginning to well in her eyes. To her right her husband walks towards the pot, sheltering a small, glowing thing in his hands. He stoops down, digs a small hole, and plants the seed. Miss May, who stuck around after the late Sir’s passing as a nurse for Charlotte, leans over Francis and waters the seed. The clock strikes noon on the summer solstice, 11 months after Sir Richard Wyndham was buried alongside his wife, Mary Wyndham. As the sun peaks in the sky, sparkles swirl around the room and suddenly a flower blooms from the pot of dirt. Its center faces Francis, who gazes into the flower, to see his parents- smiling on the other side. Behind them appears to be many other people- dark-skinned and wearing tribal wear. They also smile, and wave to the family.