Flora and the Garden

There once was a garden, vibrant and green. It was cultivated between two great cities on a rolling stretch of fertile land. The gardener, Flora, was known by all and revered for her kindness. Every passerby was welcome to step inside the oasis and stay for as long as they required. There they would find ample shade, a deep well filled with the cleanest and coldest water imaginable and nourishment hanging from every branch. There was something for everyone in Flora’s garden, it seemed- a cure for every ailment. She was often preoccupied, brewing teas and crafting ointments for her guests. Still, the towering maze possessed a subtle telepathy. It would guide each searching soul to what they needed and they would leave the grounds with a sense of ultimate renewal.

This happened in the ancient days, when our world was still budding on the vine. There was goodness then, without consequence- but time has a way of tarnishing every treasure. As civilization grew, so did the garden. It aged and fermented into a numbing elixir for the masses. Flora watched in anguish as the stems and leaves were trampled. The fruit trees turned barren, the well ran dry and everything that used to thrive there ceased to be. Nobody visited anymore. She was left alone, surrounded by ruin in the hills between two glistening metropolises. 

Winter came next, bringing in its gloom a deeper frost than the land had ever seen before. Flora worked quickly, taking every blanket from her home and wrapping them around the surviving saplings. She uprooted a handful of young perennials and brought them indoors. All others were left to perish in the cold. Even in its fractured state, the garden continued to care for its loving guardian. It gave her company and purpose during those long months of darkness. As the sun’s warmth returned, so did the hope that her treasure would return to its former glory. That would not be the case. All living things have a mind of their own and Flora’s garden was no exception. It was wiser now and she was about to learn the extent of its wisdom.

Spring drenched the surrounding hills with a driving rain. Cloud breaks were few. But the plants on Flora’s windowsill drank in every scrap of sunlight the sky had to offer. They grew, one tiny leaf at a time until finally, new buds started to appear. The flowers broke free in a few short days, unraveling their jewel-toned petals and turning towards the light. Something had changed. She could feel it from across the house. They were whispering her name. Not through sound. Not through sight, either. They appeared common but somehow, they were more captivating now than ever before.

It is important to remember that Flora and her garden lived countless centuries ago. There were some ornamental flowers then, but they were of little merit. Those that could bear fruit and nuts were more essential. A flower was cherished for that promise, nothing more. The delicate fragrances that we admire today were still unknown to humankind. Instead, it was a priceless secret told from flower to flower, from flower to pollinator, and no one else. The newfound aroma was intoxicating, strong and sweet enough to taste. It was nourishing and thick, like syrup on the tongue. The nearer Flora drew, the more its invisible presence spiked her blood. A warming numbness cloaked her. Then came the visions.

She was aloft above the earth. Low enough for her heels to brush against the treetops as she passed overhead. The air was filled with dust and smoke. Those particles swirled and churned, lightly covering the red sunrise and giving it the illusion of being rusted over. Flora could see the distant cliffs that fringed her beloved island nation. Wooden warships dotted the perimeter. The pounding of drums and the crashing of metal on metal sounded from below. It grew in ferocity, quickening by the second like a panicked pulse. Both cities were aglow with flames that leapt from dwelling to dwelling. She saw those hungry fires consume all as time marched on below. The hills blackened, the forests died, but those assaults on the earth had only just begun. With a new kind of weaponry in hand, the invaders tore into the charred soil. They mined deep- deeper than the most tenacious root would ever dare to reach. The rewards were plentiful at first, but ultimately short-lived. As their profits declined, tempers rose. They sailed away without looking back at the ruin they created.

The premonition ended. Flora sat, silent and troubled, staring into the center of a nearby flower. She wondered what to do with this information- or if anything could be done at all. The garden answered. It spoke softer this time but also with stunning clarity. Life- healthy, green, glorious life was watching her from outside. She felt its presence and turned; looking in disbelief at the miracle that had occurred in her yard. The hedges had returned, the trees and vines were overflowing with color and aroma. She raced outside and walked the maze over and over until she was convinced that it was real.

A weight lingered in Flora’s heart. She could not unsee the destruction of her homeland. If such a future awaited the island then the restoration of her garden hardly mattered at all. She gave her worries to every flower the she saw and soon thick veil of fog rolled in from the sea. It masked her surroundings completely until the only sight left in Flora’s eyes was the white glow of mist. Dots of orange and yellow appeared across the void. They flickered and danced, growing in number like stars as the evening sky darkens into night. She saw that they were attached to wooden stems. The stems were not stationary at all, they moved with ferocity on a shadowy wave drawing closer and closer. Fear came next. She sensed aggression in that dark form, a thunderhead dense with rain. Thunder sounded- only it was not thunder at all, but the noise of a thousand human voices, crying out in rage.

She ran for her life. A cluster of footfalls closed in on Flora. They sounded like hers, fearful- and in their fearfulness, comforting. That comfort gave her the strength that she required to push on. The rough terrain below her feet softened and started to fight against her treads, she recognized this resistance. They were racing across a sandy beach then wading through cool waters. It was a swim that she could have made with her eyes closed, passed the cliffs and into the lagoon where boats and ships bobbed gently on the current. After casting off, her eyes scanned the faces of her only friends left in the world. She knew a few by name and a few by sight alone. Before she could ask how their banishment was earned, the vision abruptly faded. 

All that Flora knew now was that her life on the island and the island itself were not long for this world. It was a heavy weight to bear. She sought answers in the garden, finding only those two messages repeated over and over. Travelers from both cities set to the road. They were drawn to her property just like before. She welcomed everyone, but the garden itself was not so accommodating. Guests would breathe in the fragrant fumes, stay a while and leave in distress. There were a few who returned despite the spot’s tarnished reputation. Each one claimed to have seen the first premonition that Flora had. A few asked what they could do to spare their home such a fate. Only after that inquiry were they granted the second vision, warning them of their imminent banishment. This connection, this fear only strengthened their bond.

A third and final message came from the garden. It told the companions of their return after many years at sea. Their tiny boat knew what course to take without having to be told and carried them back to that familiar shore. The cities lay in ruin, devoured by smoke and flame and surprisingly, nature. A thick and hungry jungle would be the victor when all was said and done. That would not be the only surprise that they would find. Little boats, just like their own would appear on the horizon, carrying other souls who chose the side of peace. They would inherit the island and its prophetic flowers. Only the blooms would lose their gift of foresight. The sweet fragrance would remain, of course. Throughout history, humans would develop a new relationship with the sights and smells of the garden. Time would forget but the petals would always remember and bear that reminder for us all.