The Cyclamen

27 September 2009

Dark fantasy. Words: 933.

The boy dreams in his bed in the big house above the village. He sees a forest where moss drips from the trees and the shady hangings of convolvulus bind to form a curtain that keeps out the sun. Lords-and-Ladies cluster on the woodland floor, amongst the rot of earth and the skeletons of leaves. Slabs of orange fungus erupt from the mouldering soil. Tightly curled shoots of new bracken compete with yellowing ferns, and Cuckoo's pint bubbles above narrow brooks.

The rays of the waning moon through the leaded light of the window trap the boy's face in silhouette as he sleeps. He dreams of a place deep within the forest where no people penetrate at all. As dusk fades to darkness and the bats fly out from their hollows to explore the ever-deepening blue, he sees the cyclamen flower unfurl her petals, pale and pink as the snow at dawn.

Curled foetus-style in her slumber, the creature within the blossom stirs. For a timeless moment between thought and action, she lies within the tightly packed bud of her chamber. Then, as the petals loosen around her she lifts her arms to the night above and stretches her elastic limbs, basking in the glory of the dappled moonlight.

Beneath the midnight sky, she tumbles from her nest, slipping like a fawn on new limbs. Gathering herself, she totters and stands. Now, on stronger legs she wanders through bluebell dells and needled wastelands. Through marsh and mire haunted by shadow-like mists and will-o'-the-wisps, she follows the light of the moon to a beaten track where she stands, open mouthed, in a wheel-carved rut.

Her nakedness startles a huntsman riding late from his day in the woods. He reins his mare to a halt. She seems to be a girl lost and alone in the night, her silver hair like cobwebs about her face, her skin the milk of rose petals and apple blossom. When he turns to speak to her, he cannot find her, and he thinks he has seen a ghost. Terror-struck, he spurs his mare on with a shout and the crack of a whip.

Swinging amongst the trees in the near distance, village lanterns burn hotly to keep away haunts. She makes her way amongst the people as they pack up their market wares to travel home, or to vanish through skin hangings into the heated darkness of their tumbledown hovels. Her eyes pass over them, glazed, as their own pass over hers. They cannot see her, they do not look for her, and she is like the forest breeze.

A woman with the basket of posies rearranges ribbons tied around their cut, bleeding stems. There are tea roses laid out on a stall, and the creature cups one in the palms of her hands. It has captured dewdrops, like tears, within its petals. It is dying a slow death in its straw and ribbon. As her hands slip away, it withers to a dry and lifeless husk.

A young man buys a bouquet of giant blue daisies and ferns for his lover. She follows him for a short while, her eyes narrow with pain, until a funereal wreath hung from a crude wooden door distracts her. Tied with string and wire, lily stems rub abrasively against one another. She turns away, but door upon door decorated with garlic blossoms confront her; peasant spells to keep out the dead.

She runs from the confusion of village, hands clasped to her ears to block the silent screams. Hiding for a while in the weeping sore of a log pile, she is lulled. In the big house upon the hill, there is movement. The scent of flesh lures her.

She slips through the window into his room. He lies in a patch of dappled moonlight. Young and vital, just a boy, he is startled by her when he wakes from his dream. She is silvery skinned with hair the pink of roses and eyes as dark as violets. She is naked, and for a heartbeat or less, he contemplates how it would feel to slip his fingers between her dark nether lips.

As he rises to his feet, she entwines her limbs around his body like ivy. The boy hears her though she does not speak, and she seems to say; give me life. He is passive to his seduction and allows himself be explored, then ignited, and he grips her arms. Her skin is cool and waxen to the touch, like fresh, green leaves. As she guides him, gently, to enter her, he finds that her sex is cold and gelatinous. She tastes of nectar and bitter juices.

As morning comes and the birds begin to call, the cyclamen makes her way back through the stirring forest. The bats have long since returned to their hollows and the primroses have begun to lift their heads to the grey, early light. With the cusp of dawn, dewdrops form on the silky leaves of her bedchamber. She curls easily into the tight, eager bud where the velvet touch of living stamens strokes her to sleep.

In the big house above the village, a mother tries to wake her son. He is pale as snow, cold as ice. His cup lies on the dresser untouched, and his nightshirt lies tangled on the floor.

In the forest, as the orange sunrays filter down through the leaves in tiny streaks, the early morning flies begin to gather, the very air to buzz. The cyclamen flower soon teems with hungry life, its petals as red as blood.

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