Excerpt


“What’s the ‘Broughdarg Two-Step?'”

“Well, you see, during the war with the Tudors Broughdarg changed hands many times. Legend has it some wag kept a running tally of hash marks inside the gate for the English and Irish besiegers.”

“So?”

“So, every time the fortress was taken, the captives and their sympathizers would go to the gibbets on the battlements, at least until their fellows recaptured the city and cut them down. Winds are fierce around Broughdarg most of the year, so the gusts would shake the poor fellows such that they looked to be dancing. By the time the city fell for good, they say, over a thousand had danced the Broughdarg Two-Step.”

Among the many bits of flora and fauna he cataloged was ivichea irregulari. One of many specimens named after Captain Vichea of the Intrepid, it was an unremarkable deciduous shrub in every way save one: the leaves never seemed to grow in the same shape twice. And unlike the minor variations in oak and maple, the ivichea irregulari varied hugely in both size and shape. It also had an uncharacteristic tendency to grow leaves featuring straight lines and right angles, extremely rare in botany. Garrison preserved pressings of leaves resembling crosses, zigzags, open books, hearts, and a myriad of other shapes.

When his narrative of the voyage and reproductions of his pressings were printed after the Intrepid returned, it created a minor sensation. Some academics accused garrison of altering the leaves with compass and straightedge, while others insisted that he must have confused several closely related plants to obtain the varied samples. The controversy overshadowed much of the expedition’s work, and within two years another vessel had set out to confirm the story.

Sure enough, ivichea irregulari was found, and dozens of specimens were brought back to Europe where they were in huge demand as ornamental plants and curiosities. The price of specimens was so great, in fact, that Charlotte Island was soon denuded of the plants, which became extinct in the wild. They became a fixture of trendy topiary gardens for a number of years, and thanks to the bush’s short germination time and quick growth, breeders were able to create strains with more of the desired, and exotic leaf types.

That was, of course, until a pestilence (which latter-day research revealed to be a variety of Dutch elm disease) swept through the continent. With low genetic diversity, every viable specimen of ivichea irregulari was dead within six years.

“I don’t regret what I’ve done. I sleep like a baby every night. Most of them were bad people anyway, killed at the behest of other bad people maybe but usually as deserving of death as anyone on your death row. People don’t target the crusading lawyers and politicians like they used to, at least not in this country. Too many questions, too many badges. But if a drug middleman dies, who cares? That’s where professionals like myself make a living.”

“Then why leave it behind?”

“No one sees the work. No one appreciates the work, not even the clients. I’d like to do something people can see and appreciate. That’s not to much to ask after an early retirement, is it?”

You started feeling this way weeks ago, even though you can’t pinpoint exactly when or how. It’s like a dream, where the beginning fades away into tendrils of pale smoke the more you grasp at it. Even in the now the feeling ebbs and flows, all the keener in moments of stress or contemplation.

It’s more an absence of a feeling than a feeling, an utter emptiness right in the center of your being. Not heartbreak. You’re been there–we all have–but not heartbreak. Not love either. That’s a filling up, a welling, not an empty chasm.

Almost as if someone has reached in and removed something you never knew you had, never knew you could miss, the emptiness gnaws at you, begging to be filled. But how, and with what?

“Ah, okay. Mr. Y-A-Y-C-O-S-H.”

“No, not Yaycosh. Hjecosh.”

“Oh, sorry. Mr. H-E-A-Y-C-O-S-H.”

“No, no, no! Hjecosh! Hjecosh! It’s spelt H-J-E-C-O-S-H!”

“Oh. Why’s that?”

“It’s Dutch!”

Maintaining a garden was no easy task, least of all for someone with Marie’s fastidiousness. Any intruder, any interloper, any seed or spore that was there without her express permission was to be sought out and eradicated. Crouching in the finely-parted earth with calipers in one hand and gardener’s shears in the other was in many ways the perfect outlet for her obsessive compulsion.

“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered, examining a newly-sprouted maple sapling that had sprung up over the long holiday weekend. “Don’t even think about unfolding your usurping petioles in my garden.”

Normally a pacifist who made annual payroll-delectable contributions to PETA, Marie was vicious to garden intruders. She tore up the sapling by its roots, snapped its fragile stem in half, and threw it on a pile to be incinerated as yard waste.

“All that exists are a billion tangential experiences which are incorrectly called the real. People have struggled for years against the notion that nothing is objective and subjectivity poisons any hope of truth or reconciliation between beings, but it remains an inescapable fact.”

“That’s a rather dim outlook, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. But it is and remains the only outlook.”

I never understood why Annie Gross set up her practice in town. There was an optometry school at Osborn University just a few miles down the road, so the county was always overrun with eye doctors looking to set up shop. Usually they stuck around because of spouses or children or love of the area–all reasons which, as far as I knew, didn’t apply to Dr. Gross.

Then there was the indelicate subject of her name. I knew, of course, that it was a German name and didn’t mean anything particularly bad when her ancestors had borne it across the pond, but that didn’t make it any less of an issue. Heck, Wanker is a semi-common German surname too, but that doesn’t keep people from discreetly spelling it Vanker when they emigrate. She could at least have spelled it Grosz or something.

Despite that business always seems to be good; I never saw a waiting room that wasn’t full of teens and adults. That may have had something to do with Dr. Gross herself, of course. Me, I was always too shy to make eye contact with her–ironic, I know–and would bury my nose in the waiting room books until called.

That could be a little dangerous, though, because more often than not they were Dr. Gross’s old textbooks, full of lurid color photos of diseased eyeballs leaking pus or escaping their sockets. In that respect, at least, her name was apt.

“Near as we can tell. After that, Engineer Abbot sounded all stop without any input from the bridge and ordered the fenders out.”

“Why would he do that? They weren’t in port and no communications to other vessels are recorded.”

“Look, I’m just telling you what I see. GPS confirms that there weren’t any transceiver-equipped vessels nearby at the time, and that’s the the last order entered in the log. You saw the fenders when we boarded.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense…”

I parked between two black Jeeps of identical make, model and year today. Slotted right in between them. I have to wonder, when I see things like that, about the greater designs lurking behind such everyday coincidences.

Had they parked so near knowingly?

Lovers, maybe, with the cars representing a bond?

Rivals, each seeking to match the other blow for blow?

Or perhaps it was just a coincidence–two souls passing randomly over the asphalt, hewing to a familiar shape and color. But why the empty space?

Maybe they’d hoped for a third car to join them, to extend the coincidence into destiny.

Maybe a third car had already come and gone, leaving only the broken links of a chain behind it.

Or maybe, just maybe, they had hoped for a white Hyundai to sit between them, the ultimate contrast. Like ivory and ebony on a set of 88 keys.

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