Bloom and Doom

A Prompt with Three Levels - The Sinking Swamps

They say I’m fearless. Some survival mag even printed it once "Fearless Flint, Man vs. Nature."

Truth is, I’m not fearless. I’m just too bloody stubborn to let fear sit in the front seat.

Which is how I found myself knee deep in a grumbling peat bog in the middle of the Sinking Swamps, fiddling with a satellite dish that refused to find a signal, while a woman in a broad brimmed hat took photos of fungus like she was shooting for Vogue: Botanical Edition.

"Signal’s cut again," I muttered, shielding the small, battered television screen from the mist. "That was a penalty shot. I know it."

No response. Just the soft click click of Dr. Angela Reiner's camera.

"You’re missing the match of the year," I tried again. Nothing. The woman had tunnel vision.

We’d been out here for two days already, marching along a half crumbled trail through ground that shifted like a liar’s smile. Every so often, the earth gave a warning groan and sucked at our boots, trying to reclaim us. Not that she seemed to notice. Angela Reiner, Doctor of Plants or Petals or whatever she called it, had the focus of a monk and the fashion sense of someone who thought safari gear came in tailored cuts.

"Remind me," I said, adjusting the dish again, "this miracle orchid of yours, what are we doing with it once we find it? Sample? Splice? Clone?"

She didn’t even glance at me. "I’m going to take a picture."

I froze. "A picture?"

"Mmmhmm."

"That’s it?"

She finally turned. Her eyes were sharp. Grey, like storm light over cliffs. "Not just any picture. The picture. The Royal Horticultural Society holds a photographic competition once a year, and I have come in second place for four years straight. This is my year."

I stared. "So we’re out here risking life and limb, missing the Wembley final for a bloody ribbon?"

She tilted her head. "There’s a certificate, too."

I had to look away. The tremor that hit next felt almost personal.

Her gear weighed more than she did. That hadn’t stopped her from dragging it through brambles and bog water with the determination of a soldier. I respected it. Sort of.

Angela talked to her plants sometimes. Whispered to them like old friends. She called them by name. The bush we passed at noon was "Myrtle."

I wasn’t sure if it was endearing or concerning.

"What’s the name of this mythical bloom again?" I asked around midday, as we stepped across a spongy patch that belched every time we moved.

"Orchis fenestralis," she said. "Common name, Midnight Fen Orchid. It only blooms once every hundred years, and only for a single night."

"And that night is tonight?"

She nodded, beaming. "Isn’t it romantic?"

"That’s not the word I’d use."

"You need better vocabulary."

"You need better hobbies."

She laughed. It caught me off guard.

By the time we reached the heart of this sinking swamp, the sky was bleeding peach and plum. Angela kept checking her watch, her camera, and the ground like she expected the flower to pop up and introduce itself.

"Here," she said, pointing to a crumbling stone marker half swallowed by roots. "This is the spot. Old maps confirm it."

I was more interested in setting up my TV. The match was in extra time. The signal kept flickering, but I caught a glimpse of a player I recognized sprinting upfield.

Then the swamp growled.

Angela didn’t flinch. I did. But only to protect the gear.

The tremor came low and long, like the earth exhaling. A moment later, the ground cracked ten feet behind us and swallowed the mossy path whole.

"We need to move," I said.

"Just a minute," she whispered. "It's starting."

Sure enough, from an unassuming coiled bud, a slender green stalk rose. It unfurled slowly. Atop it bloomed a star shaped flower, violet black with veins of silver that shimmered in the twilight.

Angela gasped.

She stepped forward, camera raised.

Another tremor hit, stronger this time. The satellite dish toppled. I lunged for it, caught it by the strap, just as the ground beneath us groaned again. The edge gave way and I kicked her case away as the water reclaimed the space it had been.

My boot slipped. The dish dragged against me.

I let it go.

It vanished into the mire.

Angela turned at my shout. "Are you okay?"

I looked at the empty space where my satellite kit had been.

"I missed the final," I muttered.

"You saved my shot," she said looking at her case.

She knelt, clicked the shutter. The orchid glowed. The image froze forever.

Later, by the fire we'd coaxed to life on a patch of dry stone, she handed me a thermos of something vaguely chocolatey.

"For your sacrifice," she said.

I took it.

"Still think this was just a holiday?"

"No," I admitted.

Angela smiled. "Next year, I’ll enter the adventure photography category. I could use a bodyguard."

I watched her then, light from the flames caught in the lines of her smile.

Maybe it wasn’t the game I’d lost.

Maybe it was something I didn’t know I was ready to win.

~by Heather Patton / The Verdant Butterfly

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