Saturday evening: late.
Rattmelia Japonica: crown jewel of the Dark Island inner garden. The bloom, perfect in its total essence of rat-ness.
R. B. “Arby” Brown leaned close and touched the plant with the tentative caress of a lover.
“You are lovely.”
In profile, the flower appeared mundane; just another southern Camellia on a nondescript evergreen woody shrub. The direct view shocked the eyes. Rosy petals fanned out around a tight center-pointed bud, with two wiry clusters of yellow stamens at nine and three o’clock and a matched set of small round protrusions set like beady eyes at twelve o’clock. The visage of a rat; not unlike the reflection Arby faced every day when he chanced to pass a mirror. The Camellia’s scent added the finishing touch; the fetid odor of blended garbage too long in the steaming Florida heat. As with the gardener’s other hybrids, the plant’s behavior deviated from its nature. Most of the Camellia species bloomed in the winter months. This one favored the heat and humidity.
A smooth male voice caused the master gardener to jerk upright. “You have outdone yourself, Arby.”
Five years, he had worked for Vincent Raynaud Bedsloe 3rd, and he still couldn’t get accustomed to the man’s strange ability to materialize from thin air.
“Thank you, Sir. She is magnificent.”
His employer stepped from the shadows and stood beside him. Other than the quirky habit of dressing in 1950’s movie star attire, Vincent would pass as just another forty-year-old wealthy playboy. The man had more silk smoking jackets than Hugh Heffner.
Not that Arby leaned toward admiring his fellow males, but it was not hard to see why the Hollywood types who frequented The Spa at Dark Island gravitated to his boss. Vincent possessed classic good looks and breeding: dark hair and eyes, a slender build, impeccable grooming and manners, and the ability to converse intelligently on any subject. Long-legged women fawned at his feet and he could have his pick, if his tastes ran to that sort of thing.
Arby was one of the select few who knew: Vincent’s passions ran in a different vein. Literally.
A gentle land breeze disturbed the Spanish moss draped like mourning shrouds in the live oak branches overhead. This time of night, no spa patrons wandered the extensive formal gardens in search of titillation. The last formal dinner of the week had passed, and they were either satiated and asleep, or packing for the next day’s departure.
“Of course,” Vincent said, “these might not be the favorites of our guests.” Vincent’s nose twitched. One problem with preternatural senses: odors detectable by normal human olfactory devices became almost intolerable. Over time, he had learned to filter out the background tang of the coastal marshes: a blend of brine, decaying plant and animal matter, and the occasional exhaust perfume of a passing motorboat engine.
“Not to worry,” Arby said. “You and I are the only ones allowed into the garden’s inner sanctum.”
Vincent nodded. “I detect something else.” He lifted his head slightly. “Have you been using chemicals again, Arby? You know I detest the smell.”
Arby thought for a moment before answering. “Has to be the willow water.” He pointed to the greenhouse. “I collect young willow branches and cut them into pieces. It takes three or four small branches to make a gallon. I add the pieces to water and simmer over very low heat for ten to twelve hours. Very important: it can not boil. After, I let it cool and bottle it up. Oh, and I always label it so that no one drinks it by accident. It is somewhat toxic to humans.”
“Fascinating.” Vincent nodded. “And you use this how?”
Vincent directed his full attention to his gardener and Arby soaked it in like a warm milk bath. Never in his miserable existence had anyone cared enough to make small talk, much less look him directly in the face. Through a series of jobs, he had kept his face concealed with masks and, lately, a beekeeper’s mesh hat. The only profession where his rat-like features and small stature had not only come in handy, but also advantageous, was his last: attorney. “I put cuttings in a glass or jar and cover the ends with the willow water overnight. The tonic contains a hormone that helps plants root.”
“Your talents were wasted in the legal arena,” Vincent said. “Though I am pleased to have an overseer who can take care of business, too.”
Thanks to his association with Vincent Bedsloe, Arby left it all behind: The stares. The whispers. A childhood where his peers called him Rat Boy. Now as overseer, gardener, and chief gourmet cook for The Spa at Dark Island, he was free. The small number of legal dealings on occasion, he gladly provided at no charge.
Vincent removed a small glass vial from the jacket. He held it to the dim light. A dark liquid inside seemed to emit its own eerie luminescence. “Add a couple of drops of this. The plants will surely flourish.”
“I’d rather save that for the patrons,” Arby said. “No telling what it would do to my plants. They might start to think I look like something they’d like to chew on.”
“Good point.” He slipped the vial back into its pocket.
“Something I want to address—after the weekend’s festivities—it has been another long and dry spring, now well into summer. We’ve had very scant rain. We really should consider a series of controlled burns, Sir. The underbrush is like tinder.”
Vincent’s nose wrinkled. “I dislike the way the land looks after one of those, Arby. And the smell! The patrons won’t abide it, nor can I.”
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