The Sorrow of Hyacinths
Esther meets a stranger while walking a never-ending road.
CWs: allusions to a suicide attempt, loss, grief
Esther wandered along the empty road. Cracks scored the asphalt, deep enough to see the anemic soil underneath. Dandelions poked through some of the cracks. Persistently growing where they were not wanted. They threatened to overtake the broken road. Trees suffocated by thick vines of kudzu grew tall, forming walls on either side of her. Esther wasn’t sure how long she had wandered or how she had even arrived at this place. Memories flitted around her mind, tiny wisps that slipped through her fingers as she tried to grasp them.
She walked for hours. Or at least, she thought they were hours. The sun did not move from where it lingered just above the horizon. A perpetual dusk or dawn, Esther was not sure. The sun provided no warmth despite its rays reaching her pale skin. There was no humidity clinging to her skin like a damp towel wrapped tight. She did not hear cicadas screaming under the cancerous growths of green leaves nor beetles clicking as they tunneled their fat bodies through the vines.
No matter how long she walked, her feet did not hurt nor did she break a sweat. Esther did not stop walking. Searching for a way off the never-ending road. The road did not twist nor turn. There were no paths through the trees on either side of her. She should have been terrified.
But she felt…empty.
A vast nothingness swirled under her skin. A black hole in her chest had hungrily devoured everything except her name.
Who was I?
“Are you lost?” A voice — a voice! — called to her from the end of the road that had not been there before.
Asphalt ended abruptly at the foot of a path deep into the trees. The woman stood there patiently and waited for Esther to approach. Raven hair was shot through with gray and pulled into twin braids that hung down to the woman’s waist. Though her eyes were a dull grey, Esther would have never made the mistake of calling them colorless; for as the stranger tilted her head Esther noticed a rainbow of colors reflecting back at her like light moving through a crystal prism. The woman wore a black cloak tied tight around her neck. The hem brushed the tops of her bare feet. Esther swore the grass and dandelions curled over the woman’s feet as if caressing her. A basket dangled loosely from her fingertips holding a single dead flower, the buds dried and brown, barely clinging to a thin stem.
“Are you lost?” the woman repeated.
“Y-yes,” Esther whispered, voice cracking from disuse. She couldn’t remember the last time she spoke aloud. “I am lost.”
The woman’s eyes drifted down to Esther’s feet and back up to her face before giving a small nod. “Just as I thought. Come with me.”
Esther did not hesitate, not wanting to end up stuck walking the never-ending road again. Who knew how long it would take for someone else to find her? She followed the woman into the towering woods where the dirt did not stir under feet, but she watched as grass and wildflowers and weeds bloomed everywhere the woman stepped. Esther walked in her footsteps. Everything withered as soon as she touched it. That should make her sad. Esther wanted to feel sad but there was just…nothing. She glanced over her shoulder. The path behind them had disappeared, leaving only a dense maze of green-covered trees that all blurred into one another. There was nowhere else to go but with the stranger.
The further in they went, the more Esther saw the brown bark of trees instead of startling green everywhere. Large white flowers bloomed. Beetles climbed across the branches and clung precariously to the petals. Vines wrapped around some of the trees, but these ones dripped with small purple flowers. Esther knew these flowers and these trees but could not name them. Even as she dug around in her mind, the words danced out of reach.
Trees shifted further apart, branches twisting to twine over their heads into an arch. Esther followed the woman through the arch and paused. A small cottage was surrounded by massive gardens. Flowers of every kind and color grew together in perfectly manicured beds separated by a cobblestone path. The layout reminded Esther of a wheel — the beds spokes and the cottage at the very center.
“What is this place?” Esther whispered, not wanting to disturb the quiet.
“My garden,” the woman answered. “Come. You must be hungry.”
Was she?
Ivy grew over the stone facade of the cottage. Large glass jars filled with water and flowers sat on the sill of the open window. There was no door, only an archway to the inside. Esther crossed the threshold and rich smells assaulted her instantly, making her stomach grumble and tighten. A fire crackled in the brick hearth. Esther held her hands out but could not feel heat.
An iron pot hung over the flames and she peered inside. Shiny bubbles of fat shimmered on top of simmering golden broth. Esther spied thick mushrooms and flecks of green. The soup smelled familiar, but she could not remember ever having it before.
“Sit,” the woman said, gesturing to a small table with two chairs. She set the basket down on the table as Esther did as she was told. “Do you like tea?”
“I don’t know.”
The woman nodded as if that were perfectly normal and turned away to grab a jar from the windowsill above the sink. Honey brown liquid sloshed up the sides. Esther watched as the woman poured two glasses full of the liquid and placed the jar back on the sill. Light danced through the cut glass, throwing rainbows of color onto the table as the woman set them down on the table.
“Drink,” she said, turning away again to grab bowls from the open shelves on either side of the window.
Esther touched the glass to her lips and took a cursory sip of the mystery liquid. She expected nothing and was pleasantly surprised at the mellow taste of steeped dandelions and sweet honey. Cloying Carolina warmth clinging to her skin. Bees buzzing around the flowering weeds that grew through the cracks in the sidewalk. Peals of laughter, hers and others. Esther took another sip. She was a gangly thing, sprouting unevenly while girls her age seemed to shoot up and out in equal measure. Neon pink, smelling faintly of chlorine, stuck to her thin frame. Sweet smoke carried the scent of slow-cooking pork she would pull apart with her fingers, sucking the slick fat from her fingers. Mamaw poured a glass of her sun-steeped dandelion tea and handed it to Esther, touching her cheek affectionately.
A tear slid down Esther’s cheek. She set the glass down and swiped it away, marveling at the single drop of salty water before it fell to the wood. The memories faded as quick as they came, and Esther felt nothing again. She took another sip of the tea, but they did not return.
A bowl of steaming soup was set down in front of her. Esther leaned forward, giving it a cautious sniff, but it smelled just as delicious as when she had first walked in the door. The woman sat across from her with her own bowl. Before Esther could open her mouth and ask for a spoon, the woman picked up the bowl and sipped the broth. Esther did the same. The swollen skin of an oyster mushroom brushed her upper lip as she sipped.
Wild mushroom soup. Dirt gathered under her nails. A sharp pocketknife, awkward in her hand. A guiding voice. ‘Never take more than your share. Nature’s bounty is for everyone.’ A basket full but not overflowing. Tears pricked in her eyes again. Old bones tossed into a pot and left to boil. Bundles of herbs tied together with twine. Soaked mushrooms, reinvigorated once more. Mamaw tucking a strand of hair behind Esther’s ear as they cut vegetables side by side.
The bowl was empty. Esther stared into it, the Nothing creeping back in. Filling the vacuum the vanished memories left. She willed the bowl to fill again but it did not.
“Sleep.” The woman nodded to the only bed in the cottage. “You need rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You are.”
Esther closed her eyes but did not dream. The darkness was filled with faraway whispers that did not get louder or more coherent no matter which direction she walked. When the voices stopped, there was a faint beeping. Steady. Rhythmic. Esther opened her eyes feeling no more or less rested than when she had closed them.
The light in the cottage looked the same as if the sun had not moved an inch. A fire flickered in the hearth, but the pot was nowhere to be seen. Esther was alone. She took that opportunity to snoop. The woman who had found her had not told Esther who she was and what she was doing out here by herself. But there was nothing to indicate who she was. No pictures. Nothing with a name. Just jars of seeping sun tea with different flowers inside, bundles of dried herbs and flowers, a single bed that only Esther had slept in, and a cinnamon broom hanging beside the front door. She touched the oiled bristles. Cinnamon clung to her fingers.
Withered hands wove bristles tightly together. The pungent smell lingered in her nose as she hung the broom over the front door. Old brooms decorated with dried flowers and hung in the trees. Esther hung one over her bed, purple hyacinth petals dropping onto her pillow.
She found the woman outside, tending to one of her many gardens. The cloak had been discarded and the woman wore nothing more than a simple cream shift. Her hair was pulled back into a single braid that brushed her tailbone. Sensing Esther, the woman stood up and turned. Esther froze.
Inky darkness stained the woman’s hands up to her elbows. Esther had not noticed the day before, most of the woman having been hidden by the cloak. Threads of green light pulsed through the black. A withered flower lay limply in her hand.
“What are you?” Esther asked, her voice oddly even.
“I am a gardener,” the woman said.
Green flared red and the dying flower blazed in her hand. A loud pop made Esther jump. As the flower burned, a single seed was left behind in the woman’s palm. She turned back to the flower bed and crouched, pushing the seed into the loamy soil and covering it up. The other flowers seemed to shudder and lean closer, craving the woman’s touch, until the woman withdrew her hand.
The woman hitched her shift up to her knees and walked to the next bed, eyes searching through tall stalks of hollyhocks. Esther did not know what else to do but follow. The flowers waved to her in the nonexistent breeze. Esther reached and touched a pink petal.
Waves crashing on shore. Children’s laughter. The sharp sting of grief that grows bigger and bigger, threatening to swallow everything. Warm hands encasing another. A kiss on the brow. Tears of sorrow and then of joy, new and frightening. Soft lips meeting in a promise.
Esther gripped the petal as if she were going to pluck it but the woman grasped her wrist tightly. Not enough to hurt but enough to stop Esther.
“You do not destroy what is not yours.”
Esther withered under the chastising tone but let go of the petal. The flower arced away from Esther as if it thought she might try again. She would not. She had barely registered doing it in the first place.
“What is mine?” Esther asked, looking around the beds as if her flower would jump out at her, but they all blurred together. Vibrant watercolors smeared across canvas.
The woman led Esther back to the cottage. To where the dying flower still laid in the basket on the table. A flash of anger surged through her. Enough to unsettle her on her feet but the feeling did not linger.
“I don’t understand. It’s dead,” Esther said, gesturing to the sickly petals clinging to a rotten stem.
“Not yet.” The woman retreated to the door. “You have to want to save it.”
Esther stared down at the flower. At the incredible cosmic joke lying before her. What was there to save? A measly rotting little thing? She doubted it would survive even if she tossed it in rich soil and drowned it in water. What the hell was she supposed to do? Anger returned. White hot under her skin. She grasped the wilted flower.
Drowning lungs drawing in wet breath after wet breath. Pallid skin stretched tight over old bones. A cold limp hand resting in hers. Silence. Tears dried on her cheeks. Sheet covered mirrors and windows closed up tight. Voices raised in anger. Words that could never be taken back. A fracture.
Esther’s hand shook.
Backs turned. Words dripped from one side of a mouth to the other. Hands pushed her away. Into a corner. Into the dark. Pressure cracked down on her chest. Pressing and pressing until she couldn’t breathe. A key scratching into a lock. A door opened to quiet. To loneliness.
Tears dripped down her cheeks.
Shards of pain grew out of cracks, pricking anyone who dared get too close. Silence became deafening. Crushing. She couldn’t breathe anymore. Didn’t want to drag herself out of bed anymore. Pills rattled in a brown bottle. Hazy darkness plucked at her mind. Pulling her under. Into Nothingness.
How could she save a flower so far gone? Did she even want to? It would hurt. Everything would hurt again. But Esther did not know if she could stand the emptiness inside of her now. Could she go back? Or should she go forward? What waited for her?
Movement caught her eye, and she looked up as a spicebush swallowtail perched on the jar of dandelion tea, delicate black and soft white wings fluttering.
Lips trembled. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Brushed away by wrinkled hands that smelled of mint and lemon. ‘What am I going to do without you?’ Warms lips pressed against her temple. ‘You’ll live, sprout, and when your time comes, I’ll be there to guide you to our next adventure.’
Esther carefully cradled the dying flower in her hands and walked outside where the woman waited for Esther’s answer.
“I don’t know how to save it,” Esther’s voice wobbled.
The woman held her hands out for Esther, and led her in a circle around the cottage, eyes searching the beds for a space. She finally stopped and sank to her knees, tugging Esther down with her. Stems shifted, leaning away from each other to reveal the small space in the dark soil. Together they pressed the dying flower into the soil. Dirt gathered under Esther’s nails. The soil was warm and inviting. A hug she had forgotten the feeling of enveloping her. She sat back with the woman, and they waited, staring at the soil.
“Are you Death?” Esther asked.
“I am a gardener,” the woman answered. “There are many gardens to tend but this one is mine.”
Green poked out of the soil. Esther watched the stem reach out of the dirt, growing taller and taller each time she blinked. Purple buds grew from the top and down the sides. One by one they opened, revealing purple star-shaped petals that curled backward. Purple hyacinths. Mamaw and grown so many different flowers but the purple hyacinths were Esther’s favorite.
Memories crashed down on her, filling her and sucking the air out of her lungs all at once. She knew what awaited her when she left this place. The sharp edges of pain that could slice her open once again. What if she ended up back here again? Over and over. Unable to wait until her time.
Fingers brushed through her hair. Esther leaned into the woman, resting her cheek on the woman’s shoulder. Warmth seeped into her skin. Sleep tugged at her. Pulled her back into the dreamless dark. The whispers were clearer. Pleas for her to wake. To open her eyes. One voice rang out over the rest.
“Time to bloom, little sprout.”
Esther woke to bright light.
Luna Fiore is a genderfluid speculative fiction author from Eastern North Carolina with a MFA in Creative Writing from SNHU. WHERE WILLOWS WEEP is his debut horror, but he is also the author of dark fantasy series, The Underhill Saga. She’s dreamed of other worlds since she was a child making potions out of mud, sticks, and roly-polys. When he isn’t writing he is playing in video game worlds and corralling his small zoo of three cats and two St. Bernards.
