There are plants
the like of which Gwynn has never seen in any garden or florist’s shop. Climbing
flowers and vines starry with a spectrum of blossoms. Emerald fans and trumpet
flowers, touched by shadows cast by the canopy above them. There is no order or
organization to them; they do not line a path, but encroach on every side of
the conservatory.
In and among the
greenery there are beasts with coats the colour and softness of desert sand,
and pelts as black and sleek as liquid night. Cats as large as wolves that eye
Gwynn sleepily or with unnerving interest before disappearing into the foliage
once again.
In the trees
Gwynn catches glimpses of birds with rainbows of plumage perched or preparing
for flight, with iridescent feathers, or sprays of feathers so vivid they
appear like flames. Birds of paradise perched on bowers, nacreous green beetles
crouching in the magnolia.
A small unidentifiable
creature runs across Isabel’s foot, silently as a shadow, quick as a snake.
Every corner
turned is marked by a new scent, of animal musk and rain and summer flowers, and
meandering coils of vines and bowers. The branches of the trees become
increasingly serpentine as they travel deeper into the jungle, until there is
no glimpse of the ceiling above them, and Gwynn begins to wonder if they are
inside at all anymore.
Art by Annie Stegg
Text by Lucie MacAulay
No comments:
Post a Comment