The Night Blossom: Fiction from CG Inglis, Part 8

Sci-Fi-O-Rama continues its fiction run with the eighth installment of “A Colour Like Orange: Stories from a Broken World“, a series of interlocking stories from Toronto writer CG Inglis.

A young girl living in fear of her explosive parents reaches a breaking point. Fleeing into the night, she encounters something unexpected; something that will change her forever.

With writing both poignant and tense, CG Inglis takes us to the hinge point in a lonely childhood in “The Night Blossom“.

–

Her mother was shouting again. The door was partway open and the girl could see her father sitting on the bed. He would say nothing, she knew. Not at first. He’d sit and stare as her mother’s voice climbed higher and louder, right up until there was glass in it. Until it was sharp enough to cut. Then he would break. He always did, sooner or later, and his hands were already shaking.

Trembling, the girl backed away from the door, but there was nowhere for her to go. The small apartment was a prison cell, and her mother’s voice filled every corner of it. The girl lived more or less constantly in a state of fear, and now that fear tightened around her throat like a leather strap. She could hardly breathe. All she could think of was how to get away. She turned, her eyes screwed shut, and when she opened them again she was at the front door. From the bedroom came a sound like a caged animal, a low, threatening growl. Her hand was on the door handle. In the next breath she was out of the apartment.

The light in the hall stung her eyes. Blinking through tears she watched her feet padding over the brown carpet. Panic coursed through her. Any moment now her father would burst from the door, heavy-limbed and panting, and the girl would be dragged back inside. Back to face him, and his hands, and her mother’s cutting wail.

The ding of the elevator shocked her; she could not remember pressing the button. Knuckling her eyes, she slipped inside and this time she concentrated as she touched the button with the tip of a finger. She stood in the corner and counted the beeps from her floor to the ground. When the doors finally opened, she rushed into the lobby. The guard behind the desk raised his head as she passed, and spoke to her, but she didn’t stop. Slamming herself against the revolving door, she stumbled into the street.

Humid air enveloped her. With one shuddering breath she took in the streaming night. Cars passed, and a horn sounded. The pitted sidewalk reeled beneath her. Reaching the corner, she darted across the street, half-blinded by a high pair of headlights.

For a moment she paused in the shadow of a shuttered storefront, her shoulders tight against the muted glass. She could see her apartment building on the far side of the road, stretching into the sky like a dark fortress. Its concrete walls were scarred and chipped, and every window was a sickly eye. She had always hated living there. Turning away from the building, she told herself she was never coming back.

Her steps fell quickly, but she didn’t run. She had no destination in mind, no plan. All she wanted was to get away from them, to be free of her mother’s voice and her father’s brittle anger. Out of habit, she stuck to the main road as it curved to the left and downward, at last entering a shaded, residential street. A row of trees was planted next to the sidewalk, and somewhere a dog was barking. In several windows the girl could see the flickering, silver light of television sets at play in the houses. Dreamily, she pictured what it would be like to live in a house like one of these. In her mind’s eye she sat watching television together with a new mother and father, but that was as far as imagination could take her; the television’s screen was a fall of static, and the faces of her parents were blank.

She continued on to the park. This was how she thought of the place, but in fact it was little more than an overlooked stretch of grass with a chain-link fence to block it from the ravine. In the far corner the fence had been torn open, forming a hole just big enough for a child to pass through.

The girl often came this way after school. There was a footpath beside the stream that ran the length of the ravine. The girl enjoyed the feel of the soft earth under her feet, and the damp scent of soil and concrete that hovered over the embankment at the water’s edge. During the day it was a peaceful, friendly place, alive with the sound of birds. This was the first time she had ever been there at night.

She was careful to stay on the path. Forested slopes loomed above her, and the black strip of sky was frayed by swaying branches. From the shadows a chorus of nocturnal insects produced its creaking song. In the distance a branch snapped; was someone there, moving between the trees? The girl quickened her pace.

She was only 9 years old. Adrenaline had pushed her this far, but now she began to sense the scope of what she’d chosen. Was she really going to run away? Where would she go? Her heart was pounding. Worry festered in her, tight as a knotted cord. She had been living with it for as long as she could remember. The line between her thoughts and the world had grown porous, wavering, and as her fear passed through, it worked a singular alchemy: tree branches grew into grasping hands, and the wind was a sighing call. Even the slow gurgling of the stream had grown sour and menacing. The girl’s arms were wrapped around her chest, and her gaze swung from one side of the path to the other. A sudden blast of laughter caused her to scream.

It had been a man’s laugh, loud, and shockingly close. With it came another voice, also male; both were laughing now. The girl felt they were almost on top of her. Thoughtlessly, she tore into the trees. Roots tangled her feet, leaves and twigs tore at her exposed skin. She had her hands raised, to protect her eyes. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Stumbling forward, the voices grew distant. Who had they belonged to? She had no idea. It had never occurred to her that she might meet others on the path. But the men had been so close to her; their breath had scalded, and the back of her neck was still hot. Blindly, she continued on, legs straining against the rising incline.

Under the tall cone of a fir tree she paused for a moment. She was sweating and her heart pounded in her chest. Slumping to the ground, she strained for any sign of pursuit, but the voices were gone. The girl looked around her. Luminous green shapes floated in the darkness – fireflies, she realized; lazily she reached for one, but just as she closed her hand its light winked out, and her fist balled around air. Nearby, a cricket was chirping. The girl’s fear began to cool, and her head was heavy on her neck.

Later she opened her eyes. In front of her, an orange light was flickering. She frowned, rubbing the numbness of sleep from her face. Another firefly? But as her eyes adjusted, she saw that the light was some distance away. Obscured by the movement of branches, it glowed like the burning of a small fire. Rising to her feet, the girl set out toward it. As she did, the ground leveled off, and the trees began to give way. Emerging into a clearing, she was confronted by a low wall of stones, moss-covered and crumbling. It looked strangely out of place, as if the wall had survived on the edge of the trees for untold years. The light came from just beyond it; its glow was incredibly warm, almost welcoming, like a lamp calling her back to a home the girl had never known. Scrambling over the wall, she emerged into a grassy basin.

In the center of this place, encircled by the wall of stones, there was a glowing flower. The girl thought of it with this word, as a ‘flower’, but the truth was it was unlike any flower she had ever seen. The long stalk was ringed by a trio of leaves so delicate they fell like strands of woven lace. Light sat in the blossom: pressed together as tightly as hands clasped in prayer, the flower’s petals were shining. The girl held her breath as she approached. Her feet were silent in the soft grass. No wind stirred the trees beyond the wall. The flower was as still as blown glass.

“Pretty thing, isn’t it?”

The girl started back. A shadow sat huddled by the wall. Rising, the shape of a woman resolved itself in the blossom’s soft light.

She was not young; her nose was flat, and her eyes deep-set. Her forehead was creased with heavy lines. She wore a ragged shawl, and as she smiled, she revealed a mouth of yellowing teeth. A heavy odor came from her, of sweat and unwashed clothes and a sharp, stale reek of alcohol that caused the girl’s nose to wrinkle. The old woman laughed.

“Prettier than me,” she said. “And better smelling too. Go on.”

She nodded to the blossom. The girl hesitated; her mother had warned her never to talk to strangers, but there was something in the woman’s manner that put her at ease. The girl leaned forward and inhaled. Despite the glassy texture and its utter, unearthly stillness, a rich scent of honey clung to the blossom; she had never smelled anything so sweet.

“What’s it called?” the girl asked. The woman sniffed.

“How should I know?” she replied. “You think I know something like that?”

“I’m sorry,” the girl mumbled, the slight edge in the woman’s voice causing her to flinch. Grumbling, the woman adjusted the edge of her shawl, and then she sighed.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, more gently this time.

“I’m running away,” the girl said. The words emerged in a whisper. The woman nodded her head.

“It’s nice to run,” she said. “The hard part is stopping in the right place. Probably it’s no accident you’re here. Not many accidents in this world, but anyway you’re here now, so you’d better learn something. Can’t tell you the flower’s name, but names aren’t so important. That’s the first lesson.”

The woman spoke in a rush that gathered speed as she went along, each word stumbling over the last. Struggling to keep up, the girl felt her head growing lighter. The soft light of the flower was like the last the impression of a fading dream.

“Now,” the woman went on. “What’s special about this flower? Look carefully.”

“It’s glowing,” the girl answered. The woman rolled her eyes.

“The colour! What colour is it?”

“It’s orange,” the girl said, and knew instantly that she’d been wrong; the blossom wasn’t orange, not exactly. Maybe it closer to the colour of flame, or the rust on her father’s car. Or was it like the time she’d tried looking at the sun, and the bright circle it had left in her eyes, even after she snapped them shut? The longer the girl stared at the flower, the less she saw. She had no name for the colour. It was something entirely new.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’ve never seen it before.”

The woman was nodding.

“Good. Then that’s your second lesson. If you don’t know, you don’t know. No sense acting like you do.”

Carefully, the woman arranged her legs beneath her, kneeling next to the blossom. Frowning, the lines next to her eyes and in her forehead deepened into trenches.

“You’re lucky,” she said to the girl. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll be gone, and this flower too. You’d be lucky just to find the wall, let alone cross it. So tell me, why are you here?”

“I wanted to run away.”

The woman glanced at her sharply.

“But that’s not saying anything. Running away? From what? Where to? Never told me why, did you? Now be honest.”

The girl swallowed.

“My parents,” she admitted.

“So it’s like that,” the woman said. “Alright then. Hold up your hand to the light.”

The girl obeyed. The woman leaned closer. Eyes narrowing, she stared into the girl’s palm. A low string of muttered words emerged from her cracking lips. The girl couldn’t follow them, but she kept her hand raised; she felt rooted in place, held fast to the soft earth. A gust of wind passed through the trees. A few wayward stars were shining in the muddy sky. The woman looked up.

“You’ll need to go back,” she announced, releasing a strong, musty sigh. “I’m sorry, but there’s no other way. I’ll send you back to them, but not as you are. Not so afraid. I can help you, but you’ll need to pay. That’s the last lesson. There’s always a price. Always.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

“Yes? You think people always get what they want? There’s a path for all of us. The blind can’t see it, and fools try to fight it. Smart girls like you would do best to follow it. Now watch.”

As the woman spoke, the moon’s heavy disc cleared the line of trees. A pale, silver light flooded the clearing, and a shiver passed through the flower; one by one the petals began to unfurl, their strange, warm light commingling with that of the moon. Along the delicate skin of each petal, the girl could just make out a slow dance of ghostly shapes. She sat transfixed as the woman reached for the blossom. With artful delicacy, she pared a petal from the stem, but like a stubborn ember in a smouldering fire, its light refused to die.

“Take it,” the old woman said. The girl reached out. The petal was finer than the wing of an insect, softer than a breath of air.

“Tear it,” the old woman instructed, and once again the girl obeyed; she hardly had to pull before the petal was ripped in two. The old woman placed her hands on top of the girl’s. The touch of her dry skin was surprisingly soft.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said, but the girl was not afraid; her eyes were full of the strange, orange light. Between her fingers, the torn segments of the petal were glowing. With great care, the old woman raised the girl’s hands.

“Open your mouth.”

The girl did so. The touch of the broken petal on her tongue was as sour as an overripe fruit, and as bitter as blood. She could feel its heat spreading along her throat. The old woman placed her hands on the side of the girl’s head. She spoke a word, and the girl swallowed.

–

Her mother finally found her in an empty parking lot, several kilometers from the ravine. The girl was standing under a fluorescent lamp, her neck tilted back, her eyes turned to the light.

Her clothes were dirty, and leaves clung to her wild hair. From across the empty lot, her mother shouted, calling her by name, but the girl didn’t move. Even as her mother went to her, running her hands over her daughter’s arms, still the girl refused to turn from the light. It was reflected in her eyes, two orange circles, perfectly formed.

Her mother shook her, hard, by the shoulders, and a tremor went through her daughter’s body. Blinking, like one awaking from a dream, the girl looked up.

In front of her she saw a thin woman, with dark hair like her own. The woman’s mouth was opened wide, as if she was shouting. Her face was twisted in anger, and her fingers bit sharply into the flesh of the girl’s arms. No fear stirred in the girl’s chest. The breath passed freely through her throat. The night was absolutely still.

The girl opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to tell the woman that it was alright, but the words wouldn’t come; her voice was gone, scrubbed clean away. She’d had to pay, and the girl smiled as she reached up to wipe a tear from the woman’s eye. It was a fair price, and as she followed the woman back to the road, for the first time in her life she went without fear.

–

Visit us again next month for “His Father’s Iteration”, the next installment in “A Colour Like Orange: Stories from a Broken World” by CG Inglis.

Follow CG Inglis on Twitter @viscereal