Extract from Florilegium

Jadyn-Elia Lansana

Chapter 1

One must always fill their pockets with dandelions before leaving the house. 

Especially when raining. Especially especially after Autumn Equinox, when Winter starts shunning the daylight and people become quieter with cold. Ellorie learned this from his grandmother.

The city was ugly with noncommittal Rain and visible breath. 

Lorie had carefully wrapped his scarf around his mouth and stuffed it into his jacket to keep the ugliness out. Umbrella open to shelter from it. Chin tucked away from the frigid air to stop white plumes from telling everyone he was breathing. The cold was biting at his extremities. He walked with one hand folded under the other arm, gripping onto his umbrella handle with stinging fingers. He had no gloves, and his pockets were full. Lorie had been filling them with dandelions since he was a child. Never went anywhere without them.

His grandmother used to ask him to weed the flowerbeds. She’d set him loose amongst the peonies with a trowel. But Lorie had only ever done what amused him at that age. He would pop off the heads, leaving the stems and roots right where they were, and stuff handful after handful into the pockets of his shorts. His grandmother never minded. In fact, she clapped with glee when she’d seen him do it. Pockets full of wishes, pockets full of wishes, they’d laugh together.

The Trees leading to Skipp Street looked lovely at least. Even in the Rain. In a row along the pavement. Maybe twice, thrice, as tall as he was. Rising gently like spears from the Earth. Lorie reckoned the Trees were more thoughtful, more kind and forgiving, than anything else. They let him be. They were mostly just viridescent – not yet mulling over shades of orange and yellow. It hurt his eyes to look up at them, though the sky was murky with clouds more than it was blue. Lorie liked the cycle of Trees. How they were always living and always dying. He thought they must have wonderful circadian rhythms. Lorie missed the time when sleep was as easy as falling. He wouldn’t mind a life of viridescence.

Lorie pulled his eyes down and turned into Skipp Street. It was always quieter here. Less hustle, less bustle, tucked away from humming tourists, despite only being a couple roads down from a museum. 

Skipp Street was not particularly special. It mostly consisted of tiny shops and eateries, interspaced by private buildings – much like every other little road in the city. But Lorie was fond of it. He felt a certain comfort in the symmetry of the matching navy storefronts. Each had large windows displaying various trinkets and mysteries within, tall brown doorframes engraved with flowers and vines, and delicate golden lettering, titling each property: ‘Deli Delphine,’ ‘Fable’s,’ ‘Very Verity.’ 

Lorie felt pleased that the weather consistently failed to smear its ugliness here. Aside from the growing puddles, which he very carefully turned his gaze away from. 

Puddles were tricky things. Magic was a tricky thing. 

It wasn’t so much that Lorie ignored Magic. It was just a meticulously orchestrated aversion of attention from it. So, he still wore a looking stone around his neck, still picked dandelions, still kept a drawstring bag of salt in his dorm room, still only ever entered rooms with his right foot first, never scratched an itchy palm even if it drove him crazy, and still went to the flower shop each day. But when passing a puddle, he never glanced into it for too long, only ever drunk half his tea before filling it again, and fully closed his eyes whenever walking past an occult shop. Which he did right then. 

Lorie had walked this route a hundred times enough to know he needed to take six regular sized steps, holding his breath for about five seconds, to be clear of it. Mr Ansumana’s flower shop, Smeraldo, was then only a few doors down. 

This was Lorie’s routine. Wake, walk to Sycamore to study, take the long way to Skipp Street, obtain flowers from Smeraldo, continue to the other shops, never buy anything, pass the gallery, and walk back home. Eat intermittently. Lorie felt non-functional without it. His mind constantly floated out to cosmic listlessness. He tried to tether himself, but it had been getting worse recently. During term time it was far easier to occupy his thoughts so his consciousness didn’t dissolve. But now that it was term break, he felt lost more often than not. Detached from himself. A rising teenage urge to dig out tarot cards from some forgotten crevice of his room.

Usually, Sel helped stabilise him from his trances, but she had abandoned him for a six-month study abroad program. 

So, he was using a routine. If he knew exactly what he intended to do at all times of the day, he could easily catch himself going astray. Public spaces were good. Though, not open spaces like parks, where he’d find himself mindlessly picking up acorns to read the grooves on their hats. The busyness of the city however, held his consciousness down about as much as it overwhelmed him.

Lorie ducked into Smeraldo, shaking his umbrella out. The doorbell tinkled. 

Warmth and a powdery, earthy aroma embraced him. The shop was a tapestry of greens and delicate hues. Around the edges, stood on various wooden tables, crates and shelves, were pots of shrubs and foliage. Viny spiralling leaves sprouted from orb-like terrariums hung from the ceiling beams, and a mellow jazz ensemble floated through the space. A centre island hosted a myriad of unarranged flowers with billowing petals, flushed blossoms, and plump stamen. By the counter, humming quietly to himself, was Mr. Ansumana. Only two other customers browsed the shop. 

Mr Ansumana looked up from the tiny bonsai he was pruning. 

‘Ellorie,’ he smiled.

Unconcerned with small talk but unreserved to deep laughs and compliments; Lorie had never met a man so bright and buoyant.

Lorie, conversely, was wretched.

Mr Ansumana knew that Lorie stole from the shop every day. Lorie knew that Mr Ansumana knew. He welcomed Lorie openly, regardless. Lorie’s guilt sat heavy in his stomach. 

He placed his umbrella by the door and approached the counter. Mr Ansumana put down his sheers, reaching up to adjust the brown flat cap squished on top of short grey curls.

Lorie felt like a stomach ache. Mr Ansumana must have been the same age his grandmother was.

‘Ellorie, let me show you the heather I have today.’ His voice was like dwindling firewood. ‘I think you’ll like some.’

Mr Ansumana led Lorie past the customers fiddling with the waxy leaves of some type of Hoya, to a cluster of dried heather in shades of fuchsia, lilac and cotton. Lorie grazed a finger over a pluming spine. 

‘Pretty.’

Mr Ansumana nodded, ‘Just one bunch then?’

‘Yes please – the pinkish one.’

The older man busied himself with arranging and wrapping the flowers.

Lorie scanned the room.

He wandered over to a collection of purple Echinacea sat on a low windowsill. They were tall stemmed with prickled, dome-like heads, and skirts of marquise shaped petals.

Lorie turned himself at such an angle to hide his hands from the other customers. Careful that none of the white tufts floated out, he extracted a pair of scissors from his pocket.

He could hear rustling of paper and leaves behind him. He didn’t dare turn or breathe. 

Lorie positioned the scissors with terrible, steady fingers. A few centimetres down from the head. 

He squeezed his eyes shut.

The music lulled. 

The sound of the stem snipping was undeniable.

A menacing clip, practically echoing for everyone to hear and know. 

The blossom landed in his palm. 

‘Ellorie.’

Lorie spun, pocketing the evidence to mingle with the dandelions. 

Shame flooded him.

‘Oh, sorry, how much will it be, sir.’ 

He skittered over to the counter fiddling with the scarf around his neck. 

The flowers had been wrapped and carefully placed in a paper bag. 

Mr Ansumana tapped at the till screen, before looking at him. 

They held eye contact. 

Long enough to make Lorie want to shuck off his own skin.

Mr Ansumana cleared his throat. Lorie Squirmed.

‘Five twenty, son.’

He handed over some coins from a smashed piggy bank and said goodbye.

Lorie stood for a moment outside the shop, as he always did. 

The pointlessness of everything stirred in his chest. 

He popped open his umbrella with closed eyes, knowing he would come back the next day and do the exact same thing. 

Colours swam against the backs of his eyelids. Rain pattered against the umbrella.

He wished Mr Ansumana would spite him, or ban him, or hex him, even though it would cause far more problems for Lorie than simple deserved retribution.

The repetitive thrum of Rain slowly began to blend into one muffled sound. 

Like tv static. Then ringing.

Lorie knew this as his cue to pull himself together. 

He opened his eyes. 

The ringing stopped. Rain remained.

Opposite him, sat a blue beetle-looking car. Something moving underneath caught his eye. Lorie tilted his head. Under the belly of the car lay a cat. A black cat. The black cat. The black cat that had been stalking him for the last few months. Foxes were more common than cats in the middle of the city, so Lorie was quite sure it was the same one. The cat didn’t wear a collar, so Lorie had taken to calling him Moth.

Lorie was suspicious of Moth. 

Moth had been materialising more and more these days. He often followed Lorie on the way back to his dorm. 

Lorie looked at the cat. The cat looked at Lorie. Their suspicion was mutual.

The cat twitched. The boy sniffed.

He shuffled over to the car, holding out the umbrella. 

Moth peeked up at him. 

They looked at each other. 

Moth's eyes narrowed.

After a moment he accepted Lorie's offer and crawled beneath the umbrella’s shelter. 

The cat shivered and stretched. 

Lorie visited the jewellery store, the book shop, and the grocers. Moth sat patiently within the doorways of each stop, waiting for him. The few customers that encountered him didn’t try to pet him. They smiled or chuckled or marvelled and carried about their days.

Though apt at staying within the realms of the umbrella, after the third stop, Moth appeared displeased by the frequency of cigarette butts and pooling drains. Lorie thought so anyway. 

As they approached a little café with uninhabited outdoor seating, Lorie paused.

‘Will you be angry if I pick you up?’ 

Moth didn’t reply. 

Lorie nodded and placed his umbrella and flowers on an empty chair. 

He stooped down and gingerly stretched a hand toward the cat. Moth inspected his fingers. Lorie supposed Moth wouldn’t mind. 

He was relatively small, allowing Lorie to easily scoop him up. He carefully manoeuvred his body to rest over the length of one arm and held him close. Moth meowed once and made no further comment. Lorie pet the short, soft hairs on his head, not giving himself time to question the peculiarity of this. The two had encountered each other many times now, but they’d never once spoken. They continued to the next part of his routine. Carrying a cat awarded him with curious stares from the few people they passed, but Lorie welcomed the extra warmth.

At Skipp Street’s centre, sat the gallery. 

Lorie saw her hair even through the mirage of condensation clinging to the gallery window. Like red wine spilling over the shoulder of a fur coat. 

Here is what happened in the final stage of his Skipp Street routine: every day at four-thirtyish, Lorie walked past the gallery. Every day at four-thirtyish, a girl stood in the gallery, staring at a piece of the exhibit that he couldn’t see from outside, notebook in hand, scribbling furiously. Lorie had never been inside the gallery.

Two twirling topiary shrubs decorated each side of the door, and a gold lacy bunting underlined faded letters. The remaining flecks of gold paint looked more like a constellation of sparkles than a name. There was no plaque or sign outside to clue what the gallery was called, and Lorie was indifferent to finding out. 

He usually allowed himself to look for only a minute or so before moving on, lest he look suspicious, or he start seeing something more than he was looking for.

Lorie was uninterested in seeing these days. Looking much suited his current preferences. Seeing meant acknowledging things he wasn’t ready for yet. Looking kept a comfortable gap between him and the object of observation.

He couldn’t help his curiosity though. 

He peered at Moth. 

A smile crept onto Lorie’s face. He wondered if it would be inappropriate to mention something to Moth about cats and curiosity. He refrained.

Lorie had never glimpsed the girl's face but something about her manner spoke of stubbornness. Or desperation? The incessant strokes of her pen said as much. She had a luminous, lucid, quality to her. Lorie wondered how it must feel to be as alive as that. 

He scrunched his nose. 

‘What would you faithfully study every day at the same time?’ Lorie imagined that Moth might study him every day and he had just failed to notice. ‘What would I study every day faithfully at the same time?’ 

Lorie took himself to the library to study every day, but he felt this did not quite count. These days he was never sure he had enough attention within him for anything. His life was purely pattern. 

Moth glanced up at him with an expression that said: Are you not studying the girl every day? Lorie decided this didn’t count either. 

He’d debated trespassing into the gallery one day just to satisfy his wonder, but he felt it would lose its charm if he did. Many things were more intriguing left unknown. So, he allowed only twenty more seconds of curiosity.

The walk from Skipp Street was short and familiar enough now that Lorie hardly registered the function of his legs. But with Moth in his arms, he found himself murmuring tour-guide-spiel as they went. Something within Lorie told him quite distinctly that Moth likely already knew anything he might tell him. Perhaps about everything. However, as the cat did not protest, Lorie told him anyway. 

‘I used to live- oh. I guess you really do already know that.’ 

Moth’s ears twitched. 

‘Hmm. Skipp Street has been completely the same for something like fifty years apparently. I think the owners of the shops too. They’ve been the same for as long as I’ve known them anyway.’ 

All their sweet faces were graced with lines and wisdom in a way that made Lorie both soothed and miserable.

They turned the next corner, coming to stare at the tiny gothic church looming over the end of the road. Lorie didn’t like it very much. Pollution smudged over its grey turret and ivy crawled around dark windows. It felt like a judge towering over Lorie’s misgivings. His pockets felt heavy with villainy. 

 ‘You look like you would be the leader of whatever goes on in there.’ 

Moth meowed in what Lorie assumed was consternation.

The Rain alleviated to a weak mist and Lorie slung his umbrella around his wrist. 

At intervals, the cat would regard the tendrils of Lorie's scarf with narrowed eyes, amusing Lorie greatly. 

They passed a crystal shop and Lorie crossed the road to put distance between them. Moth stared.

‘Those places make me feel crazy.’ A small car bumbled past. The boy wove around a particularly large puddle. ‘I used to go there with Sel. She’s in the Southern Continent now. The shopkeeper - Ms Sheik - would call her Selly-Selenite. Sel used to be so stubborn about what’s real and what isn’t… even though that’s all relative anyway. Whatever. When we started Uni, she’d come and make me tell her what crystals would help her with assignments and exams.’

Lorie didn’t say he missed her. He moved his fingers carefully over black fur. 

They trailed safely along the outer fence encompassing Elmridge Park. Lorie wasn’t quite confident enough that Moth’s presence would completely prevent his mind from wandering away. Into the grass, into the dirt. Lorie kicked fallen leaves absently. Many students liked Elmridge for its lavender beds and hidden grottos and picnic tables. It was a popular summer study spot. 

‘I haven't been inside for some time. I like it. And it's right beside Elmridge library. I’ll come back here in the evening probably.’ He nodded his head to a tall building that mimicked the white-brick townhouses it nestled between. 

Lorie’s accommodation stood a few meters from the park’s northern gate. A stout, unremarkable terraced building, with many tiny windows embellished by empty hanging planters. Uneven steps led up to a mahogany door, accessorized by iron plated letters that read House    0.

When Lorie stopped to look for his key, Moth suddenly wriggled from his arms, jumping to the ground. The cat disappeared into the park Lorie had painstakingly walked around.

Lorie stared. 

Moth lived elsewhere.

The paper bag and umbrella became abruptly heavy in his hand.

‘Bye,’ he mumbled, and unlocked the front door. 

~

Moth appeared for the first time the day Lorie’s grandmother died. 

Lorie had lived with his grandmother his whole life. She was the gravity by which Lorie orbited. 

A lecturer had been droning on about something Lorie’s brain refused to remember now. Drowsiness buzzed around his head, slowly lulling his eyes closed. And then his bracelet – an Obsidian bracelet beaded together years ago, when his grandmother’s fingers had still known full dexterity - snapped. 

Just like that, black chips exploding everywhere. 

And he knew. 

Lorie packed his things and left. He went home. 

And when he stood outside the house, on the pathway leading to the place he’d been nurtured and fed, he knew. 

The sky was bright and rich and beautiful, painted with blooming clouds and birdsong. 

And everything was wrong. 

He threw his bag on the ground and unlocked the door with trembling hands, and he knew. 

It was any other day. A normal day. A nice day. Nothing special had occurred to give reason or recognition of her. No warning. She was there and then she was not and that was it and it wasn’t fair. 

He stood in the doorway for a lifetime, and knew.

And then he stumbled into his bedroom and began dragging his things out of the house, into the front garden. Chucked books and clothes and bedding into suitcases. Made haphazard piles of shoes and toiletries and stationery by the fence gate. He worked quickly and mindlessly, only knowing that he could not stay there any longer. 

He did not touch her bedroom door. 

Lorie knew he would not find her body there. 

He was alone. 

He could hardly breathe.

On the final trip outside, he stumbled over a trowel left by the door. 

He glared at it.

The garden was sewn together with dandelions – teeming with them. Big white sequins amongst pink and green.

Lorie ran into the kitchen then and pulled every empty jar and sealable container from the cupboards. 

This, he could do for her. 

It was almost instinct, almost predetermined – a compulsion.

He dropped to his knees outside and began weeding. Grabbing fistfuls of fluff and filling each vessel to capacity.

Something inside him felt hideous and insatiable. 

So, he filled everything to the brim and somehow there were still dandelions left. He stuffed them and stuffed them and when they could fit no more, he shoved every one of his pockets full. He even pulled off his boots and began filling them too.

Lorie knew he couldn’t wish her back to life, but he did it anyway.

Fistful after fistful. Every pocket choked with wishes because there was just too much to ask for. Too much to fix. Too many weeds and never enough flowers. And the Sun was beating down on his back saying breathe, breathe, breathe, you are alive.

Dirt was cracking under his nails, and it felt too much like he was digging a grave.

Perhaps he wanted to just lay there and let the Earth hold him.

He slumped onto his side and lay on his back. Wilting back into the soil.

Lorie stared at the clouds for a long time, concentrating very carefully, incessantly, on his heart pounding.

Moth found him planted amongst the forget-me-nots.

Lorie didn’t see where he’d come from, but between one blink, one rattling breath, and another, Moth settled next to him, a curious distance from his shoulder. 

Grass tickled Lorie’s cheek as he turned his head toward the cat. 

Moth, still nameless then, looked very much like he wanted to weed the boy. 

Lorie began to cry. 

He was alone. 

The sky followed suit, blubbering and spluttering tears down onto them both. 

Moth shuddered and meowed in dismay, but didn’t move. 

Lorie cried harder. 

The Rain followed. Wailing and whimpering. 

Lorie’s things would soon become sodden and ruined, but Lorie already felt sodden and ruined, and he just didn’t know how to care. 

It was long before he eventually pulled his shivering body from the ground and called Sel. 

She came immediately. 

Moth disappeared again while Sel and Lorie silently loaded his things into her car.

Lorie hadn’t gone back into the house since.

Chapter 2

Every day, the girl with red hair came to the gallery. 

It was only on the way to and within the gallery, that she was ever so animated. Her mouth typically set itself in a grim pursing of rouged lips - like held breath. 

Every day she came. Unfailingly. With her fur coat, a worn pair of boots, and fluttering skirts. A particular aliveness in her gait. 

She always arrived at the same time. Headphones looped into jewelled ears, rummaging through a paint-flecked bag for a leather-bound notebook and capless pen. 

Except, today, when she reached the gallery, she froze. 

The girl dropped her pen. Her expression was frightful. 

Long seconds passed before she yanked the handle and burst through the door. 

The sky was crisp and grey. 

The girl with red hair exited the gallery minutes later. 

Her eyebrows were bitter.

She lowered herself to sit on the curb, cupping her face within chapped hands. Her nails were red too.

The girl sat very still. Only the wisps of white slipping between her fingers indicated she was breathing, the rise and fall of lungs hidden under brown fur. 

A chattering couple bustled out from the bookshop a few doors down. She ignored them as they walked past, seemingly content to be stared at. 

After some minutes, the girl heaved herself from the ground, reaching back into her tattered bag to pull out a crumpled cigarette and lighter. 

She bent her head, sheltering the flame between curtains of red. The light momentarily cast her hair ablaze. 

The girl took multiple drags. Then, she adjusted her coat, cigarette clamped between downturned lips, and marched down Skipp Street. 

She did not look back. 

She turned and walked with long strides to the church. 

The girl flicked the finished butt into a nearby bin and slipped between the crackling church doors. Into the mouth of god.

The Wind blew bitterly between the buildings.

Ten minutes later, the boy who stole arrived at the gallery.

The boy had a listless, meandering way about him. Hands shoved into pockets, scarf shoved into jacket, headphones shoved onto a curly haired head. His face was usually quite blank, but his eyebrows were always guilty. 

The boy came to the gallery every day at the same time. 

Except, today, when he peered into the window, he too, froze.

The boy who stole stood very still for some minutes. 

He took a step forward, as though he might go into the gallery for the first time, but appeared to change his mind. He shook his head and swiftly continued on his way. He passed right by the church with his head down. 

He did not look back. 

A dandelion tuft floated in his wake.