The Iridescent Rose
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The Iridescent Rose
Bill Pottle
Copyright 2013 Bill Pottle
Discover other titles by Bill Pottle at www.billpottle.com
The Iridescent Rose
“Would you brush your teeth on the last night of your life?”
It was the first time I had been so deep in the forest. I glanced once at my digital watch and then back at the path home. I had never been late for work before. I took a sharp breath in and then exhaled slowly, expunging my doubts. Great rewards require great risk. I remembered the faded white sign painted with black painstakingly-formed letters hanging outside of Luke’s Taekwondo school.
Why was I being so dramatic? Perhaps I should have done acting in high school after all. I had now managed to turn a search for flowers for my daughter’s birthday bouquet into a perilous quest for a great reward.
Fifteen different varieties colored the humble wrought-iron nightstand in my room. I had collected them the day before. Now only one flower was missing— the rarest one of them all. The iridescent rose.
I turned my arm and checked my watch once again to get the exact time. After a quick mental calculation, I resolved to continue on for seven minutes before turning back.
One minute passed. I saw many beautiful flowers, but not the one I was looking for.
Another minute. Nothing. I thought about turning back early. I was cutting it close.
If only I would have turned back then, and never set foot in that forest again.
After two more minutes, I found it. Stretching its leaves skyward, the rainbow flower glowed in the early morning mist. At last! I pumped my fist in the air and reached into my pocket for the shears. I held the stem between my left thumb and forefinger, pressing into the green flesh. I slid the scissors gently forward until the crook was firmly set against the shaft of the stem. My right hand squeezed the handle and the blades sliced cleanly through. The flower fell into my waiting left hand.
“CAUGHT!” screamed a voice. I looked around, but could see no one. Had I imagined the words?
“How do you think that makes them feel? So that’s how you do it, hmmm? Without so much as a warning?” a small, bent man stepped from a tree. I started to rub my eyes and then stopped. Why did people who suspected their eyes of betrayal rub them with their fists and expect it to improve their function? The figure who had stepped from the tree was no man. I had heard tales of forest gnomes that dwelt in the few regions still undisturbed by humans. Whether they wished men good or ill was uncertain.
“Never seen a gnome before, eh?” the creature continued.
“I’m afraid I don’t believe in gnomes.”
Now it was the gnome’s turn to be startled. “Really now? And just what do you believe in?”
“I’m a practicing Catholic.”
The gnome clapped his hands. “Interesting. And does the existence of God depend on the beliefs of humans?”
I had wondered that same thing myself, but I shook my head.
“Well then,” he smiled. “Neither does my existence depend on your beliefs.”
I was speechless. The gnome continued. “Now then, back to my original question.” He could tell that I had either forgotten the question or not understood it in the first place. “The flowers, slow human! How do you think it makes them feel to be cut like that? You might just kill them right off, but no, not your kind. Once cut, you’ve started it off on a slow, inevitable death sentence. You just keep it to watch it bloom in its final days, but it has already started to die. Why not just take your daughter here to see the flower? Why must you kill it?”
My wonder at this strange creature only increased. All I could think to say was, “Flowers don’t have souls.”
“I see… I guess there’s no empathy for a human until he’s forcibly taught it.” He somehow found his chin through the fullness of his bushy silver beard and rubbed it thoughtfully. His face narrowed and his eyes hardened. “Very well— human, your stem is cut! Your days on this earth are numbered. The next time you go to sleep, you will die!”
It happened so suddenly, I didn’t have time to cry out before he stepped back into the tree and was gone. I looked down at the iridescent rose in my hand. Were its petals opening into a mocking smile? Had I imagined the whole thing?
Something about my legs felt different. I started walking back through the forest to my car.
I’m not sure when it happened or what small fact eventually nudged my mind into certitude. By the time I had reached into my pocket and closed my fingers around my keys, I knew I was dying.
I don’t mean that I knew I was dying in the way that we all know we’re dying since the moment of conception. I meant that I knew I was dying soon. I felt the shadow of death fall over the warmth of my heartbeat. I felt the cold stillness of eternity suck the wind from my lungs. I felt the sizzling activity of the neurons in my brain die down and fizzle into nothing.
I knew I was dying.
I sat in the car for a minute reeling from the news. I fished in my pocket, pulled out my phone, and pressed the little voice button on the side.
“Work.” I said slowly, taking pains to enunciate. What was I going to say? The phone found the network, searched through my address book, and dialed.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Bob, it’s me. Listen, I don’t think I’m going to make it into work today.”
“What? We’ve got to get these new autoclaves validated. Manufacturing wants to start a production run by Thursday.”
“I’m just… not… well. Can’t someone else cover it?”
I could feel him soften on the other side. “You sure don’t sound yourself. When was the last time you took a sick day?”
“Last year I think.”
“Well— get some rest. You sound like you could use it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
I pressed the red END button and slipped the phone back into my pocket. Only then it occurred to me that I hadn’t told him I wouldn’t be in to work the next day. I couldn’t get used to the idea that I would never go into work again.
There were so many things that I had already done for the last time. I’d taken my last visit to Paris, lying on the rough stone ground and looking up into the twisted mess of the Eiffel Tower. I’d never again stand at the top of a Fourteener in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and gaze at the peaks breaking the plain of the clouds below me. I had already seen the setting of the last summer sun on an afternoon sitting on the porch swing, licking popsicles and gulping lemonade with my son.
I knew I was dying.
At least I had done all that, though. What hurt deeper was the realization that there were so many things that I’d never get to see. The face of my daughter on her wedding day was forever hidden behind the veil of the forbidden future. I would never know the contentment of raising grandchildren. These deep, life-defining events crowded my thoughts, but more mundane worries soon chased them out. I had always imagined walking down South Street when the Eagles finally managed to win the Super Bowl. My dad took me to the Vet whenever he could afford a pair of tickets— I saw two games before we moved when I was eighteen. I would never see the Eagles win the Super Bowl.
I depressed the clutch and cranked the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life and I turned out into the street.
Where would you go if it was your last day alive?
As odd as it sounds, I couldn’t think of anywhere to go. Rather, I thought of everywhere at once. I knew that it could be the last time I visited each place, and I had to get things right. The car rolled forward in the direction of town.
I settled on taking care of the legal issues first. I think I was still in denial at that point. A
s I told myself, it’s only prudent for any man to see to his last will and testament periodically throughout his life. So, if by some chance I didn’t end up dying, there was no harm done. It’s like how I always backed up my computer before I installed new hardware. It wasn’t that I thought anything was going to happen to my data, but it was more of an excuse to do a backup than anything.
I pulled into the parking lot of the esteemed law firm of Sotelo, Tsai, and Mathur. Walking in the door, I felt the satisfying beep-bip of my car’s alarm system engaging. The receptionist wore fashionable black, thick rimmed glasses that were too heavy for her face.
“Hello, sir. How may I help you today?” She looked down at me from her window and her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose. She sent them back with a quick push from her left index finger.
“I need to see my lawyer. Mr. Wooster.”
“Certainly,” she said. She pushed the glasses back again. “And what time is your appointment?”
“Well, I don’t have one. But it will really only take a second.”
Her brow furrowed as she considered my request. Ridges sprouted on her thick forehead and momentarily trapped her glasses in place. She didn’t understand why she was annoyed with life, but I saw it. It was a lifetime of wearing shoes that were too small, jeans that were too tight, and a plastered makeup face that sealed her away from the beauty of the natural world. “Have a seat over there. I’ll try to fit you in when he has a free moment.”