The Book of Flora

by Meg Elison

  “I don’t know what you’re crying for. You’re lucky to be alive. I don’t have to keep you around. I got ten more just like you, you know that?”

  Flora breathed in slowly, out slowly. She did not cry. She did not answer Archie. He wasn’t really there, and she would not let him come.

  She thought again about standing up in front of the people in Shy, telling her story. She breathed in long and slow, pulling hot air through the layers of bedding where she had crushed her face.

  When she was a little girl, Flora had learned from water. She had watched the swelling floods across the south. She had ridden on the white waters of surging rivers, Archie leading his ragtag bunch of orphans ever onward toward some imagined place. She had learned how to be water, and she became water now.

  Her feet were dissolving into water, trickling like rain down the side of a house. Her calves were water, running like the rivulets into a puddle. Her root was water, clear in a bowl like collected rain. Her chest was water, deep as a lake, her heart a fish. Her arms were water, icicles melting into the floe that made way for the spring. Her neck and head were water, surges of rain falling from a gray-black sky.

  Water was everything: life and death. It could be hard or soft; it could take any shape. It could wear away stone, like that secret place Eddy had shown her. It could drown a man, or save him.

  Flora was water, soaking her bed and dripping to the floor beneath it. She was nothing, wanting nothing and feeling nothing. Through that afternoon, she slept.

  The woman who woke her was not Can. When Flora opened the door, she saw a tall woman in a long green dress that laced up the front. She had curly golden hair that had been brushed out and lay in long coils. She had used berries to stain her lips and pinked her cheeks. Flora looked over the woman’s carefully lined eyes, seeing how the blue she used brought out the blue-green irises.

  She smiled as Flora appeared, puffy with sleep and creased across her face. “I’m Benny. I’m here to take you to the big gathering.” She was missing her two front teeth.

  Flora smiled and tried to pat down her red hair. “Just give me one second.”

  She primped a little, relining her eyes in charcoal and tucking a few loose strands back into her braids. Behind her, the blonde woman sidled in the door and looked around.

  “What do you do here, Benny?”

  “I plan gatherings,” Benny said airily. “When there aren’t many, I grow potatoes and make really good chips. You’ll have some tonight, at the mayor’s table.”

  “Chips?”

  Benny smiled. “You’ll see.”

  Flora left her bed unmade and followed Benny out into the street.

  “Shy has several large theaters along the waterfront,” Benny was saying as they followed the streams of people flowing through the streets. “They’re all from the old world, but we’ve kept them up over the years. Tonight, we’ll be at Madam Barbara’s. It’s not the biggest, but it is the nicest. She keeps that place shined up like new fruit.”

  As they neared the waterfront, Flora began to smell hot foods of all kinds. A block outside the theater, stations sat on every corner with women handing out scoops of different treats. People shook out old-world plastic bowls and sacks and boxes, ready to receive. Flora frowned that she hadn’t known well enough to bring one of her empty leather sacks, but Benny produced a tall plastic box with a scalloped edge.

  “Here,” she said, handing it over. “But make your choices wisely, because you can only fill it once.”

  Flora went recklessly to the stands and kiosks, taking scoops of hot salted nuts, sweet popcorn, fried pork cracklings, and dried fruits. She was disappointed at how rapidly her little box had filled, but she ate a large handful of popcorn as she walked, thinking she could at least make some room.

  It would never be enough. The next belt of stands offered falafel, which Flora had never seen or even heard of before. She took one hotly into her hand, with a generous dollop of hummus on top to cool it down.

  “What is this?” she asked with her mouth full.

  Benny ate one too, slowly and waiting to swallow before she spoke. “It’s all made of beans. You wouldn’t believe it. There’s a whole section of the city where they make it. I trade for it all the time.”

  At the mention of trade, Flora stopped to wipe grease from her mouth. “Why is this all given away? Why no trade?”

  “It’s a gift to the mayor,” Benny said, shrugging. “On show nights, if your number comes up you have to help feed the crowd.”

  “What do you get in return?”

  “The mayor keeps the peace in the marketplace. Arranges the raids and protects the city.”

  Flora looked around at the seemingly endless food, the thousands of hands reaching out to take.

  “This city is rich,” she said to Benny.

  “You have no idea.”

  If Flora had regretted her choices when she saw the first falafel, she was deeply unhappy when she met the chip vendors. Hot potatoes in every shape: spears and wedges and corkscrews came bubbling up from pots of lard on every side, smelling like heaven. They were fat and thin, crispy and soft, browned and briskly seasoned. She saw dippers of meat gravy, tomato sauce, and thick white egg dressing poured and spooned on top of mound after mound of hot, starchy, spongy potatoes.

  She looked at Benny, stricken. Benny laughed.

  “The mayor will have hot chips at her table.” Seeing the look on Flora’s face, she went on. “I promise. They’re her absolute favorite. You will get some.”

  Flora cracked a few nuts between her teeth, watching the crowd. “Does everyone come for show night?”

  “Oh, no,” Benny said, gesturing toward the wide staircase that would lead them to the cavernous theater doors. “There are always people who have other work that won’t wait. Guarding. Tending to the sick. Watching the children who are too young to come to something like this.”

  Benny’s gait became stiff and awkward as she started up the stairs. Flora looked her over.

  “Are you alright?”

  Benny grimaced. “I was injured three winters ago. The nurses set the bone, but climbing always hurts.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Flora said.

  Benny shrugged. “It’s not that bad, considering how it might have turned out.”

  They went up haltingly, headed toward the far left side of the entrance.

  The woman guarding that door was muscular and broad, with her head shaved like Can. She wore three guns.

  “Yes?”

  Benny gestured to Flora, a little out of breath.

  “This is the visitor. Flora. Going to sit. With the mayor.”

  The guard nodded, stepping aside. “Please go right ahead. Madam Mayor is expecting you.”

  Benny did not follow.

  The theater was lit inside with torches affixed to the walls. Flora could see where old smoke marks had been scrubbed and scraped away, but the fires of all the years had stained the stone. The vaulted ceilings above were too dark for her to do anything but imagine them—likely packed with bats who would take wing as the sun continued to set.

  All around her, Flora heard the people of Shy murmuring and talking, laughing and jostling one another. She heard three or four languages in the crowd, something she had not experienced since she was a child. Most cities had only one language, but when she had traveled with Archie she had been in places big enough to hold enclaves where other tongues were spoken. The effect was disorienting and wonderful at the same time.

  She came to a narrow hallway without further direction or an escort, so she pushed through. At the end, she parted a set of heavy, plush blue curtains.

  After the dark passage, the light of the theater was overwhelming. The whole place glowed like a bonfire, with torches and footlights and candles at every table. Candles glowed in the aisles between seats, each of them placed safely into a glass of some shape and shining through.

  The table before her was overloaded
with the foods she had seen on her way in and more: roast birds and fresh bread, butter and vegetables and fruits of every color. Flora saw a large bowl of honey beside a pot of hot pine-needle tea, and a bowl of cream next to dark bottles of what she assumed would be wine. Hot chips in several shapes were heaped upon silver plates, with every manner of sauce and dressing in silver bowls ringing around them. Despite the handfuls of snacks she had eaten on the way, her mouth watered. Flora had never seen a feast like this, not even in Ommun. Nobody ate this well.

  And then she saw her hostess.

  Mayor Max was a large woman. She spread out to preside over her table, taking up one side of it to herself. She wore a voluminous old-world gown of bright red that had been carefully hemmed to keep it from raveling. Flora’s keen weaver’s eye could see the skill that had been applied to preserving the garment. Chestnut-brown hair was swept into braids and whirls, with some wavy sections lying upon Max’s broad shoulders. The arms that came from under the short sleeves of her dress were like smooth, peeled birch branches with spotted white skin and a thickness of both muscle and fat that rippled as she reached for objects across the table.

  When she saw Flora, Mayor Max stood, her body regal and imposing, and reached for her instead.

  Flora reached too and found her dainty hand dwarfed in Max’s substantial grip.

  “Madam Max, mayor of Shy. You must be Flora.” The woman’s voice was rich and round, like a mouthful of cream that would coat your throat as you swallowed.

  “That’s right,” Flora squeaked back.

  “I’m so glad that you’re with us tonight. I can’t wait to hear your tale. Please join me and eat as much of this food as you can, while it’s still good and hot.”

  Mayor Max bumped her soft, luxurious belly on the edge of the table as she sat back down, but did not seem to notice.

  “This is Anya,” Max said, gesturing to one of her companions. Anya had a lovely round face, which she had painted a fair bit, to Flora’s practiced eye. “And this is Yon.” Yon was as black as Eddy, but wore her hair in long, even braids ending in gold beads.

  Flora nodded to both of them, seeing how each attended to Max. Anya ran a fingertip softly over Max’s forearm as the larger woman poured something golden out of one of the dark bottles and into a glass. Yon leaned forward and whispered in the mayor’s ear, prompting a little blush on the wide expanse of cheek below.

  Harem? Flora looked them over for the signs of world-weariness or distress and found none. She took them in from head to foot, noting their straight backs and languid, relaxed legs. They were dressed beautifully and without bruises or scrapes. They were well rested and well fed.

  Doesn’t mean they’re not a harem, she thought. But if they are, it’s a damned nice one.

  “Drink with us?” Max was offering the bottle.

  “What is it?”

  The mayor took the cup from in front of Flora and filled it with the warm yellow liquid. “Mead. Made from honey. You’ll love it.”

  Flora took a swallow and found it sour-sweet and a little off-putting.

  Max laughed deep in her throat. “It takes a little getting used to. Have as much as you like.”

  Flora took that to include everything, not just the mead. She made a daunting pile of chips and took from every pot of sauce. Some were sweet and some were smoky, but the best one by far was the white, eggy sauce that was so thick that it sat up in peaks where it had been spooned.

  “What do you call this?” Flora asked, showing a chip well covered in the stuff.

  Anya laughed. “Mayo. Maxi puts it on everything.”

  Mayor Max smiled and chucked Anya’s chin. “I’m gonna put it on you.”

  Anya smiled wickedly and leaned in to kiss the mayor. Flora could not help but stare. Yon reached over and put a hand on Max’s massive thigh, watching the other two with frank hunger.

  Not a harem. A Hive.

  Flora put that thought away for later consideration and tucked back into the food. She had an ache in her belly before long, but she still struggled to make herself stop.

  Chips. Chips and mayo. I have to learn how both of these are made before I go back. There’s no two ways about it.

  A loud, high popping noise came from the stage. A thin woman was cracking a whip in the air. She stepped close to the footlights and spoke loud and clear, quieting the room. The mayor and her ladies looked up from their close vantage point, mouths full.

  “My dear gentlewomen of Shy! Welcome to the gathering! Marhabaan bikum! We have a special treat tonight. In addition to our annual children’s pageant, we have a guest who will tell us the story of the defeat of the Lion of Estiel!”

  Applause and cheers rocked the house, and Flora was shocked by how quickly Mayor Max had reached around the table, snatched up her hand, and raised it clasped in her own.

  “First, a song and dance while you enjoy your feast! Second, our visitor will tell her tale! And finally, the glorious history of the city of Shy! Who’s ready for that?”

  Another cheer went up and Max let go, sinking back into her chair and drinking more mead. She filled Flora’s glass as well.

  “Courage,” she said, somewhere beneath the din. She winked. Flora drank.

  The woman with the whip put a cupped hand behind her ear and leaned forward at the waist. “Was that all of you? I don’t think that was all of you. Who’s ready for that?”

  The crowd was thunderous, stomping their feet in the upper balconies and making Flora cringe.

  “That’s better! We’re ready for you, Shy! Take it away, Gran!”

  A stunning woman strode to the middle of the stage. Beneath, from the orchestra pit, Flora heard a fiddle and drums begin to play, joined by some instruments she couldn’t name. She gulped mead. Gran began to dance sinuously. Flora scooted her chair closer to Mayor Max, penned out as she was on this side by Yon.

  “Mayor Max,” Flora began urgently. “I don’t know how to tell this story. Not to so many people.”

  Max smiled widely, showing perfect teeth. “Just be sure to speak up nice and loud.”

  “No, I mean—”

  Flora was drowned out by whistles and whoops on all sides. Onstage, Gran had thrown off one of her many veils, displaying her left breast as she whirled.

  Max’s own whistle was just subsiding. Yon looked down at Flora, her perfect nose twitching in her dark, beautiful face. “Are you afraid of standing in front of a crowd?”

  “Not exactly . . .” Flora began again, but the whistling redoubled.

  Yon rolled her eyes. “You’d think they’d never seen a pair of tits before.” She turned her attention back to Flora. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  Flora nodded, looking at her hands.

  “Then just tell us how it really was.” Yon’s voice had softened now.

  “What if it was terrible? What if the truth is an awful thing that no one wants to hear while they eat a delicious fallfall?”

  “Falafel,” Yon said kindly. “Don’t worry. We’ve heard it all here. A woman gave us a story once of a slaver who tried to breed little girls before their blood. Then, Can came out onstage wearing the skin she’d just cut him out of. Did a little dance, then threw what was left of his penis to the second balcony. There’s nothing you could do to shock this crowd.”

  Flora drew back a little, blinking.

  Well hell.

  She looked up at Yon, feeling sick and sweaty.

  “Are you going to make it? Do you need me to whisper in Max’s ear? I can do that, if you really need it.”

  Well hell, Flora thought again. What do I have to lose?

  The thought would not materialize wholly, but she knew what she had to lose. She forbade herself to even think it.

  I’m just like them. They’ve already confirmed it and they know it and I belong here.

  But Eddy’s cavern sprang to her mind and she had to swallow big mouthfuls of mead to send him away.

  Tell the truth. Be the truth. You were
there. That’s all.

  On the stage, Gran was nearly nude now, holding the last scrap of her costume modestly between her legs as she rather immodestly pantomimed fucking the air around her.

  “So coy!” Mayor Max’s voice was thick with drink. “Show me! Show me!”

  Gran blew a kiss down to Max with her free hand, then shook her head. She gathered the fabric between her hands and ran it slowly up and back, teasing the view but never giving it away.

  “She’ll never show us,” Anya pouted. “I’ve heard rumors about what she’s got, but I’ll never know.”

  “That’s the beauty of the mystery, pet.” Max ran a plump rosy hand over the tops of Anya’s breasts, coming to rest at the woman’s thick waistline.

  “But you’ve seen all my mysteries,” Anya said, turning her pout into a caricature of itself.

  “Seen and better than seen,” Max said, giving her a squeeze. “Onstage, a mystery is fine. Here, I want to know everything.”

  Yon leaned forward and nibbled Max’s ear. Max turned toward her.

  “I haven’t forgotten you either, my doe.” She settled her wide jaw into the crook of Yon’s neck and kissed her there. Yon sighed.

  “Max, not so soon. We’ll miss the rest of the show. Just like last time.”

  “Mmmm,” Max moaned from her hidden place. She sighed, pulling back. “Oh, alright. Alright.”

  Flora looked away from them, transfixed by Gran. The dancer had tied that final piece of her costume delicately between her legs and over one of her hips. As she bent to pick up her discarded costume, Flora watched her intently.

  I’m just like them. One and the same. I can do what Gran does. I can hold them and give nothing away.

  Gran came to the edge of the stage and locked eyes with Flora. The dancer winked. The weaver blushed. Gran was clearing the stage and the whip-thin woman was back. She held up both hands, waiting for the noise in the house to die down. A footlight fizzled and went out. Flora saw a young girl pop up at once from beneath the stage in heavy gloves and coax the flame back to life again. The thin mistress of ceremonies grinned.

  “I don’t need that girl to light me up,” she boomed to the crowd with her tongue between her teeth and her finger pointed down toward the pit. “Gran did that job just fine.” She laid her long-fingered hands over the crotch of her tight pants and spanked there lightly.