The Botanist

Sometimes, the hardest person to see is yourself. A tale of success, good intentions, and as you sow, so shall you reap.

  The Botanist 

 

                                   A.J. Powell

 

*

 

 

It is believed that most living things have consciousness.

 

Cognition, dreaming, memory and other faculties are vast, and nebulous concepts that many of us puzzle over, much of our lives.

 

The miracles that we see and experience throughout our lives, demonstrate how godlike we really are.

 

 

1

Gunther Rubbadunky was a retired botanist. He lived a quiet life with his loving wife, Ardelia.

 

 

Botany was one of the few occupations through which he could make a comfortable living, and not have to endure the inane-ness of other people. Much of his work was done in welcome solitude. His contributions to the medical, pharmaceutical, and other industries, made him a very important figure, and very powerful among societies elite. He was not an 'elitist', however. He was a humble, unpretentious man, who felt fortunate to have made the choices that he made by way of a well chosen field of endeavor, and by way of a fortuitous marriage. He did, however, regard those whom he considered 'lowly' with some bit of contempt. He felt that all people had the faculty and ability to rise to great heights. But through some colossal failing on someone's part, ultimately their own, they remained in the ranks of the so called 'less fortunate'.

 

  While his love was botany, after Ardelia of course, Mr. Rubbadunky had an intense fascination for clocks. They amused him. He enjoyed them because they were predictable. One of the oldest inventions of man, and one of the few of man's inventions that was not destructive.

  He had casually collected a few clocks over the years, but he'd not collected so many, that he'd lost interest in a single one of them. Each one was unique, and a prize unto itself. While Ardelia didn't share his love of clocks to the degree that he did, she had never given him reason to feel that she was annoyed, or in any way repelled by his devotion to them. Not only had she helped keep them polished, and wound; she bought him one as an anniversary gift on their fifth year together. He loved her all the more for it, because it was not just some frivolous item that one might win as a 'door prize'. It was an elegant and well crafted piece, equal to, if not better than those he had chosen for himself. And, though he'd never dare tell her how, she was greatly responsible for the successes that he had achieved.

  Most of the clocks were relatively small. The type you would place on a mantel. He didn't care as much for the grandfather clocks, as he felt them to be too big. And he couldn't hold, tinker with, and admire them like he could the smaller ones. He never wanted a room filled with the objects of his fascination, as some collectors had a tendency to have. There was no sense to that, he felt. Could you imagine the sound of all those clocks tick-tocking at once. The noise would drive him mad. There was nothing pleasant about that, at all. The few that he had collected, occupied their own little space in the house, and he tended to them as if they were beloved house pets. And certainly, he needed the convenience of knowing what time it was, where ever in the house he found himself. There were some rooms that had two clocks. But, those rooms were large, and the clocks placed at either end, so as not to be disruptive to his much desired peace and quietude. He wasn't sure why he was so drawn to clocks. Maybe, it had to do with the intricacy of their works; the synchronization of gears and springs. Their regularity; an antithesis of deviation. He imagined that the universe worked in the same fashion. Everything in sync. That a human being could craft such an instrument was miraculous, he thought. If a person could make a clock, he could make anything.

 

 

2

The new house was perfect for him, he thought.

 

It wasn't too big. Just spacious enough to not feel closed in upon, but not so large that he couldn't keep the place up. The downstairs rooms and windows were large and bright. The upstairs, smaller and cozier. The house had 'character', he felt. Ardelia would have enjoyed it here, had she lived. It was losing her that prompted him to relocate to a smaller, and more manageable place. This place won't be filled with reminders of her, though he missed her, and thought of her constantly. He wasn't sure why she died. She wasn't supposed … , to die. The doctor said that her heart just stopped. 'Just stopped', his thoughts would echo. 'Like a clock that wound down, she just ‘stopped’.

'Well, these new surroundings will do me good,' he thought, as he busied himself unwrapping things; placing, and arranging them to suit him. He did miss the 'clip clopping' the horses made on the cobblestones, at the old place.

 

  He was particularly surprised and pleased to discover, there was a little room just off to the left, at the top of the cellar stairs. 'What a pleasantly interesting little addition,' he thought, as he turned about inspecting the room, entertaining thoughts of what he might use the room for. He'd missed it in his 'walk through' of the house. He wondered what the former occupants used it for. For storage, no doubt. That was where he found the clock. Or better put, that was where the clock was. He entertained a fleeting notion that the clock was waiting for him.

 

 

  The room was a bit dusty, and he sneezed twice into his handkerchief. His sneezes were a high pitched 'choo'! that sounded loud inside the little room. He wondered absently, why a sneeze felt so liberating. Almost as if he were purging himself of an unwelcome visitor. He didn't care for visitors. Especially the ones that showed up uninvited. There was not much chance of that here, he thought, living so far from where he and Ardelia lived previously.

 

  What a marvelous piece of work, Mr. Rubbadunky thought, wondering if the clock still worked. He would give it a good cleaning, and wind it. Definitely worth getting repaired, if that is what it required. He couldn't decipher the inscription inside the panel that allowed access to it's interior. Dies Irae. He would have to look up the translation later. He wondered how old it was, and who owned it. No doubt it was passed down through several generations. Despite it's apparent age, it was extremely well preserved. The intricacy of it's works were unlike any he had ever seen, as if the clock were made for something more than just keeping time. He looked forward to examining it closer. It puzzled him though, why it was here. In this room. He couldn't imagine someone just leaving such a treasure. But then, not everyone felt about clocks as he did.

 

  Though he was given a 'walk through' of the house prior to renting it, he decided to inspect it more thoroughly. Who knows what other little fascinations he might have missed. He reluctantly, but carefully placed the clock back onto the shelf, and paused to decide where he should begin. Starting with the basement, then to the kitchen and great room, he leisurely inspected each room, and every surface. The new house lifted his spirits greatly. He felt that he could really be productive here. Get a lot of work done. And maybe, soften the loss of Ardelia.

 

  As evening approached, It had begun to rain. He could hear the tones of it's soft tapping on the windows. Mr. Rubbadunky was too absorbed with his rambling about, and organizing, to be disturbed by it. It was quite pleasant actually; almost like welcome company. The idea of buying a pet; a cat maybe … , entertained his thoughts briefly. He wished that Ardelia could be here to experience with him, the tranquility that he felt right now. The thought of her made him sad again. And maybe, a little guilty?

 

  When he felt pretty much satisfied that everything was in order, he went downstairs and through the kitchen, back to the little room off to the side. He retrieved the clock, made his way back into the kitchen, and set it upon the kitchen table. After placing a kettle with water to boil onto the stove, he took down a box of mint tea, a small jar of honey, and a cup and saucer from the cupboard, and placed them on the counter beneath it. Fishing out two teabags, He placed them on the saucer.

  After gathering what tools, rags, solvents, polish, and other necessities that he felt would be sufficient, Mr. Rubbadunky sat down before the clock. In the light of the kitchen, unable to see in the dimness of the little room off the cellar stairs, he could distinguish details that were not apparent, previously. As he brushed and whisked, and then applied and swabbed off solvent to clean the clock's works, he cleaned and polished its exterior. After oiling the gears and winder, and satisfied that he had done as good a job as could be done, Mr. Rubbadunky sat transfixed at what he felt was a marvel of craftsmanship. A true treasure. How could this have been so discarded?

  He checked his watch, set the hands of the clock in synch with it, and began to wind it. The kitchen light flickered for just an instant then, and the sudden whistle of the tea kettle startled him out of his seat. He had forgotten that he was boiling water for tea, and inwardly chided himself for giving himself such a fright. 'It was his being alone in a new house, that was all,' he thought. He couldn't resist turning around to make sure that no one else was there.

 

  The clock began ticking. It still works. It was magnificent, and the sound of it's ticking was unlike any he had ever heard. It was almost hypnotic. This one was going in his bedroom, right on the bedside table,' he decided. He couldn't take his eyes off it. After drinking his tea, and tidying up the kitchen, he could think of nothing else but the clock. Well, Ardelia did pop into his thoughts, but he dismissed them as well as he could.

  Retrieving the clock, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and placed it on one of the bedside tables. The room was well lighted, though not bright. After completing his pre-bedtime ritual of showering, brushing and flossing his teeth, making faces in the mirror that he considered exercising his facial muscles, and flexing his barely existent biceps, he crawled into bed. With his head on his pillows, the clock was the last object his eyes saw before falling into a deep sleep, a hint of a smile on his face.

 

 

3

  He opened his eyes, just as the light began coloring away the darkness. There was still a light drizzle, but not an impediment to anything that he intended to do today. In fact, he had no real plans to do anything. He was sure that there was plenty still to be done around the house. Just nothing urgent.

  Swinging out of bed, and still barefoot, he decided there was something he needed to find, and set off to look for it. But after a few moments, he found himself wandering through the house trying to remember what it was that he was looking for. What ever it was, he couldn't remember, but felt that when he needed it, he would look for it then. As he padded back to his bedroom, in the dim light he thought that he perceived movement through the glass of the balcony door. He approached the balcony, to get a better look. To his surprise, there was movement. Something ... ; the size of a large dog. Then he saw ! With eyes wide, and rapid heart, he placed his hand over his mouth to stifle a scream. It was all he could do to not swoon in terror, as his mind raced to find rescue from this horror.

 

 

  Suddenly, there was ringing. His head was filled with it. He looked about him, his eyes blinking. He looked toward the balcony. All remained as it was the day before. Where is it? He looked about the room, expecting it to be inside. There was no trace of it. Just a dream, he whispered, hopefully. Just a dream.

 

The sun was shining gloriously through the trees beyond. A long sigh of relief, and incredulity escaped him, and he lay his head back on the pillow for a long moment, before sitting up on the side of the bed to figure out how to turn off the clock’s alarm.

  Being frightened by that ‘thing’, was long in fading. Maybe it was his being alone so suddenly, that caused such a nightmare, he thought. He would hire someone to look after him, he entertained. His spirits took on a more jubilant air when the thought occurred to him that a housekeeper might be just what he needed. Someone to help with keeping the house in order; and to keep him company, on occasion. Then, another thought intruded upon the others; with the new housekeeper, he mused, he could continue his research. His research ... ; Ardelia would understand.

He'd made up his mind. He would ask about a housekeeper. Ardelia would understand.

 

 

4

  It was after dinner that he saw the fox running across the grounds. For a moment he stood motionless, flashes of a drooping purple flowered plant causing ripples of disquiet in him. It was then that he remembered what he was looking for in the dream this morning, before seeing that ‘thing’. It was the small cardboard box that he'd taken down to the cellar, and hidden among bags of potting soil, and botanical chemicals. He remembered the name of the little flowers that he'd kept inside the box. They were foxgloves. Digitalis Purpurea, their botanical name. He remembered how poisonous they were. And, given a sufficient amount, the toxin from these flowers could cause a great bit of damage to human organs; especially the heart.

 

He tried to suppress it, the memory of himself soaking the flowers in water. He soaked a great many of them for days. Whenever Ardelia wanted a glass of water, he would give her the water from the soaking flowers. She couldn't know that there was anything unusual about it. The water tasted peculiar in these parts anyway. It was the mineral content. There was manganese, copper, and who knows what else, and embibed in moderation, there was little health risks. At their former residence, there was just enough copper in the water, the drips from the faucet would leave blue streaks in the sink. Whenever she wanted tea, he would offer to make it for her. He helped with the soup. And, when she wanted to take a bath, he offered to fill the tub. No trouble at all.

 

But, she wasn't supposed to die ... .

 

Mr. Rubbadunky had been paid handsomely for his part in developing new formulas for a particular pharmaceutical company. The last in fact, was a heart medication. His knowledge of, and experiments with plants were invaluable to them. Because of his importance, if there were any suspicions connecting him to his wife's death, he would not be made accountable for it. No one would be allowed to make him accountable for it. That's how important he had become to those who profited by him.

Unbeknownst to Ardelia, she had been his 'guinea pig' for years. He'd fed, and provided for her. He'd given her all the love and care he gave to his beloved clocks, and his beloved plants. He made sure she received plenty of attention. Fresh air and sunshine; plenty of exercise, and rest. Those times that she suffered; they couldn't be helped. The information gleaned from all that he had done, was crucial for so many. She would understand. He knew she would.

 

  Mr. Rubbadunky spent a good part of the day walking about the surrounding acreage, and later, found himself in the garden behind the house, below the balcony. He was pleased with the variety of plants, shrubs, and trees all about him, and planned to cultivate so many more. He'd spotted a few deer, and a couple of squirrels darting about. He'd have to find a way to make them keep their distance from things he didn't want them to eat. He knew the right things to plant to make them stay away.

  Going back into the house finally, the sun falling behind some trees to the west, he felt famished. It seemed that he'd not eaten since breakfast, and being out all day had given him an enormous appetite. He set about making a lamb stew, which proved to be delicious. He was a fastidious sort, and enjoyed the things that required 'processes'. Recipes were a process, therefore, cooking was one of those things that he enjoyed, for which Ardelia was grateful. Recipes assured that things would turn out the same each and every time.

 

  After finishing his meal, washing and putting things away, Mr. Rubbadunky retired to the comfortable little room adjacent the great room, that he considered his 'study'. There he reviewed some notes that he'd written just prior to Ardelia's passing. He never could bring himself to see her 'passing' for what it was. 'But it really was murder, wasn't it?'

 

'It was an accident! She wasn't supposed to die!'

 

  Unable to concentrate enough to be productive, Mr. Rubbadunky decided it was time for bed. At last, after his nightly ritual, he sat on the edge of the bed, admiring the clock. He wondered how long before he had to wind it again. And, just as the night before, the sound that the clock made was like music to him. It mesmerized him, and he felt happy listening to it. He remembered the inscription on the back, but again, forgot to look up the translation. It was Latin, he was certain. And, though he was familiar with a great many Latin names for the plants that he studied over the years, he'd not come across these words. He did recognize 'dies', which translated to 'day', but it's meaning would be greatly influenced by the second part 'Arae'. Could it be a name? A phrase? He'd remind himself to look up it's meaning tomorrow. He wanted to know as much about his new treasure as possible.

  Lulled by the cadence of the clock, Mr. Rubbadunky slid underneath his bed covers, and promptly drifted off, forgetting all else that had come about since prior to, and after waking up that morning.

 

 

5

  He woke up in the dark. Something woke him up. What was that sound? Someone was there! He could here the sound of someone walking lightly across the floor.

 

'Gunnnther,' the voice sang.

 

 

'Ardelia?' Mr. Rubbadunky replied, groggily. 'Ardelia? Is that you, Ardelia?

 

'Yes, it's me, Gunther,' the voice soft, and non threatening.

The voice sounded like Ardelia's, but Mr. Rubbadunky knew that it could not be. Ardelia was dead. He saw her buried just days ago.

 

'Ardelia, you died,' he said.

 

'No, Gunther, I didn't die. I woke up in the dark. I felt sick, and very cold. But, I didn't die, Gunther. How could I? I'm here aren't I?"

 

'I'm sorry, Ardelia, I didn't mean to hurt you. You know I loved you. More than anything,' he said, his tone almost pleading. 'You weren't supposed to die.'

 

'Yes, I know darling. I know that you loved me … , in your way.'

 

'Ardelia?'

 

'Yes, Gunther?'

 

'Why are you here?' he asked, barely controlling the panic that rose in him now, his heart all but bursting from his chest, expecting to wake up any moment.

 

She was close to him now. Close enough to touch his trembling body. Close enough for him to feel the cold emanating from her. Close enough to smell her.

 

'I'm sorry,' he cried softly. 'I'm sorry.'

 

'Now, now, Gunther. 'Shhh,' she soothed, as she took his hand, and lead him from the bed.

 

 

6

  Several days had passed before Mr. Rubbadunky was found. He was found by his landlord, Mr. Babbage, in the little room off to the side, at the top of the cellar stairs. Ironically, he had come to warn him about the clock, looking about the room as if seeing it for the first time. He had received a telegram from the previous tenant, urgently requesting that he, Mr. Babbage, secure the clock. It was thought to have been packed, and removed, the telegram said, but was eventually discovered missing. The tenant had relocated for undisclosed reasons, and said had no convenient means to make contact until now. The telegram stated that no one but he, Mr. Babbage, was to handle the clock. It also stated in sterner terms, that there should be no attempt to wind it. The tenant had suggested that should the clock be found, to keep it locked away until he was able to return for it. He concluded that it was not an ordinary clock. It was not in fact, a clock, at all. It was signed 'Mr. Mephistoph.

  Mr. Babbage let out an awful shriek when he heard the ticking of the clock, and stepped away from it. 'Oh, my; what are we to do now?,' he asked no one in particular, as he turned to Mr. Rubbadunky, who was not dead, but was emaciated almost beyond recognition. He was barely alive, and his appearance was shocking. For days now, he'd been drinking only water laced with foxgloves. 'It was Ardelia's idea,' he said to a confused Mr. Babbage. 'She said that I needed to learn what it was like.' He also told Mr. Babbage that he'd discovered the translation to the inscription inside the little panel to the clock's works. 'Well, he admitted, I didn't discover it actually. Ardelia told me.'

' She said the clock wasn't a clock,' coughing out a laugh at this last remark. It was a humorless laugh. 'She said that it was a bridge, but wouldn't tell me any more. She doesn't have to, now; I know. 'Dies Irae,' he said. 'Do you know what that means, Mr. Babbage?', his sightless eyes looking in the direction of the clock. 'Ardelia knows, don't you dear,' said Mr. Rubbaducky, coughing weakly, a puzzled Mr. Babbage wondering at Mr. Rubbadunky's references to 'Ardelia'. Mr. Babbage was certain that Mr. Rubbadunky had gone mad. He should fetch a doctor, he thought. For all the good that would do.

Mr. Rubbadunky's sweating body convulsed with cold chills, then closing his eyes, he became still. 'Mr. Rubbadunky,' Mr. Babbage called. He reached out a hand, and was about to touch his shoulder, when Mr. Rubbadunky began laughing weakly, and opened his haunted eyes. It was a horrible, soulless laugh. There was no humor in it.

'Day Of Wrath,' he rasped, the light fading from his dying eyes, staring at the clock. 'Dies Irae' means 'Day Of Wrath'… .

 

 

            End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

The large gaps are where there were photos that gave some flavor to the narrative. With maybe one exception, the narrative should not suffer.