"Of Evangelism and Petunias" by A.R. George

It was early spring in Oywood, a dense, rather pretty wood of shaggy pines. Actually it was more full of bandits and malingering sprites than it was full of trees, but for the sake of botanical description, the mapmakers stuck to ‘shaggy pines’ and left it at that.

These weren’t the ‘chop-it-down-with-an-axe-and-cover-it-in-sparklies’ variety of pine, either. Oywood was an old, old forest full of old, old pines – massive, blue-green towers standing in arboreal colonnades with their pillars of trunks and clusters of pine-cones bulging on the branches, like scaly warts, if one provided for a wart capable of plummeting two storeys and braining a passerby. Woodcutters avoided the place, muttering pale, superstitious excuses that were nothing to do with spirits and everything to do with the sheer, daunting volume of the work that those mighty pines presented ...

With less exhaustive hyperbole, one could even say that Oywood was full of big trees.

So there it was, springtime in Oywood, and the birds were all nesting in those very big trees mentioned earlier, puzzling over how to sound out the ‘p’ in ‘chirrup’ without lips. And through this forest idyll, ostensibly following the sun through the canopy but actually quite lost, two horsemen came riding.

Caius Chetienne, the infamous Gentleman of Colchar, was the first rider, his sculpted, aristocratic face deep-graven with trial, his deep blue eyes marked with an unguessable sorrow. He was, in fact, simply feeling morose after so many days without a razor and some soap, but was inwardly very impressed with the figure of tormented hero that he’d cultivated that morning, and was strongly hoping he’d chance on some mysterious forest maiden who could cluck over his tragic past and golden-blond hair.

The rider behind Caius, his eternal companion – or did it only feel like eternity? – held high hopes of an encounter himself, although in his case it was for an encounter involving a band of pugnacious sprites like the ones they’d met with two days ago. Morgant Salluth, suitable moniker pending (though many people settled for ‘Madman of Colchar’), was a foxy-faced elf with high cheekbones, silky black hair and uncomfortably bright green eyes. And a sword. And a brace of knives. And a long rope tied to the personal effects of a few-score hapless bandits (dec.) trailing behind his unimpressed horse.

The overall impression, with all those clattering, shiny, distressingly pointy objects, was very much like a boy’s string-pull toy – a delinquent boy, that is, with severe social difficulties.

“Morgant,” said Caius tightly, putting on his finest Stand Back – I’m Educated tone as the noise became too much for an unshaven gentleman to bear, “did I not impress upon you yesterday how irritating that infernal, rattling rope is?”

“Uhh ...” Morgant clicked his tongue and ran over the last few days in his head, murmuring remembered highlights under his breath. “’I should have known this was the wrong way, you couldn’t find your posterior with both hands correctly placed’ ... ‘If you don’t refrain from shaking your purse to draw bandits, I’ll insert it in your nostril’ ... ‘I am going to tie your –‘ ah!” The elf slapped the pommel of his saddle triumphantly. “Yes, you did! You said you’d tie me to that rope if I didn’t cut it loose.”

“So ..?”

“Don’t you remember what I said?” Morgant’s eyes went briefly distant with concentration. “’This helmet is real iron, a blacksmith will pay good money for the scrap, anyway it’s my rope and you can come try to cut it if you like’.” He grinned, the same cheery expression that had fooled any number of aching casualties in the past.

Caius groaned, feeling a redoubled bout of tragic hero coming on, but forced himself to press a hand to his throbbing temple and push on. “Is it too much to ask whether you’ve finally figured out where we are? It’s getting dark. I’m quite tired of the nightly bandit episodes at the campfire. I want to sleep in a real bed!”

“I told you, Caius, I came here years ago,” the elf replied in an unruffled tone (he quite liked the camp equation of fire = bandit²). “Don’t worry, most forests end somewhere. I think I remember this one doing the same.”

“Don’t enter a battle of sarcasm with me now, Morgant. You’re underequipped.”

They rode on in silence – not counting the clattering and clanking behind Morgant’s horse – for a few more circuits of the same area, at least until they overheard two dryads making enthusiastic bets on how many ‘laps’ the riders could fit in before nightfall. Caius turned in the saddle to glare at Morgant.

It was a common human misconception that all elves were tree-loving, woodcrafty forest folk. Morgant’s particular offshoot of the elven race, the Acarthians, had little use for nature unless it was skinned, stripped, lopped off or chopped up. The same went for trees, too.

“Aha,” said Morgant. “My keen elven eyes have just picked out a hidden path.”

“Yes, it is rather cleverly hidden with that dryad pointing at it.” Caius nudged his horse forward to inspect the path – so overgrown that it was just a dent in the bushes, but definitely showing signs of having seen some traffic many years ago. It also showed more promise than Morgant’s sense of direction, so he took it, flashing the smirking dryads a dark look. Morgant and his baggage clattered along behind.

The old trail was bushy and twisty where it snaked through the old pines, not because the terrain was particularly difficult, but seemingly because its maker had decided this must be a picturesque setting and had chased all the prettiest local landmarks around as a result. Caius and Morgant passed twenty Scenic Lookouts, fourteen Logs Used As Bridges and the requisite Large Tree With Hole Big Enough To Stand In, which must have really wowed the ancient tourists in years past.

“You hear something?” Morgant asked Caius after the excitement of the Large Tree had passed.

Caius didn’t. Morgant’s ears were much sharper than his – the elf’s pathological hatred for snorers had caused plenty of trouble in roadhouses past. But after another ten minutes of scenic riding, he picked up on the noises as well: a faint, rapid voice gabbling at high speed, and the slightly quieter sound of moving water.

They rode even further down the trail and came on yet another picturesque scene – clear, sparkling water rushing over a bed of rounded stones, neatly trimmed with moss. The voice was quite loud now, though Caius couldn’t see anyone in sight.

“... Oh, what a beautiful moor-ning … oooh, mind that nasty sparrow there, Mr Worm! Go! Go! Behind you, behind you – ah! Beautifully dodged. I bet you play for a team. Worm United. Never mind, sparrow, ‘early bird’ and all that ... Oh! Oh! Look! It’s people! Actual people! Thought you were sprites there for a moment, I’d give your hair a brush if I were you …”

Morgant sniffed at the air. “Hmm,” he said, wrinkling his narrow nose. “I smell magic somewhere.” It wasn’t a figure of speech – the elvish nose for magic was quite literal.

“Ah … hello? Where are you?” called Caius, looking around.

“Right here! Though talking philosophically, of course, where is here? Is your here my here? Is my here your here? Oh, the mooore we get together, to-geth-er, to-geth-er …”

Caius’s horse wandered tiredly over to dip its nose in the water as the voice rattled on, only to shy back and dump Caius on the ground as a shrill shriek split the air. “Aieee! Call it off! Down, Silver! Come Dancer, come Prancer, Donner and … all the other ones! No pets on the premises! Hsss! Horse, the blue meat! Glue!”

“It’s the water talking,” Morgant informed Caius redundantly.

“Right.” Caius picked himself up off the ground, gingerly, as the voice rambled on.

“That’s right! The water!  - Ah, and you’re an elf. You probably know Dancer and Prancer from work. So how are we this fine day? Need directions? A tour? I used to have it down pat when this trail was in tourist season. Let’s see what I can remember. ‘On your left as we enter scenic West Oywood, observe the majesty of the …’”

“You’re a brook, aren’t you,” guessed Caius in a sour voice, well aware of how magical minds worked (ie. barely).

“Oh, I didn’t know they still taught Watercourses 101 in schools these days! Marvellous. Let me look at you … hmm, got that pinched Lestite profile, poor lad … you are from Lest, aren’t you? Nice place. Bit chilly. Lovely mountains.”

“How would you know?” Caius asked the brook’s disembodied voice a little nastily.

“Oh, I converge with a few little streams who come that way. Bit further south. Let me tell you, though, when we compare holiday pictures I win hands-down on the scenic scale. Hey! The tour! Let me give you the tour before it gets dark, or you’ll never get to the temple …”

Morgant tilted his head. “Temple?”

“At the end of this lovely trail, yes. Used to be terribly popular.”

“But now it’s abandoned.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Ruined, I expect. Creepers all over.”

“You bet! Labrusca templium arcanorum.”

“And no-one knows which god the temple’s hallowed to any more.”

“Well, I sure don’t.”

“Right.” Morgant turned to Caius. “Nuh-uh. Back we go. Old, ruined, forgotten, viney temples – like anyone these days would fall for that!”

Caius scratched at the back of his head. “If it’s got a roof and some sort of mystic pool I could wash in …”

“Oh, no. You know how this plot device goes, Caius. ‘Trusted companion voices pertinent concerns and is ignored with dramatic consequences’.”

“Yes, and it usually applies to me telling you not to pick fights, given your unfailing talent for finding off-duty guardsmen.” He scratched at the itching stubble on his cheek and added, “Look, we’ll be just fine so long as we don’t translate any eldritch carvings, step on any hidden pressure plates or steal conspicuously placed valuables.”

“Ooh,” said Morgant.

“Don’t worry. I’ll tie your hands.”

*           *           *           *           *

The temple, as it turned out, was not a bona fide ruin – no holes for the wind to ominously moan through, no gaps for the moon to peer through nostalgically; just a bit of dry rot and mildew. And creepers. The chatty brook hadn’t been wrong about the creepers – they covered almost everything, crawling through every window and worming into every crevice in long strings of tiny flowers. Caius wasn’t the naturalist type, but he felt sure that most creepers weren’t capable of blossoming in twenty different colours on the one runner-vine.

Actually, the temple was almost tasteful, as temples went. The builders had avoided huge, gaudy pillars and statues, producing a modest monument more worthy of a quiet parish than a mysterious woodland location. The main problem – so far as Caius could see from the open doorway – was that the décor seemed to have been designed by an old woman in her seventies, all floral bas reliefs and shades of pink and mauve. Something suspiciously like a decaying lace doily was draped over the little altar in the centre.

“Must have been the patron goddess of grandmothers,” Caius observed, fighting through the creeper-swathed doorway into the temple proper and looking for a place to sit. “Not very eldritch in here, is it?”

“Just wait,” Morgant replied portentously, following him with cagey glances left and right. “Those creepers aren’t right. Man-eating vines, I expect. They’ll be growing big fangs in a minute.”

“I’m not sure that they look like that sort, Mor. But I suppose caution can’t hurt.” Tossing his pack down beside the altar, which was conveniently the size of a single bed, Caius whisked the crumbling doily away onto the floor, where it disintegrated into sad scraps of bad crochet.

As he turned back, curly silver letters began to glow beneath the dust, their message awakening after their long years of slumber …

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Caius said flatly, shaking out his bedroll and laying it over the writing.

Morgant tried to peer to one side of the bedroll as the light was smothered. “That was close. Ah … what did it say? Just out of interest?”

Caius swore inwardly at the dread words just out of interest. The things that Acarthians did just out of interest historically ranged from importing huge shiploads of kittens (“do they ALL always land on their feet?”) to waging full-scale war (when Queen Metua the Unfortunate of Lest refused to disclose her meringue recipe to her Acarthian counterpart *). Acarthians knew that curiosity killed the cat – several shiploads of cats, to be precise – but they could never seem to help themselves …

“Morgant, you know nothing good comes of magical writing,” Caius tried in a reasonable voice. “Let’s just cook up some dinner and go to sleep, yes?”

“But … did you actually see what it said?”

“No, I didn’t read it! You’re the one who was so worried about setting off Ye Olde Temple Traps! A mysterious inscription has got to be trouble.”

“Well, we don’t have to do as it says … whatever it says …”

“Morgant!”

“I’ll start the fire.”

* When first asked to share her recipe, Metua’s words to the Acarthian ambassador were “Let them bake cake!”

*           *           *           *           *

After boiling dinner in an ex-bandit’s helmet (amazing how gentle deer and plump young rabbits are attracted to mystic temple groves, Caius thought) the two settled down to sleep, with Caius quite comfortably settled on top of the inscription on the altar. He half-expected some sort of visitation in his dreams, seeing as that was often the done thing in these places, but he actually spent quite a peaceful night and woke up in good spirits for a cold breakfast of deer and rabbit stew.

It was only a matter of time before they reached real civilisation now. They could follow the enchanted brook – drastic though that measure seemed – south to the tributaries it had mentioned and finally find their way out of Oywood …

As Caius unthinkingly went outside to untether the horses, a dreadful, precognitive fear gripped him. Dumping the saddlebags in panic, the Lestite ran back into the temple just in time to see Morgant peeking under his bedroll at the floral altar.

“Morgant! Out!” he shouted, shoving the guilty-looking elf away.

“What’s the fuss?” Morgant asked sulkily. “All it said was …”

Suddenly a silvery shimmer of light flared over the altar (flecked with that familiar Septuagenarian Pink tinge) and a whole chorus of glad voices sang in the air, echoing through all corners of the temple:

Be welcome, traveller, and rejoice!

In thanks and wonder lift thy voice!

For even as thou took’st thy rest

With holy favour thou wert blest!

“Yeah, that,” said Morgant. “Ah.”

In practised unison the two spun on their heels and dashed back out of the temple, taking the steps four at a time as they grabbed the horses and rushed back to the grassy temple overlook, where they could no longer here the voices (except for the brook, mumbling to itself off in the distance).

“Whew,” Morgant said thoughtfully. “Took’st, eh?”

“Don’t change the subject. You are a stupid prat, Morgant, and I’m …” Caius broke off suddenly, looking down as something caught his eye.

A small, green shoot was determinedly wriggling up from the earth beside his boot, curling around and quickly blossoming into a small, purple pansy. Five more followed it as he stared, poking out their heads and bursting in a little ‘pop’ of colour, and more, followed by a small flotilla of marigolds and delicate little bluebells …

The airy sound of swooping metal and a blur of silver cut short the lives of half of Caius’s crop, and nearly shortened him by an ankle. “Morgant! Watch it!”

“Watch it yourself! They’re going to grow fangs any minute! That’s what happens in these places!” the elf shouted back, still sweeping and hacking away with his sword, and suddenly gave a yell. “Augh! They’re coming for me, too! Look at my boots!”

“Look, put your sword away and let’s deal with this reasonably,” Caius warned before the jumpy elf could remove his own toes. “We’ll just walk a little bit further away from this mad temple, okay? They’re just flowers. No fangs.”

To demonstrate, he turned and walked away about twenty paces across the grass and back into the deeper fringe of Oywood, turning to face Morgant again with his arms spread. “There. No problem. Now why don’t we just –”

He broke off. Morgant was still staring at the ground. The reason stretched from the place where Caius had formerly stood to the place where he stood now: a long, dense, busily sprouting carpet of bright peonies, beaming daisies, gentle violets, wispy baby’s-breath …

“Running won’t work, you know,” said a high, female voice that sounded as though it should have been talking about sleepovers and ponies. “The flowers will follow you wherever you go. You’re blessed, you see!”

Caius took his eyes dazedly from the energetic garden, only to fix them on a sight little easier on the eyes. A diminutive, vividly purple-haired female with a pixie-like face stood just beyond the trees, hands earnestly clasped as she watched them, clad in a puffy, brilliantly floral dress fit to cause adolescent young bees acute embarrassment.

“Hi!” she fluted, smiling sunnily and unclasping her hands long enough to flutter one in welcome. “Nice to meet you properly, Caius, Morgant!”

“Ugh,” said Morgant, wrinkling his nose as he tried to wrestle a vine away from his waist. “I can smell the magic from here …”

“Who might you be?” Caius asked with a little less candour, seeing the colourful apparition’s face start to furrow in a cross pout.

The pout vanished instantly. “I suppose you mightn’t recognise me,” she said morosely, but then gave a brave little smile and pushed on. “I’ve been out of the public eye for a while. I am – ahem – Airiel, Goddess of Flora and Fuzzy Fauna!”

“Flora and –“

“Well, Artamaya the Huntress lets me have a loan of her sweeter animals every now and then, just for fun. She’s such a dear.” Airiel giggled. “It’s quite a lot of ‘F’s, really, isn’t it? Back when I was popular, my friends even used to call me ‘Effie’ …”

“Eff me,” said Morgant.

“Are we to understand that this is …” Caius trailed off, eyeing the floral carpets again.

Airiel beamed. “My doing? Oh, yes. I’ve gone and blessed you. This is the biggest, brightest mark of my favour I could –”

Caius grabbed Morgant’s shirt-collar as the elf tried to vengefully lunge past him. “It’s, ah, very flattering, but … why?”

“It’s a little embarrassing to explain, actually,” the goddess replied, twisting the hem of her very, very floral dress uncomfortably between her small hands. “It’s a bit of a personal problem. All the other gods and goddesses of the Pantheon have worshippers aplenty, you see. The Thunder Lord – fine, a god to smite your enemies. The Silver Songstress – yes, good for parties. But who wants to worship a goddess whose best effort is to encourage your petunias to thrive?”

“Gardeners?” suggested Caius weakly, picking petals out of his hair.

“Oh, yes, gardeners,” she said bitterly. “Fine worshippers they make. Other deities have week-long Solstice Festivals; I get to preside over the Fairborough Flower Show once a year. Other deities have radiant golden effigies cast in their image; I get floral clocks planted in my honour. Other deities are worshipped by mighty heroes and priests, and I get groundskeepers … which brings me to my point.”

“Ah … what point is that?”

“My point for being here, and for your elevation,” she said brightly, pointing to all the flowers springing up around their feet. “I’ve decided to change my image – appeal to the broader worshipping base, as it were – and you, my new servants, will help me! Congratulations – you’re both now Floral Avatars of the Flower Maiden!”

For a moment the two were silent. Caius opened his mouth for some suitably eloquent refusal, paused, and shut it again. Morgant, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

“A ‘Floral Avatar’?” snapped the elf. “Not a chance in Hell! Stick to gardeners! By all the Gods and Goddesses of the Pantheon –”

“Don’t take your goddess’s name in vain,” said Airiel crossly. “And I told you, gardeners don’t appeal to the public. I tried. I need devotees of a more glamorous profession, like dashing mercenaries. Though if you dare try any dashing now, you risk my divine wrath,” she added ominously.

“Hah!” snorted Morgant. “What will you do – pour weed-killer on my agapanthuses?”

“Agapanthi,” Airiel corrected. “And no, I won’t do that. If you refuse to serve me, I won’t do anything.”

“Won’t do –?” Morgant began. Then the elf stopped and looked down at his feet, where a loving sea of poppies was now slowly stretching up from the earth. “Ah.”

“Exactly.  You’ll be pushing up daisies forever if you disobey,” said the Flower Maiden sternly. Then she giggled. “Oh, I made a joke!”

“So if we do agree to become … ‘Floral Avatars’,” Caius said, swallowing hard as he spoke the name, “you’ll get rid of these … these gardens?”

“Not right away,” she conceded. “Only when you’ve finished your noble quest.”

“What sort of quest?”

“Well.” Airiel gave it some thought. “Probably the same as other deities’ avatars –“

“- Without the dignity –“ muttered Morgant.

“- Wandering the land as blessed disciples, spreading my Word and doing impressive deeds to win more faithful over,” she finished worriedly. “That sort of thing. Um … does it sound right to you? I’ve never had avatars before. I’m really not very sure about this.”

“Yes, that sounds about right,” Caius assured the goddess, glaring at Morgant. “Quests, enlightening tenets of the faith, all very typical. But what is your Word?”

“I actually have quite a lot of Words,” Airiel said shyly. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Ahem …”

Airiel couldn’t manage awe-inspiring claps of thunder to accompany her commandments, so instead a light shower of white petals began to fall as she spoke up in a singsong voice:

“1. Thou shalt water thy flora liberally, once by morning and once by evening.

“2. Thou shalt prune back thy flowering bushes when it seemeth to thee that their limbs grow overlong.

“3. Thou shalt fertilise …”

Morgant turned to Caius to say something, his expression flat, but was foiled by a fresh shower of petals.

“4. Thou shalt defend thy floral charges against the evils of snails, aphids and their foul ilk.

“5. Thou shalt suffer no dogs to dig within the bounds of thy garden …”

Airiel continued to recite all her Words carefully, her expression slightly bashful but very pleased, her amethyst gaze fixed on her audience and her fingers twisting around a lock of mauve hair as she spoke. Earnestness seemed to radiate from her like the blossoms fluttering around in the breeze …

“We’ll do it!” said Caius suddenly, cutting the goddess off in mid-commandment.

“Whaat?” wailed Morgant.

“You will?” Airiel cried, and rushed forward to shower her Chosen Ones with kisses. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You won’t regret this, truly you won’t! I’m not a strict boss, you see,” she added earnestly. “I don’t expect any of my disciples to become martyrs, for example. Although that would be good for public relations …”

“Can I speak to you for a moment, Brother Caius?” Morgant asked acidly.

Caius shrugged and followed the elf a few feet away, leaving the bubbling goddess behind. Morgant waited until they were behind a pair of trees before he reached out and shirt-fronted the Lestite.

“What in Deepest bloody Hell have you done?” he demanded.

Caius shifted uncomfortably. “She seems a little lonely and sad, that’s all. Watch my shirt, Morgant.”

“If I wasn’t twisting up your shirt, I’d be twisting up your neck! You’ve gone and made us into a pair of flower girls!”

“We’re not girls.”

“That makes it worse!”

“Look, Mor,” Caius sighed, “it’s either that or permanent carpets of flowers beneath our feet – flower-girls for the rest of our lives. All we have to do is complete Airiel’s quest, raise her profile a little, and go on our merry way.”

Morgant grunted. “I certainly hope we don’t see anyone we know.”

“There’s no need to get irritable. You’re the one who started this whole mess, anyway.”

“Me? You’re the one who insisted we stay at that stupid temple!”

“You’re the one who read out the damn verse!”

“Children, children!” Airiel’s girlish voice interrupted. The goddess appeared at their shoulders, laying a delicate little hand on each. “Let there be harmony and peace! Even as the gentle flowers abide in the garden, so shall my followers!”

“Yeah, ankle-deep in shi-“

“Morgant!” Caius turned to Airiel and gave a hasty, fluid bow. “How shall we follow you, O Airiel of the Flowers? Beyond our holy commandments, which we shall surely follow, what must we do?”

Airiel blushed a delighted pink at Caius’s formal, respectful address, and a delighted shower of roses began to fall. “Hear me, my Floral Avatars!” she intoned happily. “From this day forward thou wilt keep true to mine Word and heed thy goddess’s rede alone! Go out amongst the people and spread the teachings of the Flower Maiden! Demonstrate my power by performing great deeds and astounding quests!”

“Someone is going to die,” predicted Morgant.

“Let all know of my glory and bring thou all that wouldst hear me unto my – ah, mine shrine! When these great tasks art fulfilled, then shalt thou reach the end of thy granted power, and thy blessedness in mine sight shalt end also. … Although I’ll be glad to keep you on for a second term!”

Caius jumped on that one. “No, we’d better give someone else a turn after that.”

Airiel beamed. “I suppose. Well, anything else you need to know? If you’re wondering about prayers, I’m not too strict on those. A little devotion every few days would be nice, but if you’re busy spreading my Word, I understand completely. I do have a strict dress code, though,” she added.

“I can imagine,” said Caius weakly.

“But I will accept employee input. Tell you what – I’ll show you my current ideas for the uniform right now, and you can give me your opinion!”

Still fizzing with excitement, Airiel vanished, presumably returning to the Pantheon for her Floral Avatars’ outfits. Morgant turned to Caius with a murderous look.

“She is sort of sweet,” defended Caius. “And considerate. You wouldn’t catch the Thunder Lord taking his priests’ opinions into account.”

“You also wouldn’t catch the Thunder Lord dressing his priests in a flower fairy’s outfit!”

“We don’t know that there will be flowers on the uniform, Mor.”

“Hah!”