Chapter 8: Parallel Botany, Part 2

Azul traced her fingers over the matchbox-sized volume lodged deep in her robes as though it were a malignant tumor. Why, oh why did she think it was a good idea to pick it up?! If only she’d just left it in the garden, it would have slowly returned to the earth, composting under so many fallen leaves. But in her weakness, she just couldn’t bear to let something precious and beautiful as a book go to waste. Not even when it might, say, tie her to certain events that were best not spoken of.

“Prodigy. Are you deaf?”

Azul’s head shot up.

“My apologies, Madame-!”

Only to realize it wasn’t Madame Saguaro speaking at all. Instead, none other than Salmiana the Miscreant stared daggers at her. Not that she didn’t deserve it, but of all the sinners trapped on this accursed rock, Azul found Salmiana’s the judgement the one she valued the least. Shaking her head (she could not allow sinful resentment to possess her now!) she returned to the crisis at hand.

          Sister Mesquite (so the frantic nun explained) had collapsed in the midst of preparing their esteemed guest’s dinner, having gone the past week without rest to ensure the adequacy of the night’s meal. Azul wondered if she, too, might one day possess the same diligence. But that day seemed very, very far away.  

“So, dear children,” intoned Madame Saguaro. “The kitchen, no doubt, must be in a state of disarray. Which brave soul in our number would be willing to volunteer their services?”

Azul had to admit it was an odd coincidence. Mesquite going down the moment she needed an opening to interact with the beautiful angel from the garden. It was amazing how such things could just happen. Almost as if a greater power was at play. Though she had never been the best at divining Kib’s will, Azul knew when to take a hint.

She stood up.

“I’ll go.”

Madame Saguaro, in kind, reared to her full height, all fifteen feet of it.

“This will be no easy task, Prodigy. The cuisine designated to our guests is far more intricate than anything we have eaten in our sinful lives. You will also be required to interact with strangers, a thing which, if I recall correctly, indices in you not insignificant anxiety. Are you certain of your decision?”

Although Azul knew her answer right away, she strategically paused a few minutes, letting the room wait with baited breath. If Madame Saguaro found her too enthused by the proposition, then it would be little trouble for the elderly Venusian to deduce the entire meeting in the garden. The metaphorical knife twisted around Azul’s belly as she summoned up the darkness within and concealed vital truths by that most underhanded of methods: omission. Which was not the same as active deception, and was done in the service of a greater good, and thus would not lead the whole of the Monastery from salvation (Sister Barrel’s nattering be dam*ed)!

“Yes.” She exhaled.

Madame Saguaro nodded. “Let it be known that on this day, the Prodigy has shown great courage in the face of adversity. I sincerely hope, my dear children, that you learn from her example and fulfill your duties to their fullest, for we must all reach salvation, or none at all.” She lifted her head, twin moon eyes staring past Azul’s wretched body and into her salvageable soul. “Prodigy, the guests have surely been waiting long enough. You are dismissed.”

With a curt “Thank you.”, Azul slipped out of the dining hall and into the Monastery’s dark bowels, the scent of roasted corpse flower guiding her to the kitchen. All the while, the leather-bound volume beat gently against her belly, cold as ice.

Even though Sister Creosote had insisted keeping the garden incident a secret was for the best, the dirty guilt wormed through her insides. Why couldn’t she be brave? Why did her soul have to be so tainted? Why couldn’t she be more like Madame Saguaro, who in her kindness adopted orphaned bats, even carving a hole in her skull so they could live there? Madame Saguaro, who alone knew which limbs must be severed to properly extract the sin from the soul? Madame Saguaro, who had so earned the love of Kib the Goddess had granted her over a century of life, to ensure she continued to serve the great work? How Azul wished to have even a millionth of the compassion which led the head nun to treat her with mercy! And if that were not shameful enough, she coveted such compassion not so she might bring kindness unto others, but so she might, as Madame Saguaro had, be granted Kib’s favor.

Well you won’t serve Kib through self-pity, whore!

The shameful prodigy let out a sigh as the darkness of the hallways swallowed her whole.

.   .   .

Vera was still gazing at the viridian globe, thighs beating against each other impatiently, when an intoxicating scent slowly creeped under the door and into the dining room. A blend of aromas, familiar and alien, caressed their nostrils, so heavenly they could not help but wonder if it was but a hallucination bought on by hunger. 

          The rickety door creaked on its hinges, and in grunted a cloistered girl hauling a massive serving platter over her head, piled high with delicacies in dishes of abalone, tortoiseshell and even the molted husks of particularly large arthropods. The feast gleamed brilliantly in the room’s viridian light, but what truly drew the trio’s attention was the identity of the servant girl buckling under the weight of her load.

“Hi!” waved Vera. Then upon realizing they’d startled the waiter, rapidly patted the chair closest to them.

.   .  .

Azul tried to focus her eyes on the ossified floor, knowing she didn’t deserve to look the Monastery’s angelic guest in the eyes after the fiasco in the garden, until she realized the act might be an even bigger affront in the eyes of Kib. She looked up.

And found herself close enough to make out the white freckles dotting Vera’s face like so many stars in a galaxy of emerald divinity! With a quick hop she retreated to a zone of safety, only to remember the enormous burden she carried, one which was quickly succumbing to the throes of gravity.

By Kib’s grace, both Malagasy and Vera jumped from their chairs, and were able to act fast enough to stabilize the serving tray. In fact, the way they held it between themselves, one would think the tiered banquet was paper.

“Don’t worry! We’ve got it!” Cried Malagasy as the two gently lowered it to the table without so much as a drop of soup sloshing over the side of its’ bowl. It was an act that shouldn’t have surprised Azul- she’d read plenty of tales on the physical prowess of Venusians operating at full strength, after all!- but to see such skill in action was another thing entirely. 

          To her chagrin, everyone began unloading the dishes (HER job), and she was too exhausted from her recent excursion to protest. Instead, she could only shuffle closer to Creosote as the guest’s meal was spread out before her: crimson blood sausages bursting with filling, roasted bicentennial cicadas dusted with fine spices, fluffy tortillas drizzled in agave syrup, corpseflower and mushroom soup adorned with grave orchid, even the forbidden flesh of the crocodile fruit! As much as Azul would have loved to take credit for assisting Mesquite at such a vital moment, in truth she had arrived to find the dishes almost completed. The only thing left to do was serve. But for what it was worth, she DID add the grave orchids on top of the soup. For color.

“Say,” said Malagasy, “Where’s Mesquite? She’s usually the one serving dinner!”

Azul stuttered. “She’s… not well…”

Creosote, Kib bless her, changed the subject. “Now, that everything is in order, would anyone like to start the prayer?”

Azul, disgusted she’d nearly forgotten such a vital piece of the meal, nodded curtly. Seizing a chair near- but not TOO close- to Vera, Azul sat down, clasped her hands, and began-

“This is our chaunt to Kib we make, this is our chaunt to Kib…”

But not before discreetly dropping the little book to the ground, then carefully kicking it over to Vera, who in turn swiftly picked it up.

.   .   .

Though they’d never been particularly devout, Vera wasn’t unfamiliar with prayer. Faithful existed on all the islands of Pegana, and to them it served as a connection to the paradise they had been vacated from all those millennia ago. But as far as Vera was concerned, prayer’s most vital purpose was in whetting the appetite, building anticipation before the glorious feast.

However, as Azul beseeched Roon, Slid, ever-working Skarl, and of course, the Great Goddess Kib, they noticed something amiss.

Vera couldn’t say they were the most devout Venusian. But they made exceptions.

 “Ahem.”

Azul halted mid-prayer. Could she have missed something by mistake?

“Vera! Manners!” Hissed Malagasy.

“No, no, no.” Creosote replied, calmly. “Vera is our guest. Let her speak her mind.”

“Their.” A voice corrected, so flat that had she not cracked her eyes open a bit, Azul would not have believed it came from the same ebullient seraph she’d encountered in the garden.

“I go by ‘they’. You can call me ‘she’ if you want, and a lot of people do, ‘cause I look like a girl, but I’m ‘they’.”

Azul, for her part, wasn’t sure what to make of this. To defy one’s sex, especially if Kib was gracious enough to grant the person her own, was nothing short of heresy! Then again, was it not said by some that to ascend from this worldly plane, one must relinquish that most precious? Or was it as with the slugfolk, wherein their diseased minds tempted them to flirt with manhood? But surely, if a girl so beautiful and kind thought this was true, then perhaps-!

“Anyway,” said Creosote “I fear we’ve wandered quite far from our original discussion. Vera, what is it you wanted?”

“I just wondered if we could offer a prayer to Mung.”

“Vera!”

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If the young guest registered their father’s scolding, they didn’t show it.

“He’s my favorite, and I think he’d like it if we mentioned his name with the others.”

 “No he would not!” Groaned Malagasy. “Vera, there’s a time and place for everything, but believe me when I say now’s not the time to venerate the LORD OF ALL DEATHS THAT WERE AND WILL BE!”

“All the more reason we should respect him!” retorted his kid.

.   .   .

Azul’s heart froze. Ilak-Mung-Dal. Lord of death. Scourge of Venus. Reaper of worlds. To think that someone so kind would revere that most befouled of demons…! And yet, Vera did seem to have her wits about her, so perhaps there was a reason-

“Well, I think Vera has a point.” Said Creosote, interrupting Azul’s thoughts. “We’ve spent the last fifteen million years praying for salvation from Kib. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind us beseeching Mung just this once.”

“You know what,” sighed Malagasy “let’s vote on it. Whoever doesn’t want to pray to Mung raise their hand!”

Azul’s mind spun. It was her duty to please her guests, but what if the guests wanted blasphemy? Was the best option to go with her imperfect heart?

Two hands shot up, one swiftly, the other less so.

“Alright, now everyone who does raise a hand!”

Azul’s eyes grew wide as not two, but three hands were raised.

“Vera, you can’t vote twice!” Protested Malagasy.

“I’m not! The second hand is for Mung. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure he’d want a prayer in his honor.”

Azul’s eyebrows furrowed. Could one simply do that? She’d have to ask Madame Saguaro.

Malagasy, meanwhile, smoldered in his corner of the table.

“Okay, I surrender.” He sighed, arms tossed in the air.

Though Azul was hesitant to pray to such a forbidden God, it didn’t take a genius to realize it was in her best interest not to incur his wrath. A wrath that Azul simply couldn’t risk, not with the date of the next Dispatch inching ever closer. Kib called everyone to rise to the occasion at some point in their lives. This was hers.

Azul took a deep breath, and to the best of her ability, steadied the turbulent waters of her mind.

“This is the chaunt of the children to Mung. This is the chaunt to Mung…”

.   .   .

For the next three minutes, Azul prayed not just to the great Lords of Pegana, not just to the myriad home gods, but to Ilak-Mung-Dal, Leveler of Empires and Father of Mosquitoes.

To Malagasy’s delight, Vera didn’t move a muscle during the whole thing. Not that he could blame them. If nothing else, this prodigy had a way with words.

Didn’t stop them from tearing into the feast like one possessed the second it ended, though.

.   .   .

As Vera stuffed tortilla wrapped crimson sausages into their mouth, they noticed yet another thing amiss.

          Their friend, six feet away, gazed down at their empty plate, which in itself would have been odd, given the bounty before them, but the look in her eyes was one of… indifference, as though the spice of life meant nothing to them.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” They asked.

“This meal is reserved for guests. It would be shameful in the eyes of Kib for me to partake, given my sins.” The response was calm, matter-of-fact.

Vera grimaced. This girl was being just as mopey as she’d been in the garden!

In truth, they probably should have just occupied themselves with the feast, like they usually did, but seeing the poor girl next to them just looking at those wonderful blood sausages… The thought was simply too much to bear!

Then an idea, probably the most clever and ingenious idea they had ever come up with, wormed its way into their head.

“How do I know this stuff isn’t poisoned?” They asked.

Malagasy did not even try to reprimand his child. His face, a mask of raw, unadulterated, tranquil fury said more than words ever could. Creosote and Azul, meanwhile, went pale as ghosts.

“Well, that Barrel lady said there might be a flu going around…”

Creosote had to speak up. “W-we wouldn’t even think of…!”

“So I’d like to have Azul test it for me.” Vera continued, stabbing a fat, juicy sausage and plopping it down in front of the Prodigy.

Both Malagasy and Creosote, picking up the hint, softened their expressions, went silent, and nodded their consent in feigned seriousness.

Azul gazed upon the luscious gift bestowed upon her by the generous angel from abroad. The shiny red delicacy was most surely a temptation, and in any other circumstance, to eat one would be sacrilege, but considering it was the will of a guest…

Azul bit in, the sausage’s bold, savory flavors, with just a hint of pepper and a local herb dubbed soap plant, blending together in perfect culinary harmony, invigorating her spirit and warming her frail body. Before she knew it, the entire thing had vanished into her belly. Then Vera requested she test the tortillas, the cicadas, the fried grubs…

Neither of them noticed Malagasy put food on Creosote’s plate. As a safety measure.

          Watching Azul scarfed down her meal-by-technicality, Vera couldn’t help but feel a bit dirty. On one hand, they were doing the right thing- to eat and grow strong was in their nature as Venusians!- so they shouldn’t have felt bad at all. Yet the way they’d gone about it was… underhanded, the kind of thing they weren’t usually fond of. But to see their friend enjoy herself so, they but those thoughts aside for the evening.

.   .   .

While the rest of the Monastery’s children slowly slurped their monthly soup, Azul patted her full belly, grateful Vera’s fears were unwarranted. Warmth radiated from her stomach, bringing with it drowsiness and a general feeling of lethargy. More concerning, however, was the contentness, the ease she felt upon finishing a month’s worth of food in one sitting. No longer did she have to prove herself, but could simply enjoy the moment. Azul knew she was unworthy of such emotion, especially after having done so little in the way of actual work to earn it. But she had simply followed the guests’ wishes, and there was no shame in pleasing someone like Vera.

Azul released a great yawn. Perhaps the philosophical conundrums were best saved for the next night.

“Now that dinner is finished,” said Creosote, clapping her hands together “Perhaps you would like to help show our prestigious guests to their rooms, Azul?”

It was a request the young sister-in-training, however drowsy, was more than happy to oblige.

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