The Importance of Diligence: Part 5

So far, Narcissus’ ploy had not paid off. He had hoped that by helping the cherubuns with their quaint little greenhouse chores, he’d drum up some good publicity. It would be generous to say he had an image problem, because such a level of judgment would imply more eyes on him than he had – but regardless of the reality of his (un)popularity, Narcissus always felt the gaze of some invisible authority upon him, waiting for another screw-up. He couldn’t let that happen, not again. Besides, if he could draw some attention for his acts of generosity, that may lead to the career he’d always dreamed of but had not yet attained. What kind of career didn’t matter, so long as it involved applause.

Unfortunately, the mass attention he craved did not materialize, no matter how many bags of coffee beans he delivered to Beanny or garden chores he fumbled with under Primrose’s gaze. He didn’t feel he was asking for much. Maybe some kind of feel-good news broadcast? A fluff piece in the local gazette? A paragraph in a celebrity magazine? A blog post, even, he’d take that. They say a picture is worth a dozen words – surely a good deed was worth a few as well.

Inque, his secret paramour (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he was hers), had laughed at him when he told her his grand plan. She always laid him bare – of secrets, of clothes – and as always, she treated what was underneath like it existed for her amusement. His little scheme tickled her enough to pull her attention from the glossy headshots she had been pre-autographing in anticipation of her next film’s release. She tutted her tongue and told him it wasn’t that simple. She would know. But if there was some secret to stardom, she distracted him with that same teasing tongue before he could get the key to her success out of her.

Narcissus tried to put it out of his mind. At least he had a task to distract himself with. As much as he didn’t care for the hard work, even after months of enduring it, being Primrose’s errand boy gave him plenty to do to take his mind off unpleasant thoughts. That morning, far too early in his opinion, Narcissus received summons in the form of a terse telephone message from Primrose. Narcissus could practically hear the stiff neck and straight back manifested in Primrose’s voice as he told the succubun to get to the Embassy at his earliest available for a task of utmost importance. The time to harvest the flowers had come.

As on many days before, Narcissus crossed the threshold into the greenhouse. But on this day, the greenhouse of the Heavenly Embassy truly lived up to its divine name. Outside, the mass of blooms gave the transparent walls of the greenhouse the look of stained glass, color upon color glowing in the light. Inside, seemingly all at once, the flowers had burst into a riot of hues. Beams of light filtered through the translucent panes of the greenhouse walls, illuminating a kaleidoscope of blossoms that danced within, edging their petals and leaves with a radiant glow. Every corner of the greenhouse was ablaze with color – vibrant azaleas, cheerful daisies, and majestic orchids painted a canvas of green leaves with brighter hues than Narcissus had ever seen down below in Burrowgatory. It smelled how green looked. The air was alive with the scent of new growth and cut stems, and the breath of the gardeners mingling with the clean air emanating from the leaves.

Rows upon rows of flowers lined the greenhouse like pinstripes, carrying the eye from the entrance to the back glass walls, the line of sight interrupted by taller palms, ferns, and broad leaves, or cherubuns busily scurrying between the rows. In bloom were all manner of flowers, some which Narcissus knew, quite a few that he didn’t. Such exotic flora possibly only grew here among celestial clouds and the celestial tenders that lived there. Roses, their petals unfurling in plush spirals, exuded a delicate perfume that one could almost taste in the steamy air. Lilies stood tall, swaying gently as a gardener blew by, their ivory blooms and leaves reaching towards the heavens in silent reverence. The jonquils and daffodils, Narcissus couldn’t help but linger by on his way through the greenhouse. Handsome flowers, those. With a little frown twitching at his mouth, he couldn’t help but wonder if the ones growing in the greenhouse were just a breath more beautiful than the ones growing on him.

It seemed that the entirety of the Embassy had come to harvest the blooms. Everywhere he looked, Narcissus saw cherubuns cutting, plucking, sorting, and pulling the blooms. Even Beanny had left her café to assist with the harvest – in her way. Perhaps lacking a green thumb, she instead stood towards the end of the greenhouse, watching the proceedings. Beside her were tables of white-painted delicate wrought iron, with trays of coffee pots and tea set upon them, ready to provide a boost of caffeine to the busy workers. Seeing Narcissus, Beanny tilted her head up so that her glasses shone white for a second, then nodded, one side of her mouth pulled up in a smirk. If she’d been trying to communicate something to him with that furtive smile, Narcissus didn’t get it.

The cherubun gardeners snipped stems, cut flowers, or rested with cups of Beanny’s brews in hand, chatting merrily amongst each other like chirping birds. Their halos bobbed just behind their heads as they worked and laughed. At the back of his mind, Narcissus was aware of the weight atop his head.

He was the only person in the greenhouse with horns, and his weren’t exactly subtle. Tall, branching antlers that often clipped the tops of doorways, they set him apart from the saintly citizens of the Embassy, who were unburned by such signs of vice. His horns marked him as an outsider. Even among succubuns, antlers like his only grew from envy. No matter what fancy clothes or fine jewelry he used to front wealth and that he was one of the “haves” of society, his treacherous horns showed everyone who looked at him that he had always been inferior.

The ringing of a bell broke Narcissus’ sulking thoughts, as it had once before. Along came Dove, skipping across the ground towards him like they were bouncing on clouds, the bell tied on the ribbon around their neck jingling with each merry step. The pink of exertion dusted their cheeks. Their left hand held a pair of sap-smeared garden shears while the right beckoned eagerly.

“Mr. Jonquil, come look! Your flowers bloomed!” He didn’t like that they sounded surprised about that.

They guided him to his workstation. It was in disorganized as always, tools scattered and dirt left in piles around it, but now, resplendent with the riotous color of flowers, the disarray seemed more of a jubilant, chaotic party instead of just a sad mess.

“Huh. Would you look at that,” Narcissus said under his breath, cupping one bloom in his hand. It almost seemed like the blossoms would disappear when he touched them, shrink and wither away like an acquaintance embarrassed to be seen with him in public, but no. The petals were soft against his fingers, real and alive – thanks to his care.

“But was there ever any doubt that I would do anything less than excel?” He declared with false bravado, pulling the stem of his bloom from its pot like he’d seen the other harvesting gardeners do. As one does when disagreeing would be in poor form but agreeing would be too bold a lie, Dove gave a polite laugh and redirected the conversation.

“I was just about to take a break. Do you need one, too?” They gestured towards the other cherubuns gathered around Beanny’s table of coffee and tea. Narcissus had barely started working, but felt a break was deserved, nonetheless.

Dove and Narcissus joined the small bustle of cherbuns enjoying the caffeine and company Beanny provided. Sprawled casually across one of the greenhouse benches, Narcissus sipped his mug of sugary mocha, making idle small talk with Dove and the other cherubuns about the harvest, the uses of ambrosia, the goings-on around the Embassy. Narcissus got to share a few colorful stories about what happened down below in Burrowgatory chuckling to himself as even the tamer gossip brought embarrassed flushes to the cherubun’s faces. A small crowd gathered around him of those curious to hear about what went on below their cloudy cloister. With each newcomer joining his modest, impromptu audience, he smiled a little wider, sparkled a little brighter and talked a little louder – loud enough to catch the ear of Primrose.

The men spotted each other at the same time. Primrose’s eyes narrowed as Narcissus’ widened. Not wanting to receive a lecture, Narcissus hurriedly got to his feet and tried to make himself look busy. Nonetheless, Primrose was not so easily fooled, and he always had a lecture at the ready.

“What are you doing loafing around? Didn’t I tell you that you had an important job to do? Frankly, I’m surprised that you even managed to get viable blooms at all. You don’t want to ruin them now, do you?” Primrose went on, extolling the value of diligence, the importance of the ambrosia harvest, and Narcissus’ frequent failures to comprehend either. “You know, Idle hands are the devil’s playthings!” He finished, proudly parroting a line Melangel had used with him and his cherubun siblings many times before.

It was not such a good line to use on a succubun. Narcissus raised an eyebrow, smirking.

Primrose’s cheeks flushed, realizing the potential offense. “Oh, you - you know what I mean,” he stammered out. “Go on, Dove, you too! There’s work to be done!”

Dove smiled and shrugged – you know how he is, they seemed to say with just the tilt of their head and the roll of their shoulders. Narcissus snickered in response. He did know. It took the sting of the chastising away some, to have a confidant.

Pluck, snip, pull, sort – Narcissus joined the other gardeners in harvesting his bounty of ambrosia flowers. The monotony of the work ameliorated a great deal by the cheery conversation with Dove and occasional sips of Beanny’s coffee when Narcissus could sneak around Primrose’s watchful eye. Slowly, the colorful blooms around Narcissus’ station disappeared, each bloom sorted into the type of ambrosia it would one day become, packed away in bags to be sent for processing.

Narcissus had almost finished with the flower’s he’d grown when he felt a tap on the shoulder. A cherubun, struggling with an armful of pots and tools, asked if he could help carry something for them. His first impulse was to disagree – he was so close to being free from his labors, if he just stuck to his flowers, but – the way Dove looked at him, expecting him to say yes, well, he couldn’t disappoint their oddly good impression of him, could he?

Reluctantly, he agreed to help. His reluctance didn’t last. The cherubun smiled at him and said “thanks, Narcissus! You’re the best.”

You’re the best. A funny feeling pulled at the space in Narcissus’ chest. You’re the best. Devils, that felt good to hear. You’re the best. Maybe he could hear it again.

For the rest of the day, Narcissus kept busy doing little favors for the other gardeners, bouncing from one cherubun to another to help carry this or clip that, flowers in arms and sweat on his brow. Each time he received a word of thanks, a smile, a pat on the back, he was spurred on to seek out someone else who looked like they needed an extra pair of hands. He worked long after his share of the flowers had been harvested, until the light in the greenhouse changed from a radiant yellow to a rich orange and finally, a dusky purple that draped the leaves in velvet, tucking them in for the oncoming night.

With all the ambrosia blooms harvested, the greenhouse wasn’t quite so colorful as it was when he had first arrived, but it had a certain peacefulness to it. It had satisfied its purpose. With the day’s work completed, the gardens began to trickle out of the greenhouse, headed back to their homes in the Embassy and a good night’s sleep. Narcissus could have been among them, though he would be headed down the elevator, down into the depths of the caves where he dwelled, rather than among the clouds with the heavenly flock around him. At the start of the day, he thought he’d be the first to run out the door, happy to flop into an armchair and fall asleep with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a smutty novel in the other. Instead, he lingered in the greenhouse, watching all the cherubuns depart.

Dove beamed and waved goodbye to Narcissus as they trotted out the door, telling him that they “knew he could do it.” Beanny smiled in her secretive way as she packed up a cart of used mugs and leftover coffee and said Narcissus could come by the Paradise Café for a pick-me-up any time. Even Primrose gave him a curt little nod as he left – Narcissus did good work today, he said, one of the few compliments he’d ever given the man.

Again, Narcissus’ chest gave a pang. He rubbed at the spot where it hurt, the void hidden behind his sternum, like it was an itch that could be scratched away. The tension tucked within his ribs gnawed at him like some kind of ache, not quite pain, the feeling of the cavity in his chest between his lungs being at once too full and too empty.

It was probably just heartburn.