Emerald Delphinium

By Amrusha Acharya

The tiny inconspicuous shop by the road overlooking the sea was painted a warm wooden ochre. Through the stylized French windows, one could easily see a number of roses, dahlias, and peonies planted in small pots. You could almost catch the scent of the fresh roses, their petals still clinging on to the dew drops after being watered by the florist. The young florist was like a flower himself, his eyes the colour of Delphiniums and his hair that almost touched his shoulders was like cascading Black Delights. Although the shop didn't quite get much sunlight, the flowers still blossomed diligently as if keeping a silent promise. The customers thought it was the florist's smile that kept them alive; after all, a smile as radiant as that was enough to lure the affection of sunflowers with ease. 

It was also this smile that made them forget a very important, and inarguably common thing; nobody knew the florist's name. Everyday was more or less the same for the young florist. He packed orders for different people and assembled hundreds of bouquets for the people in town. Each bouquet was unique, as it should be– after all, no two flowers were the same, and just like that, all the bouquets he made had a unique soul. He heard the stories of many and breathed life into his creations. Some were lovers, eagerly shifting on their feet, watching the florist put together an assortment of roses, red lilies, dahlias- twining them together with forget-me-nots and daffodils. He bunched them up together with a satin ribbon, handing the bouquet to its owner who took it with shaking hands. He lost count of the number of lovers he had made bouquets for. He arranged flowers for mourners, too; a cluster of carnations with orchids peeking out and white roses- their petals fresh like the tears of a maiden, and lilies with their red stamens reminiscent of the last beating heart. He would wrap them in white paper, tie a silk ribbon around it and carefully hand it to the waiting man, his hands too, trembling. 

The florist had seen too much, he'd seen love forlorn, love reciprocated and love lost. Maybe it was because he had seen too much that it stopped moving him.

One morning, when the clouds had gathered ominously, threatening to burst any moment, the bell hanging over the shop's door, tinkled. The florist looked up indifferently and gave a perfunctory smile to his customer. Business had been slow that morning and he was quite at ease when the customer entered. 

He was a young man, not much older than him. But, what caught the attention of the florist were the man's eyes, prettier than any flower he had ever laid his gaze upon. The eyes that gazed back at him were deep set like unmoving mountains, and light like spring breeze. They were the green of the still lakes, the gentle wind leaving behind tiny ripples in its wake. No flower could compare to the shade and he was glad none did. 

Perhaps, if his eyes were not all that captivated him, what he did next, did. The man, smoothing out his golden blond hair, asked, “May I have your name?” 

The florist's smile was genuine this time as he answered the question and continued arranging a bouquet for the man- the man whose name he didn't know.

Perhaps it had been too long since he had given his name to others, but he felt a bit strange when he did. The man had maybe rekindled something within him and he couldn't help but look forward to meeting him again. The green-eyed man did not disappoint him and appeared at the shop a number of times. Every time he bought something different, and every time the florist failed to ask the man his name. Perhaps he shouldn't have waited too long. 

Over a month had passed since the florist had met his green-eyed customer and the former almost believed that he would no longer visit the shop when the ever-cheerful bell shook. He was a tad surprised to see the man he'd just thought wouldn't come, walk in through the door, his eyes downcast. The florist smiled and asked him for his order but the man gazed intently at him for a while. The florist wanted to shrink back under the watchful gaze but resisted the urge and asked once again. This time, he received an answer and quickly began moving his hands, arranging the flowers as delicately as possible. Maybe because it was already too late, he didn't notice the flowers he was arranging. Once he was done and was about to tie the ribbon around the flowers, the man stopped him and asked, “Do you have any green ribbons?” 

The florist paused for a second and answered in the affirmative. He tied the velvety emerald ribbon, the colour almost a perfect match with the man's eyes, and handed him the bouquet. 

The young man thanked him and headed out the door, his long coat fluttering behind him. The florist realised that he'd failed to ask for his name this time as well. Well, he'd come back sooner or later. 

That night, it rained– the droplets like the tears of a god, swallowing everything it could lay eyes upon. The sea surged and the residents were warned to stay away from the coast for a few days. But, for the florist, it didn't matter; he still had to show up at his shop. He decided to start early that morning and set out for his shop. The rain had washed away the filth of the city, like the holy water drowning out the believer’s sins. The sun hadn't fully risen and it was still dark out. And perhaps, it was because of this darkness, he didn't immediately notice the carefully placed bouquet on the steps of his shop, protected from the rain under the shelter of an umbrella. But, he wished he hadn't noticed it.

The florist paused, and his breath hitched when he bent to pick up the flowers. The oddly familiar green ribbon held the bouquet together. His heart palpitated but not for the reasons he wanted it to. Hidden amidst the blue flowers was a small note. It read–

“Maybe Delphiniums danced in your eyes,

Maybe Black Delights sighed.

How far would I have gone

Had I known it was your heart 

That I held within mine? 

Perhaps only the seas will know the answer,

And that is where I seek to go,

So that the truth it may show,

For mine muse is more beautiful than any, 

More beautiful than the heart 

That beats within this sinner.” 

His hands trembled as his eyes glossed over the note written in velvet maroon ink with the faint scent of roses, yet all it roused in his heart was a sense of dread and a terrible, terrible feeling of doom. He grabbed the umbrella, watching the drops begin to shatter onto the ground. The bouquet was pressed to his chest and he didn't know how long he had been running for, but by the end of it, his legs became weak and he crashed onto the sand. The shore was completely empty, not a soul in sight, save for a single coat; the very coat the young man had worn to his shop the night before. 

The florist's eyes blurred and he couldn't tell if it was the rain or his own tears that stung his eyes as he desperately tried to look for the owner of the coat. The raging waves of the sea touched his feet, attempting to drag him in, just like they had dragged the young man with the pretty green eyes. The sea foam at his feet sparkled like fresh lilies offered in funerals and the waves tolled like the knell. The green eyes were forever lost to the sea, their colour lost in the wild current. Only his heart was laid out in the note, crimson ink blotched in the rain- like the blood that flowed in his veins. 

The florist sank into the sand, drops of water fell from his ebony locks and stuck to his shivering lashes. When he turned the note around, a single word was scribed there.

“-Irvin”

His name was Irvin, Son of the Emerald Sea.

***

By Amrusha Acharya