Part 2

Pliny smiled as if he just heard the punchline of an inside joke. “Gardener. The grounds keep themselves.”

Pliny turned to walk inside the greenhouse. Leah hesitated briefly, lost in thought about what Pliny’s words could have possibly meant and why the distinction he made mattered. She shrugged it off as the eccentricities of an old crackpot who had lived in the woods for too long, and followed Pliny inside.

Leah was intoxicated by the unmistakable ancient smells of damp soil, cedar, and rain on old stone. Rows upon rows of impossible plants and small trees disappeared into the dense mists of the cavernous expanse. Leah didn’t recognize a single one of them. All of them bore brass plaques that put words to their strangeness. Leah stopped at the nearest one and wiped the humidity from the brass plate to read it.

The plaque read, “The God of Returning Borrowed Books.”

The plant itself was a small, delicate vine that wrapped itself lovingly around something resembling a small wooden bookshelf from a child’s room. Small paper-thin leaves held spiraling lines of symbols that reminded Leah of trying to read letters and numbers in a dream. Its closed blossoms looked like the spines from old encyclopedia collections.

“They used to bloom every spring. Right around the time the kids had to turn in their books before summer break,” Pliny said solemnly.

“What…” Leah’s voice cracked, “What is this place?”

“The last place where gods still grow.”

Leah laughed at the response. Pliny’s face was motionless, resembling something embedded in the bark of an oak tree rather than a human face.

Pliny put his hands on his hips. “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe someone is creative and has a great sense of humour. This looks like some kind of modern art piece. I am going to need to see more than a vine around a bookshelf to be convinced something transcendent is taking place here.” Leah held Pliny’s gaze with a slight, knowing grin.

“A sense of humour used to help them.” Pliny knelt down and shook dust off a small, brittle leaf. “They liked laughing together.”

They continued deeper into the greenhouse. The next aisle down housed a fat, waist-high shrub covered in damp green moss that seemed to be constantly dripping water. Its plaque read, “The God of Wet Dogs Shaking Dry Indoors.”

“You can’t be serious.” Leah didn’t look up from the plaque while she spoke.

“I don’t think you understand. Most gods weren’t and aren’t worshipped,” Pliny brushed a hand across the top of the shrub as if he were comforting an old house pet, “Most gods simply happened enough.”

Leah finally looked up at him. “What on earth does that mean?”

“The universe notices repetition. If enough people experience the same thing with the same feeling attached to it, eventually that energy and that force become too great to ignore. Something begins paying attention to it, and then something new grows from it.” Pliny turned and continued walking before Leah could even fathom a response. She kept quiet and followed.

Further along, a tiny yellow flower stood alone in a pot that looked too large for it. Its petals opened slightly, then closed, then opened again, then closed. Every few moments, some part of the flower shifted like it was in some constant state of nervous anticipation. The plaque read, “The God of Waiting for Bread to Toast.”

“Oh good! I was hoping we would make it in time. I love this.” Pliny almost danced with excitement. “It only blooms for exactly two minutes every morning. Look!”

Leah looked closer as the blossom completely unfurled. It nearly tripled in size and revealed cascades of yellows, dark earthy browns, and the slightest hint of a burnt smell in the air. Precisely two minutes later, it folded back in on itself to reform the tiny yellow flower.