Moonflower

(For a full effect, play this audio of loon calls & crickets from Your Blue Sky Time while reading.)

The first night I awoke in the forest, it would have been impossible to convince me I wasn’t hallucinating. Shapes of crepuscular flora, gigantesque and otherworldly, began to form on a half-mooned skyline. Still drunk with the nectar of dreams, I began to hear the most peculiar voices calling my name.

“Aruna,” they whispered, “come.”

Where? I thought I heard myself say. But I was still half asleep. It wasn’t until the lonely, desperate call of a loon cooed out in the distance that my eyelids peeled open, that I spoke with affirmation.

“Who are you?” I questioned.

“Listen,” they replied. Their timber was deep, sapient, all-knowing.

Dizzy, I lifted my head from a puddle of water and pulled my limbs from the marshy, wet earth. Before me, a collage of odd willows and firs danced in the wind. Where am I? I wondered. I felt disoriented and robbed, as if I’d lost something. But what was I missing?

I fanned my wiry fingers into an all-encompassing darkness, which was dappled with moonlight and fireflies. In the distance, the loon’s desperate wail echoed once more.

“Ah-ooo!” He cried. His solitude was tangible. It brushed my skin softly, like the caress of a ghost. Though I couldn’t explain why, his visceral need to be found pierced my being like an arrow. His agony felt familiar. Did I know him?

“Hello?” I called back. But my words were engulfed by the thicket of crickets and katydids; there was only silence from the waterbird now. It was the couplet of voices that answered me instead.

“Aruna, come here.”

It didn’t take me much longer to realize the summons was born from the trees. I stood there a moment, squinting into the umbras, my entire existence feeling as if it’d been submerged in a dreamy, arboreous soup. From where I stood, the glimmering army of luciferins created the illusion of blinking eyes everywhere, judging me in the indigo darkness.

“Approach the great oak,” the twinkling bugs seemed to say.

Mystified, my heart began to flutter. I racked my brain frantically, trying to remember how I’d gotten here. Had I been with someone? Why was I all alone? I realized I couldn’t recall where I’d come from. The only thing I knew for certain was my name.

“Aruna,” the trees called out again.

“Yes? What do you want?”

“Come.”

Beyond a diaphanous cloak of vapor and dew, I could just make out the silhouette of a ginormous oak tree. I took an uncertain step in its direction, an intricate lattice of sticks and vine cracking beneath my weight. I bent down and rummaged my hands through the foliage and debris, searching for a branch or a stick, looking for anything I could use as a weapon.

Before I could find something, some sort of sorcery began to lure me into the shadows. I couldn’t have fought it, even if I’d wanted to. As if captured by an invisible lasso, my footsteps sank in the cool, viscid mud while I treaded through the night’s star-dolloped veil. Strands of my pallid hair rose from the nape of my neck and became magnetized by the massive, elderly oak. I had no choice but to give in to its inexplicable strength.

“Hark the words of the all-knowing oak,” a fragile voice suddenly apprised. It was too innocent to belong to the magnificent tree.

I felt my heart skip a beat. I glanced down to see a cluster of white, heart-shaped blossoms amassed at my heels. Perfectly centered between delicate, velvety petals, the most curious little floral faces peered up at me, keeping track of my every move.

“We are the Night Phlox,” a tiny voice said from among them, answering the question I was too stunned to ask, “and we were once just like you, Aruna.”

I stared down at the small flowers, not quite sure how to interpret their words.

“What do you mean, just like me?”

“Approach the great, all-knowing oak, Aruna. You will soon see.”

“Yes, you will soon see!” Chimed four of the others in synchrony.

They said this as if I had a choice; as if I had the option to escape what was happening to me. Resisting the force was useless. Before I knew it, I was fully umbrellaed by the lush, leafy canopy of the great, ominous oak tree.

“What now?” I whispered to the convene of Night Phlox.

“Ask him a question, Aruna.”

“What question?”

“Any question. Seek his all-knowing words.”

I turned my attention toward the shadowy base of the tree. Through gossamer curtains of moonlight and lampyrids, I could make out two old, weathered faces. Features as ancient as time were etched into thick, beaten bark on either side of a conjoined and monstrous trunk. Their silhouettes were humanoid in bone structure; their expressions were cryptic and stoic. They appeared to be two oaks that had fused over time.

As I stood there and pondered their existence, the loon continued to sing out to me. If you’ve never heard the call of the loon, you may find it hard to understand how something so haunting can speak to you in a way that leaves your senses just on the cusp of epiphany. It was as if his voice guarded some great, secretive truth of the universe. I was starting to believe there was something he wanted to tell me.

Despite the quandary, I finally found the courage to speak.

“Where am I?" I voiced to the tree, “Why have you brought me here?”

For a moment, my words scattered aimlessly into the petrichor-rich air, bouncing between the constellation of stars and fireflies.

Then, they replied to me.

“Follow the loon, Aruna, and you shall soon see why you’re here.”

***

The second night I awoke in the forest, I opened my eyes to a curious pair of fragrant, personified posies, aglow in the moonlight and perched near my face.

“She lives!” An excited voice chimed. It belonged to an evening primrose, who’s petals were violet and veined. His face blushed with joy as he gazed into the depth of my tired eyes.

“Shh, not so loud, Prim, you’ll startle the poor thing,” the second little flower hushed. She was tiny, white, shaped like a star, and I recognized her sweet scent almost instantaneously. She was the night-blooming jasmine.

I sat up and gasped into the crisp night air.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I’m afraid that you fainted, dear child,” Jasmine explained.

“Yes!” Exclaimed Prim, the little primrose. “You fell down upon hearing the words of the great oak.”

I glanced in the direction of the otherworldly tree, the dream of speaking to him slowly drifting back to my memory. He was now quiet and still; his two odd faces were submerged in the shadows.

“I-I must find him,” I stammered, rising to my wobbly feet. My words crawled into the brambles as I listened for the wail of the loon. Except for the crickets, all was silent.

“Find who?” Asked Prim.

“The loon,” I answered. “The great oak told me to follow him.”

“So you’ll be on your way, then?”

I peered into the dark woodland before me. “Yes,” I replied uncertainly. I bent down and plucked an old, rusted lantern from an overgrown bundle of lichens and gasped when a swarm of fireflies rushed in to light it for me.

“Take us with you,” said Jasmine, “we can help.”

“Yes, we can help!” Agreed Prim.

I nodded, agreeing without thinking. Careful as to not damage their roots, I scooped the two flowers up, along with a handful of earth, and braided them into my hair; motes of soil and moss speckling the gild of my mane.

Today, the great sycamore and willow tree remind me that this was the point at which my metamorphosis started. Looking back, I now understand how the jasmine and primrose, as their roots entwined in my long, tangled tendrils, began to coalesce with my being.

***

“My, how he sings for you,” sighed Jasmine.

We’d been following the sound of his cry for hours.

“Yes,” I agreed, “but for what reason?”

Jasmine allowed my question to vanish, unanswered, into the night.

I hung my head low as I journeyed forward, not knowing where I was going or why. I was still struggling to comprehend my connection to the loon. I was still ignorant as to why the great oak insisted I seek him.

“Sanguina, the Bleeding Heart!” Prim suddenly exclaimed.

I turned to see the most whimsical, obscure flower I’d ever stumbled upon in my life. Heart-shaped dollops of red satin hung from a single stem, resembling miniature sultans as they danced in the wind and beckoned my spirit with tiny, upward-bent arms.

“Hello, Aruna,” Sanguina said to me. As she spoke, the little heart-shaped blossoms opened their mouths in unison; their delicately-carved eyelets all blinked to the same, syncopated beat of the cicadas. I quickly understood that she was not just one of the blossoms. She was all of them.

“Hello,” I replied.

“I’ve gathered for you, on my stem here, a collection of your heart’s greatest woes, Aruna.”

“What woes?” I asked.

“Why, your life’s misfortunes, of course. My essence does weep for you, Aruna, as I am the Bleeding Heart of the forest.”

I stared at the numinous plant, beginning to feel nauseated by the ever-growing sense of enigma. I couldn’t be sure what more this strange forest had in store for me. However, I didn’t want to find out.

“Relive your heartaches whilst on this journey, Aruna, and you will be closer to the loon.”

I sighed upon hearing her words, and nodded. As the moon slowly rose in the sky, I braced myself for whatever these heartaches could be.

***

The third night I awoke in the forest, I realized it’d been days since I’d seen the sun.

“Why do I wake only at night?” I asked the two little flowers that were now my companions.

Still nestled in my long, tangled tresses, Prim caressed the soft skin of my ear.

“We are all flora of the night, Aruna. We bloom only under the light of the moon.”

“But I am not a flower,” I replied. I closed my eyes and listened to the wail of the loon. I couldn’t tell if I was getting closer to him or farther away. Where are you? I wondered.

“I am here, Aruna,” the wind seemed to whisper.

“Dear loon?” I called out.

“It is I, my love.”

I turned to see a wispy, spider-like blossom looming in the darkness. His ivory tendrils hung from an entanglement of vine, branch, and moss; his proud arms extended into the air with a grimacing grace. Below an odd little face that was nestled at the center of five, spade-shaped petals, a pair of feathery fangs nipped at the dimness.

"You?” I asked, startled, “But you are not a bird. Tell me, why do you pretend to be the loon?”

“He is the Ghost Orchid,” Jasmine whispered. “He consumes the souls of those who have lost their life by the hands of the forest.”

My heart sank to my feet upon hearing this.

“So the loon is a ghost?” I asked.

“Yes," answered Jasmine.

“I’ve been searching for a ghost this entire time?”

Neither Jasmine, Prim, nor the Ghost Orchid answered me.

I turned to the flower.

“If you have indeed consumed the soul of the loon,” I asked, “why does he still call out to me?”

Again, no answer.

I was beginning to feel this was all a game. I wasn’t sure who to trust. If what Jasmine said was factual, the loon was not even alive. This troubled me.

I let out a great sigh. Perhaps the words of the bleeding heart were true. Maybe many heartbreaks were in store for me.

Suddenly, something caught my eye. A leafy patch of white, trumpet-shaped flowers glowed in the moonlight. Unable to resist such a sight, I walked over and cupped one of the flowers in my hand, admiring its charm and fragrance.

“Sleep,” chimed the fireflies.

“Yes, sleep!” Echoed Jasmine and Prim.

Exhausted, I heeded their advice. I curled up on the ground and fell asleep just as the sun rose and the loon called for the last time; the white blossoms covering my limbs like a blanket.

***

That day, as the warm sun illuminated my sleeping face, I dreamt I was a loon on a canoe.

“Where are you going?” I called out to my fickle mate, “Why do you elude me?"

My webbed feet kicked the cool water beneath me; my paddle splashed liquid turmoil into the air. Faster, I thought. But the the harder I paddled, the more I became stuck.

“Help!” I called out, “Can you hear me? I need help!”

But he did not answer, nor did he turn around. Frantic, I squinted to keep track of his dappled, white and black feathers. I watched his silhouette became lost in the mist.

"Ah-ooo!" I wailed.

But there was only silence in return. Desperate, I flapped my wings with all my strength, only to realize my tiny bird foot was anchored to the lake's bottom.

A long, long time passed before I finally woke up.

***

The fourth night I awoke in the forest, I realized my limbs had taken root to the ground. Having wept in my sleep as much as I'd been swimming in my dream, the sleeves of my dress were wet and salt-stained.

"Ah-ooo!"

My heart fluttered when I heard him. I turned to embrace my love, for that's who I finally understood him to be. My soulmate.

"Dear loon," I whispered, "I've been looking for you."

Instead of answering, however, he trilled his little voice, which sent a signal into the air. Then, from the spaces that existed between the moonlight and the shadows, a second loon - a female - appeared from the brambles.

I stared, confused. Had he been calling for her this entire time? Who is she? I wanted to ask.

But I couldn't. A cloud of pollen billowed from my mouth as I opened it, and I began to choke from the frangrance seeping out of my pores.

It was the rising sun that clued me in to what had happened. It was the heartbreak of seeing the loon's companion that dug my roots permanently into the earth.

As the silver light of the moon gave way to the morning, the windows of my existence closed in, much like the petals of the nocturnal flower that I'd become. I was the moonflower. I grew not in a patch with partners, but alone.

During the night, as I bloom to the light of the moon, I still dream of finding that enigmatic waterbird, my love, before he finds another.

Author’s Note: