The Blue Flower of Bhutan

In addition to spending a lot of time in the garden, I occasionally write a garden-related poem, and even less frequently, a garden-related short story. In 2019, I wrote a story inspired by two things: blue poppies, which I was lucky enough to see in bloom at Memorial University Botanical Garden in Newfoundland, and an unusual object that I received as a gift from a co-worker. The story is one of my earliest attempts at short-fiction.

Himalayan Blue Poppy at
Memorial University Botanical Garden, Newfoundland
2019

The Blue Flower of Bhutan

        Appalling.  Of course, I couldn’t say that to Meredith but that was the first word that came to mind.  
          “Thank you, darling.  It means so much,” I choked out, overcome by the woodsy Prada Infusion d’Iris she was so fond of.  Meredith kissed me on the cheek and hugged Jerome before joining the small crowd gathered for champagne and hors d’oeuvres at our Bedford Place penthouse.
         “This would never exist in nature,” I said quietly.
          “Well, no,” said Jerome and then, upon further consideration, “but, artistic licence and all.”  I glanced at him sideways, unsure if he was being obtuse or deliberately trying to annoy me.  It was our 35th anniversary and Meredith’s gift of the vase or jar (its practical application uncertain) confounded me.  
          She was my dearest friend.  When Alex was still with us, we four were inseparable, travelling to Giverny and the Gardens of Versailles, racing from Sissinghurst Castle to Chelsea, and roughing it like plebes on the ten-hour bus ride to Monticello.  That was Jerome’s ridiculous idea, embraced with enthusiasm by Alex. 
          “Let’s live a little,” he’d said.  Meredith endured it with good humour, far better than I.  Even at our most undignified, she was a paragon of grace and taste, which made the gift of the vase (or jar, for it did have a lid) that much more perplexing.
          It was a clear glass receptacle adorned by the unsure hand of a fledgling painter, Gwyneth Lucille Reed of the West End Community Art Collective.  This according to the sticker (yes, the sticker) on the base. Gwyn’s feeble artistry, although passable to the untrained eye, was but a middling effort. The vessel’s pedestal, unpolished and speckled with impurities, was enough to elicit a collective strangled breath from the finest glass blowers of Venice.  The garden scene depicted on the body was horticulturally absurd. Lenten roses, Japanese anemones, and the honey-scented bottle-brushes of fothergilla in full vigour, all at the same time.  I could forgive the confluence of flowering.  After all, one must have room in life for whimsy.  The colour pallet, though, was indefensible: foliage in shades of algae, pond scum and seaweed.  I was nauseated just looking at it.  The lid was reminiscent in shape, if not pattern, of a woollen tam laid flat. It was edged with a wavy, child-like streak of a brilliant, heavenly blue (the hue its one redeeming feature), but oblivious to the sage advice that blue and green shall never be seen.  Could Meredith think so little of us?  She must have been ill when she picked it out.
          “I like it,” said Jerome, biting into a savoury canapé.  “Reminds me of Bhutan.” Bhutan. Home of the Dragon King, the Gross National Happiness Index and one of the rarest blooms on earth.  

        It must have been a decade prior that we’d set out, the four us, at Alex’s urging to discover the enthralling Himalayan Blue Poppy.
        “Late spring.  Best for the quest,” explained Alex.  “We’ll need a month’s travel time, at least.”  He’d been unwell that winter (an especially severe flare-up of his chronic bronchitis), but he’d insisted he would be fit for adventure.  The unrelenting rains and high altitude, however, stole his breath away.

        “Go on you two.  We’ll head back,” said Meredith, retreating with a wheezing Alex who had turned a worrisome shade of grey.  Jerome and I resumed our journey up the mountainside, the narrow window to see the fleeting flower quickly closing on us.

        The hike went on for hours (or possibly days).  My knees and knuckles swelled in the cold damp and my legs trembled with the effort of the climb. Jerome, gentleman that he was (and is), extended his hand to me as we followed our guide, closer to our destination with each arduous step. We came upon the small clearing just as the rains subsided.  The shock of disappointment knocked me off kilter.  Cerulean petals, battered by the downpour and fallen from their lofty stems to dot the slope, mirrors of the suddenly clear sky above.

        “Unfortunate,” lamented Jerome. “We came a long way to miss the star attraction.”  He ambled off with his camera toward some unexceptional mosses thriving at the outskirts of the glade.  I came to rest on my aching knees, the sodden blue petals scattered on the ground before me.

        “All for nought,” Jerome announced when we joined Meredith and Alex again later that week.

        “Surely not!” cried Alex.  The colour had returned to his face.

        “Peak bloom,” said Jerome.  “Missed it by a day, maybe an hour.”

        “Bollocks, old man!”

        “The only old man here is you,” teased Meredith.  With an elegant wave of her dancer’s hand, she signalled to the hotel staff.  In a matter of moments, we were dipping our fingers into rice and curries, dumplings and spicy cheese, fresh fiddleheads and tender asparagus.

        “A toast,” said Meredith. “To a birthday in Bhutan.” We raised our glasses and drank, reminiscing for hours over the same familiar stories we’d shared countless times before.

        “What about next year, then?” asked Jerome.

        “Nothing so trying as another trek,” I protested.

        “I’ve something unconventional in mind,” announced Alex, raising an eyebrow to tantalize us.

        “More unconventional than this?” Meredith wondered aloud.  Alex paused for dramatic effect.

        “Pilosocereus aurisetus,” he said.

        “Say that again, fast,” challenged Jerome between bites of deep fried bitter gourd.

        “A cactus of Brazil, bearing a splendrous blue fruit.”

        “Well, we’ve not been to South America before,” Jerome observed.

        “Really, Alex?  How about Kew? Or Copenhagen? A sure shot, as they say,” suggested Meredith, “and much less physically demanding.” 

        “Are you calling me old?

        “I already did.”

        “Alluring gardens, of course, my sweet, but what could compare to a true blue as witnessed in its natural habitat?” My eyelids, heavy with with sweet wine and rum, snapped open at Alex's words.

        “Indeed,” I said, reaching into my bag to retrieve a celebratory offering. “It’s somewhat removed from its native domain. Nevertheless,” I said, “for you.” Alex carefully peeled away the decorative wrap unveiling a botanical watercolour awash in azure and sheathed in a plastic sleeve.

        “Outstanding,” he said, examining the canvas.  Inscribed across the bottom in a handsome script: Meconopsis. “Elusive it is,” he sighed, “and elusive it shall remain.”

        “Perhaps,” I told him, twirling my finger to indicate he look at the back. An envelope fashioned from tissue paper was tucked into the protective cover.  Alex reached for it.

        “Gently,” I urged.  Curious, Jerome and Meredith leaned in.  Alex unfolded the delicate parchment and gasped at the memento hidden inside: four luminous blue petals pressed to perfection.

        “The guide said take nothing but pictures,” chided Jerome in jest. 

        “Did he?” I shrugged.  Alex, mouth agape, looked from me to the petals and back again.  A smile crept into his eyes.  They glistened with delight.  Soon his entire body shook with laughter.  His absolute glee. I remember it now.  Like yesterday.

          I spied Meredith across the room sipping her wine and waved her over.
          “I’ll have to find a special place for this,” I said.  “The blue...” My voice trailed off.  Meredith took my hand and squeezed.  
          “Bhutan,” she said with a small nod.  “He never had the words to thank you.”  My face flushed with shame.  I was a fool for doubting a friendship as precious as a blue-petalled flower on a rugged Himalayan pass.        

Himalayan Blue Poppy at
Memorial University Botanical Garden in Newfoundland
Back when photographs were still taken on film

Himalayan Blue Poppy at
Memorial University Botanical Garden in Newfoundland

So there it is. My short story. I'm pleased that I gave it a beginning, middle, and end, and that I actually finished it. I'm not sure that it's any good, but it was an attempt at expressing myself creatively, which I think, generally for all of us, is a good thing. 

I really wish I had taken more pictures of the blue poppies.

Happy Gardening!