March 27, 2018

PodCastle 515, ARTEMIS RISING: Propagating Peonies

26 minutes

* Author : Suzan Palumbo

* Narrator : Nadia Niaz

* Host : Elora Gatts

* Audio Producer : Peter Wood

* Artist : Geneva Benton

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PodCastle 515, ARTEMIS RISING: Propagating Peonies is a PodCastle original.

Rated PG-13.

This time, you were a burgeoning peony at the edge of a small cottage garden, stems ladened with clusters of dark fuchsia petals. Your scent perfumed the afternoon air, enveloping me as I walked my solitary way home. I did not want to wait for you.

I crept back towards the village that night, with the knife I’d plunged into your chest two human lives ago, when I discovered you at the Inn with another woman. The blade was blunt with age and use and it shredded your stem as I tried to take a cutting of you for myself. The worn handle slipped in my palms and its edge sliced into my thumb. Your heady fragrance mingled with the rust smell of the wound made me light-headed, as if I were fighting against the sweep of a thousand chaotic feathers. I managed to fold a piece of you in the blood-speckled hem of my blouse and went home to transplant you in my garden.

You shriveled up and died during the night. Peonies, I learned, could not be propagated by cuttings.

The next week, I walked into town by way of the same cottage garden, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. You’d been dug up. A fresh hole now marked your place. Your absence gaped, threatening to swallow me whole. I focused on my breathing, the weight of my pack, and the dirt road that led to the market square.

Engorged with activity, the village swelled on market days, taking on a pulse and tenor of its own. The air was thick with the aroma of fresh crusty bread and the spicy bite of radishes. Underscoring the throb of this congestion were the stall women, who paused their hawking to whisper to each other about me.

“Witch. Unnatural,” they hissed as I passed. Their slings were not new. I’d borne their scorn for lifetimes. My stagnancy was punishment for my past misdeeds, they’d reckoned. It was my karma, my own doing. Most would not transact business with me out of fear I would foul their fields and marital beds — cause their wombs to wither.

I walked past them all to Madu’s stall.

Madu was tall and solid. Her eyes, sharp. Wary. She was also fair in her bartering. She accepted the medicinal herbs I traded and gave me the cloth and wares I needed in return. Our exchanges were conducted in curt nods and glances which suited me well. She must have been offloading the neat bundles I brought her at a neighbouring town, because no one here would take them.

She broke our silent protocol that morning.

“They saw you mucking about in Rohan’s garden last week, in the dark.” Her voice was gravelly and low, meant for only me. “They think you’ve put a curse on his house.” She pressed her lips into a severe line. Her statement was meant as a warning.

“I took a cutting,” I said, brushing off the urgency in her tone. “I don’t deal in curses.”

“The people here do not know what keeps you tied to the village, Arthi. They fear anyone who isn’t like them.” Her words left no room for comment. I thanked her for her concern and turned to leave, bristling at her assumed knowledge of my circumstances. I’d never feared the idle gossip of the villagers and I would not begin now.

I returned home by a different route nonetheless, to save myself the hassle of further well-mean...

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