Big Bang DaisyDecember 15, 2007

There is a region on the Atlantic coast of France where salt water daily sweeps in and back out again with the tidal pull. A small castle sits atop the hazy hill in the distance. There are two or three other hills on the horizon, but they are occupied by nothing more than grass and sheep. Everything in between these hills is sand. If the tide is low we may continue on the secret path of solid earth, which is invisible among the wasteland of quicksand that waits still and silent like a spider’s web. We follow the path carefully, but quickly, for the tide will soon return and the tall hill before us will become an island. We walk up rocky slopes on a narrow path that winds us around to the back side of the hill to the ancient fortress that is called D’Ahania, which was built before the dark ages of France.

It is no longer a fortress of warfare. It is a scientific laboratory and scriptorium for the once famous, now forgotten, Casey Dooley. The entrance to the exterior courtyard is modest, no drawbridge or heavy doors, but a single iron gate that has no lock.

The courtyard is a lush, Babylonian garden. In all directions sprawling green things explode their various colors. A bent and grey old man sits on a tree stump in a thick patch of blossoming sunflowers, stargazer lilies, moonflowers, passionflowers, and many of them come up to his chin. His bony face registers no emotion but his body language suggests that he is relaxed: hands flat on his knees, head bowed as if in prayer. This is Casey Dooley. His story is long and wrought with heartache, but we don’t wish to know his heartache just yet. We are interested in what Casey is doing now: he is intent upon the effect of the breeze on an oddly shaped flower.

Today is his one hundred and first birthday. It is his ritual every Saturday to come into the garden and trim down the flowers in order to arrange them into bouquets to place in parlor of the chateau. He knew each flower by its scent, and he knew the ideal firmness of the blossoms that were the ripest for pruning. These were necessary skills because Casey, in his old age, had grown almost completely blind.

The flowers have not been clipped today. For the first time in a decade, he sees, not with his mind’s eye, or with his hands, or his nose. He sees with his eyes. This morning, he mistook the flower for a yellow dandelion, but upon further inspection he saw that there was a red-brown-ish center to the flower—at which point he assumed it was some sort of daisy. There are long, translucent, thread-like things that stretch out in every direction and curl in a smooth arcs that extend to form a watermelon-shaped sphere around the starburst. It has a peculiar smell, a must and pinewood odor that is salty and sweet and altogether unfamiliar.
“What are you looking for?”
“Detail,” says Casey. Then he looks up, turns his head. Everything is the same shade of darkness. “Who said that?”
“Don’t be afraid,” whispers the vibrant, orange flower….

————————————————

READ THE REST OF “BIG BANG DAISY”