Author's Note: In botany, the anther and the pistil are the male and female reproductive organs of flowers. In mythology, hamadryads are wood nymphs, or spirits of nature inhabiting trees and plants.
My thanks to Sweetness 6280 for editing this morsel. If you like it, please vote first and then leave a comment. I really live for comments.
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Horatio Boxgrove stood in the stern of the old punt and looked out over the marsh grass towards Twerington Manor. The Great House had brooded over the fen for over a hundred years and in its first decades had drawn a merry crowd of water-fowlers and their ladies for the dawn shooting and evening revelry. Since the last Baron Twerington died, however, his family seat had gone derelict and crumbling. To the best of Horatio's belief, no one had been there for a generation or more and, as its nearest neighbor; he could be expected to know.
These days, though, rumors were flying. Anglers returning to shore claimed that they saw lights in the old place and birdwatchers who passed nearby swore that they heard laughter and the clinking of glasses. It had to all be rubbish, of course, and Horatio said so, vehemently.
The rest of the village was unimpressed with his arguments. Finally, after some cajoling from young Hyacinth Cockscomb (who had been carrying a bit of a torch for the older Horatio), he set out to establish once and for all that his neighbors were either caught up in a mass hysteria or that some of the local delinquents had squatted in the manor house to experiment with chemical entertainment and to engage in lewd acts. The present age, Horatio believed, was a degenerate one.
The view through his binoculars revealed something unexpected. Lush weeds, young trees and brilliant wildflowers stood tall around stone foundations. However, paint peeled from woodwork and shutters dangled loose from their hinges. Surely if someone had bought the place and moved in, they would have repaired the broken glass. Since the empty panes still glowered darkly in the morning light, Horatio was confident his assessment was the correct one.
Another twenty minutes of poling through the flower-topped fen brought the horticulturist to the bank. He'd almost gotten distracted from his quest by the scent and color of the blooms around him but the accusation from Hyacinth's aunt that he never saw anything above the height of a dahlia still echoed in the man's memory. It rankled that she held him in such low esteem. Not that he particularly cared about Mrs. Caruthers's match-making attempts. Hyacinth was a decent sort, he thought, but her romantic inclinations baffled him. On the subject of plant husbandry Horatio had no peer in all the county around, but why that should make anyone consider him husband material was a mystery. Still, disrespect was not to be borne.
He pulled the punt up the bank as far as he could and tied the painter to a stout bush. A glance at the sky strongly suggested that not doing so might leave him stranded. Forgetting to check the weather report for the day was going to prove a mistake, Horatio thought. Clouds were gathering and the wind was picking up. Hopefully enough of the old roof remained intact that he'd be able to stay dry. Pulling the lunch basket over the gunwales and slinging it over his shoulder, Horatio next hefted the heavy, six-battery electric torch and decided to walk around the outside of Twerington before entering. He hoped the rain would wait long enough for that.
Stalking deliberately around the once-gracious manse, Horatio searched intently for any sign of new human habitation. There was no disturbance in the dust on the porches nor did so much as a footprint mark the pathways that led thereto. However, something did appear to be out of place. For no obvious reason, the surrounding trees, bushes, forbs and herbs were growing uncommonly well, given the wreck of the man-made parts of the place. And then there were some odd little herbs growing in sheltered areas next to the openings in the foundation.
He leaned in for a closer look. No, they weren't anything that he recognized and that fact alone was surprising. As far back as his public school days, Horatio's nickname had been "Plants" and his horticultural knowledge was regarded as encyclopedic by all the village residents. In gardening competitions, the only real question was who would come in second. First place was always presumed to be Horatio's.
"What the dickens can those be?" he mused, "and from where could they possibly have come?"
He reached down and pinched a leaf then raised his fingers to his nose. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn that it had a distinctly Mediterranean scent, something that was totally foreign to the cool, damp climate of the fen country. How could they possibly survive here?
Horatio completed the circuit of the building and returned to the entryway just as the first drops of rain started to fall. From the look of the lowering sky, the next several hours were going to be cold and uncomfortable and that was all the argument he needed to push open the cracked and weathered door. If he couldn't keep cozily warm, he could at least stay dry.
Once within the stout, old walls Horatio went looking for something relatively comfortable to sit on. All the furniture had been either sold off or stolen decades ago so he found nothing but piles of leaves that formed drifts in the corners. He had just about decided to settle down on one when he caught, of all the strange things, the scent garlic and rosemary, cooking garlic and rosemary.
Odd, there isn't another house within miles. How could . . .
Then he heard the music! Gypsies? Trespassers? Who could possibly be throwing a party in an abandoned manor house? Gripping his heavy electric torch firmly, Horatio turned and strode grimly towards the sounds.
