With Open Eyes
The thing in the garden never was a magnolia tree.
Adelio said it was, and it was similar in a lot of ways: the broad, oval leaves that angled to a point. The cup-shaped buds of the tulip variety. The lean, elegant branches.
But magnolias don’t have black bark, and even black tulip magnolias don’t have blood-red flowers.
I spent three years working for Adelio before I saw him in person. Three years of tending to his borders of begonia rex, Persian Violet cyclamen, blue sweet pea, and white heather. Of shaping the delicate oleander bushes and trimming the pale pink tea roses that made up the border of his dark, grand manor.
When I saw the first hint of flowers in the “magnolia” tree, it had been almost three years to the day. I left Adelio a note under the front door, smudged with soil, letting him know they would be opening soon. True magnolias can take up to a decade to flower; I thought he would want to see it.
Three days later, he was simply there when I turned around. Lean and darkly beautiful in a black suit, with long, thick black hair. He belonged among the flowers as much as I did the dirt. His visible eye—the other covered by a patch—was a startling lavender.
“Call me Adelio,” he said, while I was trying to remember my words. “Your work around my home has been astounding, Mister Reed.”
I involuntarily crushed the cut leaves I held. “Sil.” I licked dry lips. “Sil’s fine. Your garden’s great. The magnolia...I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He smiled; an ache blossomed in my chest. “A truly special one; the Wide-Eyed Magnolia. You will see why when the flowers open.”
I followed him closer to the tree.
“It blooms so rarely,” he said, caressing one of the dark branches fondly. “In just a few weeks, you’ll see something truly striking.”
†
I attended to the tree anxiously after that, trimming away the tiniest hint of a dead leaf or discolored bark. The vivid blossoms grew slowly, soft even to my coarse fingers. I swore they whispered when I touched the branches. No discernable words, but they tickled the back of my mind. I wanted to understand.
Days later, as I was finishing work, I found Adelio by the tree, smoothing dirt around the roots with the back of a spade. He knelt on the ground with his back to me, and didn’t so much as glance back. “Good afternoon, Sil. No, I am not dissatisfied with your work. I simply enjoy giving our friend a little treat from time to time.”
“How did you know that I was here?” And for that matter, exactly what I was thinking.
“The tree told me,” he said pleasantly.
Of course the tree would tell him. In any other situation, I would think him mad, but why would it not whisper to him as it did to me? I stood beside him and looked up. The flowers were full and heavy, looking all the more like blood against the dark branches. “They should be opening any day now.”
Three days.
“Three days,” I repeated.
Adelio rose, dusting his knees off before cleaning his hands on a towel. “I have been waiting so long for this, and I’ve given so much for its care. You will be here, won’t you? I know that it’s your day off, but you must see the moment they open.”
“Of course,” I said. “This tree...I want to see the mystery it holds. The secrets within the flowers.”
“It has many mysteries, as anything beautiful does.”
“Then you must have a thousand mysteries.” I froze. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
Adelio smiled. “Will you come inside with me, Sil?”
My eyes flicked away from his face. “I’m dirty.”
“Nothing grows without dirt.”
What had he buried beneath the tree? The possibilities buzzed inside of my brain.
Go inside.
I nodded to Adelio. “I...I will, but please, let me wash up.”
“Of course. I will make us tea.”
I washed my hands and face under icy water from the spigot outside, and then entered, shivering. The inside of the house was as grand as the outside: dark woods, lush fabrics, and bold paintings of trees of the like I’d never seen.
He found me examining one such painting and touched my shoulder;his lavender eye was as unearthly and alluring as the tree we both cared for.
I cannot say who moved in for a kiss first, but our arms were soon around each other, and the tea went cold.
The next morning, I crept out of the house and gently dug around the tree’s roots to see what Adelio had buried.
I saw nothing.
†
The night before the tree bloomed, an unseasonal frost came. I dressed and raced to the house without so much as shaving, afraid of the flowers freezing and dying.
Adelio was already standing before it. “Come here, Sil,” he said, white curling up from his mouth, and held his hand out to me.
I squeezed his fingers between mine and stared at the tree. As if it had been waiting for me, the petals of every blossom parted, curling back to proudly display their heart: an eye in each, all turning to look at me.
I stopped breathing.
“We are connected,” Adelio said, looking at the blossoms lovingly. “An eye is a small price to pay for such beauty, don’t you think?”
“A small price to pay,” I echoed, awed.
Adelio cradled my cheek against his palm. “You could stay here with me, the two of us tending it and the rest of the garden. Would you like that, Sil?”
Please, Sil.
I put my hand over his. “I would like nothing more,” I whispered.
“I can retrieve a knife,” Adelio said, but I stopped him with a shake of my head.
“The tree needs to feel this.”
Adelio covered his mouth with his hand, then let it drop. “Oh, Sil, you do understand.”
I plunged my fingers into my right socket. Through the hot rush of blood, the eyes watched us, unblinking and stunningly lavender. I had never seen anything so perfect.
I ripped my eye free like an uprooted weed. Even as my knees buckled from the pain and I collapsed into Adelio’s arms, I held my sacrifice aloft like a prize. Soon, I would be connected, too.
Ten years could not come soon enough.
© 2022 Nikolas Sky
About the Author
Nikolas Sky started out as a romance-writing caterpillar and emerged from his cocoon as a queer specfic butterfly. He lives in the Midwestern US with his very spoiled cat. You can find out what he’s doing next on Twitter @authorniksky.