The Bird Garden

Pleione is a nymph. She is maybe Indian, maybe Chinese. Her name is Greek. It goes up at the end, like her nose. Like her glasses when they slide down. She spends a lot of time reading, writing, staring up at the stars. She tends a small garden, cramped with orchids, and she names things. Not the flowers: They proliferate and change faster that anyone can count.

Sometimes she leaves her garden to search for secondhand books, and she knows now that even Darwin gave up, back in 1862. There are more than twice the number of different orchids than there are different birds, and she can barely keep up with the birds. Still, she catalogues the avian content of her garden, listens to their song, peacocks and all, and writes letters.

A long time ago, much longer ago than you would guess from how she looks, she had daughters. It is a sad and tiring story, but it comes down to this: The constellations are graveyards for those most adored by the gods. It is her lover that holds them up.

So Pleione writes letters. The birds carry them to the highest heights, to the pillars of the world. Her catalogue records each and every one in their flight. She copies out what she sends, and takes dictation from her winged companions on their return. In moments of extreme loneliness she plucks an orchid from the earth, grinds the twin bulbs to flour, and combines the powder with milk and the vanilla she grows. The brew is a powerful aphrodisiac. It sends her into dreams of how her daughters were made. Her own hands become those of Atlas. He lifts her up, and it is like it was before he took every burning orb into his reach, before Pleione was left alone.

There are other types of orchids in the garden. Orchids that would kill Pleione within the hour. But she has been promised a place in the night sky. It is a threat, that she will become a burning thing in the cold, and her weight will add to Atlas’ burden.

Instead she tends her garden. She labels birds. It is a kind of quiet resistance. It will last forever.