Where The Bright Orange Tarantulas Roam [FICTOID]

“Is it here?”

“Of course it is here, senor.”

“Where?  Show it to me.”

“That I cannot do.  You know the rules.  You must find it for yourself.”

“But why?  Why does it matter how I find it so long as I find it?”

“Once you find it, you will understand.”

And so the solicitor began searching El Jardin de las Delicias Sobrenaturales in the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico.

The garden brimmed with exotic life, some bred by hybridization, some genetically engineered, some the result of far more arcane efforts.

It was one of the latter that the solicitor sought.

Bright orange tarantulas -- some of the myriad genetically engineered species in the garden --  scurried about, taking care of the plants.  No longer carnivorous hunters, their genetically modified bodies feasted off fruits, their miniscule brains programmed to attack garden pests.

Scientists gave them their bright orange coloration to make them easier to spot so humans could avoid stepping on them.

The solicitor went down a narrow tree lined path flanked on both sides by venus flytraps of unusual size and ferocity.  They swiveled to follow him as he walked past.  He could imagine them licking their lips -- that is, if they had lips and a tongue to lick them with.

What the solicitor sought was technically not a living thing.  The UNAM research team created a poppy from a giant emerald, using nano-lasers to carve it into a perfect imitation of the real thing down to the DNA level.

The solicitor felt a strange compulsion to find this faux flower and commune with it.  What he expected to gleam from this encounter he could not fathom, but find it he must. 

The garden teemed with unearthly delights, every step revealing more and more wonders…

…but no poppy carved from an emerald.

He passed undulating ivy, heavily perfumed tree moss, lily pads that floated six feet above the ground, even caravans of mice carrying cargo packs for God -- or more properly, the UNAM -- knows what purpose, but no poppy carved from an emerald.

Night fell.

Dejected, the solicitor returned to the main gate to find himself locked in.

He thought about calling for help on his phone but decided against it.

Instead he found a park bench and stretched out to sleep.

During the night he felt visited by strange portentous dreams.  They flitted by like ghostly apparitions, leaving traces and impressions but no clear memory.

In the morning he awoke as the sun rose.

He looked at his hand and for the first time noticed the incredible complexity and ethereal beauty of his own body.

Did the garden change me overnight? he wondered, or was I always like this and the garden merely awakened me to it?

A jangle of keys and a rusty hinge swinging open and the master gardener came in.

“Jola,” he said.  “Did you sleep well?”

The solicitor smiled softly.  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“And did you find what you were looking for?”

The solicitor glanced at his hand again -- his wonderful hand, his complex hand. 

“I think I did,” he said.

© Buzz Dixon